Summary: You run into someone at an event for the 30th anniversary of The X Files premiering.
Rating: T. This blog and its contents are 18+. MDNI.
Word Count: 1.5k (Sorry!)
Warnings: Potential X Files spoilers (nothing major, I promise), reader is said to have a job and adores The X Files but is otherwise undescribed, some innuendo but the rest is mostly fluff, no use of Y/N.
A/N: This is a submission for the @dieterbravobrainrotclub. The trope was 'meet cute' and the prompt was 'do you believe in aliens?'. I'm being super self indulgent and combining two of my favourite things. This is also the first thing I've finished since...January? Also brought to you by a slight fever. Okay, love you, bye.
It's just a date to most people. Just another Friday. Except for you, and the ten or so other people sitting with you, it’s the 30th anniversary of The X Files premiere. You’d succeeded in grabbing a last minute ticket to an event in a gallery you’ve never heard of, in a part of town you weren’t so familiar with to celebrate.
Details about the event were sparse at best, save for a promise of a screening of the first episode. Even so, you bid farewell to the Dana Scully bobblehead on your desk at 5.02pm and made the trek across the city. In reality, it’s less of a gallery and more of an event space for all sorts, but X Files inspired artwork from local artists adorn the walls.
You don’t know how many times you’ve watched it. It’s the show you go back to after scrolling through apps and channels trying to find something that catches your attention. Sometimes you do find something new, and it’s nice. When that happens, you can join in a conversation in the kitchen at work about whatever’s trending.
Other times, you can’t concentrate on anything at all and you find yourself back with Mulder and Scully. You know exactly what will happen and when. It’s on in the background when you fold laundry. You marathon it every year at Halloween. It’s safe.
So, you settle back in the folding metal chair at the back of the room, a grin threatening to spread wide across your face as soon as Truitt says “it’s happening again isn’t it?” right before you’re introduced to Dr Dana Scully for the umpteenth time. You were so lost in watching your favorite FBI agents about to become colleagues for the first time that you barely heard the door open and close behind you and hardly felt the empty seat next to yours being filled in the dim light.
“Sorry. Sorry.” He apologizes to you for his late arrival, before your eyes are drawn back to the wall in front of you where the episode is being projected from a laptop.
A soft lull of laughs fills the room when Scully utters the immortal words Spooky Mulder and your own heart almost skips a beat. The man beside you doesn’t so much as chuckle. A quick glance to your left and his brows are knitted together under a mass of fluffy hair, lips pursed, concentrating intently on the grainy footage.
“Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted.”
Maybe it’s the shitty sound blaring from the computer. Maybe it's just a bad rip of the episode. Maybe you’ve actually managed to watch it too many times and David Duchovny’s voice has started to reverberate inside your brain but you swear the line repeats itself.
More dialogue echoes again, a little louder this time. Not enough for it to be an interruption, you can hardly call it that after consuming it so many times, but it's enough for you to try to look for the source of it.
"Einstein's Twin Paradox, A New Interpretation. Dana Scully Senior Thesis."
The woman sitting directly in front of you turns her head and clicks her tongue at the man next to you but it doesn’t seem to faze him.
“That's why they put the "I" in "F.B.I."
It’s coming from him.
You can’t be annoyed. You’re impressed. It’s jarring even - someone else sharing your very own unusual if not all but useless skill.
They’re practiced, the way he’s saying the words, studied. All of them uttered in such a way that you don’t pick up from watching an episode once or twice. They might be hushed but the cadence and tone are almost, if not completely identical to Mulder’s.
As you watch, or at least try to, he continues, muttering a line under his breath here and there. And you keep listening.
When he doesn’t speak, he twirls the rings around on his knuckles then flexes them. And when he’s not doing that, he’s combing his fingertips through the fuzz on his chin, itching for Gillian Anderson to feed him his next line.
And she does, asking “who is it?”
