#the grey patchy beard
magsam · a year ago
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Premiere of The Rise Of Skywalker | Red Carpet
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teakstripe · a year ago
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“Don’t buy the Crocs” they said
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heythere-mel · a year ago
patchy beard appreciation post
(see also, greys appreciation post pt. 2)
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citrine-elephant · 5 months ago
i keep having beard dreams and then i wake up, hnghhh 
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softpedropascal · 14 days ago
second chances [francisco ‘catfish’ morales x f!reader]
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Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader
Words: 1,938
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, some angst. SMUT - frankie’s belt buckle, oral sex (m receiving), make up sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk
Summary: You break up with Frankie to give him time to work on himself, but you come to realize neither of you wants that.
[frankie masterlist][frankie masterlist pt. 2]
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Second chances.
Not all of us get them. Some of us don’t deserve them.
Then there are people you are willing to give a hundred chances because you believe in them. And because you love them.
Frankie was one such person.
As he sits across from you at the little diner that had become a favorite spot for you both, you tell yourself that you are mad at him, that he needs to figure things out before you even think of letting him back into your life.
Even in the shitty diner lighting, his brown eyes gleam with emotion that his mouth can’t quite convey.
“I miss you,” he says, and you look down at the table before meeting his eye again. The low hum of the radio mixes in with the sound of the rain hitting the window. Of course, the weather chooses to match your mood. It always seems to do when you’re with Frankie.
“Frankie,” you sigh.
“I’m working on it...on myself, I mean. I need you, babe.” He uses the pet name that has you tilting your head and reaching out for his warm hands. Yours always fit so perfectly in them.
“I’m a distraction, Frankie….” It’s all you can say because the rest of your words are stuck…somewhere.
He can’t take this anymore. The table is putting too much distance between you two. He stands, and you watch him stand and make his way to your side of the booth. When he sits beside you, he brings his scent along with him.
Sandalwood, leather, and a hint of petrichor. You will never understand how this man can carry the smell of the earth when it rains, but he does, and you are willing to drown in it.
You fiddle with the collar of his worn brown jacket—a security blanket just like his hat. You look up at his cap and imagine that it most likely smells like his shampoo.
“Don’t call yourself that,” he says. “Babe…” His voice is lower now. “I can’t do this without you. I need you.” The desperation in his tone is deafening.
Frankie has never quite thought about how his life would be without you. He knows it isn’t healthy, but you are the person he will be with forever. He doesn’t need to think about life without you.
Until he does.
And what a lonely, pathetic thing it is. You brought vibrancy to his life, and when you uttered the words “take a break,” that vibrancy faded faster than he could remember.
“Where did you go?” you ask him. You always do when he seems to go into his little world.
He shakes his head. “Nowhere. I’m right here. With you. Always.”
“Are you?” you ask even as you trace the callouses on his big hands.
“Yeah.” He smiles down at your fingers. “That tickles.”
You smile for a moment, then nearly tackle him out of the booth with the force of your hug. “Frankie,” you cry, “My Frankie.”
“Take me back. Give me a chance to prove myself to you. I don’t need that stuff; I need you.” His face is buried in your neck, and his patchy scruff tickles your neck.
“Promise me. Promise me you won’t touch that shit again, Frankie.” You pull away and take his face in your hands. That boyish charm will always draw you in no matter how many greys shade his beard now.
He shakes his head repeatedly. “Never again, babe. Just stay with me. Love me.”
“I’ll always love you,” you say, and then he’s kissing you. It’s the kind of kiss that should be saved for when you two are alone, but that doesn’t matter right now.
“I need you,” you breathe between kisses. “Take me home.”
As quick as lightning, Frankie pulls his wallet out and slams some money on the table before taking your hand and pulling you out of the booth, out of the door, and to his truck. When you get there, he ends up pressing you against it to kiss you more. It’s a needy kiss that leaves you wanting.
Somehow, he can get his key in the car door, all while taking your breath away. “Get in,” he says breathlessly.
Usually, he would open the passenger door for you, but tonight you climb in on the driver’s side and crawl over to your seat. He chuckles behind you, and you look back at him. Frankie loves your butt.
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As soon as you get through his apartment door, he pins you to the wall and kisses you.
“What the fuck was I thinking?” he asks against your lips.
“What the fuck do I need drugs for when I have you?” He kisses you again, and you bite his lip, making him hiss in surprise.
“You don’t need them,” you say.
“No, but I need you.” After another kiss, he puts your arms above your head so he can get your shirt off. He lifts one of your legs so that it is up around his waist. His belt buckle notches between your legs perfectly, and he grins. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
You arch off the wall, only leaving your shoulders against it for support. He also supports you by gripping the thigh of your leg around his waist. He looks down as you start rubbing yourself against the buckle, but you stop a few moments later.
“What?” he wonders.
“I can’t feel it. Get my leggings off,” you tell him, and he quickly helps you out of them. You both get back into position, and this time you gasp as the belt buckle presses against your panties.
“Feel good?” he asks, and you nod.
“I wanna…fuck you,” you moan.
“Yeah? Wanna ride me and make me yours? You gonna make me say your name?” he asks. He’s grabbing your ass, making you move faster on his buckle.
“Fuck…get on the fucking couch,” you demand. “Why can’t I stay mad at you?” you ask as he stumbles back towards the couch. You unbuckle his belt as he walks.
“It’s the puppy dog eyes. They always get you,” he teases, then you push him down onto the couch. He watches in awe as you move with lightning speed to get his button and zipper undone. “Whoa, slow down, babe.”
You kneel and look up at him, breathing heavily. “Sorry.”
“Thank you for giving me another chance,” he says sweetly.
“Promise me again,” you beg as you stare at him. You reach into his jeans and find him hard inside his boxer briefs.
“Jesus…fuck…” he groans, and you stop.
“Promise…me,” you repeat.
“I fucking promise you. I’ll never touch the drugs again. …please…touch me,” he pleads.
It has been weeks for both of you.
You begin rubbing him again, and he throws his head back. “Ahhh, just like that.” His hips move with your hand. You slip your hand into his boxer briefs, and he grasps the couch cushions so hard, that his knuckles turn white.
“Been too long,” Frankie bites out.
“Only a few weeks,” you say.
“Babe, I can barely go a day without being inside you. A few weeks feels like for- ah, fuck me!” He looks down and watches you swirl your tongue around the tip of his dick.
“You were saying?” you tease, not even letting him get a word out before taking him into your mouth nice and slow, looking up into his eyes the whole time. His chest and tummy rush with each of his panting breaths.
You kiss around his cock as you pull his shirt up just enough to see his stomach. You smile up at him as you drag your nails down his tummy. He throws his head back again, and you drag your tongue along his cock, holding it against his stomach so you can get the underside.
“Don’t,” he breathes and pulls you away reluctantly. “C’mere.” He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head up so he can kiss you as you get to your feet and then straddle him. His dick is pressed between your bodies, so you quickly adjust your body so you can slide your panties aside and slide down onto him.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Frankie groans, holding the vowel sound until you are fully seated.
You want to move, but he won’t let you. He wraps his arms around you tightly and pumps up into you slowly.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” he murmurs. His forehead is pressed to yours as he repeats himself. “So sorry.” He begins pumping faster, still holding you tightly.
“I know, Frankie baby,” you say in his ear. “Let me bounce on it.” He lets go of you almost immediately, and you grab onto the back of the sofa for leverage as you start to move up and down on him.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Frankie says as he watches you bounce. Then his hands are on your ass, squeezing and massaging the flesh he loves so much. He gives you a quick spank, and you squeal playfully.
“Oh, you like that, huh?” He does it again, and this time you moan, giving him a little pout. “You pouting at me, hm?”
“Mmhmm.” You nod and pout at him innocently.
“You know what that does to me….” He reaches down to play with your clit. “You’re gonna make me cum,” he tells you.
You move your hands to his knees as you lean back to watch him play with you. He stops, and you’re about to complain until you notice what he’s doing. He maneuvers himself to get his belt out of the loops. Then he wraps the belt around his hand with the buckle sitting in the perfect position. So while you’re riding him, instead of him playing with your clit, the belt buckle does the work.
You cry out, looking down to watch yourself get off.
“Can’t wait to wear this everywhere, knowing that I made you cum all over it,” Frankie says, moving his hand with you. You cry out and move faster, rocking yourself on his cock as you do.
You grab his hand and hold the buckle in place when you come undone as your body jerks and trembles.
“Christ…” you breathe.
Frankie lets you rest against him, holding you close as he pumps up into you again. “I’m gonna cum,” he whispers in your ear.
“Please,” you whimper, only finding enough strength to kiss and suck on his neck, which happens to be just enough to push him over the edge.
He calls out your name and thrusts into you hard one last time as he fills you.
Eventually, he falls back against the couch, breathing heavily. “I’m never waiting that long to cum again. I thought I was gonna black out,” he says, then bursts into laughter. You join in before kissing him through the laughter.
“I can’t live without you,” he says, resting his head against your breasts.
“That shit you were doing…it could have killed you, and then I’d have to live without you,” you say sadly as you play with his curls.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
“You better not.”
“Thank you,” he mumbles in a tired voice.
“For what?” you ask.
“For giving me another chance,” he yawns.
You kiss the top of his head and rub his back to comfort him. You know that you would give him a hundred chances.
Second chances—not everyone gets them or deserves them, but Frankie Morales is worth a second chance and so much more for you.
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wheresarizona · a month ago
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gif by @pedropascalsx (Thank you! Hope it’s okay to use!)
Looking Part 1
summary: You're on patrol with Joel Miller outside of Jackson, admiring the scenery, and he’s admiring something else.
rating: T (Soft Joel Miller, established relationship, post-TLOU 1, flirting, failed attempt at flirting, mentions of sex)
pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader
word count: 1k+
a/n: There will be smut in part 2, like over 2.5k. A fic for my follower celebration for an anon who requested Joel Miller, and the prompt, “Have I told you I love you today?” I figured I’d keep the first part relatively tame because I’m pretty sure they just wanted some soft, fluffy Joel, and I am very happy to provide. Shoutout to my beta invisibleismyname, who is amazing. And also a big thanks to the love of my life, @juletheghoul, who also beta’d. You should check out her amazing Joel series.
Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!
Part 2 - Masterlist
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You lived in a world where the future was uncertain. You woke up each day with the possibility that it would be your last, but when you moved to Jackson, your chances of survival skyrocketed. For once, since everything had gone to shit, you could relax a little—in the confines of the town walls, you could even let your guard down, not by much, but enough to allow a gruff, hard man to worm his way into your heart, and bed, the two of you deciding that if your days were numbered, you’d go about them together. Tentatively allow yourselves to be happy under the circumstances.
Letting Joel Miller get you a drink in the bar soon after you’d arrived had been the best decision of your entire life, second only to moving to Jackson in the first place. You’d been happily together for over a year, living together in his house, with his stepdaughter Ellie taking up residence in the converted garage out back, wanting her own space.
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There is a chill in the morning air, the sun beaming down and melting the last remnants of snow high up on the ridge, as you ride astride your horse, Joel on his own beside you and closest to the edge. He is a little behind, allowing you a clear view into the valley below, with the town surrounded by so many green trees and the mountains in the distance towering on the horizon. The view always takes your breath away, the picturesque scene, staring in wonder at how there was still beauty in this desolate world, and you cherish these moments where there are no signs of death—only life, so much beautiful, and rich life.
“This is why I asked Maria for this patrol,” Joel says, pulling you from your reverie.
Your eyebrows furrow as you look at him, finding him watching you with soft eyes and a fond smile on his lips.
He is wearing his blue flannel today, the material stretching tight across those broad shoulders of his. You’d trimmed his hair the night before, his greying waves moving in the breeze, and the bald spots in his patchy beard looking kissable.
