luxurychristmaspudding - Tumblr blog

luxurychristmaspudding · 2 days

Note

back here also. forgot exactly what this fic does to me. have to go and stare out a window and think about how long I can live in a sports bra.

the most insane work as always 😵‍💫

Hello! If you’re taking requests currently (if not I apologize), but I have one that’s eating away at my brain. Joel and a reader with nipple piercings. Thanks and I love you and your writing 💓💓💓

flesh and metal | joel miller x f!reader

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ minors dni word count: 2.4k summary: [no outbreak] porn no plot. you meet joel at a bar. he really likes your nipple piercings. that's about it. warnings etc: smut, oral (m receiving), mild hair pulling, a lot of spit, face fucking, titty fucking, nipple play, coming untouched, nasty dirty blowjob bc i said so, joel miller is a boob man. no use of y/n. a/n: i wanted this to be longer but alas, my brain so said no. dedicated to @mrsquill.

You have absolutely no qualms over telling men to "fuck off" at the bar.

Most nights, you're content to drink alone, or else enjoy the company of friends, staving off unwanted attention with an errant flick of your wrist or something a little more stern, if necessary.

Of course, then there are nights like tonight. Nights where you leave the house with intention, hoping to nab a beautiful stranger on your own terms. When you'd donned your short denim skirt and thin white camisole, flesh and metal poking through the delicate fabric, you'd known the message you'd been sending. You'd known what you'd wanted.

Tonight, it had started with a drink. Doesn't it always start with a drink? You'd already turned down a couple of willing suitors, men you may have otherwise settled for if you'd only been able to take your eyes off him all night. In his forties or fifties - you can't be sure - broad and strong, all greying curls and deep brown eyes. He'd taken up an entire booth to himself, nodding offhandedly to passing servers and patrons. Dark plaid had strained over wide shoulders and big hands had clutched a crystal glass of bourbon. And those eyes - they'd just kept finding yours.

You hadn't been waiting for a cue, but you'd been grateful when he'd offered one, cocking his chin for you to join him after you'd downed the tequila shot the bartender had informed you had come from, "the fella in the booth over there."

He hadn't said much but he hadn't needed to; all the usual tells had been there. All the lingering stares and polite compliments. And your favourite, of course, the one most men fall victim to - the one where their eyes flit down to your chest, noticing the nubs of steel poking through your shirt on the peak of each of your breasts, the gears turning in their brains as they ask themselves all the usual questions:

Do they make her nipples more sensitive?

Does she like when someone sucks on them?

Will she let me?

And he'd find out soon enough, but the answers are yes, yes and yes.

"Wanna get outta here?" he'd asked before he'd even finished his drink, when all you'd parsed from him was his name - Joel Miller - and the fact he'd been there on a rare night out. Maybe for the same reason as you.

It's how you end up here, crowded up against the wall of his front entry while his mouth devours yours, his massive hands greedy where they grab at your arms and waist. His touch is certain and forceful when his fingers coil around the base of your throat to press your skull into the drywall, giving him free rein to explore your neck with his lips and teeth.

He's not slow. He's not patient. When his thigh invades the space between your legs, you grind your clothed heat into it and he doesn't stop you.

His lips find yours again and you charge your kiss with new fervor, all wild, hungry energy when you bite down on his plush bottom lip and he groans into your mouth.

"God, you're so fuckin' hot," he rasps, one hand moving lower to hike your skirt up over your thighs. "Wanted you like this all night."

There's a deliciously dark edge to his voice that makes your skin prickle with anticipation. You can tell already -

This man is going to give you exactly what you need.

"Me too, Joel," you sigh, clutching at the sides of his face to reconnect your mouths, speaking through heated kisses. You waste no time, reaching between your bodies to run your fingers over the bulge in his jeans. "I want this."

Joel growls, low in his chest, and then he's pulling back, tilting your face upwards with a firm hand on your chin.

"Open for me?" he requests and there's just a hint of doubt there - almost as if he's testing the waters, gauging just how willing you are to yield to him.

And you are so, so fucking willing.

You glance up at him, batting your lashes as you loosen your jaw, presenting your tongue for him without hesitation.

Two thick fingers are taking up your mouth then and his gaze darkens as he watches you close your lips around them instinctively, eyelids fluttering shut. His skin tastes like salt and leather.

Joel's mouth twitches into a smirk.

"That's good, honey," he says. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?"

You just nod and suck until Joel bring his fingers, coated with your spit, to the apex of your thighs, shoving the thin fabric of your underwear aside to rake them over your folds.

He catches your responding gasp with his mouth, licking between your parted lips as his fingers toy sloppily with your clit. He hums in approval when you melt into the wall, already dripping wet and weak for him.

"Take your shirt off," he orders, his fingers still working your clit as you lift the fabric over your head. You keep your eyes on him, watching his pupils widen as his gaze falls to your breasts, those gears in his brain turning all over again when he sees them bare -

The metal bars that pierce each pebbled nipple, shining in the dim light of his living room. He curses lowly and then it's as though he forgets your pussy altogether, both his hands suddenly overtaking your tits, big palms cupping the flesh there while his thumbs experimentally flick over the piercings.

And - fuck - it never gets old how fucking good that feels.

You moan, a high-pitched, keening sound, revelling in the feel of those calloused thumbs skirting over soft skin and hard metal. Your pussy pulses between your legs, wetness gathering and pooling at your centre, staining his dark jeans. Unconsciously, you grind into his thigh, seeking friction where you need it most, while Joel, engrossed in his efforts, suddenly tweaks each pierced nub between two fingers, tugging curiously at the bars and making you cry out in a mixture of pain of pleasure.

"Shit, yeah, you like that?" he asks and before you can answer, he does it again, clouding your thoughts till there's only him and the rough drag of his thumbs over your nipples, the grinding friction of denim against your aching cunt. He chuckles darkly at you falling apart for him, easily folding when he grits out, "You gonna let me fuck you?"

You nod, overtly eager, and then he's guiding you up the stairs to his bedroom, stripping you out of your skirt the second you're through the door, exposing your lacey black panties beneath.

Rough hands grip your waist and pull you into his chest, Joel's mouth crushing yours in another commanding kiss. He's a good kisser, you think, greedy and indulgent, messy in the best way. His hands find your tits again, pinching and prodding at your pierced nipples - fascinated. He likes them, you note; can't seem to keep his hands off them.

You love that.

You're so lost in his touch and his kiss that you barely notice the backs of your knees hitting the edge of his bed until he wrenches his mouth free from yours, that firm grip on your waist pushing you down so you're seated and staring up at him.

"Right there, baby, you sit right fuckin' there," he instructs you as he unzips his jeans and frees his cock, hard and leaking and right at your eye line.

"Show me that mouth."

You part your lips without a second thought, staring up at him as he guides the tip of his cock into your waiting mouth, groaning as he presses his hips forward hastily, impatient.

Perfect.

He takes a moment there, softly cups your face in his massive palm, traces a thumb over your cheekbone. Sweet, for a just a fleeting breath.

"Gonna fuck your pretty little face, okay?" he tells you.

Fuck - yes.

You moan around him and it seems to egg him on; a hand curls into the hair at the back of your head and you let him hold you steady as he begins to fuck your face in slow, agonizing thrusts. The tip of him collides with the back of your throat on each stroke, his impressive girth straining your jaw. Coarse hairs brush at your upper lip each time he pushes in deep and your throat opens obligingly to take him.

"Keep it open real fuckin' wide for me," he says as unwitting tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You hum contentedly, slackening your jaw as much as you can and Joel moans lewdly, the pace of his thrusts coming faster, rougher, now that he knows you can take it. You work to breathe through your nose as you choke and splutter around his cock, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth and soaking his length. Salt streams from your eyes and you gasp for air when he eventually pulls you off him with a firm hand in your hair and a wrecked growl.

"Fuck me. Get it nice and wet for me," he orders you, even as thin strings of saliva connect your lips to his cock. Still, you do as he says, fixing your eyes on his as you collect a pool of spit on your tongue and aim it onto his length. You wrap your wet, puffy lips around him and bob up and down till he glistens with you.

"Yeah, there you go. Good girl."

You beam at the praise, sitting back into your hands as you await further instruction. Joel's eyes dart down to your chest again and you think you know what he wants. Sure enough -

"Squeeze those tits together."

You obey without question, arching your back and clutching at the sides of your breasts, tightly pressing them together as Joel inches closer. He reaches out to flick his thumb over a pierced nipple, half-hooded gaze intent on your chest as he spits a slow stream of saliva there, watching as it disappears between the valley of your breasts.

There's a low grunt, a shaky exhale, and then he's wedging his stiff length between your tits. He holds you in place with a solid hand on your shoulder, thick fingers pressing down hard enough to bruise while he slowly fucks your tits. You throw your head back, raking your thumbs over your nipples while you squeeze his cock a little tighter between the swells of your breasts.

"That feel good?" he asks, his low voice strained as he eyes your thumbs working over your nipples. "When you play with 'em?"

You bite your lip and nod because it's true; it feels fucking amazing, those tiny spears of steel heightening every minute sensation just like they always do. Joel murmurs, "Shit," like you've just made him aware of something vital, backing off and dropping to his knees between your legs, barely giving you a chance to catch you breath before he's licking a thick stripe through your soaking folds, his hands shooing yours away to firmly cup your bare breasts.

He moans at the taste of your arousal on his tongue but he doesn't linger there long. No, instead he moves to your chest, sucking a pierced nipple into his mouth and experimentally swirling his tongue over the hardened nub.

He hums in approval at the way it makes you curse and moan and cry his name, relentless as he moves to the other nipple and repeats that pattern - swirling and sucking, swirling and sucking - his massive palms eclipsing the globes of your breasts as he squeezes them tightly together.

You writhe under his mouth, your neglected pussy drenching his sheets and clenching around nothing - but Joel doesn't let up. His tongue flicks over each nipple in deliberate, coaxing strokes. When he bites down, the clanging sound of teeth hitting metal makes your insides curl. White heat gathers in your core as your breathing grows ragged, panted moans rising in pitch and Joel - Joel seems acutely aware of the response.

"Bet you can come just from this, can't you?" he whispers hoarsely.

You shake your head, braced on your elbows. "Need more, Joel. I don't - "

You don't know. Impossibly, it feels like you could come, Joel's tongue insistent over your nipples, the precise laps of his tongue increasing in pace and strength, drawing you nearer and nearer to some impending edge.

"You're close, aren't you?" he purrs, voice low, and the vibrating sensation of his voice against your nipples is downright dizzying. Your eyes roll back into your skull and you fist his sweaty curls, holding his face flush against your chest because -

"Yes."

"I wanna see," he mumbles huskily against your skin. "I wanna see you come like this."

He works his tongue feverishly over each nipple; first one, then the other, over and over, his mouth wide as he licks obscenely over them, fucking shameless with it, lasciviously enthusiastic.

"Fuckfuckfuck," you stammer wildly when he resumes the firm, lithe flicks of his tongue over one, swollen, puffy nipple, flesh straining and wet around glistening steel. Tension pulls taut at your nerves; your cunt aches and slick pools at your centre and before you can even warn him, you're coming, shuddering violently as you arch back into the mattress with a gasp.