“Steven Spielberg.” He mimics in perfect synchronicity with Mulder.
A giggle at his perfect timing and delivery escapes you and for the first time, he turns to face you.
“Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry.” He says, loud enough to earn himself a warning glare from the same woman he pissed off a few moments ago.
He does stop talking and the two of you watch on as Mulder and Scully get acquainted and bicker about what’s real and what’s not, in hospitals, in the Oregon forests, and in their respective hotel rooms.
While you’re cast back to the first time you watched this episode and to when your love of the 'will they, won’t they' trope began, your fellow attendee is vibrating in his chair. His knees are bouncing and his bejeweled hands are balled into fists like he’s ready to burst from trying to contain himself.
You get a glimpse of his tongue licking at the corner of his mouth, desperate to occupy it.
Until he can’t.
“Scully? It's me, I haven't been able to sleep. I talked to the D.A.'s office in Raymon County, Oregon. There's no case file on Billy Miles. The paperwork we filed is gone. We need to talk, Scully.”
As he matches the final lines word for word and syllable for syllable, your eyes widen at his skill but he takes no notice, still staring dead ahead at the credits rolling.
The lights come up and most of the crowd clears out but you take the time to appreciate the prints and memorabilia on the walls. There’s a mishmash of everything; portraits of Skinner, FBI ID badges and vintage trading cards from the 90s.
You come to a stop in front of an abstract interpretation of Mulder’s Jersey Devil drawing and a familiar voice speaks up from behind you.
“Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”
You turn your body and the guy who was seated next to you for nearly forty minutes is now leaning in to examine an oil painting of little gray men with his back turned to you.
Curiosity piqued, you play along and answer, “I want to believe.”
He whips his head around, revealing a playful smirk creeping across his lips at your words from behind the popped collar of his coat,
Two big brown eyes peer at you over dark sunglasses before he presses you again, “Really? Do you believe in aliens?”
“Maybe not the green guys in spaceships but it’s hard to think we’re alone in a universe so big, right?” you shrug.
He ambles towards you, his fluffy brown teddy bear coat swaying with every step. It’s almost comical that he’s made no real effort to go incognito apart from his shades. His earlier ramblings make sense then - Dieter Bravo hardly won an Oscar for nothing. You’ve seen his face on billboards and strolling along red carpets but he seems to slide right into place in what’s really nothing more than a fancy warehouse down a side street.
“I wanted to apologize actually,” he says sheepishly, pulling off his sunglasses. “For back there. I couldn’t help it.”
You shake your head, “I’ve seen it more than enough times. You had me fooled though. Thought I might have been sitting next to Mr Duchovny himself,” you smile.
“Yeah? What’s your favourite episode?” he asks with his face lighting up before taking a seat on a bench along the wall.
You don’t have one. You have multiple. Part of you whirls into action, ready to gush about so many and why. The other part of you tells you to act somewhat normal around a celebrity and to not spook him with your endless amounts of trivia.
“Bad Blood, maybe?”
But Dieter beams back at you with that recognizable crooked smile, “Oh yeah! Where he’s like ‘I was drugged’ and the shoelaces and Luke Wilson.”
“What about you?”
“Shit,” he sighs. “So many. The driving one, where he can’t stop driving, I can’t remember the name. Ice is good. X-Cops-“
“You like X-Cops?” you cut him off because no one ever admits that they like X-Cops.
“Who doesn’t like X-Cops?! It’s so self aware!” he exclaims, defending his answer.
Dieter Bravo has been painted as a lot of things; from an eccentric to a disaster but you could never have really pegged him for an X-Files super fan. Especially not one with your level of enthusiasm.
You take a seat beside him for the second time that evening and he tells you that his favourite cryptid is El Chupacabra. You tell him you don’t really believe in those, that there’s no real evidence but he’s pretty convincing with his knowledge of BigFoot.
Eventually the lights hanging over the artwork begin to turn off one by one around you both but you could have easily stayed and listened to him tell you that he had a crush on Mulder and Scully all night.