“What?” You ask.
“You get this look when you take it all in like you’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Your breath hitches, and eyes go big as saucers like you’re seein’ it for the first time, even though we’ve been through here before,” he smirks. “It’s cute.”
You feel heat creep up your neck that Joel was apparently watching you while you were gazing at the scenery.
“I mean, look at it,” you point towards Jackson. “Have you ever seen anything as gorgeous?” You ask, looking back at him.
His eyes are still on you, not moving to where you indicate.
“Yes, I have,” he nods.
“On one of your many trips across the country?”
Joel had told you every detail about the life he’d lived, and you knew about all of his travels—getting out of Texas, his time in Boston, and him trying to get Ellie to the Fireflies. He’d told you everything that happened when they’d gotten to the lab in Utah, and you’d urged him to tell Ellie the truth about it all, which led to some upset, that was resolved with many apologies and a heart-to-heart.
“No,” he shakes his head. “At the bar in Jackson.”
You scoff.
“The bar is uglier than sin, Joel. What are you talking about?”
“You really wanna know?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Please enlighten me on what could possibly compare to the gorgeousness of all that,” you wave your hand in the direction of the valley you now can’t see because trees are in the way.
“I’m lookin’ at it right now.”
His eyes are still on yours, and you turn your head to look the other way, assuming he’s talking about whatever is over there, seeing dirt and trees on the hill. You frown.
“I mean, I guess the nature is nice,” you concede.
You hear him sigh.
“Are you messin’ with me, baby?”
You look over at him, seeing his lips turned down.
“How am I messing with you? I looked at where you were looking.”
He has one hand on the reins, the other on his hip as he tilts his head.
“I was lookin’ at you.”
You feel your eyes widen as your heart speeds up.
“Oh! Oh my god, you were being romantic.” Your cheeks are heating. “Joel, that is the sweetest fucking thing. I just cannot believe you’d rather look at me than the scenery.”
“Baby, I’d rather look at you than anything else on this godforsaken planet.”
You can see the truth of his words in his gaze, and it makes you feel warm all of a sudden.
“You’re really laying it on thick today. What’s gotten into you?” You ask, adjusting your grip on the reins with one hand, the other smoothing down the horse’s mane.
“Nothin’s gotten into me. Have I told you I love you today?”
The smile he gives you is mischievous, and your eyes narrow.
“You did before we left, and I love you, too, but you’re not going to distract me with your sweet words. You asked Maria specifically for this patrol, and you’re being exceptionally romantic. Something's up. Spill.”
“‘Cause I know how much you enjoy the ride there,” he says, nonchalantly.
“And it has nothing to do with this morning?” Your eyebrow raises.
You’d been interrupted during an intense morning makeout session that was about to turn into something more, by Ellie banging on the front door to let you know it was time to leave.
You see his throat work as he gulps.
“Just thought the ski lodge was better than the lookout,” he says, looking away.
You snort.
“Yes, because it has actual furniture we can fuck on.”
He looks at you, those chocolate brown eyes of his looking hopeful, raising his eyebrow.
“Does that mean…?”
“Yes, Joel,” you giggle. “You weren’t the only one cockblocked.”
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Part 2
Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in part 2, please let me know! I also have a taglist link in my bio and masterlist.
Tagging: @absurdthirst @kirsteng42 @littlemisspascal @athalien @thevoiceinyourheadx @elegantduckturtle @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @mswarriorbabe80 @spanishmossmagnolia @star017 @javier-penas-wife @artsymaddie @hansolosleftbuttcheek @deadhumourist @pretty-brown-eyess @hotchlover @eternallyvenus @allfoolsinluv @eppy816 @katareyoudrilling @babykangaemoji @punkerthanpascal @breezythesimp @bruxasolta @peachyaeger @din-jarhead @lovesbiggerthanpride @loonymagizoologist @pinebeam @spacenerdpascall @padbrookcottage @karlawithacapitalk @trickstersp8 @that-friend-in-the-corner @iamskyereads @beskarprincessjenny @beecastle @manuymesut @alexxavicry @leithatnight @trinkets01 @boiistfu @kulicny @xoxabs88xox @enjoyourlattebitch
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write-and-buried · 5 months ago
Porn Star Dieter Bravo x Porn Star F!Reader
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Summary; with nothing left to shoot, you and Dieter have dinner. A direct sequel to Afternoon
Word Count; ~5k
Content | Warnings; brief mentions of pandemic, professional sex work and discussions of said work, feelings, use of sex toys, spit as lube (they should know better), anal play, rimming, oral sex (f!receiving), PinV sex, dirty talk
Authors Note; The conclusion of the trilogy. Thank you so much for loving this ridiculous idiot as much as I do.
This blog and its contents are intended for users over the age of 18. by clicking 'read more' you agree that you are above 18 years of age, have read the warnings, and wish to proceed.
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“And you have to do your own taxes!” Dieter spills his beer as he gestures wildly, half shouting into your apartment as he laughs, throwing the cloth over the new spill. He’s spilled his beer twice since you’ve been here, staining his shirt and your couch and now the carpet.
“I have an accountant now, so not anymore, but yes, starting out you have to do your own taxes”
“Fuck that”
“I do” you say, making him laugh again.
God. You could listen to that on repeat forever. It’s rough like sandpaper, scraping against your ribcage as you sit with legs tangled on your couch, drinking a beer with some show you’ve both seen 100 times on in the background, the night an inky black outside your living room window.
Tacos had strayed into staying too long, sitting on the tray of his truck as the sky streaked purple and pinprick stars began to appear. You traded stories of humble beginnings, both of you admitting that you got into the industry for a laugh, before finding a passion for it, finding you were good at it. You both had no plans of slowing down.
“How does that work with relationships?” You had asked him, the shyest hint in the lilt of your voice. You’re not sure if he caught it, grabbing another chip and cheese combo from your shared pile.
“Hm, it’s better now” he said, scrubbing over his jaw. “When I first started, nobody wanted to be in a relationship. Outside the industry it’s tough, when your job is to be intimate with another person. But over time, people’s minds have gradually relaxed on it, and I haven’t been in a serious relationship in a while anyway, so I couldn’t say. Why? You got someone?”
He sounded nervous there, picking at his cuticle.
“No” You answered, too quickly. “I was single when it hit, and that’s what led me to start up in the first place. I haven’t really considered dating since… I’ve been too busy… hadn’t really had the chance to meet anyone new… or that I liked…”
He rubbed the back of his neck at that, and you could see the tips of his ears flush.
You had suggested the trip back to your place. He was fascinated by the behind-the-scenes of shooting your own content, and you hung on that as an excuse to offer to show him your setup. You hadn’t even made it into the room yet, an offer for a beer devolving into a conversation on the couch, your feet in his lap as he absently rounded your ankle with a soft touch.
Comfortable. Safe. That’s how you felt. He was like a warm blanket, all thick fingers and goofy grin. It was hard to believe it was the same man who unspooled you like forgotten thread with nothing more than words and brushes of his fingers. Every time you remembered that your stomach clenched. The scrape of his lips on your jaw, the firm grip he held on your thighs as he spread them open, the press of his hips flush against yours…
“You’re smarter than me” he said, tilting his head back to rest on the couch, distracting you with the bob of his throat, the patchy beard, just greying at the edges.
“Dieter?” You ask quietly. “Does it work? Dating while you do this?”
“Yeah” he says, rolling his head to look at you. “Yeah, it does. You just have to know what you’re getting into, and be okay with it. Some people just won’t be, and that’s okay. But a lot of people are. That’s why so many stars date each other – it’s easier not to get jealous if you’re doing what they’re doing. You just have to talk a lot, and be with someone you like talking to.”
“Do you only date within the industry?”
“No, my last relationship wasn’t in it. It was easier, because I only work with the opposite sex, so Mark never saw it as competition”
You can feel him watch your reaction, seeing if there’s a flinch or a twitch. You don’t give him one, instead another part of knowing him slotting into place, a puzzle just starting to take shape.
“Why’d you break up?”
“Me and Mark? He wanted kids” He sighs. “And I wasn’t ready, or I don’t want them at all, and it wasn’t fair to keep a relationship going on a possibility. He’s married now, they just adopted a little girl”
The smile that creases his cheek is warm, soft and genuine and full of a nostalgic affection.
“You don’t want kids?”
“I haven’t really thought about it yet. Unless we’re talking about a baby goat. I’d adopt one of those adorable little fuckers in a heartbeat”
Dieter watches as you laugh. He’s trapping the rest of it in his chest, wrangling the words back down his throat as he circles the soft skin of your ankle. He wants to tell you that it works when it’s not just about sex. It works when there’s someone you can sit on a couch and have a beer and laugh with, someone who you want to keep kissing, off camera, whose skin you cant stop touching, who makes you feel like a horde of angry bees have taken up residence in your stomach, the itch to reach out and brush hair from their forehead consuming until your fingers shake with the effort to keep them still.
But he doesn’t. cursing himself as a coward he drains the rest of his beer, setting it aside to take your bare feet in both his hands, press deep into the arches to make that sweet noise come from your lips, the pulse beat in your throat as your head tilts back.
“Want to see where the magic happens?” You ask, raising your eyebrows as you stand up, grabbing both your empty drinks to discard as you walk into the kitchen.
“Lead the way”
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t know the layout of your apartment. He stares at your ass anyway. It’s a low thrum in his skin, buzzing across his senses as he shoves his hands back in his pockets. It’s different. There aren’t any camera’s here. Your job has been done for hours now, and you’ve both danced right up to the line of admitting that there’s something. He’s not sure why you’re playing chicken with admitting it, he’s not sure why he is either. But the need to feel your lips on his again is turning into a high-pitched whine in his head, a pounding rhythm that he doesn’t trust enough to keep his hands free.
Your filming setup is genius. His brain quiets briefly as you open the door to the room, allowing him to step ahead of you to look at the space.
You’ve set it up like a bedroom. Not a fantasy bedroom, like so many sets he’s been on, but an actual bedroom. The duvet is a muted pink, the sheets look rumpled, as though they’re frequently slept in. There are chargers and a clock on the nightstand, a lamp that could have been thrifted, a half full water bottle. Only standing off to the side of what would be in frame can he see it. The hidden strip lights along the bedframe. The foam on the headboard, painted the same colour as the walls. There’s a microphone attached to the ceiling, hanging just out of focus. Mirrors with bright bulbs for the best lighting, storage under the bed with handwritten labels in neat script, more lights, tripods, camera batteries, memory cards.
Behind the mounted tripod is a white IKEA bookshelf, with toys organised it neat rows. There’s a calendar on the wall, the same neat script marking days, weeks in advance and colour coded. He grins a little when he sees his name on today’s date, there’s a heart over the I in his name. A small desk in the corner houses a computer, wide monitor and comfortable chair, memory cards labelled with post it notes.
Pride is a punch to his gut. It almost knocks the wind out of him, the organisation, the diligence and care you have put into every aspect of your work, digging your toenails shy into the carpet as you needlessly straighten a row of plugs while he looks around.
“I like to be organised” you say quietly.
“This is fucking spectacular” he replies, spreading his arms as a grin crosses his face. The smile you give him feels like the first bloom of spring.
“You built an empire from this room. Look at this! Jesus, all I do is show up and shove my dick in things, but you… fuck”
Your cheeks burn at the praise. You look around, trying to see the room from his perspective, and your stomach does a strange flip. You like that he likes it. An anxiety you didn’t know was there vanishes in a second, the flash of his grin burning it away as your shoulders relax.
“You do more than shove your dick in things” You answer, coming to stand beside him as he pokes curiously at the foam behind the headboard.