How in the fuck?

Your neglected pussy throbs as the unlikely climax washes you in waves of overwhelming heat that's somehow burning hot and perfect and still not nearly fucking enough. You're moaning out a symphony all the same, Joel following you down into the sheets, caging you in as he hovers over you and sucks hard at a nipple, circling the piercing under his tongue until you start to see white.

"Joel - fuck - please - s'too much," you beg, writhing beneath him and clawing at his shoulders till he pulls off your tit with a wet pop. He watches your face closely until he feels you've caught your breath before diving forward to lick a fat stripe over the same nipple he'd just finished with. He smirks devilishly when you squirm away from the contact with a squeal.

"So fuckin' sensitive," he marvels.

He climbs off you at last, tersely telling you, "Up," while he stands to lift his shirt over his head and pull his jeans off.

You think he means on the bed so you quickly move to all fours, positioning yourself ass up for him willingly. Joel laughs as he comes up behind you, assertively smacking the meat of your thigh.

"I don't think so, sweetheart," he says. "Wanna see those perfect fuckin' tits bouncin' when you're ridin' my cock."

#fic recs #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller

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luxurychristmaspudding · 3 days

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javier peña in every episode of narcos

1x09 la catedral

me too, javi, im exhausted too 🚬👂🏼

#just so u know #these make me want to rip my face off #javier peña #pedro pascal #narcos #🩸carly gifs #🩸carly screencaps

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luxurychristmaspudding · 3 days

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my ultimate plan with my javi gifs is to seduce all my fave writers down the bottomless pit of obsession and lust and love for javier peña so they write about him and then i can die happy 😃

#it's working #carly is very persuasive #and did i mention talented?#and so so lovely?

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 days

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jett this is actually so cute and wonderful and gorgeous i might cry <3

so excited to read what everyone writes!!!

🌷 Who's up for a creative challenge? 🌷

If it's not apparent already, I love flowers and I love the Pedro Boys! So, what could be more fun than combining the Pedro Boys and flowers in a creative challenge? 🌷🪻🌻

Perhaps Marcus brings you flowers on date night, Dave's scattered sumptuous petals leading you up to bed, you and Ezra get stranded on a planet with alien-esque florals, or you're showering sweet Javi G with his favourite blooms for his birthday... 🌷🪻🌻

Running during the month of May, I challenge you to write and share a fic - or fics - featuring any of the Pedro Boys and flowers. 🪻

You can also make mood boards or art if you're not a writer - or don't want to write - but still want to participate! 🌷

🌻 See below for the full challenge details! 👇🏻

The challenge deets:

Must feature at least one Pedro Boy - can be any character Pedro has played, no matter how popular. You can feature more than one Pedro Boy too, if you like.

Must contain flowers or plants in some capacity. 🌷🪻🌻 Can be the main feature of your story, or a background aesthetic. Florals, plants, succulents - you name it, you can feature any of them!

Can be as smutty or fluffy as you want! Hot, soft, gentle, fun, quirky - you've got freedom on whether you wanna write smut or not.

No word limit - you write as many words as you see fit.

Any Reader type! You can write in X Reader, original character or just the Pedro Boys engaging with one another. Any gender/race/size or physical ability of Reader is absolutely welcome too! 🌈 This is an inclusive house! 🙌🏻

Mood boards, video edits and original artwork is also welcome - but must feature a Pedro Boy and flowers, and must be your own creation.

No limit to the number of submissions - you can write more than one fic, or submit more than one artwork, but the Pedro Boys must be different for each submission.

Tag me in your work and use the #jettsflora&faunachallenge so I can add it to a Masterlist.

This challenge will run from 1st May - 31st May 2024 and I'll add works as they're posted.

☝🏻 Don't worry too much if you miss the deadline, life happens, and you'll still be able to submit your fic/art after the deadline. Just let me know. 🌷🪻🌻

🪻🌷🌻 And as a flowery bonus...

I will pick one piece of work submitted at complete random, when all the works are posted, and will send that person a bunch of flowers!* 💐

I hope you'll participate and have fun & I can't wait to see what you'll come up with! Would really appreciate a signal boost too - thankies 🖤

A-Z of Flowers Database Look up your flowers 🌷🪻🌻

*I can send flowers worldwide. In order to send them, I'll need a name & a delivery address. I appreciate it if you don't feel comfortable sharing that info with a stranger, however please rest assured those details will stay with me and only me. The recipient will be picked at random using a generator. If you have floral allergies, I can send a substitute little floral themed gift instead. 🖤

#signal boost baby!!!!#morallyinept #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #jettsflora&faunachallenge #writing challenge

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 days

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I think we have established Joel is Mr. Provider (in like all sense of the word not just monetary) and I think after he fucks nasty he puts his partner in large scented bath and slowly massages shampoo into their hair. Like that massage your hair lady does with the thumbs in the base of the skull 🫠

joel miller is obsessed with aftercare, and you’ll find it in the majority of my fics. here’s a list of ways i think he would offer aftercare to his partner, amongst many others:

MDNI. SEXUALLY SUGGESTIVE.

any sort of body massage, including your scalp rub which i am also weak for. i feel like he’d totally invest in some body safe essential oils of your favorite scents.

cuddling!! big ole cuddle bear!! he’d love his partner laying on his chest, nuzzling up into his neck, while he runs his fingertips up and down their spine.

in addition to that ^ he’d be very receptive to a debrief session during their cuddles. talking about what they liked and didn’t like or what needs to be adjusted for next time. i know personally sex is a huge emotional release, and i think joel would want to create space and time for his partner to get out any emotions or feelings they may have post coitus.

like you said, he’s a provider. he’d be very intent on cycling through the list of basic needs. making sure you use the bathroom and clean yourself properly after you’re finished. always having a glass of water ready on the bedside table. preparing snacks or a meal while you rest.

he wouldn’t be above giving you space, if you needed it. he’d have his own boundaries, too much anxiety to not have some sort of reassurance on how you’re feeling. but when he’s certain you’re safe, he’d be content to allow you some time to regroup on your own. it can be a lot to process, being so vulnerable, and he respects that.

taking care of his partner after sex is a huge means of aftercare for himself, too! he’s an acts of service man through and through, and you being provided for makes him feel at ease. but do not fret non, because there’s plenty of aftercare we can offer the old man, too:

he’s not always good at filling the silence, so post-sex is one of his favorite times to hear you talk. tell stories. tell him about your day. just keep him grounded and present and relevant in all that is your life. it makes him feel important.

along those lines, while they may not be he’s strong suit in giving a love language, words of affirmation are a huge receiver. he needs you to tell him he did right by you. he needs you to remind him how much you love him. he needs you to voice how much you need him, and he’ll find ways to tell you in return.

head scratches!! he’d never admit it, but he loves it when you play with his hair. and his beard. he loves a beard scratch.

watching one of his favorite shows or movies after. he’s so attentive to you always, you always make the effort to find little ways to make it about him, too. include his needs and interests.

inviting him into your bath or shower that night. he’ll always try to fight it, too “macho” for your fruity little body washes and scented scrubs, but secretly, he loves it. he loves being so close to you, feeling the silky water roll of your skin, and finding all the little marks he’s left behind. left with love and for his eyes only. <3

#i need this man #joel miller #what are queue doing here?

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 days

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Last Sentence Game

rules: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

love, hugs, and thanks to @pascalssbabyy (my wife) and gorgeous @dancingtotuyo for the tags <3

from a cute little frankie thang i'm cobbling together:

"If I had a dollar for every time I heard that," you say as you pull him up with a groan, "I’d have at least three dollars."

np tags for the bbies: @schnarfer @janaispunk @swiftispunk @magpiepills @morallyinept

@joelsgreenflannel @gasolinerainbowpuddles @syd-djarin @wintrwinchestr @din-jarring (for gifs maybe? idk, ily)

@ezrasbirdie @sixhours @itsokbbygrl @wannab-urs @5oh5

@mrsmando @cowgurrrl @strang3lov3 @getitoutofmymindwrites @burntheedges

going back under my stress rock! catch y'all in a bit xxx

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luxurychristmaspudding · 4 days

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me, looking at francisco "catfish" morales: beautiful. what if he were to....perhaps........cum in his pants?

#certain thoughts about this #I may be tappy tapping about it #what are queue doing here?

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luxurychristmaspudding · 6 days

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Hi there! I just want to thank you for writing pickup truck. I'm going through a very bad ending of a toxic relationship and reading about that was so good to me, and Frankie is such a sweetheart. Thank you so much ❤️

hi my love!! wow - thank you so much for dropping in here and sharing a little bit of you with me. i'm so glad it brought some goodness to you - that was truly my biggest wish for it.

remember to take care of yourself, be kind and gentle to yourself as you move through this. it may take time, but you deserve so much better, and will find so much better as well. sending you so much love and so many good vibes <3

#chats w em

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luxurychristmaspudding · 6 days

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this is so cute - and i have not stopped giggling at reader the whole time.

i love this new aspect to her - the cool, collected charmer vs the unhinged, panicked driver. i'm in the backseat biting back laughter, avoiding joel's eye in the rearview mirror.

but honestly girl, the way she's down bad for him already? same.

“Sure thing, I’ll hold your hand and talk you through it if you’d like?”

?????? bitch? talk me through it all night if you'd like (iykyk)

i can see these guys coming together so well already, eek!!! fuck that asshole boyfriend. you should be breathing in joel's musk all day instead.

Nicest Thing Part 2: Our Feelings Prey Upon Us

Neighbour!Joel x f!reader

Rating: Fluff, innit (but my whole blog is 18+ only pls)

Summary: We are strong, independent people who don't need to be rescued by a man... but if that man is Joel Miller? Exceptions can be made.

Word count: 1,732

Content: Description of a panic attack, fear of driving, rom-com style fluff, Joel Miller AU but no ages mentioned (everyone is over 18 but they can be whatever you would wish), big swears, bad boyfriend mentioned, minimal descriptions of reader. Always Fleabag coded.

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 3 - coming soon

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who read and engaged with Part 1, I am honestly overwhelmed by the amazing way you've taken these two into your hearts 🖤 So, what's in store today? More longing, more angst, more Joel Miller being all competent and, oh, so Joel like. I hope you enjoy, Part 3 will bring more gratuitous Austen references for those in need.

Reminder: You're staying with your uncle this summer and your friendship with his unreasonably hot neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing. Only one small hitch, the long-term boyfriend waiting for you back at home.

Thank you to @katareyoudrilling for being my original Austen inspiration, and to @pascalssbabyy @luxurychristmaspudding and @toomanytookas for being such fabulous friends.

Our Feelings Prey Upon Us

You stare down your uncle’s seemingly giant truck as if by sheer force of will, you can make it magically smaller. Your hands are actually sweating. You drag them against the denim of your jeans and continue scowling at the bastard truck.