“Maybe we can watch the next episode together?” Dieter suggests as you stand up from the bench to head towards the door.
“Deep Throat?” you offer and his scruffy jaw drops. “It’s the name of the second episode.”
“Yeah,” he stammers, his voice breaking at your clarification. “Dinner and…deep throat.”
Random bee behavior fact for those who wish to read, just because I feel like it and because it’s late and I’m stalling on sleeping:
Bumblebees may seem like passive, cuddly, and docile creatures, but they won’t hesitate to defend themselves if they feel as if their warnings aren’t being read or taken seriously.
I.e. the photo and diagram below, when a bee feels threatened they will raise one or more of their legs into the air, signaling to whatever or whomever may be bothering them as a message essentiality saying: “hey, back off, too close!”
species pictured: bombus pascuorum, bombus impatiens
If their defensive posture goes unnoticed or ignored, they may be pushed into defending themselves by stinging (which is also a stressful experience for not only one such as yourself, but also for the bee.) If you ever find yourself getting close to a bumblebee while taking pictures, walking close to them, or just admiring them, remember this posture! If a bee does this, it is simply asking you to take a step back as it feels it is being threatened.
Now you can understand and use this knowledge to your advantage if you ever come across one in the future. (Of course, because it’s very hard not to anthropomorphize animals, I do have to admit that they do look pretty cute when doing it. Just remember to respect them though!)
Fun fact: this scene is a direct reference to a pretty common joke in Regency-era erotic cartoons:
Historically, English women did not wear any version of underwear under their dresses until the very late 1800s (unless they were menstruating). When dresses slimmed way down during the Regency era's neoclassical movement, skirts became much easier to fully lift - apparently leading to many women warming their bare skin in this way.
It was a common enough practice that there was even a suggestive slang term for it, as others have pointed out:
For some reason, it never occurred to me that Project Gutenberg would have public domain old cookbooks. This is BRILLIANT. There’s a 1953 cranberry recipe pamphlet and a suffrage cookbook from 1915 and a translation of Apicus’s guide to food in Imperial Rome and a whole bunch of other fascinating old cookbooks, many pre-1800. Treasure trove!
For more old cookbooks, Michigan State University has 76 of their historical cookbooks scanned and searchable at Feeding America: The Historic American Cookbook Project.
For even older recipes, check out Gode Cookery. They list medieval and Renaissance cooking instructions and translate the recipes for you into measurable amounts and all.
I have have have to mention Miss Leslie. I learned so much about cooking from that book, even if a lot of it is outdated.
Also, Forme of Cury is great fun, if you can muddle through the Middle English (Gode Cookery has translations and adaptions of some of the recipes from this).
I’ll always take an opportunity to remind people of Barkham Burroughs’ Encyclopaedia of Astounding Facts and Useful Information, which also contains recipes
New Series: Marcus Moreno and the Teddy Bear Universe
a one-shot series where each piece can be read separately but also can be tied together. they will be presented in order here but written out of order.
“Self Check-Out” (Marcus Moreno x reader, one shot…with series potential?) complete
Ready or Not (Marcus Moreno x reader, slow burn, one shot) complete
Communication Skills (Marcus Moreno x reader, slow burn) complete
RATING: Explicit (18+)
PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.
SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.
read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist
You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is.
For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun.
In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation.
Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.
It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.
He must know you do it for him.
It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight?
And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.
Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.
No, honey.
Honey.
Honey.
Not tonight.
Tonight.
Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.
Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.
Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below.
You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?
And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands.
When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”
You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.
Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs.
“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.
Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”
Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You don’t budge. Don’t move.
“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.
Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.
“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”
“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”
Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”
You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.
One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.
“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”
He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.
Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.
Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.
Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.
Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze.
You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.
“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”
You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.
At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring.
Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.
Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”
You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.
“Good girl.”
You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin.
“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”
Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word.