“Not compared to you” He says, tossing a wink over his shoulder as he straightens, clearing his throat. “Do you have a favourite?” he gestures to the display of toys.
“Real favourite or a fan favourite?” You reply.
“Real favourite, we aren’t on the clock pet”
It shoots lightning down your spine. A reminder that you’re not performing right now. That he’s here because he wants to be here and because you want him here. Settling low in your stomach you wander to the shelf, organised by use and colour. The fan favourite is the largest in the lot, poisonous green and thick as a fist, you bought it for a Halloween show, found that your audience enjoyed seeing the sweat drip from your skin as you moulded your body to it, the high whines as you slowly inched over the toy.
But that’s not your favourite. It sits in the back, rarely used for shows these days, having moved on to bigger, flashier items. But it will never leave your shelf.
“This one” You answer, holding it for him to take. It’s small, comparatively. The stainless-steel plug catches the light, weighty in his palm as he rolls it between his fingers, looking at you curiously.
“It’s the first one that I bought with money I made from shows. First thing this job ever paid for” You answer, remembering the thrill of pressing purchase on it, knowing that your past activities had paid for future ones. You mostly used it for prep, an additional layer of stimulation that could be caught glinting and glistening as you contorted your body for the best angle, your back arched and legs spread as you filmed.
You watch as Dieter rolls the toy between his fingers, testing its weight and shape, as he absently bites at his lip, swallows once.
“What does it look like in?” he asks, looking up to meet your eyes.
“I can show you if you’d like…” You start, reaching for the toy. He moves quicker than you’re expecting, grabbing your wrist and pulling you from the room. He shuts the door behind him and pulls you gently down your hallway to your actual bedroom, grabbing your hips to pull you flush to his body.
“Not there. Here. This isn’t work.” You can feel a tremble in his fingers as he holds you close to him, the metal plug adding pressure to his grip. “I want you. Since you kissed me on that couch, and every fucking moment since, yes?”
He’s searching your face, looking for permission, for acknowledgement, for something. Turning to toss the plug onto your bedspread he doesn’t seem to notice the dirty laundry kicked into a corner, that your bed hasn’t been made since you left it this morning, the gathering of empty water glasses and coffee cups on your vanity. His hand is warm, broad as it cups your jaw.
“I like you” he says softly, the smallest quiver in his voice. “I want this because I like you. But only if you…”
You don’t let him finish, reaching on your tiptoes to kiss him, your arms around his neck as he lets out a deep groan, his hand splaying wide across your lower back, stooping to kiss you harder. His hand tangles in your hair as he reaches further down, grabbing your ass over your shorts, fisting the fabric in a tight grip.
“I like you too” you murmur between nips of his teeth on your neck.
“Thank god, I’ve been wondering… wait, fuck!” He stops so abruptly you’re shocked, standing still as he pulls back to look at you. “I don’t have any condoms.”
A laugh bubbles out of you as you look at him in confusion.
“This isn’t work, and I can’t just assume…”
“Have you fucked anybody since you fucked me six hours ago?” You ask, reaching to the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head in a smooth motion. You gently tug on the hem of his own until he follows suit, his shirt landing on top of yours.
“No” he says, his eyes darkening as he stares at your bare chest.
“I haven’t either” you reply, hooking your thumbs into the hem of your shorts, pushing them to the ground as you kick them delicately into the corner with the other laundry. Your underwear is just plain cotton, but he’s looking at you with the same gaze as when you walked into the room wearing slutty porn lingerie. “I’m fine without if you are.”
“Turn around” he says, low and gravel deep as he puts his hands back on your hips, turning you to face the wall.
“Why?” You ask, unable to keep the grin off your face. The lust in his eyes is almost comical, the tremble in his fingers would be humorous if it wasn’t matched by your own.
“Because I want to eat your delicious ass until your legs give out, bend over” his hand cracks lightly on your cheek, making you brace yourself against the wall. You fight the instinct to arch your back, present yourself as though he was a camera for an audience, instead giving in to the tremble in your knees as he slides your underwear down, kissing the back of your thighs. The scrape of his beard on the sensitive skin makes you shiver.
“You know how fucking hard it was?” he asks, almost to himself as his breath ghosts across your skin. “Had so many things I wanted to do to you today, but I couldn’t keep it together long enough to do them. Your fucking mouth baby, fuck, almost had me coming down your pretty little throat in seconds.”
He spreads your legs wider, makes you bend further, pressing your cheek into the wall as his lips brush your clit, his nose sliding through your folds.
“And then I did lose it didn’t I?” he continues, dragging his fingers to spread you wider for him, holding you open as you can feel the vibration of his voice through you. “Lost in the minute I got inside you, like a fucking amateur. Never felt anything so sweet as your cunt gripping my dick pet, I can’t wait to feel it again”
You whimper as his hands trace the globes of your ass, pulling you open as you dig your nails into your palms, trying to keep still. You can see his lower body, kneeling behind you as your legs spread wider, your eyes squeezing shut and flying open with every press of his fingers.
“But this” he mutters, dragging his mouth up, until you can feel the ghost of breath across your exposed skin. “Wanted to do this since I saw your first video. Spread you nice and open for me, see if I could get your thighs all messy, just like this.”
He blows lightly on your skin, the wetness smearing your thighs turning instantly cold, making you tense as he presses a soft kiss to your clit.
“Dieter, please” You manage, pressing back into his face, wanton in a need for some kind of contact, your skin vibrating to match the deep rich hum of his voice as he presses lightly on your back, makes you arch into his mouth, the wide flat sweep of his tongue pulling something low in your stomach.
“Fucking heaven. Gonna be a day soon where I’m going to tie your legs to bedposts and have my fucking fill of this cunt. Tongue fuck you till you’re crying for me, get you nice and open and so fucking messy. Christ”
His fingers find your clit, reaching to circle it in soft swipes, a lulling gentle rhythm that almost distracts you, before his mouth traces up, circling the soft ring of muscle that tightens at the contact. It’s new for you, a sensation you haven’t experienced yet. You’ve stretched, you’ve fucked, but nobody has ever caressed.
His mouth is gentle at first, probing and soft as he matches the rhythm of his fingers, swirling circles around the rim of your ass until you’re mewling, curling into them, fighting which sensation feels better when they both feel so good.
“Dieter, oh my god” You can’t breathe from it, you feel unsteady, dizzy and drunk from the sensation as he holds you steady with an arm wrapped around your thighs, his fingers still circling your clit. Occasionally his mouth strays, collecting slick on his tongue to press back into you, the slow dismantling of your senses as you spread your legs wider, press your forearms harder into the wall.
You hear the soft sound of fabric moving. Forcing the starburst brightness from your eyes you manage to catch a glimpse of him, shoving his own pants down enough to free his cock, hanging heavy between his legs as he squeezes roughly with a free hand.
The sight of him, leaking and blushed darker, thick against his own palm makes you moan, your knees trembling at the sight.
“Like it? Seeing exactly what it is you do to me?” He asks, nipping lightly at the flesh of your ass, the sting of teeth making you cry out. “I want you to cum for me, I want you to cum with my tongue in your ass”
He presses his fingers harder into your clit. You can feel the catch of teeth as he returns, licking and biting to your fevered skin. Everything moves like a dance, his hand fisting his cock, his mouth on your ass, his fingers on your clit until you’re shaking, the tremors wracking your body as you smack your hand against the wall, feeling the sting ripple through your body as he moves faster, ratcheting up each sensation as his tongue breaches the tight rim of muscle.
You shatter, your body convulsing as his hands come to grab your thighs, tongue fucking your ass through the aftershocks as you shake and come apart on his face, a deep groan of satisfaction rumbling through him as you weakly scrabble against the wall, feeling him shift behind you, running a finger down your spine, your skin hot and damp.
“Fuck that’s pretty baby.” Dieter says, tracing a gentle fingertip around the rim of you. “Like it’s begging to be filled.”
He kisses your shoulder, so tenderly before moving away. You don’t think of moving, there’s no conscious thought in your head aside from keeping you upright, your knees struggling to stay locked as you feel the drag of cold steel against your spine.
“I can’t wait to see what this looks like when I fuck you with it in. You’re going to be so full for me aren’t you. Here, get it wet for me”
He presses the plug past your lips, cursing under his breath as you look over your shoulder as you wet it for him. He’s naked now, occasionally squeezing the base of his cock as he watches the plug leave your mouth with an audible pop.
You relax. It’s warm when it touches your skin again, slick and sliding around the rim of your ass. Dieter stands closer behind you, close enough to slide the wet head of his cock through your folds, catching on your clit as you moan, your eyes drifting shut.
It’s heavy when it breaches you, you can feel the tight stretch of it briefly before it slides into place, snug and full. Dieter stays still, allowing you to wiggle until it feels comfortable, your breathing even and deep.
Dieter’s almost grateful he’s cum three times today. The sight of you, back arched and spread for him with the glint of the plug catching the light, the searing heat from your pussy and the breathy little whine of his name would be enough to make him lose it otherwise. He’s shaking, hands trembling with how turned on he is by the way you look. Your eyes glazed over in pleasure as you press back into him.
“Come here” He pulls you to him for a searing kiss, spinning you so he can press his body up against you, grab and squeeze your ass that has a perfect mark of his teeth on it. You moan every time, the plug shifting inside you as he manoeuvres you both to the bed, sitting back on it to let you straddle him, the slide of your cunt across his cock making him clench his jaw.
He watches your face this time, the way your mouth parts, the bubble-gum pink of your tongue wetting your lip as you sink onto him slowly, his hands on your hips to guide you gently. Your nails dig into his shoulders, a flash of pain skittering across his nerves as you stretch yourself onto him. He can feel it. The unforgiving weight of the plug, rubbing right against his cock as your head falls back, exposing that gorgeous line of your throat.
He runs his tongue across your pulse, tasting the sweet salt on your skin as he wraps his arms further around you, pulling you down harder onto his lap, your clit grinding against his pelvis as he watches, the way it flutters through your lashes, the crease between your eyes. He laves your neck, your shoulders, scraping teeth and lips as he holds you close and lets you use him. Grind against him in a stuttering rhythm, the noises wet and slick under the breathy little whimpers that are driving him mad.
His teeth on your nipple make you arch backwards, his hands splaying up your back as if he’s holding something precious. It’s syrup slow, soft as he lets you take control of speed, the pressure inside you building. You feel so full. Full of him as the stretch blooms hot through your abdomen, drunk on the adoration in his eyes as he drinks in every inch of your skin, his control over his own body tenuous at best as he moans low in his throat with every roll of his hips.
“fucking hell, the things I want to do to you” he murmurs, grabbing your chin to lick inside your mouth, press his hips into yours a little firmer, his hand a little tighter on your skin.
“So do them.” You say, a grin spreading your face as he cups your jaw.
His hand cracking across your ass makes you cry out, shifting the plug inside you, you clench around him, hard. Dieter lets out a low growl in response. He flips you onto the mattress like you weigh nothing, your body feeling strangely empty as he slips free.
He grabs a pillow, rolling you onto your stomach as he uses it to prop your hips up, legs together. You feel the weight of him as he straddles your thighs. You can feel a tremble in his fingers as he brushes hair off your shoulder, leaning close enough to press a kiss to the skin.
“Ever since I got you in front of that mirror, I’ve wanted you like this. Wanted to pin you down and watch you take it. Fuck you so hard you can’t see straight. And now you’re pinned down and your pretty little ass is full of that plug and I’m going to wreck this cunt. I’m going to fuck you until you cum and soak me and then I’m going to keep fucking you”
His voice is close to feral. You can hear the ragged edge of each breath he’s taking as he drags his cock up and down your folds. You can’t move, can’t spread your legs the way you desperately want to, you can’t get enough breath to feel your lungs properly with the way he’s pressing his body into yours.