Your uncle had tried repeatedly to get you to practise driving before he went away for the weekend, but you chose instead to stick your head firmly in the stand and pretend it would be totally fine. Wallow in the delusion that you were going to wake up this morning and have transformed into an entirely different person. One that loved driving and didn’t feel physically sick at the idea of even climbing up into the cab, let alone turning on the ignition. Or keeping this beast on the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You eventually pull yourself up into the driver’s seat, clicking the seatbelt solidly into place with trembling fingers.

The silence around you begins to sound really fucking loud, a dizzying sensation that’s growing in your head and swirling down around your chest. Is this what the start of a panic attack feels like? You try to take a deep breath, rest your head on the steering wheel for a moment. Oh, for fuck’s sake, you can feel actual tears welling up, pricking at your eyes. You can hear your boyfriend’s voice in your head, ‘pathetic’.

Everything contracts, there’s a ringing in your ears, and you know before you know exactly what you’re going to do. You sigh to yourself, steady your shaking limbs and swing your legs back out of the door again.

Joel opens his front door almost before you’ve finished knocking.

So broad, so handsome in his charming scruffy, bedhead way. His mouth opens slightly as he pulls a hand down his face and over that enchantingly patchy beard, waiting for you to speak.

You attempt to plaster on a fake smile, ready yourself with a cool, insouciant ‘hey stranger’ but a mess of sobs escapes your chest, and a strangled, “I can’t drive the damn truck.” jolts out. Fuck’s sake.

The absolute worst thing that someone can do for you when you’re getting yourself into a state? Be kind to you. Absolutely fucking not.

Which is why, of course, Joel doesn’t hesitate to take you in his strong arms, wrap you close to his flanneled chest and plant a firm kiss on the top of your head. It would be sweet if you weren’t about to snot all over him. He smells like absolute fucking heaven.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on here? Why are we cryin’?”

“You can’t be nice to me Joel,” you hiccup out, “it makes it worse. I need you to be mean to me… please?”

“I’ll see what I can do sweetheart.” He pulls back for a second, just a second, gives you a wicked grin and then holds you close again. Part of you knows it’s probably a little bit of an excuse to have your skin touching his, the heat of you both pressed together, but it is comforting. You do feel better. Although, admittedly, now you’re a bit horny and stressed.

And ‘sweetheart’? That’s new, that’s delicious. You’ll take that.

You can feel your heart rate slowly return to normal. You push down those last tears and take a deep gulp, inhaling as much of Joel Miller as you possibly can. You look up at those deep, brown eyes, and their warmth on you has the same effect as the physical hug of his arms around you; calming, yet still making your lips tingle with an unspoken anticipation.

“I would just like to be able to drive and get some groceries. Could… could you come with me? Make sure I don’t kill myself or anyone else?”

“Sure thing, I’ll hold your hand and talk you through it if you’d like?” The devilish grin that sits on Joel’s mischievous face reaches his eyes with a glint of something so playful you can’t help but smile back, forgetting to breathe.

You push back against his chest, pleasingly hard against your flat palm, rolling your eyes at him, “Let’s just try and make it out alive, shall we?”

You’re not sure exactly how you’re going to be able to concentrate on keeping the truck going straight and functioning as a human being around Joel Miller.

He leads the way, ever the gentleman, pulling the driver’s door open and helping you climb up. You do everything painfully slowly, taking unnecessarily loud, deep breaths every few seconds. That dizzy feeling is creeping back as you put the truck into drive, but you look to Joel and the warmth of his smile makes you feel determined to try.

You’re going so slowly, the car behind you quickly overtakes and you’re relieved to see there’s no one else behind you. You can drive at your own pace and not fret about pissing anyone off.

You glance over at Joel. He’s calm, giving you a reassuring nod with a, “Doing good sweetheart.” that makes you grin despite yourself.

“You have to talk to me otherwise I’ll freak out. You can’t sit in silence or I’ll drive us off the road.” You’re not being funny, you really mean it, you’re sure Joel can tell by the hard edge in your voice.

He raises his hands up in mock defeat, “Ok, ok, what do you want to know?”

“Anything!” You know you sound slightly hysterical, but now is not the time to try and be alluring. Joel is getting a real insight into the clash of personalities that live inside you. He’s met the cool, considered, flirty you, now he’s getting a fast track to anxious, hesitant, slightly unhinged you. Lucky Joel.

So, he talks, this normally quiet, reticent man talks about anything and everything. His younger brother Tommy, growing up in Austin and only very rarely leaving the state, the construction job he hated but made his own by becoming the boss, how he used to play guitar. His voice is so soothing and before you know it, you’re at the store and contemplating which space to park in.

“Tell me exactly what to do.” You bark at him, panic instantly rising at the idea of trying to reverse what suddenly again feels like the biggest truck in the world. You swear, you swear you see him smirk at that, rearranging himself slightly, confident arm coming up around the back of your headrest as he looks behind, leaning into you. It’s doing something a bit unholy to you.

“If you insist, sweetheart.” Fuck, it’s hard to focus when can you feel the heat rising up from your belly.

Joel guides you in, giving clear instructions, not mocking you, watching your serious concentration face with brows knitted together and tongue poking out a tiny bit. You slam the truck in park and exhale a deep sigh of relief.

“Perfect darlin’, absolutely fucking perfect.” You let the praise wash over you and give your legs a little shake, trying to relieve some of the tension by squeezing your thighs together.

“Language.” You admonish him, but really you love hearing him curse. It sounds so good in his Southern drawl, makes you want to bite your lip and raise your brows at him coquettishly.

You mutter, “What the hell….” then shout a loud, “Fuck! That was stressful! Thank you.”

Joel laughs, deep and long, and you realise you want to make him laugh like that all the time. His head is still leant in close to you, if you moved just the tiniest bit, your nose would brush against his. You both pause. There’s almost a crackle in the air as you look into each other’s eyes. It would be so, so easy to reach into his hair, pull at those curls, bring his lips to your own.

A little flash of something hits your consciousness like an electric shock. Boyfriend. This is not your boyfriend. Clearly not, no chastising has taken place, no ‘Jesus Christ get a grip’ or ‘you need to be better at this’. Sometimes you’re so deep in something, it’s difficult to see how things could be different, until it’s literally staring you in the face.

You break this heady gaze with Joel, shake your hands out to try and dispel some of this fizzing energy, “Let me cook you dinner this evening, as a thank you?”

He laughs, “Sure… you know, I didn’t doubt you for a moment, sweetheart. You gotta learn to trust yourself more.”

He pulls back slightly, giving you a warm smile and nodding his approval, head against the seat but still studying you like he might be tested later. Full marks for Joel Miller in your opinion.

Has walking round a grocery store ever felt more magical than right now? It’s that same strange contradiction you’ve felt since you met Joel, so comfortable but also with a buzz in your chest, always a giggle on the tip of your tongue and an itch in your fingers to feel his skin under yours.

How anyone can look so handsome in a dark green flannel under fluorescent lighting is a mystery to you, but you keep stealing glances and purposefully brushing your hands against his as you add in more items to the shopping basket. He’s always so warm, the opposite of your permanently icy skin. You wish you could sneak your hand into his.

“Baby, your teeth are going to rot out of your head if you keep adding all this junk in.” He’s laughing as you add in a box of Captain Crunch. “Or you’ll get scurvy.”

“Shh now, I’ve got a very sweet tooth.” You’re not really listening… Baby, baby, baby replaying in your head as you try it on for size. Feels good.

Sweetheart, baby. You want to be all those things for him, want to wander round supermarkets forever with him.

Joel offers to drive the truck back home and it takes everything in your power not to kiss him right there and then. Back in your rightful place as passenger princess, you settle for placing your hand over his, bestowing a grateful squeeze at not having to drive again quite so soon.

“Hey, maybe you could read to me for a bit while I’m cooking? I can continue your Austen education?”

“Baby, I’d like that very much. Seems like I’ve got a lot to learn from you.”

It feels like a promise.

Part of the Nicest Thing masterlist mini series / Part 1 / Part 3 - coming soon

Note: All images from pinterest. Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Tagging in some Joel fans, let me know if you want to be added in/taken off:

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @yxtkiwiyxt @rizzraa @bitchwitch1981

@axshadows @holacia3 @ghotifishreads @wannab-urs @burntheedges

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @undercoverpena @5oh5 @bitchesuntitled @futuraa-free

@sawymredfox @sin-djarin @survivingandenduring @indiegirlunited @janaispunk

@tuquoquebrute @danaispunk @mothandpidgeon @morallyinept @freelancearsonist

@chronically-ghosted @sp00kymulderr @secretelephanttattoo @fhatbhabie @beskarandblasters

@yesjazzywazzylove-blog @windsweptarmadillo @mierac

@ashleyfilm @pedroswife69 @kirsteng42 @loquaciousferret @nerdieforpedro

#fic recs #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction

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luxurychristmaspudding · 7 days

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joel miller in every episode of tlou

1x01 when you’re lost in the dark

happy friday from your favorite neighborhood dilf

#*sigh*#joel miller #everybody say thank u carly #pedro pascal #the last of us #tlou

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luxurychristmaspudding · 8 days

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That old man actually has no effect on me any more

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luxurychristmaspudding · 8 days

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hi em!

to say the vibes have been off lately would be an understatement, wouldn’t it? because there has been a lot of negativity, too much for a place that is supposed to be about finding an outlet for your creativity and people to share your interests.

i know it has been difficult, draining to be around here and face all the discourse cankering the fandom.

because of all this negativity, i believe it is important to try and balance it out with some kindness. so here i am, doing a little check-up on you <3

so first, how are you, really?

everything you feel regarding what is happening is valid and you deserve to feel happy and safe around here. so please, make sure you take the time you need from posting, from sharing fics, even just from being on the platform. i want you to know it’s okay and i support whatever you decide, for whatever reason.

i also want you to know that you have your place here, as much as the rest of us. you’re loved and wanted and i can assure you the fandom is a far better place with you in it.

i hope you’re taking care of yourself outside of tumblr as well. please remember to stay hydrated and to eat something 🫶🏼

now i would like you to sit back and enjoy the perfect, quiet night in with frankie <3

do not hesitate to reach out if you need to talk, i’m here for you! sending you all my love and so many hugs 🫂

anna 💗

well hi gorgeous anna <3

this is, without doubt, the sweetest message i've ever had land in my inbox.

you're spot on - the vibes have been ass lately, but it's people like you that still keep the warm glow about the place. come in, sit down, there's tea or coffee freshly brewed for you and snacks if you want them.

i'm doing okay, thank you. i've had enough going on throughout the days to not be thinking about the shit storm going on here, but it sucks big time to log in and see people you love and admire get put through the wringer. i also can't lie and say i haven't considered moving over to ao3 just to avoid it. it's been really sad to see a minority ruin it for the majority, but i'm hopeful it can be turned around before it's really too late.

i've been extremely fortunate to encounter far more love and kindness than bad vibes, and i really hope you can say the same. your voice is already louder than the nastier ones, simply because you've taken the time out of your day to check on folk and spread some love. i want you to know that so many creators appreciate this, and you. you're a special, lovely wee bean, and are loved and valued just as much.

how are you? i hope you're also taking care of yourself, treating yourself with as much kindness and gentleness as you do others. you deserve it.

i will indeed enjoy my night in with frankie - you sure know the way to a gal's heart hehehe

thank you sweet anna, hope you've had a wonderful day <3

#chats w em #joelsgreenflannel

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luxurychristmaspudding · 8 days

Text

besties!