“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”
“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”
Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.
“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.
You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.
It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.
He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.
As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.
As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.
He grins, wicked.
Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.
So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”
The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.
“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”
His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.
You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.
How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.
How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”
His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.
“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”
How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.
The snarl of his upper lip.
His knotted jaw.
Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.
The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take.
“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”
You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe.
That can make you sparkle now, to remember.
“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”
Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on.
Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.
dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3
theres this dumb fucking idea I have that's like. not hot but it is but it isnt... making out with a guy while fully nude but insisting you cant have sex because you arent on birth control.. he's so well behaved until his cock presses against your pussy lips ever so slightly... and he just goes "they're just kissing. thats ok right??"
Summary: Though you’ve enjoyed working in the lower levels of the top secret Statesman organization for years, your recent promotion to assistant lab technician has always been your goal. With it comes scientific opportunity and access to the resources that you need for your research into the Recall program - the process used to restore an Agent’s memory after a catastrophic event.
It also puts you closer to the Agents themselves, much closer in the case of one Agent in particular.
Warning: this series will deal with death, violence, murder, betrayal and other such themes. Please check individual chapters for specific warnings or feel free to send me a message if you are unsure
Pairing: Jack Daniels x his wife // Agent Whiskey x female reader
Pre -Kingsman: Golden Circle
Teaser 1- Classified
Teaser 2- Asters
Teaser 3- Observation Period
Teaser 4- Frowned Upon
Mid - Kingsman: Golden Circle
Part 1 - A Long F*ucking Day
Part 2 - What the F*ck is Project Aster?
Part 3 - Un(f*cking)believable
Part 4 - Just F*cking Perfect
Part 5 - Love of My F*cking Life
Reblog if you love AO3 and appreciate their volunteers who are working harder than God, fighting battle after battle, making sure the place that is a safe space for every fandom is staying up and running for all of us
Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.
Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.
And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude
Frankie is in his early 40's, around 42/43, Jude is in her late 30's, around 37/38. Jude has mid-length hair - other than that, I've tried to keep Jude as a blank canvas in terms of ethnicity/eye & hair colour. This is so you can imagine yourself as Jude, if you'd like to. If I miss anything, please kindly let me know. Images are for aesthetic purposes only, no direct reference to Jude.
Word Count: 120K - give or take... it's novel length. 👀
Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
WARNINGS/TRIGGERS: Survival/mentions & descriptions of a plane crash/death/drowning/starvation/dehydration/malnourishment/injury/sickness & illness/depression/PTSD/drug use/drug addiction/mentions of loss/sorrow/angst/brief mention of miscarriage/bleeding/blood loss/cheating spouse - I promise it's not all doom & gloom.
EXPLICIT: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral both M & F receiving/hand job/masturbation - all the good stuff.
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: This is a story I wrote a long time ago, and have re-edited for Frankie. It's a story I have poured a lot of love into, and probably one of my favourite things I've ever written. I really hope you enjoy Frankie & Jude's story. 🖤
MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST
Enjoy! 🖤
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
EXTRAS:
Playlist
Moodboard
Moodboard by the amazing @sawymredfox 🖤
Frankie & Jude as SIM's characters by wonderful @fckyeapedrothots99 🖤
This will probably be around 40-50 chapters or so, maybe less depending how much I bulk them out. I'll add as I upload. New chapters will be added on a Sunday starting mid January 2024 - Please ensure you're following me and switch on notifications so you don't miss out on this story.
Dieter Bravo x female Reader
Co-written with @absurdthirst
Oscar winning star Dieter Bravo’s reputation is suffering after the debacle of “Cliff Beasts 6″ and “Beasts of the Bubble”, so his management team has signed him on to a publicity stunt to find his soulmate and show the world a softer side of the erratic and unpredictable star. The plan quickly go awry, though, when Dieter’s soulmate wants nothing to do with him.
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
kaledo-art
discoholicmusic