“Word is still the same sweetheart” he says, soft and curling like smoke through the air. A reminder, gentle and delicate, that he won’t go further if you don’t want to. The sweetheart curls in your gut, sinks fangs in your belly and sets you alight as you buck backwards into him, your arms stretching to grab the sheets as he notches the head of his cock to your folds. You nod, understanding and trust as you feel the blunt head of him stretch you open, his name a whine on your tongue.
He gives you no warning before he thrusts into you. It’s brutal, fast and messy as you hear the wet slap of his skin on yours, feel yourself pressed deeper into the mattress. It’s the same feeling from this morning, surrounded by him, completely engulfed by the weight of his body, the delicious mounting friction as he hammers into you with abandon, raspy growls of your name falling from his mouth.
The plug makes everything feel more. You’re fuller, stretched tauter, each thrust jostling everything inside you until you’re nothing but a raw nerve, scraped blind by each thrust of his hips into you. You can feel the orgasm deep in your bones, rolling like a freight train as it barrels into you, your vision going white as you bury your face in the duvet to scream his name.
He keeps fucking you, a relentless rhythm as you hear the wet liquid suck of your cunt, clenching against him as he drives his full length into you again, pounding you with a primal, reckless abandon. He finds your hand, wraps his fingers into yours as you hear his breathing turn shallow, the bounce of him against your ass less rhythmic as you feel the control in his movements wane, shattering completely when you deliberately raise your hips to meet his, clenching hard around the thick weight of his cock.
You can feel it. The slow pulse of his cock as he cums inside you, pressing himself impossibly deep, twitching release to pool sticky and hot inside you as stars burst behind your vision, everything turning technicolour as your body sinks further into the mattress with the press of Dieter’s body. You feel his teeth on your shoulder, a rough scrape and a messy kiss. He’s a comforting weight, his head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as you feel him huff a laugh.
“One of these days, I’m going to be able to fuck you for more than fifteen minutes”
You feel him smile into your skin as you giggle, the deep chuckle he lets out matching your own as you feel his thumb absently stroke your knuckle. You can feel his stomach pressing into your lower back, the wilt of him softening out of you as he presses gentle kisses on the curve of your spine.
“Are you thinking of how this would look on camera?” you ask, a wide grin splitting your face at the thought of it, this body completely covering yours, no room between your bodies to fit a playing card, let alone a camera or equipment.
“No sweetheart” he says, reaching to brush a lock of hair behind your ear, kissing the side of your mouth. “I’m thinking of you”
He orders you to stay still as he rears back off you, removing the toy with care and a soft hand.
“Bathroom or kitchen?” he asks, standing and wincing as his knees pop.
“There’s a little dishwasher on the counter” you reply lazily. Your body feels limp, warm and gooey as you tuck your arms under your head in a makeshift pillow.
“I was wondering what that was for, you’re so fucking smart” he says with a quick kiss to your spine before he leaves.
In the brief silence you wonder, letting a gnawing doubt nibble at your consciousness if this was it. If it was just one more round to get you out of his system, some itch that needed scratching before he went back to normal.
“Tell me if it’s too hot” he says, running a warm towel against your inner thigh. You moan lightly at the sensation, soothing against your skin. Your body is officially done for the day. You can feel the protest starting in your muscles, the stretch that will turn to an ache in the morning.
“Don’t make sounds like that, there’s no way I can go again” he laughs, cleaning you with precision before coming back with a glass of ice water.
You sit up, letting him watch as you drain half the water in one go, your throat sore from the screaming and soothed by the cool drink. He places it on your nightstand before reaching for you again, pulling you both under covers until you’re cocooned in darkness with him, talented fingers pressing into your spine as you bury your face in his neck.
“I meant it” he says quietly, kissing the top of your head. “Can I stay?”
You giggle, the hesitation in his voice adorable as he gently massages your spine.
“Of course you can. I warn you though, I feel like I’m going to be out of commission for a few days at least”
“Fuck, sweetheart, me too” he laughs. “I’m thinking tomorrow, we can sit on your couch all day and watch TikTok and read all the comments about our upcoming collaboration”
You’re already falling asleep, the gentle lull of his voice and the warmth of his skin, the way he’s clinging to you as he speaks, dragging his fingers down your spine.
“First of many?” you ask, stifling a yawn.
“Yeah, first of many”
700 notes · View notes
littlepadika · 8 months ago
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Summary: You were going to have fun pressing his buttons tonight...
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ only)
Warnings: fem reader, teasing in public, dom!frankie, bratty reader, dom sub dynamics, daddy!frankie, m and f masturbation, unprotected piv, rough sex 🦋, mild degradation, spanking, cum play 🌊, possessive frankie, no little girl dynamic, mention of collaring, no use of y/n.
AN: Co written by @beskarprincessjenny. Good things happen when we talk princess hehe 😜. Please consider donating to princess jenny's go fund me 💕
How it started:
"Mi amor, are you ready?" Frankie called from the door.
"Coming!" You adjusted your clothes, smiling to yourself. A thrill running down your spine just thinking about your plans. You bounded down the stairs to where Frankie stood with your coat.
He was freshly showered, in his usual jeans and t shirt ensemble. He was in need of a shave, his patchy beard was thicker and decorated with grey hairs. His mouth parted as he looked you up and down.
"Wow. You look nice." He smiled, scanning your sweater and skirt combo.
"Thank you, daddy." You replied innocently, squeezing his bicep through the flannel he wore. He raised his eyebrow at that.
"Careful baby girl or we might not make it out of here." He huffed through a tight smile. You shrugged while a warm cloud bloomed in your tummy under his gaze. He helped you into your puffy coat, always the gentleman.
"What's this?" He ran his finger over the thin gold chain around your neck.
"Don't you recognize it?" You turned around, holding up the tiny gold 'F' that hung from the chain. "You bought it for me, daddy. To always have you with me." You smiled as he swallowed harshly.
"Baby that's supposed to be- that wasn't on this chain." He stumbled over his words, not believing that you were really wearing a charm from your collar out in public.
"I know but I wanted to wear it. It looks pretty right?" You could not hide the pout, thinking Frankie was going to object. But he just smirked, taking the little pendant and placing it back down onto your sternum.
"I like it." He rasped. He kissed the back of your neck tenderly right where the necklace clipped in the back. Mine, the gesture seemed to say.
You were going to have fun pressing his buttons tonight...
Button 1:
You were two drinks into the night, laughing at something Santi was saying, when Frankie saw it. The neckline of your sweater slipped over your shoulder, revealing smooth skin and a familiar lacy strap.
You wouldn't, right? Not the one piece of lingerie that was saved for his eyes only. The one he explicitly asked you not to wear out. You wouldn't do that, right? Frankie felt the back of his neck heat up, though no one in this bar knew the things he did to you in that set.
He hoped you'd push your sweater back where it belongs, but you didn't. You leaned over the table to take a drink and the neckline slipped further until Frankie could see the top of the bodice peaking out. That little bit of pink lace that he knew the feel of by heart.
He huffed quietly into his beer. He needed to calm down. You could wear what you want. He didn't want to be one of those guys who controlled their partner. His eyes darted over to you as you sat back in your seat.
"Oops." You giggled, pulling your sweater up though not far up enough to cover the strap. It still lay against your exposed shoulder taunting him. You were doing it on purpose. Bad bad girl.
You're-engaged in Santi's story, shifting in your seat under Frankie's red hot gaze.
"What?" Frankie blinked rapidly, looking around until he found Benny next to him in the booth.
"Let me out. I gotta take a piss." Benny pushed Frankie's shoulder playfully.
"Sorry." He grumbled standing up. His eyes flickered down to your shoulder again and you could see him grinding his teeth. Considering his next move. "Baby? you need to go?" He looked at you expectantly. Silent communication.
"Not yet." You chirped innocently. A little tiny voice of sympathy piped up when you saw him sit down and stare at the table. You hated being anything but his perfect girl.
Frankie was a patient man. It was one of the things you adored about him. You hadn't seen him get angry since you'd started dating him. Frustrated, yes. Annoyed, yes. Jealous, yes. There was always a passion burning under the surface at all times. It's not like you hadn't felt the warmth from that passion. You loved his fierce loyalty and tender heart. You had felt his stern grip, melted under his biting words. He was a natural dominant force, but always focused on your pleasure. And there was intimacy there that you cherished but you knew he was holding back. You could feel his grip loosen when he was right on the edge, hear him suck in words you were dying to hear.
Even now you could see him reasoning with himself. Trying to refocus on the conversation, ignoring you. And well... that just made you want to be even more of a brat.
Button 2:
Frankie and the boys migrated to the pool table but you felt like dancing, watching the small group of people swaying by the jukebox.
"Ooh they're playing Luis Fonsi!" You announced gleefully. You loved Fonsi, to the point you had a poster of him in your teenage bedroom. It was a playful sore spot for Frankie, who immediately rolled his eyes at this.
"He's muy sexy, no?" Santi smirked at you.
"Yeah. His voice is just so smokey." You sighed longingly, looking over to Frankie for his reaction. You saw the muscle of his jaw tick with annoyance and maybe amusement as he grumbled to himself.
"That despacito guy?" Will scoffed. "He's so corny."
"Yeah." Frankie agreed, happy to have someone on his side.
"No he's romantic and passionate." You retorted. "Come on, let's dance, Frankie!" You wrapped your arms around Frankie's waist.
"After the game." Frankie turned, stroking your cheek to placate you.
"But I want to dance to Fonsi." You whined.
"After the game." He repeated with more conviction, less sweet. He squeezed your waist and you squeaked a little at the pressure, biting your lip. Frankie ducked his head to speak directly into your ear, hiding your face from the rest of the guys. "You seem to be playing your own game, princesa. I saw what you're wearing..." He snuck a hand under your sweater to feel the barely there lace along your chest. "I think you've forgotten daddy always wins. Always." He kissed the shell of your ear lightly. "Now daddy is here to spend time with his friends and you're here to be his good girl. Can you do that?" He pulled back and looked into your eyes hopefully.
You about gave up then and there, melting from his warm tone. However it was the slight smugness in his voice that made something in you rise to the challenge. Daddy didn't always win...
"Fine I'll go by myself." You walked away, purposefully swinging your hips. You could hear Santi and Will and Benny teasing Fish.
"Oooh lover's quarrel..."
"Your girl is pissed, Fish..."
"Trouble in paradise!"
Frankie clenched his fists at his side, roiling waves breaking through the calm surface. Up until this point he wasn't sure if your teasing was all in his head. But now he was sure that you were messing with him on purpose. He was amused, ticked off, and turned on too. You were hardly ever such a brat with him but fuck was it sexy. He couldn't deny the way his cock twitched at the prospect of getting back at you.
Button 3:
On the crowded floor you started swaying your hips to the music, mouthing the words. You loved Frankie and nothing would diminish that but you did miss going out like this and letting go to the music. Hoping some attractive stranger would pick you out in the crowd. Now the person's attention you wanted most had his broad back turned towards you, leaning over the pool table.
You huffed in frustration. You were sure that would work. You were sure he would have hauled you to the door and taken you right against the car. Perhaps he was curious to see what you would do next. You danced your way to the jukebox to put on another Fonsi song when you felt a large hand wrap around your arm.
"Hey!" You whirl around but immediately relax when you see it's Frankie. "Oh hi Frankie!"
"What are you doing?" Frankie shouted over the music.
"I'm picking another Fonsi song." You smiled, reaching up and playing with the hair sticking out of Frankie's hat. "You know, Fonsi would have danced with me if he were here."
Even in the shit lighting of the bar you saw Frankie's eyes darken and his nostrils flare. He yanked you towards him until you collided with his chest and he leaned down until his lips brushed your ear.