#hell yeah #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller #ellie williams #joel and ellie

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luxurychristmaspudding · 8 days

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Now WHAT am I supposed to do with myself after a compliment like this????

Thank you so much for reading, Bell. Hugely appreciated, lots of love to you 🫶🏼❤️

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all.

until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+. MDNI. this fic contains allusions to, but no descriptions of, domestic abuse. please do not proceed if you know this will upset you.

frankie's pov. no lady and no baby for our boy. drinking, violence (against pos bf), angst, lots of hurt, allusions to dv. comfort, fluff. frankie to the rescue. unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!). oral, f receiving. creampie. bad spanish (again). kings of leon references. happy ending, of course.

wc: 9.8k

an: whew, this was an emotional one to write. but i hope a good love comes to all of you in time, no matter where you are at the moment. and if you already have it, may it always keep you safe. lovely divider from @saradika.

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

Nobody really knows where you found him, either. A sweet, smart girl like you, moved back to your small town from your big city life, and it looks like you picked up the very first guy who sidled up to you in a grimy bar.

Which, if you’re really honest, is exactly what happened. Because he was nice at first. Real nice. He was charming and sweet and interested - he bought you drinks all night and didn’t push to come in when he walked you home. You went for dinner a few times, and sure, he could be a little rude to the waitstaff, but it was only because he was so focused on you. He bought you flowers and took you for rides, and sure, sometimes he’d come home far too drunk after seeing his friends and get a little too close, a little too loud, but he always apologised.

And sure, he sometimes made you cry, but he always made it up to you. Sweet promises, small gifts. And he'd never laid a finger on you.

Not until last week, anyway.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know who to turn to. The thought of it makes you so sick you have to lock yourself in the bathroom at work. How did this happen? How did it turn so sour?

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

Frankie walks you home from the bonfire. He always does.

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

He gets to have you all to himself. Gets to watch your cheeks cool in the night air, watch as the blush from the heat of the fire subsides. Your giddy, wide eyes, your tipsy babbling about stories which had been swapped over the flames, picking out particularly scandalous details for you two to giggle about before doubling over into breathless laughter over something Benny had said.

He likes to hold your elbow, your hand, as you catch him in your amusement, gripping onto his bicep. He loves to lose himself in this little pocket of time with you.

He loves the sparkle of the stars, the glow of the streetlights as they light your features.

Frankie loves you.

And he’s so glad you’ve moved back from your life in the big city to come and be around your real friends again. So glad that you’ve all found your way back to each other. Tonight has left him with such a mellow tingle in his bones that he finds he can’t stop smiling at you, looking at you, on your walk home.

Bonfire nights have always been your monthly hangout, a time when you can be sure you’ll get the whole gang together. There used to be more of you through highschool, and still a fair few during college. It dipped when the boys joined the forces, when people moved further east and further north. But eventually Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Will had come back. Jessa, your other best friend, had returned too. A few others coming and going - Lily, Marcus, Maggie - also back and forth from their new homes to their old ones. And then eventually folk had just… settled.

Frankie felt like he was one of the last, like he was maybe the one finding it the hardest, retired to a life of civvy duties. Unable to hold down a girlfriend, struggling to stick at a job, sofa surfing around friends’ places. He was still flying whenever he could, but then this coke allegation happened, and it was like the world was finally swept from under him.

You were the first person he had called, the first person to talk him down from his panic, that debilitating squeeze around his heart when he thought about the future. The first person who made him feel like it would be okay.

So of course his joy when you had come back had been immeasurable. Maybe this time, he’d thought.

And then you’d met Tanner.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as you drag your hand out of his, skipping a little further up the dark street until you reach a corner. Frankie watches as you spin on the spot in the quiet neighbourhood, gesturing down the pathway before you.

‘This is me.’ You say.

But you don’t turn to keep walking. You watch him, a small, excited smile on your lips. Like you’re waiting for him to work it out.

Frankie drags his eyes from you, away from thoughts of your new boyfriend, to look up and down the street you’ve led him to, and for a second he is pulled beneath the ebbing flow of memory, towed with the riptide of things forgotten.

This is his grandmother’s street. Was his grandmother’s street.

The cracked concrete, the peeling paint of the porches. The weeds, the flowers, the smell.

He breathes your name like you’re the only thing tethering him to the now.

Breathes your name through the bright, sunny flashes of his childhood. His mama bringing him here with his brother, his papa swinging him by his legs in the flower-riddled front garden. Cartoons in the ripe heat of the afternoons, him and his cousins stuffing their faces with Guagitas and Frugele until they’d made themselves sick while the younger siblings napped in the sunbeams of the bedroom next door. Cycling over on his bike after school to sit at her kitchen table to do his homework, letting her fuss over him - his height, his friends, his grades, girls -

A skinnier, younger Frankie stopping by his abuela’s house with you to pick up her up for his nineteenth birthday party, along with her homemade tamales, her chiles rellenos, and specially made pumpkin sopaipillas for later on. The way you had chatted to her, natural, easy going, how you had made her laugh, her eyes sparkle. How, when you had taken some of the plates to the car, his abuela had pinched his cheek. I like her, she’d said, Será tuya algún día, mm, mijo? And Frankie had flushed bright red, batting her arms away as she chuckled at him. He had hidden in the back bedroom when you came in from outside, and listened a little longer to your conversation as he waited for the heat of his face to die down. When he reemerged, you had helped his grandmother into her shoes, her cardigan, and kept ahold of her arm until she got into Frankie’s beat up old car. At the end of the night, his abuela had kissed both your cheeks several times, rocked you back and forth in a hug, and clapped her hands as she said how she looked forward to seeing you again.

When you came home from college every summer, you’d have tea with her in her garden. She always asked Frankie about you, about how you are doing. When he told her you were coming home, she’d been so excited. Quizás este sea el momento? She’d said to him, squeezing his hand. He’d smiled, his heart quietly full of hope. Tal vez, abuela, he’d said.

When he called you two weeks later, his voice weak from crying, to tell you that she’d passed, you had been heartbroken. And it seemed like her wish, the red thread she’d seen between the two of you, had been snipped, too.

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

Frankie likes to listen to you talk, because he’s never much been one for talking.

He supposes you just bring it out of him, though. Because here on this street, in the moonlight, he tells you more about his grandmother. You spend hours walking up and down the pavement as he recounts every story he can remember; him and his brother, his parents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Birthdays, weddings, funerals. The street comes alive with the ghosts of people, the spectres of feelings. You and Frankie talk of growing up. Of falling in love. Of each other.

Your small, well-loved house is half way down the street, four up from his abuela’s. It does something strange to his heart to have two of his favourite people, who loved each other in their own ways, so close but so far away.

Your fingers hold his wrist as he shows you a scar on his palm from eating shit on his bike when he was eight, and when he looks up, your eyes are shining under the streetlights. There is a glint of moon in your teeth, and a shocking want so clear on your face, but when he meets your eye there is suddenly hesitation, a realisation, a shuttering. Frankie stops his story. There is a moment, and then it slips away like sand.

You shiver, chilled all of a sudden, and wrap your arms around yourself. Frankie tries not to look too hard at the goose bumps blossoming on your bare skin, tries to fight off the urge to kiss the little raises until you’re warm again under his touch.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and you smile back up at him. God, his heart.

‘As a hole,’ you giggle, and he feels himself smile goofily back at you. ‘We gotta warm up.’ You say, and then freeze.

It takes Frankie a little while longer to hear the inadvertent invitation in your words.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

You both stand on the porch, frozen, like some great frost has swept over the land. If Frankie squints, he can imagine the glitter of your eyeshadow, now fallen, dusted on your cheeks, is a collective of tiny constellations of ice.

Your body is wracked with a shiver again, but when Frankie looks you in the eye, you’re burning up from the inside. He swallows.

If he could only make the steps towards you. If he could only will his heavy feet to move, if he could summon his nerves to do exactly what his brain says, he would already be in front of you. He would have your face in his hands, be able to look into your eyes to see that deep, hidden want again, and kiss you. Again and again and again, and he wouldn’t stop, because things like that shitty boyfriend of yours wouldn’t matter anymore.

No. The whole world would be glitter and stars and constellations of ice crystals.

And then you blink, smile softly, and wish him a goodnight.

When he can finally lift his foot to move, your door is already closed.

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

You don’t see Frankie for a while after that, always finding a way to brush off his attempts to hang out.

At first he doesn’t worry too much about it. You’ve just moved back - you have a new job, a new place, new friends to get to know. Tanner.

Frankie finds other things to do. He gets business cards made up for the flying school he’ll be setting up next month. He pilots people across the state, sometimes across the country. He sees the boys for drinks, even sees Jessa for a coffee. He starts to worry when they say their texts have gone mostly unanswered, and they haven’t seen you either.

It must be why he turns up on your front step one day, a six pack in hand.

You open the door on the second ring of the doorbell, and Frankie finds himself rendered speechless. You look… different.

Tired and wary, a little thinner. And when he gets you chatting, you say you haven’t really been anywhere, done anything. You’ve been settling in, getting used to it. You have two beers each, but you seem on edge, like you’re waiting for a knock on the door. And then Frankie asks about Tanner, and your eyes linger on the entryway a little longer.

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks.

Because you should be excited. You should be gushing and giddy and falling in love. But you’re not.

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

There’s something in your eyes. Something which shrinks away, skitters back. Something drained, something sapped of life, of energy. Hurt, maybe. Fear, perhaps.

When Frankie thinks back now, he knows he should have pressed you harder. Maybe should have taken you to his, made you talk a little more for a little longer. Away from Tanner, the threat of his presence. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

When Frankie next sees you, you’ve had a hair cut, and there are deep, dark bags under your eyes. Both of these things worry him equally.

Your beautiful hair that you’d been growing out since you were young, hair that you swore you’d never cut shorter than it was in seventh grade, when your mum had to chop it into a bob after you got gum caught in it. And here it is now, much shorter.

Jessa says she likes it, and you give her a watery smile, a weak thank you. She asks where you had it done, when. She asks if you like it, and you shrug. You say you’re trying something new. You say Tanner likes it.

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

You’re quiet the whole time you're at the bar. Far too quiet, so far from the bubbly conversation you usually hold, your loud cackle, your bent-double amusement. Your affection for your friends - the hands on knees, arms around shoulders, kisses pressed to cheeks. It’s hardly there.

Frankie offers to walk you home, but you wave him off kindly. Tanner’s picking me up, you say, he’s probably outside. Jessa frowns at you.

‘Are you sure, babe?’ She says. ‘It’s not even late yet.’

You smile and nod at her, gather your stuff to go. Jessa catches your arm.

‘We’re still on to go shopping Saturday, though - right?’

You smile at her, the first warm one you’ve mustered all night.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

When you stand to leave, you hug everybody goodbye. Tightly, for longer than usual. Frankie doesn’t give you an option when he walks you out to Tanner’s car. The smug prick is hanging out the driver’s seat window. He watches Frankie as you walk up, hostile, threatening, arrogant, and somehow still ridiculous. And, Frankie thinks cruelly - ugly.