“Be very careful what you say next, princesa.”
You were about to come up with a clever retort, despite his dark tone turning your legs into jelly, when someone tapped your shoulder.
"Hey- is this yours?" You turned to see a guy holding up your wallet. You must have dropped it.
"Oh thank you. Silly me." You laughed, taking it from him. The guy was pretty attractive, not as tall as Frankie, but a similar complexion.
"No problem. I'm always happy to be a hero to a beautiful lady." The guy winked. You felt Frankie's arms wrap around you, pulling you back into him and under his chin.
"Thanks, man. We’re good here." Frankie's voice was steel. He did little to restrain that possessive growl that bubbled in his chest. The guy had the nerve to look apologetic before booking it back to his friends. Frankie glared daggers at the guy until he was out of sight. Even when you were being a brat, you were still his brat.
"That was nice of him." You smiled up at Frankie. You saw his eyes narrow and his shoulders stiffen.
"That's it. We're going home." Frankie had enough. Pulling you by the hand, not too gently, back to the front. You skipped on your toes as you followed him, excited to see what was coming next...
You found the boys still at the pool table. Frankie grit his teeth through a lame excuse about an early morning tomorrow. He didn't even let you say goodbye, much to your chagrin, dragging you outside with your coat in his fist.
"Oh- bye I guess..." Santi shouted.
"Ten bucks says they're fucking." You heard Benny say.
The night air made you wish for your coat which was still in Frankie's grip. He didn't even look at you as you crossed the parking lot. You tried to pull your hand free but this only made him tighten his grip on you. You smiled evilly to yourself.
“What’s gotten into you tonight, huh?" Frankie stopped his fast pace when you reached the car. He turned and gripped your jaw. You swallowed, eyes widening at this version of Frankie who was far more authoritative than you had dealt with before. "You always gotta have daddy’s attention, huh? That’s not an excuse to be a brat.” His grip was so tight he was squeezing your cheeks together, making your lips purse like a fish.
“I-I just really need you daddy...” You turned on the pouting, egging him on further. You went to touch his shoulders but his other hand locked your wrists together in front of you. You saw his lips twitch up into a smug smile
“Then you should have asked like a good girl. I would have fucked you in the bathroom if you only said please. Now it’s too late. You pushed daddy over the edge.”
"I tried to be good, I really did. I couldn't help it, daddy." You whined, squirming in his grip.
"You didn't try that hard, princesa. Wearing that naughty outfit. Smiling at that man with my initials on your neck." He moved his hand from your jaw to your neck, squeezing it lightly. You gasped, squeezing your thighs together.
"I did try, daddy! You should have fucked me before we left!" You spat. Realizing what you just said you covered your mouth. But the damage was done.
"You just fucked up, baby girl." Frankie's voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"I'm so-"
"Don't even try and take it back, naughty girl." Frankie had no idea what came over him. But this nagging annoyance and frustration mixed with his lust made his next moves come with dangerous ease. He picked you up right there in the parking lot, despite the ache in his lower back. He practically tossed you into the passenger seat. You immediately crossed your legs tight trying to relieve some pressure.
Frankie got in and started driving, silent. You could see the muscle in his jaw jumping as he thought of what to do next. You chewed your bottom lip, needy, wanting him to look at you and touch you.
For the first few minutes, you got some relief by rocking in your seat back and forth but soon it wasn't enough. You subtly shifted your skirt up until you could push your panties to the side. You were so wet. It was a miracle you hadn't soaked through to the leather seat below. You sighed quietly as you found your swollen clit.
“You’re trying to distract me but it’s not going to work." Frankie growled, looking over at you. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Now be good until we get home or daddy won’t touch you all night”
“I can’t help how wet I get around you, daddy. Feel…” You took one of his hands and guided it to your pussy.
"Shit, baby." Frankie muttered to himself. His fingers explored the curve of your clit then down to your needy hole. "Shit-" In one movement he pulled the car over with a screech. You barely get a second to look around before he was hauling you over the center console into his lap.
You squealed in surprise as he smacked your ass, once on each side.
"You were very naughty tonight, princess...pushing daddy's buttons. Feel how hard you make me?" He took a handful of your ass and pulled you down onto his jean-covered erection.
"Mmm!" You threw your head back in pleasure. "Are you going to fuck me here?" You rocked your hips against him.
"No." He growled. He forced your arms behind your back before he moved his seat back. He pushed you back by the sternum against the steering wheel. Your arms stuck behind you. Now you were too far away to feel the curve of his cock against you. You huffed in frustration.
The window started to fog up with your combined panting, so no one could see him undo his pants. No one could see him fist his cock in his hands while you were unable to touch.
"Please!" You squirmed, watching his hand with envy. Frankie was not moved by your pleas and he groaned as the power went to his head. You were so pliable. Even when you tried to get the upper hand you let him manhandle you. It was because you wanted it, though you may not admit it.
“Naughty girls don’t get to touch." He rasped.
You could think of no worse agony, no better torture than this. You had to watch. Watch as his neck tightened and he panted your name. Watch as he pumped his cock til the tip went purple. Watch as he shot rope after rope of cum all over your thighs and pussy.
"Fuck..." He pulled your face into his, kissing you deeply. "Now sit back down and think about what you've done." He ordered, spanking you lightly.
"I-I'll be good." You whimpered. He had broken you down. You were going to obey now. You climbed back into your seat, your hand going to wipe off his cum but he stopped you-
He chuckled, "Nuh uh, you're wearing daddy's cum as a reminder to be his good girl."
You nodded, earning a smile from him. You sat in your seat like a good girl, watching him drive like nothing had happened. When you got home, Frankie came around and opened your door. You smiled up at him hoping all was forgiven.
"I'm not done punishing you." He cupped your face gently though his words were anything but. "Face down ass up on the bed and think about what you've done." You nodded, trying to mask your excitement with remorse. Frankie found that incredibly cute and it made his spent cock start to harden again.
You scampered upstairs, doing exactly as he said. You were anticipating how he was going to fuck you. Were you finally going to feel that uninhibited dominance you longed for?
You heard him banging pots and pans, cleaning up dinner and turning on the alarm. He was making you wait for it. You wiggled your ass in the air trying to get some stimulation on your poor pussy. You could feel the tracks of his cum drying on your thighs. You wanted to taste but you didn't dare be naughty again. Not when you were so close to getting what you wanted.
You perked up when you heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
Frankie smiled when he saw you, his cock straining in his pants. "Good girl." He cooed when he saw you in position. You were so desperate for his praise at this point you almost came at those words alone. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Mhm. I'm sorry- please- frankie- I mean please daddy!" You moaned against the comforter. You turn your head to see him. He had taken off his flannel and was left in a tight grey t shirt that pulled around his stomach.
"What are you sorry for?" He pressured you, voice deep. You shivered.
"F-for being naughty."
He gave your ass a light smack. "What else?"
"For- for wearing the special set!"
"And?" He slapped you again, this time closer to your pussy.
"For dancing without you! Fuck!" You rocked in place.
"That's what I like to hear, princesa" He hummed in approval. He pulled your sweater over your head and tossed it into the corner of the room then made quick work of your skirt. You were left in your matching lace set. The panties were pushed off to the side and completely soiled, but it was still so pretty and delicate and light pink. His favorite.
He hummed, running his hands over the lace, watching your eyelids flutter.
"This is mine, right princesa?"
"Yes, daddy!" You replied instantly.
"This is mine, too." He cupped your pussy.
"Yes daddy!" You pressed against his hand. As soon as you did, however, he pulled away. "D-daddy?"
"You're going to stay just like this and take what I give you. If you move, daddy stops. Understand?" He said, unzipping his pants and peeling off his shirt.
"Mhm." You nodded fervently, licking your lips.
He joined you on the bed, knees planted next to yours. He slid his weeping head through your folds, groaning at how hot and ready you were. Your breath caught in your throat as he slid the very tip of his cock in and out.
"Daddy please..." You whispered, wiggling your hips.
"Ah ah-" He pulled away.
You froze.
"Good..." He groaned, pushing his length inside "girl..."
You moaned as your walls were pushed apart by his thick cock. The heavy curve molding your walls to take him. You fought the urge to thrust back or move at all. He pulled back then thrust in again. You jerked back against him and he instantly pulled out.
"I thought you were going to be a good girl now." He fisted your hair.
You just whimpered into the bedding, clenching some of the comforter between your teeth in frustration. When he was sure you were going to be still he thrust back in.
It was degrading and sinful to be fucked like this, like his personal toy. Like an inanimate sex toy there to give him pleasure. You screwed up a couple of times, jerking against him or trying to touch him. Every time he pulled out completely, leaving you empty and frustrated.
"Please daddy... please..." You were reduced to garbled pleas.
He leaned over you eventually, using his weight to keep you down how he wants you, and he picked up the pace, muttering curses and praise into your ear.
"Fuck, baby... is this what you wanted? To be fucked like a bad girl?"
"I-" You gasped "I wanted you to do-do what you wanted with me and make me- make me ta-take it."
"Yeah?" He taunted, his hips slapping against your ass, his cock rubbing against your most sensitive spot. "fuck- daddy needs that too."
You clenched your toes to keep still as your orgasm began to creep up.
Frankie continued to mutter filth into your ear. "You're doing- fuck- doing so well... letting daddy fuck you until he's had his fill. Fuck yes-Fuck I love you-" He devolved into grunts getting progressively louder with each thrust.
“I lo-” thrust “ove you-” thrust “too!” You manage to spit out.
And here's the thing about Frankie... he is dominant. He's filthy, but when he gets close like this... when he's about to cum inside of you, he gets needy.
"Look at me, baby-" He grunted, turning your chin with his face and capturing you in a messy kiss. His tongue filled up your mouth, leaving little room for yours to slide into his mouth.
You could feel his stomach expanding with his rapid breaths. Every thrust was accompanied by a push of his stomach and a grunt leaving his mouth that you eagerly swallowed. He was hardly thrusting in and out at this point. His thick arm wrapped around your waist using your weight to rock back and forth. The bed creaked with the effort.
"Frankie..." You gasped against his lips "Please can I cum?" Desperate tears stung your eyes from holding yourself back for so long. He was right there with you.
"Let go princess. Fuck-Cum for daddy." He ordered, bringing a calloused thumb to where you needed it most.
"I'm-oh!" You cried out, clenching your eyes shut.
"Yes, ah fuck yes that's it." Frankie hissed, as your walls fluttered around him. Your cum drenched his cock, smearing across his balls. His own orgasm was seconds away.
He wanted to cum inside of you, burying himself to the deepest part of you. But that's not what this was about… Instead, he pulled out, squeezing the base of his cock to stifle his cum.
"What're you..." You slurred, reaching back for him. He turned you onto your back and ripped your corset down past your tits.
"I'm not- fuck- I have to make sure you learn your lesson, baby. So you know what- fuck- what happens when you push daddy's buttons." He fisted himself above you, the tip of him hovering above your clit. His other hand played with your nipples until they were hard peaks.
"Only good girls get my cum."
"But daddy..." You locked your legs around him, trying to pull him back to your heat.
"Daddy has to discipline you-" Frankie choked, wanting nothing more than to feel your walls milk his cum. However, that's not what you had wanted when you riled him up tonight. You wanted this; to be dominated completely.
"Fuck- gonna paint-look at me-" He grunted in broken tones. Your eyes swung up to his. Even though he was being mean, you could see the love in his gaze, the pure adoration that you let him have this kind of intimacy with you. Let him play out all his fantasies. You saw his gaze flicker down to your necklace with his initial, laying on your sweaty skin, and that lace he loved.
"Take it-" His words were cut off when his thighs trembled and he finally came with a broken cry. Your pussy was painted with his cum; your clit, your seam, your mound, your stomach.
You mewled as it hit your skin, your pussy clenching with longing. Frankie panted above you, his shoulders heaving, his dark hair curled over his forehead. He was so wide his shadow would have enveloped your form below him. He seemed to only get thicker as he came, chest pushing out. You think you might have cum right then from such a sinful sight.
He clutched your breast as the last of his spend dripped out of his cock and onto your pussy. His hips stuttered forward trying to chase that last drop of pleasure.
"Good girl... you did so-so well. Took daddy so well..." Frankie leaned over and kissed your lips and cheeks then down your neck. Each nipple. Gone was the harsh tone. His touch was light and reverential.
"Good girls get daddy's cum. You want some?" He scooped up some of the mess, smeared it on his sensitive dick, and pressed himself back inside your fluttering pussy. "Th-There you go... what do you say?" He bit his lip from the slight overstimulation.
"Th-thank you, daddy.” Your cheeks burned from the depravity of having been painted with his cum not once, but twice tonight. “Oh fuck... Frankie...that was incredible." You said with a breathy laugh.
Frankie chuckled as well, rolling over with you so he could cradle you against him. He hated to admit it, and he probably won't tell you, but the sex you had when you were being a brat felt more intimate. He was reminded how dependent you are on him for pleasure sometimes and how much you trust him. It makes his heart burst and his dick hard. He knew you only brat out because you were greedy for his attention. He can never resent you for that.
"Is that- is that what you wanted?" He asked, still catching his breath.
"Yeah. Oh fuck yeah." You giggled, kissing his jaw. "You're so sexy when you're riled up."
"Fuck...you were torturing me, baby. You know me too well."
"I think we can call it even."
"Until next time." He squeezed your ass playfully. "Have you ever thought that I may know how to rile you up?"
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simplyanjuta · 9 months ago
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CAS Mod: Presets Selection for Randomized Sims
In my attempt to create more decent looking randomized sims, I went through the various body & facial presets (as well as eyebrows, beards and skintones) and picked those that, at least in my opinion, look decent on most sims, thus, hopefully, making for more decent looking randomized sims on average. In addition to the presets selection, I adjusted some parameters used for adding variation to the body presets. Kids and toddler presets are not included in this mod, and I also didn’t bother with occult specific presets.
Update as of August 1st 2022: Added the option to exclude body hair.
You can use this mod simultaneously with the mod "No Make-Up & No Accessories On Randomized Sims".
Download and more info below the cut.
Some elements I focussed on:
One thing I was trying to do are stronger and more natural looking facial features. For example, I went for stronger jaws and wider noses, but then also deselected a lot of the eye presets that look somewhat crooked or cartoon-like to me. I also selected the more smooth looking chins, cheeks and foreheads presets.
Eyebrows and beards also make a huge difference, in my opinion. I only left a few neutral options for both. This, by the way, also makes it more likely for a randomized sim not to have a beard. (Per default, the game just picks randomly from all of the beard options, therefore, almost all randomized male sims show up with a beard.)
And yep, the skintones. I think the texture of many skintones looks either patchy or is otherwise poorly made (although I'm not sure if this is partly an issue with certain graphic cards/computers). I actually deselected a bunch of the lighter skintones from the neutral and the cold panel, because they look somewhat unnatural to me with the very grey or even purple undertones. As well as a few others. (As you can’t disallow skintones for randomization like you can with other body presets, I used a workaround by reassigning those skintones as vampire skintones, so they won’t show up randomly on normal sims anymore.)
Besides, a huge frustration factor for me has always been the poor posture on (for the most part) male sims. There are actually only two male body presets with a decent posture. I used them (as well as a third one) but adjusted both to some degree to look more like the average human body. I also only used three of the female body presets and adjusted one of them (the skinny curvy one) to be a bit heavier than the default.
Overall I'm quite happy with the result for female sims and, well, I did my best for the male sims under given circumstances :D At some point I needed to call it a day, so here it is:
I provide the mod as a zip file (you need to unzip it with a free program like WinRAR or 7-Zip) containing the following parts as package files:
Body Presets Selection & Tuning (Body, Cheeks, Chins, Eyes, HeadShape, Jaws, Mouths, Noses)
Deselected Eyebrows
Deselected Beards
Deselected Skintones
Deselected Body Hair (All)
All of those parts also work standalone and in any combination!
Update as of August 1st 2022:
Added the option to exclude body hair (5.)
Updated the files 1. & 3. with items that were added to the game since the time when I created the mod.
Notes regarding the files:
The files with the deselected eyebrows, beards, body hair and skintones will count as cc and trigger the cc flag. Besides, the deselected eyebrows, beards and body hair will be also excluded for genetic randomization (other presets are not affected based on my testing). So I provide those files separately for easy removal (and in case you only wanna use some parts of the mod).
For more experienced users: You can also unmerge the body presets package file with S4S to receive the sub-files for body, cheeks, chins, eyes, headshape, jaws, mouths and noses as well as the tuning file, if you want to pick only certain parts of the mod here, as well, or adjust the files. (Half of this enterprise was actually looking up the items and organizing them into categories.) Please note, if you mess around with the files in S4S, don't save over the tuning file, it's a certain type of file that needs special handling when saving in S4S (I used a workaround so that the decimals would actually be saved correctly).
Questions, conflicts and TOU:
For clarification: This mod only disallows certain items to be picked when a sim is randomized. All items are still "there" and can be picked manually in CAS.
Known conflicts: The "Body Presets Selection & Tuning" part (specifically the tuning part of it) will conflict with Menaceman44's Auto Shorter Teens mod. In general, same as for the mod "No Make-Up & No Accessories On Randomized Sims", this mod might conflict with other mods aiming at manipulating body preset parameters. Let me know if you encounter any other conflicting mods or issues.
Please, also contact me in case you intend to use the mod or parts of the mod for other creations.
@maxismatchccworld @luthsthings
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esrah-rah-rasputin · 8 months ago
some art, because I lost speech earlier and that sucked because no one around me could know, and also because autistic Jon rights
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[ID: Jon Sims from the Magnus Archives, drawn in purples with pink shadows. He is at the bottom of the frame and is drawn from the shoulders up, and behind him the rest of the space is taken up with unsaid thoughts and scripted conversation starters. He looks nervous and uncomfortable, and says quietly, under the other thought bubbles: “uh…”. Jon is pictured as a thin, British-Indian man with short cut hair with small streaks of grey in it, square wire glasses, a somewhat patchy beard, a few round scars on his cheekbones, jaw, and neck, and a line scar across his voice box. He is wearing a plain light t shirt.
The thought bubble directly above Jon’s head, in bold, says: I can understand you, you know. The bubbles around it, are in various shades of light purple and pink, the pink ones with quotations around them. The purple bubbles read, in no particular order: I want to join in on the conversation if you just let me. / This is going to be awkward, isn’t it… / I feel useless like this / Please don’t leave me out / I wish it was quieter here. The pink bubbles read, in no particular order, some of them cut off partially: “did you see the game last night?” / “how’s your partner these days?” / “how’ve you been lately?” / “damn, this weather, huh?” / “how are you?”. The artist’s url is in the top left. /End ID]
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teakstripe · a year ago
Couldn’t help myself. I’m powerless against the patch 😻
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dragimalsdaydreams · a year ago
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IMAGE ID UNDER THE CUT b/c it’s uhhhh a lil long, sorry.. there’s a lot of detail to cover in this one..
now u may be thinking, “Hey Ashley, didn’t you already start 2020 with fanart that riffed off the 1978 Watership Down prologue sequence, and now you’re doing the same thing again, a year later?” and to that I say sh. shhh. shh. I am allowed to draw another WD riff, as a treat
a single piece of art with two panels-- a larger top panel, and a smaller bottom panel. the full piece is drawn in a style of flat shapes filled with solid blocks of color, and patterns which emphasize those shapes/silhouettes.
the first panel features Jonathan Sims, curled up defensively at the center of the panel while a menagerie of Entities reach towards his prone form from the borders-- not quite touching, but close. Jon appears here as a small, slight man with dark brown skin and darker hair. his hair is long, wavy, and streaked with grey, all pulled back into a loose ponytail. he’s got a patchy beard, and the scars he’s accumulated through s4 (worms holes on his face, knife scar on his neck, burned hand). his eyes are closed, and he’s got dark circles underneath. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, dark blue jeans, and simple loafers. the background underneath is a dark, dull purple, with a light purple gradient roughly painted around Jon.
the Entities around Jon are as follows, starting from the top and working clockwise:
a large hand reaches down, wicked-sharp claws curving smoothly from each digit, open and eager to catch. the base color is dark red, with yellow and brown patterns inside the hand-- notably daisy-like patterns centered on certain joints and the tips of the fingers
a patch of pure black drips from the corner of the frame, trailing ever closer to Jon. a few simple dots of white stars are scattered across the puddle, some with a single small ring circling the dot.
two long, dull white bones extend towards the center-- a femur at the frame of the panel, with a rib resting near the ball of the femur to extend the reach, deformed enough to curve out towards Jon. ropes of red/white muscles and tendons wrap haphazardly around these bones, barely holding them together. a few teeth are scattered in among the ropes of meat-- some incisors, some molars.
a long, spindly spider leg reaches towards Jon, ending in two pincer-like claws. the main color is bright purple, which darkens at each of the leg’s three visible joints and the claws. a few hairs dust the outline of the leg. two patches of light-silver webbing tie to the leg at two joints and one of the claws, carefully controlling its position and trajectory.
a white heart-monitor heartbeat line points straight towards Jon, the heartbeats growing smaller until they fully peter out near the center. a thicker, straight red line lays underneath the heartbeat line for emphasis.
roaring flames flicker up towards the center, just barely licking up underneath Jon and throwing out blackened embers. the base color of the flames is a bright yellow, while red and orange form central patterns.
layers of sediment stack upwards in jagged formations-- brown, spotty soil, tan sandstone, and striped grey granite alike.
a large silver knife strikes up towards Jon, contained only by the barbed wire tangled tightly around it. the handle of the knife is dark red, while the tip of the knife is covered in bright red blood, splashing out from the tip as it jabs.
a simple sky paints itself towards the center of the panel in brush-strokes of bright, clear blue, with pure white clouds floating merrily across the scene.
countless worms and maggots climb over each other in a frenzy-- a growing pile of mania and motion. some worms are a smooth and sickly silver-green, while the maggots are a segmented yellow-cream. a few tan/brown mushrooms also grow out from the pile.
a rickety arm reaches from out of frame-- a patchwork of multiple pieces of garishly-patterned cloth (purples, greens, oranges), roughly stitched over an arm frame that clearly doesn’t have the right joints or proportions. the hand at the end, however, is perfectly normal-- covered in a clean white glove and courteously offered out to Jon.
a trail of grey-white fog tumbles gently from the top corner, just barely reaching out with a thin wisp of mist.
a neon-green metal spike jabs down towards Jon, with a handful of smaller spikes extending from the main in haphazard directions, making for a hostile silhouette. the main frame is covered in simple posters and advertisements in various blinding colors (purple, orange, red, blue). a pair of red shoes hangs by the shoelaces from one of the smaller spikes, while white, wired earbuds drape limply over the main frame. (in retrospect this particular Entity isn’t as conceptually clear as I’d like, so if you’re confused, here’s an ask I answered about it)
fractals zig-zag their way towards the center, doubling back and curling around, but steadily reaching forwards. the base patterns are copied and layered over each other in offset positions like a distorted photo, all in different neon colors (yellow, magenta, light green).
the second panel features a close-up of Jon-- shoulders-up-- in the same position as before. now, however, his visible eye is wide open, framed in bright neon green, with an iris of the same color. behind him, the background is now dark green, while a huge eye with exaggerated lashes outlined in the same blinding green frames his head. Jon’s head is centered where this giant eye’s pupil/iris would be.
there is text across the full image-- dark green on top of a semi-transparent white background, overtop the image. the text is as follows:
first panel: All the world will be your enemy, Prince With a Thousand Enemies. And whenever they catch you, they will kill you.
second panel: But first they must Catch You.
the first sections of text frame the tops/bottom of the respective panels, but the last two words of the last sentence frame either side of Jon’s face in the second panel.