Frankie pulls you into his arms a few steps away from your boyfriend. He kisses your hair, and you sigh.

‘Have a good time on Saturday,’ he says softly. You twitch a smile at him.

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ You say before stepping back and walking to open the passenger door. As you climb in, Tanner winks at him.

‘Gettin’ a new one tomorrow,’ he says, stupid fucking grin on his face. ‘New car. Exciting stuff. Anyway, better get this one back,’ he says, squeezing your knee a little too hard. You don’t look at Frankie, something like humiliation colouring your cheeks. ‘See you around, Frank.’ Tanner says.

Frankie steps back from the car as it glides forwards, and he watches it disappear up the street.

Deep anger burns in him. And a kind of fear. It crawls over his skin, cooling the sides of his neck. His heart churns uncomfortably in his chest.

He tells your friends about it when he returns to the table. And they form a plan. Jessa texts you a time she’ll pick you up on Saturday. You say you’re excited again, you need some new clothes.

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping.

No, she brings you here, to the beach, to the bonfire. To him, to Santi and Benny and Will. Because they’re worried.

So worried, they tell you.

They sit you down in one of the chairs around the fire, and they explain why they’re worried. They tell you they love you - so much - and they just need to know if you’re okay. Because they can help. They want to help, want you out of this, because he’s not good for you. The silence, the hair, the clothes you were going to buy. They tell you they hate the way he doesn’t let you speak, how he speaks to you. And you are so quiet through all of it, Frankie begins to get more worried. He speaks to you gently over the fire, but you can’t meet his eye. He tells you his worries, their love for you again. He swallows down his own confession, anything to make you see. How they don’t want you pushed closer to him, want you to be pulled closer to them instead.

But your eyes are so vacant, so far away, that Jessa leaves her deckchair next to you to sit on the burned up log closer to you on your other side. She takes your hands, and you finally, finally look at her. You open your mouth, and you say so quietly -

‘You’re right. You’re right.’

It feels like the biggest gulp of oxygen Frankie has ever taken. He feels lightheaded from the relief, from the knowledge. They were right, they were right, which is a terrible, terrible thing.

Will clears his throat, and Frankie looks at him to see similar thoughts flicking over his face like film reel. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and -

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

I said, ‘You call that a pickup truck?’

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

Whatever Will is about to say is cut short by the sweep of headlights over the brush near the dunes.

A beat up old pickup truck bumps up the track and pulls up alongside Will’s Ranger. The driver’s side window slides down, and Tanner’s face emerges from the gloom. He revs the engine loudly, making you and Jessa jump. A sick feeling curls in Frankie’s stomach as he watches him, this piece of shit who’s been so busy crushing you down.

Tanner leaps out of the truck, and slams the door. Frankie looks over at you, visibly panicked on the other side of the fire. How the fuck did he find you?

‘Hey baby,’ Tanner says, sickly sweet as he strolls towards you, ducking to press a kiss to your unresponsive mouth. He turns to the rest of the group, eyes skating over Will and Ben until they land on Frankie. Tanner steps towards him, offers his hand.

‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he says, ‘Told you I’d be getting a new ride.’

Frankie stares at his hand. He takes a deep swig of his beer, breathing deeply before looking Tanner in the eye, refusing to shake it.

‘I’m surprised to see you.’ He says to the dirty-haired man.

Tanner tries his best to appear unfazed, but there’s a glimmer of something hot behind his eyes.

‘’Course man, wanted to show off the new pickup.’ He says, grinning broadly. He looks around again, eyes falling hungrily on Jessa. She shifts uncomfortably on the log, rearranging her body so there’s less for him to look at. A deep heat begins to rise in Frankie’s chest.

He glances again at the ancient car that Tanner’s driven up in. The front bumper almost hanging off, the red paint aged and scratched, bumps caved in all up the sides, the roof sagging.

‘You call that a pickup truck?’ Frankie says lightly. Tanner narrows his eyes at him, angry, before he catches the sound of Santi’s laugh.

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

Pope spreads his hands. He looks up at him through his brows, a glint in his eyes that Frankie is violently familiar with. You must notice it, too, because you clear your throat and say -

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

Tanner doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps staring at Pope.

The moment seems to last an eternity. Frankie feels like he’s watching everything through sludge, like he’s in someone else’s dream. His whole body is on edge, vibrating, ready to lunge - he’s just not sure at who. He looks between the two men before he catches your eye through the flames. The adrenaline in Frankie’s heart gutters at the look of panic in your eyes.

Please don’t let them do this. Please help me stop it.

Frankie glances back to Pope, and says, so softly only he can hear it -

‘Pope.’

And Santi immediately looks away, taking a swig of his beer.

Tanner stands there still, clearly baffled at Santi’s sudden lack of interest. Then he turns to the rest of the group like a petulant child, a toddler who has been ostensibly robbed of its favourite toy.

‘It’s a good truck,’ he says, before turning to you. ‘Ain’t it, baby?’

You hum your agreement as Tanner scoops a beer from the pile by Will’s chair, shucking off the top with his teeth. Jessa looks away, disgusted. He settles himself in the deckchair at your side.

‘Y’aint allowed to touch it, of course, sugar,’ he says to you, before laughing into his bottle. ‘Ruin everything you come into, anyway. Root of all my problems, ain’t ya?’ Tanner takes a pull of his beer. The group is silent around him. Around you. Tanner notices.

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’

You look at him through your eyelashes.

‘Baby, that’s enough.’ You say as softly as possible, and Frankie cringes at the pet name.

Tanner looks at you sharply. Dark, furious. It’s in the pinch of his jaw, the anger at what you’ve said so obviously rolling around in his skull.

Frankie hates him for it. And he hates that he hates him for it. There are already so many things he hates him for, but he’s so fucking stupid it’s almost funny. Not your equal in any way. In kindness, in conversation or in intellect. And not even willing to try. To learn. For you. Just trying to dumb you down instead, squash you into smaller, more digestible bites to chew on.

When it comes down to it, Tanner has nothing smart to say back. He just pushes a short breath from his nostrils and mutters out a little -

‘Well, well, well.’

Then he flexes his fingers against the chair, and you flinch.

You flinch hard, your brows coming together, chin scrunching, waiting for the blow to land. And when it doesn’t, your eyes flicker open slowly. Hollow, bereft, drained and dim.

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

Frankie forces the bile down his throat. His head swings forward to the ground of its own accord, a faint, resonant ringing in his ears. When he looks at his hands, they aren’t his own. In fact, he recognises no part of his body as the ringing gets louder, as he gently places his beer bottle on the floor. When his eyes leave the dirt, the mix of faces around the fire are all mirror reflections of each other. Horror, disgust, grief. Grief that this is what you hid from them, this is what they have taken too long to pull you from. The burning building splintering around you, your shell of a body immovable in the middle.

You won’t meet his eye. You won’t meet anyone’s eye as your hand shakes around your bottle. Jessa notices. She stares at your trembling fingers for too long, but she can hardly say anything. None of them can. Her eyes shine like beacons from her seat, wet with tears. Frankie sees her bottom lip quiver, her chin dimple. And then she swallows, swallows again, and reaches for your hand.

You flinch again, softer this time, and Frankie is sure everyone around the fire - everyone in the town, the world, must hear his heart crack. Because he feels it so keenly, so deeply, that it takes the air from his lungs. His breath is caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to draw it, it seems impossible to claw it down. He’s drowning. He’s drowning right here in front of everybody, and it makes it all the worse to know that this is how you must feel. Every damn day.

Come on, he hears Jessa say, Let’s go and get another drink. And through the dark swirling of his mind he watches the two of you stand slowly and disappear towards the back of Frankie’s truck. He waits until Jessa has you hidden from view, her arms around your hunched back as you bring your hands to your face - crying - and that’s when the thread snaps.

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

Pope and Will watch him. Benny is still staring at Tanner.

Tanner looks up at him, chin jutted out, smirking as Frankie approaches.

He’s challenging him. He’s waiting for a war of words, for the shouting to begin, for the insults, the observations to fly.

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

The first punch sprawls him out of his seat. It makes a satisfying cracking sound, and the first trickle of blood starts to bleed from behind his lip.

Then Frankie kicks him. He kicks him hard in the ribs, making sure he doesn’t have enough time to recover from the punch to deflect Frankie’s boot.

Tanner clutches at his abdomen, wheezing, gazing up at Frankie with bewildered eyes. Fucking coward.

Frankie grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him upwards. He has nothing to say to him, but the fury he feels, this deep, endless, swirling pit of rage, he lets him see. He lets it fill him from the soles of his feet all the way up through his eyes, and he lets it bleed out. He lets the blackness flood the ground. He lets Tanner watch it, lets it petrify him, and then Frankie swings again. Tanner takes it on his chin this time, his jaw snapping closed, and when it goes lax, a couple jagged bits of tooth fall out. Frankie grunts in satisfaction and swings again, again, until blood spouts from Tanner’s eyebrow and his cheek begins to bruise and swell. Frankie breathes deeply, in rhythm, doesn’t even feel it when Tanner manages to land a lucky punch to his eye socket. He plants a knee into the other man’s crotch, lands him an elbow to the back of his head when he keels over, and then shoves him to the ground. Frankie gets on the floor with him, raining blows down on Tanner’s body, his face. He’s methodical about it, a punch to each eye, the crack of the cunt’s nose, one to either side of his mouth, then bloodying up his jaw. He’s aware, somewhere, that Tanner is screaming. Strangled, gargling sounds trying to claw up his throat. And then he’s aware of two pairs of hands around each armpit, dragging him away, pulling him up. Will is saying something in his ear, that’s enough, Frankie, alright now, and Benny is speaking, too, panicked - you’ll kill him, Fish, come on man.

Frankie blinks, really looks at Tanner where he lays bleeding on the dirt. His eyes already swelling, a couple more teeth scattered on the ground next to him. His face different shades of red and purple, a mess of a man, and Frankie is pleased. He could keep going. He wants to see him bleed much, much more. Will and Benny keep their grip on him.

‘Leave,’ Frankie growls, low, without a quiver in his voice. ‘And don’t you ever come back. You ever look at her again, I’ll gouge out your fuckin’ eyes. You ever touch her again, I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll make sure they don’t find anything left of you.’

Tanner doesn’t say anything, which must be the only smart thing he’s ever done in his life. But he still doesn’t move.

The four men watch him for a moment, the silence heavy, broken only by the crackle of wood and Tanner’s heavy, wet breaths.

Then Benny lets Frankie go, steps forward and picks the man up by his collar, swinging him around to the direction of his truck. He throws him down on the dirt.

‘Move,’ he spits. ‘Get out of here. And if you have the courage on the way, wrap your fucking truck around a telephone pole.’

Tanner finally has the good sense to crawl over to the vehicle. He hauls himself up the scarred body work before creaking open the driver’s door and slipping inside. The truck sputters to life, yellow bulbs flooding the bonfire site again before it quickly backs away, turns, and drives off. Frankie watches its blinking red brake lights until he’s sure the cunt is gone, and then he turns around.