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themand0lorian · a year ago
Frankie’s Barber Shop
Summary: After his time in service, Frankie relies on routine--but you arrive to shake things up.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no Y/N)
Rating: PG (minor language and suggestive thoughts)
Tags: FLUFF, reader washes/cuts Frankie's hair and beard, meet-cute, Frankie is an anxious boi but he's trying, this is pure tooth rotting fluff and an ode to Frankie's hair
Notes: Every day when I drive from work I pass 'Frankie's Barber Shop' and wish it was Frankie Morales' (but we all know he'd call his like, 'Catfish Cuts' or something)
I picture Frankie a bit younger here, done with the military but before the events of TF!
For my non-US readers, Great Clips is a chain of discount hairdressers!
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Frankie Morales is a simple man; a man of routine. He puts his shoes on right-then-left, even when it means he has to teeter precariously on his bad knee. He brushes his teeth for exactly 2 minutes, as timed on the toothbrush. He wears the same grey t-shirt and jeans combo that has followed him since high school. So when he left Great Clips with a particularly bad $7.99 haircut, buzzed uneven and patchy to the point that the guys ribbed him for it for weeks, he dreadfully set to Google to find a new place.
He chose said place on name alone; Frankie’s Barber Shop. Not too far from work, a little hole in the wall. He figured his own namesake would be good enough. Since leaving active duty he had kept his hair much the same; buzzed with a #8 all over, clean up the neck—sometimes a #7 faded toward the bottom if he was feeling especially daring or if the weather turned humid. Never touch the beard. It usually came out a little short for his liking, but anything was better than the all-over buzz he had to sport in service; plus, it lasted longer until his next one. $25, in and out, and he was set for another 6 weeks.
He had his routine down pat; walk into the dingy, shadowy barber from the overcrowded parking lot in the strip mall. The place was sparse; a cash register, a rickety waiting seat, an old boxy CRT TV playing the barber’s selected sports game, and only one chair; Barber Frankie didn’t take appointments. He would grumble around his cigarette with a broad gesture when he was ready for him, tuck him into the cape almost too tight around his neck. Like himself, Barber Frankie was a man of few words—in fact, Frankie didn’t know if he had ever really said anything to him. He would grunt and nod when Frankie gave his request—“#8, all over, clean up the edges”—get to work with the shears, and be done within minutes. He even made time to yell expletives at the game while he worked. Barber Frankie only accepted cash, and Frankie always brought exact change; $25, $5 for tip, and he would be on his way, set for another six weeks until he had to do it all over again.
So, when his six weeks had passed, he dutifully made his way to the little shop. He parked in the overcrowded lot, he pushed open the faded glass door to the sound of the tinkle of a bell overhead, he looked to the TV to check for Barber Frankie—
Barber Frankie was not in his usual spot in front of the old TV; in fact, the TV was completely off. Frankie didn’t know it even still had a functioning off-switch. Instead, quiet music is playing; what Santi tends to call “Dad Rock.” His eyes search the one-room business; it seems brighter, somehow, since he was last here. The errant hair brushed in the corners of the room was cleaned, the tabletop containing Barber Frankie’s tools organized. He almost left, checking for some alternate universe where Barber Frankie had chosen to break the routine, when he heard a voice.
“Hi! Welcome to Frankie’s, can I help you?” You popped up from behind the counter, all smiles and easy customer service attitude, and Frankie took a physical step back in surprise.
“Uh—is Frankie here? I just wanted a cut—”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“He doesn’t take appointments?” Frankie asks almost in a question, and you roll your eyes with a chuckle.
“Of course. Typical Uncle Frank.” You move around the counter; Frankie now sees you’re in a hairdresser’s apron, pockets stuffed with scissors and towels. “Sorry, Uncle Frank—Frankie—fell and broke his hip last week. I’m watching over the shop for him. I have time, you want a cut?” you say enthusiastically, drawing your scissors and snipping them in the air.
Frankie is torn. He likes routine, likes structure. He doesn’t really even like how Barber Frankie cuts his hair but he still is weary of you, a new cog in his well-oiled machine. On the other hand, you’re undeniably beautiful, warm and friendly in a way he rarely sees, and Frankie is not one to turn down a beautiful woman, or one to create an awkward situation by walking out.
That’s how he ends up in the barber’s chair, cape draped around him; you tucked a towel between his neck and the fabric, and he has to admit, it feels much better than when Barber Frankie does it. You’re running your hands through his matted curls, fluffing them through expert fingers as you ask him what he’s looking for—he almost forgets to respond, he’s leaning so hard into your touch he feels more dog than human.
“Uh—I usually get a #8 all over,” you nod with his words, but your mouth twists like you’re thinking, so he continues, as if he has something to prove. “#7 toward the neck.”
“Are you sure? You have beautiful hair, it suits you long like this,” you fluff the ends again, then pull your fingers back through the strands.
“Uh, I mean that’s what I always get—” You mull his words over before responding; nails scratching his scalp forcing a chill up his spine.
“Hm. I’ll tell you what. How about I start with the scissors, and if you don’t like it we can switch to a #8,” you propose, and he immediately agrees—he thinks he would agree to walk off a bridge, if it caused that smile that lit up your face like this did.
You immediately drag him over like an excited child to a sink he has never noticed, and he’s sure Barber Frankie has never used, until he’s awkwardly seated in the chair attached like he doesn’t know what to with himself. You gently lean him back over the sink, then get to work—floral shampoo dispensed into your palms as you chat about Uncle Frank’s hairline fracture--“Isn’t that funny? Hairline?” you say with a big grin, and Frankie is inclined to agree if it means you’ll continue chatting. You deftly work it into his hair, rubbing and massaging at his scalp, and Frankie almost melts into your touch; smooth, strong hands scratching and rubbing in ways he wouldn’t be able to replicate himself.
Frankie almost feels perverted with the amount he’s enjoying this; even the warm water rinsing out the shampoo feels like heaven, and he stifles a moan that he knows would send him straight into creep territory. He doesn’t know where to look, his eyes darting to every crack and stain in the ceiling that he make out as he lays back in the chair—Should he close his eyes or is that weird?—and eventually they land on your face. You’re focused as you rub conditioner into his hair, working each strand and humming quietly along to the music you have playing.
Frankie thinks you look ethereal. You’re just working, doing what you probably do dozens of times a day, but he’s never had so much care put into himself. Showers with 4-in-1--shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and lotion, quick 6 minute in-and-out--can’t compete—not when he knows you and your magic hands can make hair washing feel like this. He knows he’s approaching creepy, the length of his staring stretching longer and longer, but he can’t look away—not even when you rinse the remaining conditioner. He only realizes he’s been staring too long when your eyes shift to his, kind and crinkled with a small grin as you tell him he’s all done, gently lift the back of his head until he’s sitting up again with pink-tinged ear tips—he didn’t even hear the sink turn off.
Once he’s back in the chair, you make quick work of combing through his mane, humming as you think of your approach until you pick up the scissors with a wicked grin.
“I’m gonna turn you around, so it’ll be a surprise and we can see if you really like it,” you smile, easily twisting him in the chair so he’s facing the wood paneling instead of the mirror. “You seem like the kind of guy who wouldn’t tell me the truth if he didn’t.”
Frankie can’t help but chuckle—you’ve known him 5 minutes and have seen right through him; he probably wouldn’t. Like the Great Clips Disaster, he would walk out with a smile and a tip and then bury it under his cap for weeks until it grew out.
You quickly begin snipping, the rasp of the scissors unfamiliar as hair starts to fall around him. He can’t see anything you’re doing, which makes him a little nervous, but he also can’t see you, which makes him only a little disappointed. He decides on the next best thing—sound.
“You, uh—you have good hands,” Frankie attempts small talk, immediately wincing at his own awkward conversation. He’s relieved when he hears you bellow a loud laugh, scissors pulled from his head to prevent errant cuts as you giggle.
“Thanks—oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” you reply lightly.
“Uh, it’s Frankie.” Your scissors stop again, and if he was looking, he’d see your face scrunched in contemplation.
“Seriously,” he chuckles, and you begin snipping again, chuckling along.
“Well then I guess you came to the right place, Frankie,” you joke, and he fights the urge to look to his hands shyly, not wanting to ruin your cutting.
After his abominable start, he lets you take the reins on the small talk topics-favorite sports teams, pets and children, if he’s from the area. Frankie tells you all of this readily, parroting the same questions back as he starts to fall into an easy rapport—you hate sports, no children but one scruffy street cat who you named Pudge has adopted you, you live in town but you’re mostly covering for Uncle Frank until his hip heals before you go back to your own job. Truthfully, he would tell you anything you wanted to know—blood type, social security number, mother’s maiden name. Usually, having someone behind him, close to his head with blades while he couldn’t see what they were doing would send his anxiety into overdrive—a take-home present from service that he couldn’t quite shake. But with you, it felt natural; nice even. When he would say something you particularly disagreed with or didn’t believe, you would lean comically around the barber chair, eyes narrowed in mock contemplation, but also—a gentle reminder that it was just you there. No monsters, no threats. Just a pretty girl who could shave his head bald and he’d still come back to her.
When you deem yourself complete, you round the chair completely, conversation in a natural lull as you squat in front of him until you’re face-to-face. You get in close to him, close enough that he thinks you’re about to kiss him, and his mouth hangs open, heart racing and eyes searching your face. You meet his eyes with a small smile, then start pulling strands at either side, testing to see if the cut is even, and Frankie fights a deep exhale that he knows would blow too obviously over your face. His eyes stay plastered to yours, watching as you move and pinch individual pieces; he’s completely enamored by you. It takes him a moment to realize you asked him a question.
“I think I’m all set with the hair. You want a trim for your beard?” you ask with a subconscious bat of your eyelashes. Frankie’s never been proud of his facial hair, it was such a struggle to get it to the length and fullness it’s at, patches and all, that the idea of someone trimming it besides himself sends quiet dread through him, thinking of the pre-pubescent teenager look a fresh face gives him.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” His mouth feels unconnected to his brain, and when he looks almost surprised at himself, you flash that broad smile again, and he knows he made the right decision. He watches as you gather supplies; trimmers, a towel, a bowl of water—and then you get to work. You clean up the edges first, the familiar hum of the buzzers almost comforting, then proceed to his actual scruff, trimming it evenly.
He’s still faced away from the mirror, and the only thing in his entire field of vision is you. You bite your lip as you get the edges just straight, you blow a hair from your face when it falls in front of your eyes, close enough that Frankie can feel the breath escape. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like a creep or a perv for simply looking at you. Admiring you. If you’d let him, he’d worship you.
When you click the trimmers off, you catch him staring—his eyes in silent awe, going wide when you meet them, but you hold the contact there, ever so close to his face, finally releasing a bashful smile before standing again.
“Alright, Frankie—tell me what you think. And be honest, you won’t hurt my feelings,” you chuckle, spinning him around.
Frankie almost doesn’t recognize himself—his hair is that perfect length he likes, that he hits for maybe three days in his current hair care routine; curls lush and almost bouncy. Somehow, despite the trim, his beard looks fuller, and he runs a disbelieving hand over it, as if he's checking to see if its really him underneath. Frankie’s never been one to toot his own horn, but he’ll admit it—he looks good. A hundred times better than when he walks out from Barber Frankie and puts his ball cap on—he thinks the cap would be a crime with the art you’ve created. He suddenly realizes you’re waiting for a reply with an anxious smile as he glances to your face in the mirror, in awe of both himself and your skill.