You’re stood with Santi’s arms wrapped around you, back from the fire where Tanner’s blood is drying. Pope strokes your hair, squeezes you tightly as your body shudders. And Frankie can only stare.

Minutes might have passed. Hours. And Frankie is terrified. Terrified that he’s scared you, broken you, pushed you away. And then you turn your face on Pope’s chest, moving your head from shoulder to shoulder, and you’re looking at him. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, face flushed and damp, and it’s like Frankie’s trance breaks.

Frightened, he takes a step forward. He breathes your name.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and you shake your head. Fuck. What has he done? What has he allowed himself to do? ‘I’m sorry, querida, please - I know, I know -’ but what does he know? He looks to Santi, pleading for help, and the man offers him a small smile as you step out of his arms.

Through a fog, you come towards him. Your chin wobbles. Your eyes swim. You’re a little wide-eyed, a little shocked. And something else, something beyond his reach.

You get to him, and your arms make their silken way around his middle as you begin to cry. Hot tears stain the front of his shirt, and he cradles you to him, holding your skull gently, enveloping your abdomen. A loud sob looses from your ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ You wrap your arms around him tighter, press your nose into his sternum.

‘I’m not scared of you, Frankie,’ you sob into his chest. He clutches at the back of your head, holds you even closer, strokes your hair. When you speak again your voice is higher, strained with your tears. ‘I could never be scared of you.’

The sting in Frankie’s throat becomes hot, burning. He doesn’t know whether to pull you impossibly closer or to push you away, to run as far as he can from your broken, heaving body in his arms. Because what he’s done should scare you. It should. He’d lost all control. The only thing he’d been able to see, to feel was his all-consuming, depthless fury. And Tanner’s face as it splintered, bloodied, swelled. And he’d wanted to keep going, until there was just pulp. No nerve endings, no teeth, no eyes, no mouth, no body that he could ever hurt you with again. He doesn’t want you to hurt any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into your hair.

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

Frankie holds your hand the whole way home, the drive passing in a dazed silence.

You still don’t talk when you get to his place, when he unlocks the door, lets you in, and locks it behind him. You take his hand in the quiet cool of the house, lead him upstairs. He follows, slowly, sore, exhausted. Trying to process it all.

When you reach the landing, you turn on the bathroom light, and he trails behind you. He stands propped against the sink as you dig around in his medicine cabinet, finding wipes and bandages and anything else you think might be useful. You take Frankie’s hand again, examine his bruised, bleeding and swollen knuckles with solemn eyes. You are so gentle, twisting his hand in the light, inspecting. You look over it for a while, and Frankie watches you. When you reach for an antiseptic wipe, your hand is shaking.

Frankie winces silently when you start to dab at the blood on his knuckles, cleaning it away with minute swipes. You chase the dried rivulets of blood down his fingers, over his palm. The scar there from when he ate shit riding his bike.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. You ignore him, breathing shallowly as you inspect his hand, holding his wrist, cleaning blood which is no longer there.

‘Might be a hairline fracture or two,’ you say, distant. ‘I won’t bandage it, gonna let it dry out first. But you’ll need to rest it. And we’ll need to ice your eye.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into your hair. You shake your head, and the light catches the different colours in every strand. Frankie’s throat tightens.

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

A shaky breath pushes itself from between Frankie’s lips.

‘No, querida,’ he says softly, ‘It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have let you see -’ he swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He looks over your head at the white tiles behind you as your grip on his wrist tightens. You still don't look up at him. ‘But it’s not how you treat someone you love. Not how it should be. Should be protecting them, treating them right, loving them the way you love -’ him. He cuts himself off, because he realises as he says it he’s wrong. So wrong.

Right to be like you in your gentleness. In your care, your touch, your tenderness, your loving. But Tanner deserved none of those things. He didn’t deserve your faith, didn’t deserve your protection or your silence either. None of it.

He closes his eyes.

An image of you flickers through Frankie’s mind. Your fingers on his wrist as they are now, your eyes shining under the streetlights. The glint of your teeth, and the want so clear on your face, then the hesitation, the fear, the shuttering -

And if only he had kissed you then. If only you had taken him inside. He could have shown you what it was supposed to feel like. He could have saved you from the hurt, the fear which lay ahead.

There’s a splash of warmth on the pale skin of the underside of his forearm, and he opens his eyes again. You’re still hunched over his hand, but your movements have stilled. Frankie waits, confused, before another warm drop lands on his arm and you hiccup a sob out. He whispers out your name, and you turn your face up to him, devastated.

Frankie’s face crumples, and your grip on his wrist loosens enough for him to lift his hands to your face and cup your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking -’

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

Frankie’s jaw works around his next sentence, his next thoughts. He tries to process what this means. That look in your eyes, your tears, your implication. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

‘I don’t love him, Frankie,’ you choke, ‘I don’t. Christ - I don’t think I ever did, I never could -’ you suck in a deep, stuttered breath. ‘I’ve never - never hated anyone more. I couldn’t stand him, couldn’t have him near me, couldn’t have him touch me -’ Frankie flinches at your words. ‘But I was so scared. And embarrassed. I didn’t know how to leave - I didn’t know how to tell anybody about what was going on. I was terrified of what he’d do. To me, to you guys, if he found out I’d spoken about it. And he made it so hard for me to see you, so hard for me to get away.’ You sob now, panic and relief forcing out your words. ‘I thought - wherever I go, he’ll find me. He’ll track me down, and he’ll bring me back - and somehow - somehow that was worse than if he tracked me down and - and - I don’t know, killed me or something -’

Frankie’s eyes shutter. He can’t even follow your thought, so awful is the image, the gaping emptiness. He pulls you close, he lets you cry. Curled into his chest, your body wracking with tears, shaking, tense and uncontrollable, the sounds you make rooting in his brain. They file themselves away in a box where very few things go. Deployment. Tom. The darkness after his investigation. You break and break in his arms, and it’s all he can do to hold the pieces of you together. To press kisses to your head, breathe in the smell of your hair, rub his hands over your back, cradle you like a child.

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there for. He waits until you stop sobbing, stop crying softly, stop hiccuping, stop sniffing. He waits for a few more minutes in the silence, too. And when he pulls away, he presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead.

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

‘You’re safe here.’ He says, and you nod.

‘I know. Thank you. For - everything.’ You say thickly. Frankie swallows, nods. You know it all anyway. Any time, for however long you need.

He pads downstairs to get you a glass of water, and while he’s pouring it, he can hear you blow your nose, wash your face. Somehow, they are the most perfect sounds in the world.

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

Frankie gives you one of his sleep-stretched t-shirts and an old pair of shorts for you to wear to bed.

The clothes dwarf you a little, and he can’t wipe the small, thrilled smile from his face, even when he looks away. You look fucking adorable.

You giggle at him every time you see it, your little what? only making him smile harder. It stretches his mouth until it hurts and his cheeks start to cramp up, squishing his swollen eye. Stop he tries to say, but it comes out as an equally breathless huff of laughter - and that only makes you giggle more. So much so that he sweeps you up into his arms to stash you under the covers, and you laugh even harder as he tucks the sheets in tight around you, just like his mama used to do when she wanted him to stay put.

He looks down at you from the side of the bed, hands on his hips, and you laugh back at him - eyes shining, mouth open in wide hoots of delight, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to contain yourself. He points a finger at you.

‘You need to calm down,’ he says, voice tight with bridled amusement. ‘It’s bedtime.’

But you cackle back at him, this glorious puddle of sunshine in his bed, only howls of laughter for a response. Unable to help himself, he returns your joy, turning off the bedside lamps to slip in beside you.

In the darkness, your snorts subside into ragged breaths, and you turn on your side to look at him. You study him as though you never want to forget a single line on his face; such warmth, such affection in your eyes that Frankie’s whole body swells and lifts.

You take his hand beneath the sheets and hold it between your faces, smiling softly at him.

The first and only girl he’s really ever loved. This brilliant, fierce, bright, intelligent woman damped down by the waste of fucking space who had bled by the fire. At the thought of it, Frankie feels his heart fall out of his chest, down through the floorboards, and plummet towards the middle of the earth.

And finally, he begins to cry.

He tries to stop it, he really does. It’s selfish, he thinks, so awful and selfish to cry in front of you when it’s you who should be wrapped in his arms, swept away by emotion again if you needed to be, safe and warm and unworried, never having to fret about anything again.

But he can’t stop it. It comes out in great shuddering breaths - pained, wracked sounds slipping past his lips, and he can’t help it. He tries to gather them in his hands to shove them back in his mouth, tries to scoop them in his arms and press them back into the caving ache of his chest, but he can’t.

When Frankie was a child, he saw his dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after his father’s brother was killed in a car accident. He had seen it through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door, and it had hurt him. It had wounded him, as a child, to see his father break with such grief, such pain, such emptiness, and to know there was nothing he could do about it. And now, he is split into those two people - younger self, older self - as he thinks of you lying next to him on the bed. This person who he loves so much, who is now so full of the knowledge of the worst parts of living, wound up so tight within you that you let it settle, let it unfurl around your bones. He sees your hurt, your grief, your pain refracted around him tenfold, and he hurts with you. He sees you as the boy he once was, this poor creature looking in at a heart breaking, as he has unknowingly watched yours break for months.

And he’s so sorry, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

But here you are, still, performing the ultimate act of kindness. Comfort.

He feels the mattress move as you slide closer to him, and then your hand is on his back, swooping in gentle movements. He feels the scrabble of your fingers under the ribs he has pressed into the bed, the pressure of your arm moving under him so you can hold him properly. Frankie sobs harder, but he opens his body to you. You press closer to him, burying your face in his neck, and he breathes you in as he cries. Your scent is here, you are here. And like you heard him, you whisper -

‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. ’M here. I’m safe.’ And this realisation allows a little more air, but it doesn’t make Frankie’s guilt, his shame any better. But you’re right, he knows it. And somewhere in his crying, this turns his gasps to tears of relief. Softly, you retract your arms from around him.

You take his hands away from his face, and kiss the palms. You kiss each fingertip, each bruised and cracked knuckle. You lean forward and press a kiss to each tear, each trail of saltwater on his face. And you are so beautiful in the moonlight. Soft and wide eyed. Safe. Kind, always kind, and full of understanding. Frankie sees now that you have been crying against him, too, your eyelashes cloyed with tears. Sees his thoughts in your eyes as though you have had each of them zip to you through the air. When you were a child, you saw your dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after…

A smile breaks through your eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, glazing down, softening your lips.

And Frankie doesn’t think this time. His feet don’t fail him. He doesn’t think of stars or glitter or constellations of ice crystals. He just kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. And he doesn’t stop, because nothing else matters anymore.

You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in his bed.

You’re here.

You tip your head back, deepening the kiss, licking into Frankie’s mouth. He gives in so easily to you he’s almost ashamed. But then your fingers clutch at him, ball at the bottom of his shirt, tangle in the thick of his hair, and all his thoughts are forgotten. He feels you slip a soft, strong leg over his, pulling him forward. You groan against him, and Frankie’s cock twitches. You feel it, you must do, as you pull your body closer to him, tight against him. Frankie is so lightheaded he doesn’t know where his hands are, what they’re doing - and when he concentrates, he finds them skating over your back, squeezing the tension out of the back of your neck, gripping your hip.

He moans against you as you rock your hips over his thigh, as he feels the heat of your sex against his skin. He feels like he’s on fire.

You slip a hand under his sleep shorts and palm him, brushing his silken length with two fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker against you. You take him in your hand, pump him once, twice with the perfect grip, the perfect speed, like you were made for him. He’s gasping against you, panting as you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

‘Baby,’ he groans, breathless, ‘We don’t have to. We really don’t -’

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question.

Frankie tries to shake his head, look away, think of anything but the tight fist of your fingers around his cock.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. But I don’t think - this is the right thing -’

You loosen your grip, draw away from him. His body aches with a shudder.

His eyes flick back to yours again - confused, hurt - fuck, he can’t do that to you, ever -

‘I - I don’t want to take advantage of it - of you,’ he says. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you look down the sheets towards your toes. His jaw tightens. ‘And - and I don’t want this to mean - different things for us. I don’t want it to ruin what we have.’ Frankie breathes out heavily through his nose. He has to tell you now. He has to. ‘I don’t want it to mean different things, because I love you. I always have. And if we do this, if I have you even just for a night, I - I’ll never recover from it.’ Tears spike in his eyes again. He tries to smile. ‘You’d ruin me. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive you for it.’

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Frankie watches as your eyes flit back up to his. They search his face, the dribble of his barely-shed tears, the slope of his sad smile. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over his scraps of beard. He closes his eyes.

‘What you said earlier,’ you begin. Frankie swallows. He waits for the blow of rejection. ‘About me - about me loving him.’ He opens his eyes slowly to find yours, bright and clear. Something begs to bubble over in them. Something golden and warm. ‘You were wrong - obviously. And I couldn’t tell you truly why, because I was afraid. So afraid of pushing you away, even though I think that’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought I was worth it, Frankie. I don’t deserve you. And I am terrified of how much I love you.’ You beam at him, eyes bubbling over with that thing - love - ‘I love you,’ you say simply, like it’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

A stunned little laugh ripples up his throat, and you copy it. He grips your face in his hands, and kisses you again, again, again.

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

‘And you are,’ he presses to your lips, ‘You are absolutely worth it.’

He rolls over on top of you, and begins to kiss your jaw, nipping at the skin there, before moving down your throat. He kisses you with a hot, open mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive skin at your pulse point. Mine, he groans, and you whimper against him, rubbing your thighs together.

Frankie pushes your shirt up - his shirt - so he can bite at your chest, press kisses to every bit of exposed skin. Every single part of you that deserves to be loved, every single place which has so far been unknown to him. He sucks each nipple into his mouth, delighted when you keen beneath him, panting, please, please Frankie, before he sinks lower down, peeling his shorts away from you to expose your glistening cunt.

He groans, unable to take his eyes away from it as he leans forward, pressing his body into the mattress to lick a stripe from your asshole to your clit.

‘Frankie -’ you groan down at him as he begins to work at you, sucking and licking, nipping at your thigh before slipping his tongue into your hole, swiping and tasting everything you’re giving to him. He grinds himself into the mattress, hissing at the relief, the uncomfortable weight of his cock dragging below him.

‘Taste so good, baby,’ he tells you, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to taste, wants to smell anything else ever again. All he can do is eat at you, breathe you in, until you’re begging him -

‘Frankie, your fingers - please -’ And he flexes his hand at your hip before brushing a fingertip against your entrance and gasping at the pain.

You try to bear down towards him, but he rips his hand away, lifting his head towards you.

‘Can’t,’ he gasps, and you mewl, bucking your hips up to his face, desperate. ‘Hand’s fucked,’ he says, and you still your movements before beginning to laugh again. It’s loud and from your belly, and it's bizarre. But Frankie gets it. He gets it, and he giggles too. He doesn’t try to fuck his broken knuckles into you, but he does try to continue lathing you with his tongue. You’re making it pretty fucking difficult, though.

‘Stop laughing,’ he huffs against your clit, ‘I’m trying to make you come.’

‘Okay,’ you say, gasping for air, ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You’re doing really well, by the way.’ But this only makes him laugh. He groans, leaning his forehead against your inner thigh. ‘This is impossible.’ He pouts.

‘Nooo,’ you cry, leaning up on your elbows to pout down at him. ‘Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I won’t laugh anymore.’

‘Promise?’ He says. You hold out your pinky to him.

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

Frankie stretches his hand out to you and tries to extend his pinky. He winces at the sharp pain which shoots from the movement, and grunts at you, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You bastard,’ he says, trying and failing to hold his smile, ‘You knew I wouldn’t be able to do that.’

‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ you grin, and then before you can make any more smart remarks, Frankie resumes his ministrations, lapping and tonguing at your clit, your hole, mouthing hot, wet kisses to your pussy. He shakes his head from side to side, running your bud in tight, hard little circles until you’re a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him. Your hips buck unconsciously, and Frankie hooks both his arms around your thighs to hold you down, flattening his hands against your belly to keep you firmly in place. He reaches up to twist at your nipples and you gasp.

‘God, Frankie, tongue feels so fucking good -’

He can feel you begin to pulse against his chin as your whines get higher in pitch, and he groans as you twist handfuls of his hair.

‘Come on, baby,’ he says, ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you come, querida. Wanna taste it. Come on my face.’

And you do, the sensation of it arching your back tight like a bow, a strangled moan cutting off into the ceiling.

‘Fuck, Frankie, fuck -’ as he drives you through it, nodding and murmuring against you as you try to wriggle free, squealing in protest until you manage to twist a leg and set a foot against his chest, pushing him off.

‘Fucking - hell -’ You pant, and Frankie grins down at you, smug.

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Oh, fuck you, Morales.’ You laugh, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, moaning when you taste yourself on him. Your tongue explores every part of his mouth, every crevice behind every tooth, like you can’t get enough of him. Like there'll never be enough of him. ‘Now fuck me.’ You whisper.

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

He rips his shirt up and off his back, shucks his shorts down his legs, and squeezes himself tight as he can in his left hand. He ruts into his palm, thumb swiping to slick his heavy beads of precum down his length.

‘Ready?’ he asks, looking down to find you staring wide-eyed at his cock. It twitches under your gaze.

‘What?’ He says, and you shake your head in quiet disbelief and amusement. You lift your eyes back to his face, and they are so dark with arousal he almost melts into the mattress.

‘Nothing,’ you shrug. ‘I just somehow never believed Pope and the boys when they said it was like two coke cans put together.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, his face pulling tight with a grin as he lines himself up at your entrance, swilling the head in your arousal.

‘I mean, what if it doesn’t fit?’ You babble, and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll fit, baby,’ he says. ‘We’ll make it fit.’ Then he sinks the first inch in, and just waits. He waits and watches you, watches as your mouth falls slack, all the smart things coming out your mouth grinding to a halt. He throbs at how tight you are around him, at how you clench already, trying to suck him in further. And fuck, you are so wet.

‘You okay, querida?’ He asks through gritted teeth.

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

‘Move Frankie, please baby -’ you beg, and he groans as he pushes further inside you, watching the obscene stretch of your pussy around him, the way it pulses, the way it gets wetter and warmer and tighter around him. When he bottoms out, he feels the hot rush of his orgasm leap towards him a little too quickly.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he breathes, closing his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t come right away. You squirm beneath him, canting your hips up, trying to fuck yourself. Frankie grips you, gritting his teeth. ‘Stay still,’ he hisses, flushing a little. ‘God, fuck, please - just for a minute.’ He opens his eyes to find you watching him, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. His eyes glaze down your body - his t-shirt bunched up around your chest, perfect tits, perfect belly, and your sweet, sopping cunt split open on his cock.

He groans again, slipping out, watching as he retreats, soaked by you, before pushing back in. A high pitched whine leaves your lips, and you twitch your hands up to play with your tits. Frankie doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more sexy in his life.

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Keep playing with yourself like that, gorgeous. Look at you.’

So you do, looking up at him with doe-eyes as he fucks into you, soft at first, letting you adjust before quickening his pace, readjusting his angle, feeling you leak around him. His balls slap against your ass loudly, and you keen up at him, eyes wide, begging for something as you tighten like a coil around him, something you can’t quite voice. But Frankie knows.

He swipes his thumb against your clit, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching again. He groans at the sight, and works the bundle of nerve endings in tight circles, faster and harder, harder and faster, until you’re gripping him so tight he thinks you might push him out.

‘Come baby, come,’ he pants, ‘Please, querida, need to feel you - need to feel you soak me. Need you to come for me, come on this cock, baby, please -’

And he groans, long and loud as you clench and pulse around him, milking him, pulling him impossible deeper - fuck, Frankie, oh my god, feels so fucking good - the delicious pressure at the base of his spine at breaking point as he fucks you through it, as he pants and gasps -

‘Come, Frankie,’ you plead, ‘Please - want you, need you -’ and he spills himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, eyes clamping shut, overwhelmed and short circuited. He’s never known it could feel like this - good to the end of every synapse - and he’s fucking it in with three long thrusts, pulling out slowly just to watch it dribble out of you as he twitches against his thigh. He thumbs your clit just to watch you seize and sigh against him, then sits back on his knees to look at you.

‘You are something else,’ he says in disbelief.

You smile lazily at him.

‘Ain’t so bad yourself, Morales,’ and he laughs, throwing himself down next to you, kissing anywhere he can. I love you, I love you, I love you. Safe.

You lay there for a while afterwards, just feeling each other, calming your ragged breathing. Eventually, Frankie rises from the bed to grab a washcloth, coming back and swiping between your legs tenderly, gently, before collapsing back into bed and pulling you into his chest.

He feels like he’s in space, and he tells you as much. He spills secrets like a child at a sleepover. He tells you about the glitter and the stars and the constellations of ice crystals. You match him with a galaxy of feeling spanning the time he’s known you. And he feels that this is a dream, this love which floats like a nebula within the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, even as you sleep. And even when he does drift off, he dreams of you. He dreams of you sparkling with stardust, waiting for him with your arms open.

When he wakes the next morning, you’re still there. Safe, soft and warm against him, furled into his ribcage, heart beating against the hand that’s pressed against your chest.

Everything’s okay. That red thread still intact, after all.

When the sun rises, bloody and mild, it’s never been so sweet.

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

#comment reblog #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #pedro pascal fanfic

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luxurychristmaspudding · 9 days

Text

OOOOOOOOOKAAAAYYYYYYYY. beth did not come here to play.

i was biting my fist through this WHOLE thing just. UHHHHHH. yeah. unhinged. i will be eternally thankful that you have put the image of frankie in a towel into my head, beth. i have thoughts and feelings about him with it slung round his waist, all broad and dripping, and man - i was right there with reader just ogling him.

and i love how oblivious he is. you really got me with 'calm and composed' because yes, frankie is a trained operator, a big guy. and then the way he was reduced to a little puddle???? insane.

i am sooooooo with al here on reader's mouth. GOD. i'm kicking my feet and giggling like she's talking to ME.

and then?? you just hit us with the one-two. breathy, desperate, subby frankie. my fav. and the way he tries to spin it? take control? and reader is just... whatever you say, pretty boy.

amazing. i need him. i needed this. as you say, he has my heart, soul, and a couple other things

Desire

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: How are you supposed to keep your hands to yourself when Frankie’s looking so good? The answer is, you can't.

Warning: 18+ SMUT mdni, no use of Y/N, no age specified, Frankie in just a towel, praise kink, softdom!Frankie, but also sub!Frankie?, softdom!Reader, pet names, dirty talk, m!oral, blowjob, face fucking, deep throating, Frankie has a big dick, anal fingering, fingering (female received), not much description of the Reader, but she has hair that can be pulled.

A/N: So, remember when I said I wasn't going to be doing any writing whilst I was on holiday? Yeah…I couldn’t stop myself and ended up creating this. I haven’t yet written anything like this before 🍑 so I hope it turned out okay! I’d love to hear all your thoughts!

Thank you to the sweet @schnarfer for her constant support and for proofreading this for me!💕 I also wanted to give a shoutout to the amazing @luxurychristmaspudding 🥰 After reading her newest fic ‘watch’ she put me in such a creative mood and this probably wouldn't have been made if it wasn't for her 🫢

You listen with patience, holding off your burning desire.

He's so close, his body naked and fresh, rinsing the stressful day away as he stands under the shower head, scrubbing at his skin and sighing contently to himself, his taught muscles loosening, easing up.

The bathroom you share is surrounded by steam, thick and heavy. You remain seated at the edge of the bed, forbearing, facing in the direction of the bathroom door, anticipating the moment the water finally gets shut off, the pull of a shower curtain, wet feet hitting tiled flooring.

You take a peek, you're so desperate for it, leaning on the palms of your hands to get a better view. The doors slightly agar and Frankie eventually comes into view, revealing a glimpse of his sun-drenched back, slightly red from the heat of the shower, glistening with droplets of water running down his shoulders and the dip of his spine, the hairs at the nape of his neck drenched, curling at the ends.

You admire his well-built physique, his height overpowering and muscles flexing when he wipes the condensation off the mirror, his back so broad and wide. Your mouth quickly starts to salivate at the sight.

He stands by the sink, calm and composed, a white towel wrapped securely around his waist, hands threading through his hair, slicking his curls back and away from his face. Your stare lowers to his soft, biteable tummy, a scattering of delicate hairs spotted just above the towel.

Frankie remains oblivious to your lascivious gaze, and with his large and skilful fingers, he pulls the towel from around his waist, bringing it up to dry his hair, rubbing the towel across his damp locks.

You whimper, stare firmly fixed on his cock, resting soft between his thighs. Temptation gets the better of you, spreading your legs open and dragging your fingers across your skin and under the waistband of your underwear, sliding the digits through your growing arousal.

Desire rips at your self-restraint and fully takes over. Your pussy screams out for pleasure, skin overheating and tingling. It aches, and it's a throb you know only Frankie can soothe.

With a gentle push the door opens, the steam fogging the walls now dispersing. You reach out to him, closing the distance between you both, stretching out your hands along the expansion of his shoulders and down his ribs, wrapping your arms around him, your clothed-covered breasts pressing into his sticky skin.

“You look so good Frankie,” you sigh, cheek nuzzled up against his warmth. “So pretty…all naked and wet like this.”

He chuckles at that, and the sound affects you more than it should.

So with lips close to his ear you simply whisper.

“Turn around Frankie.”

Frankie obliges, his back now flushed up against the sink, hands resting on the edge. You peer down at his cock, tongue peeking out to moisten your lips. His length’s still a little soft, but you know that won't be for long.

“How do you expect me to keep my hands to myself when you tease me like this? The things you do to me, Frankie. The things I want to do for you.”

Frankie follows your stare, his cock hardening from your lascivious gaze. “And what is it you want to do to me hermosa? Go on, say it.”

Your fingers skim across the hairs at the base of his cock, slipping lower. “Let me suck your cock baby. Want it so bad.”

Frankie's breath hitches.

You wait a moment, filling the air with your need, stare fixed on his features, seductive.

“Will you let me Frankie?”

He nods. “Yes cariño…” he whispers. “Fuck, yes you can.”

Knees drop to the bathroom floor, hands brushing down his chest and stomach and lightly touching his length. Frankie shudders above you, eyeing you intensely. You flick his slit with the tip of your tongue, repeating it until his cock sits fully erect and large in the palm of your hand, fingers only just wrapping around the size of him.

“Mmm, you're so fucking big Frankie.”

You lick the underside of him, tracing the veins that cover his thickness. He twitches in your hand, already becoming so responsive and sensitive to the heat of your mouth.

“I love this…” you hum, lips hovering over his bulbous head. “Love having your cock in my mouth.”

“Fuck querida,” Frankie moans, thrusting his hips forward to shove more of his cock inside your awaiting mouth. “S-shit—”

“Wanna fuck my mouth, Frankie? You gonna make me choke on it?”

His grip is fervent and strong beside him, holding back, the veins following up his arms bulging, his chest lifting vigorously.

“Tell me, baby. How much do you like having your cock in my mouth?”

“Christ—” he grits, hand now tugging on the back of your head, fingers lacing through your knotted hair. “Yes, I love it. Your mouth…fuck it's incredible. S-so good.”

You swallow as much of him as you can, mouth barely able to take all of him and jaw straining. Saliva slips from the corners of your open mouth and drools down your chin, cheeks blushed and lashes wet, Frankie’s cock hitting the back of your throat causing your muscles to contract.

“Not so chatty now are you querida,” Frankie plays, keeping your face flushed and head still, your hands gripping the top of his thighs. “This cocks shuts this pretty little mouth up real quick, huh?”

You nod up to him the best you can, maintaining his stare, your vision blurred. Frankie smirks at your attempt for obedience, cupping your wet chin.

“You filthy girl.”

His cock leaves your mouth in an absurd gasp. Your throat starts to feel numb and sore, empty lungs frantic for air, your hand continuing at a steady pace and stroking him.

With bold actions, Frankie watches you suck your index finger into your mouth. It slides from your lips wet and glistening before you trace your fingers over his hips and back towards the curve of his ass, moving in closer.

“Spread your legs for me Frankie.”

You notice the signs of confusion that gradually take over his features; his furrowed eyebrows and his quivering lip, his unyielding control plummeting. But Frankie does it anyway, widening his stance and waiting. Preparing himself.

His peach fuzz tickles your skin, gently prodding the end of your finger between the crevice of his ass cheeks, feeling him pull away slightly.

“H-hermosa,” he stutters, “what—”

“What do y’think Frankie?” You ask softly. “Can I keep going? Will you let me?”

Frankie's hesitant for a moment, his eyes betraying his apprehension as the two of you delve into something different, something new. Sure, you both had spoken about this before, to which Frankie had boldly agreed, but right now, you can sense his nerves.

You give him some time to gather his thoughts and emotions, kissing the skin on his stomach, giving him that reassurance he needs.

And after a few moments of silence, Frankie takes a deep breath and nods.

“Need you to say it, Frankie. Is this okay?”

Frankie inhales, “yes, it's okay.”

You hold his cheeks apart, steadily rubbing his tight ring of muscle, repeating the motion and watching his body flinch slightly above you before slowly pushing just the tip of your finger past his hole, scanning his face for any discomfort.

“I’ll go slow,” you comfort him. “There's no rush here baby. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Frankie slows his breathing, and when you don't see any uncertainty you push forward, inching your finger inside him until your knuckles deep, feeling him tense and pulse around your finger.

And shit, it even shocks you with how much you're enjoying this already.

“Fuck Frankie,” you admire. “You're so tight.”

Once you feel him relax, you curl your finger in a downwards gesture, massaging his g-spot and Frankie gasps out. His cock twitches in the palm of your hand, his body responsive. He reaches out for you, clutching you by the back of your neck.

“Fuck—” Frankie whimpers, fingernails digging imprints into your shoulder. “Hermosa—”

You still your movements, gauging his reaction. “Good Frankie? You like it? D’you want me to stop?”

He shakes his head. “No cariño, don’t stop. It's just…i-it's new. But it ain't bad.”

You release the breath you hadn't noticed you'd been holding, continuing your actions as you suck his cock with fervour and curl your digit. His tip turns a deep red colour and seeps, quickly catching the come that oozes from his slit with your tongue, completely drinking all of him in.

“Fuck me—” Frankie groans, “s’good. So fucking good.”

You curl your finger deeper, changing the angle of your thrusts which Frankie seems to like, crying out your name in desperate whines.

“I am fucking you Frankie,” you tease. “Fucking you like you deserve, taking it so well.”

His balls tighten as you cup him, the muscles in his abdomen compressing. You fixate your gaze on him, staring as his eyes roll back and his mouth hangs wide open.

“K-keep going cariño,” he moans, breathing heavily through his nostrils. “Fuck I’m gonna come. Y’gonna make me come.”

Your stomach flutters, not stopping. “Coming so soon Frankie?” You flirt, quickening your strokes. “You’re loving this, aren't you? Doing so well. Being such a good boy for me.”

It's all so overwhelming. Frankie turns into a puddle in the palm of your hands, nearing his edge and completely falling apart.

“Come Frankie. Fuck, please come.”

“Fuck yes, that's it. Holy shit—”

Frankie's voice grows louder until it cuts off altogether, spurts of his come landing on the surface of your tongue and the back of your throat, your mouth never missing a single drop as you relish in the way he cries out, his chest heaving and eyes glued shut.

You open your mouth to him, giving him a peek and showing him his release before you swallow him, moaning at the saltiness.

You withdraw your hands from his spent cock, slowly removing your finger from his tight hole as it throbs around your digit. You raise to your knees, suddenly feeling a harsh ache in them, but you ignore it anyway, kissing Frankie on his chest.

“Christ hermosa—” Frankie sighs, his words now as much breath as sound. “That. That was…”

“I know baby,” you cut in, smiling up at him. “We’re definitely going to be doing that again if that's the reaction I get.”

Frankie rolls his eyes at you and sneers, just before they cloud with darkness, trailing his fingers down and sliding them under your underwear, cupping your neglected sex.

“Fuck Frankie…” you pant, clawing at his shoulders, “what are you—“

He grunts against your open mouth, calloused fingers toying with your clit. “I think someone enjoyed that a little bit more than me. You're soaking wet querida.”

He nibbles and sucks on your neck, marking you, tracing his teeth down and over your collarbone. You can feel his cock harden and push into your stomach, Frankie's hips thrusting for friction.

“Cariño, you think we’re done after that? We’re only just getting started.”

Frankie detaches his fingers from your cunt and you cry out from the sudden loss. He quickly sweeps you off your feet, taking you into your shared bedroom.

Yeah, this was going to be a long night.

#fic recs #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #ong beth i need a cold shower #manifesting this man #also not to be cringe but the fact watch was a little inspo???#i am a puddle of golden goopiness #my heart is ten times bigger #ily

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