“It—it looks really great. This is the length I like,” he says, running a hand over the ends. “I don’t know how you knew that.”
“Oh, that’s great! I’m so happy,” you smile broadly, and Frankie’s heart sings. “Call it hairdresser’s intuition,” you giggle, finally pulling the cape from his neck—he almost feels naked without it, and Frankie wishes you were pulling the rest of the clothes off him too, but he shakes the thought out of his head as if he’s shaking out his hair.
You both meander slowly to the cash register, as slowly as possible in the 3-foot space, seeming to not want this to end—but Frankie thinks he’s reading too much into it. It’s literally your job to be friendly, to make small talk and have your clients feel comfortable. You can’t actually be interested in him, his too-short then too-long hair, his faded tee and dusty jeans, cap tucked in the back pocket. The sound of you punching in the total rings him from his thoughts, as you tell him the price.
“$20,” you smile.
“Twenty? It’s usually 25, and that’s without the beard—” Frankie starts, and you shake your head.
“A discount for my favorite customer.” Frankie’s ears redden again as he hands over the money, your tone clear that it wasn’t his place to argue. You cash him out easily, and Frankie grabs the second twenty in his wallet to stuff in the tip jar.
“Frankie, that’s a twenty—”
“I know. For my favorite hairdresser,” he smiles shyly, and it’s your turn for heat to rise to your cheeks. He walks slowly to the door, passing one last look back as the bell jingles overhead and you stand awestruck at the counter, giving him a shy wave.
Frankie barely makes it off the sidewalk before he pushes his way back in, standing in the entry of the little shop—you almost look shocked to see him back so soon.
“What’s wrong? You didn’t actually like—”
“Would you want to go on a date? With me?” he adds like the clarification is needed, then outwardly winces at his own stupidity. The silence seems to stretch for hours, and he’s about to head back out the door and start Googling a new barber shop when that same smile spreads across your features.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
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astroboots · 11 months ago
Don't be a Tease
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Summary: Santiago is an insufferable tease and Frankie finally gets to teach him a lesson. Inspired by 2021 Kinktober challenge: Teasing. This story is set in the Homecoming-verse about a year into their relationship.
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you) x Frankie
Warnings: teasing, hand job, frotting (cause I'm a whore like that), a lot of dry-humping (cause I am without shame like that), polyamorous relationship, really damned explicit M/M, blink and miss it hint of voyeurism, Brat!Santi (comes with his own warning).
Wordcount: 2,265 words
[Series Masterlist] [Masterlist & Tag List]
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Frankie likes to think he's the sort of person who learns to live with the cards that are dealt to him. No point in acting like a petty child, kicking up a fuss and whining about how things aren't fair. Better to accept your lot and move on. But sometimes life is just really unfair. Case in point: Santiago Garcia.
One example? When Frankie waits longer than three weeks to cut his hair, it grows wild under his cap like weeds that spring up in all directions crowding a messy forest campsite that's been abandoned by civilization.
Santiago though? Santi’s just been dealt with a different stack of cards in life.
Since the man finally started making himself at home, he had foregone the regular bi-weekly haircuts to keep his hair trimmed and neat—a leftover habit from their common military days, even as he retired and went private.
Frankie feels conflicted about it.
Because on the one hand, of course he’s happy that Santi’s finally starting to settle in. That he feels safe and comfortable, maybe for the first time in his life, to plant roots and make himself at home with the two of you. That realization makes something glow warm and bright in Frankie’s chest whenever he sees Santi’s increasingly longer hair.
On the other hand, does the man have to make letting himself go look so fucking good?
His curls grow thick and rich. He doesn’t even bother with hair dye anymore, and at first you had been gleeful at the idea of getting to make fun of Santi’s ever increasing greys, never missing a chance to tease him about getting older. Frankie had planned to do the same. That doesn’t happen. Instead everytime Frankie sees those lustrous black locks with hints of gleaning silver against the temple, he gets a bit tongue tied. Whatever clever jab he had prepared flies right out of the window.
You like it too. Sometimes you will just zone out in the middle of a conversation staring at it, and Frankie doesn’t blame you. Never had a man made the concept of aging so damned appealing.
And then there’s that fucking beard. It’s been about eight weeks since Santi stopped shaving, and his beard is magnificent. Nothing like Frankie’s patchy one, and as childish as it is, Frankie can’t help the quiet jealousy at how full and luscious it is. To add insult to injury, Santiago looks so fucking good with a beard, and he knows it too, the bastard.
Frankie and you have known no peace in your home since Santi started growing it out. If the man was a tease before, it’s nothing compared to this new and improved and upgraded version that struts around your home like a peacock during mating season displaying his beautiful plumage.
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The first time Santiago does it, Frankie’s unprepared. The bastard must’ve spotted Frankie in the kitchen after waking up from his afternoon nap.
Frankie’s just trying to mind his own business and do the dishes. The large lasagna pan won’t fit in the dishwasher, and his arms are elbow deep in dishwater when he can hear the languid footsteps approach.
Before he knows it, Santi is right there behind him, pressed firmly up against his back, chin on Frankie’s shoulder. Just observing the way Frankie's doing the dishes, as if pretending to inspect the quality of his work. Maybe if this asshole ever did the dishes, Frankie'd believe he knows half a thing about what it takes to do a decent job.
He picks up the blended scent of your soap and remnants of the warm Florida sun lingering on Santi’s skin, and it has Frankie lightheaded with want. Heat rises to the tip of his ears, and he knows from that all familiar tingle that his cheeks are flushed pink from it.
Santi must fucking love that.
With a lazy drag, Santi starts to rub his chin, grazing the beard against Frankie’s skin like some damned cat trying to scent mark his fucking territory. The soft bristles catch against the hair at the back of Frankie's neck. It's slow and deliberate, with a low raspy hum that drags on forever.
Santi just stays there, tucked against his shoulder, until Frankie starts to shift his legs, until the man must see the bulge starting to press against the front of Frankie’s soft pants. Then and only then, does he step back with a grin.
“Keep up the good job, Hermano,” he says with a comradely clap to Frankie’s shoulder. The smile on his face is insufferably smug, clearly proud of himself as he walks out of the kitchen and leaves Frankie with a seam-splitting erection that takes forever to go away.
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Santi gets away with doing that all of once, without inciting Frankie’s retaliation. The first time it happened, the gremlin managed to catch him by surprise. But the next time (not even a week later), when Frankie hears the familiar shuffle of footsteps approach him, while he’s cleaning up the large roast pan by the sink—he’s mentally prepared.
Sure enough, it only takes seconds before Santi is pressed up against his back, all warm heat and soft hums. He’s wearing one of Frankie’s flannel shirts that still carries his own scent. Frankie never quite understands why that unwinds him in the way it does—beyond some long dormant caveman instinct in him that growls, mine.
And when Santi’s puffs warm soft breaths against the back of his neck, making every strand of hair tingle on its end, that fine tuned patience of his is on a knife’s edge about to tip over.
“Garcia. Do not test me.”
There’s a warm chuckle. Even if he’s unable to see the man, he can still hear the wide grin of a smile. “Yeah? Why not? You gonna do something about it, Morales?"
Of course, he’d say that wouldn’t he?
He drops the pan with a loud clank into the sink. Then turns around. The suddenness of his movement has Santi fumbling backwards. Frankie takes a small satisfaction in that–that he has managed to achieve the unachievable—catching Santiago Garcia off guard. That gratification grows when Santi’s eyes widen. The unguarded pupils growing impossibly large and dark. Frankie smiles as he takes that startled expression in one hand, then grabs Santi by the scruff of his neck and pulls him in, kissing him hard.
Disorientated as he is, Santi doesn’t manage to kiss back. Frankie would be lying if he didn’t admit to feeling a little bit smug that he has that effect on the other man. Santi’s mouth parts in a half-wrenched groan and Frankie dips his tongue inside, licking further into him until Santi's mouth opens of its own volition. It’s sloppy and messy, soap suds and dishwater getting everywhere–on the counter, floor and soaking the fabric of clothing between them.
Then it’s a push and a shove. Frankie uses his own larger body frame for leverage until he has Santi pressed up against the edge of the sink. He drags their hips together, clumsy and inelegant, every ounce of it desperate.
For what could be either a long or short time, Frankie doesn’t even know, they’re rutting up against each other like mindless animals. He loses himself in it until Santi finally breaks off to pull up for air with a breathless gasp. Frankie grants him all of two seconds, before leaning down to take his mouth again.
There’s a hard chafing grind against his hardening bulge, pressed into the divot of Santi’s hips for some—any friction he can find. But it’s not enough, not even close to enough.
His hand wanders downwards and despite the awkward angle Frankie just about manages to get his thumb and finger on the button of Santi’s jeans. It would be easier to coordinate his hands if Frankie was willing to stop kissing him, far easier to remove Santi's pants if Frankie was willing to allow an inch of space between their hips. Instead it’s a clumsy fumble followed by an impatient tug that shoves the jeans mid-thigh down Santi’s legs. Frankie just barely manages to unhook his own pants as well and shoves them far enough to free his straining erection from its tight confines.
Santi’s hardened length stands up in alert attention, the pink-flushed tip glistening eagerly with precome. Fucking Christ, he always forgets how pretty the man’s cock is.
He doesn’t know who initiated it. If Santi leaned up or he stepped forward. Though judging from how Santi’s pushed back, with the sharp edge the kitchen counter digging into his back and nowhere further to go, it was probably Frankie.
Santiago is just as much to blame though. He’s just rutting up against Frankie, rocking into him hard and eager, their cocks rubbing up against each other. It's obscene, wet and slippery, dripping with precome that at this stage Frankie doesn’t know whose it is–his or Santi’s or both. Every single nerve along his back is tingling at every long stroke of the hard line of Santi's gorgeous cock against his.
His hand snakes down between their bodies, down to where they’re both hard and throbbing. He wraps his fingers around them both, with Santi's feverish length jumping at the contact, and it practically scalds him. And Frankie swears to God, that feels so ridiculously good he might come from that contact alone. Has to still his hand and squeeze himself, tight, to make sure he doesn’t.
For a man who's favorite thing in the world is to tease, Santi's always impatient when it comes to his own pleasure, trying to roll his hips into Frankie's grip at a faster pace. Frankie almost wants to let him. Almost wants to thrust up fast and hard until he’s practically humping the man until they both come. But he can hold on to teach the man a lesson.
With greater restraint than he’s ever needed before, Frankie plants his other hand on Santi’s hip, pushing him back down against the edge. Then he’s leaning over and clamps down his teeth on Santi’s shoulder in warning.
“Don’t be greedy, Santiago. Stay. Stay still or I’ll stop completely.”
Santi doesn’t answer him with words. Instead his tongue darts out in reply, the pink tip, wetting his own kiss-swollen bottom lip. It looks puffy and tender, and Frankie is only a thread-snap away from leaning back in and biting down on it.
But Santi complies. He nods his head almost frantically, and then his hips go slack, entirely still against the counter.
Frankie takes his time. Palm skating along the side of Santi’s hip before he slowly slips his fingers over his twitching length, then slowly, almost lazily drags his hand over both their cocks in a languid stroke. Just the sight of it drives Frankie fucking crazy–the way they’re rubbing against each other, the shiny heads, slippery with precome, peeking out at every downstroke–and Santi isn’t far behind either. Unlike him, Santi isn’t looking. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut like he can’t even look anymore. Like if he does he might come on the spot. He buries his face into the crook of Frankie’s neck, and Frankie can’t have that.
His fingers threads into those silk-soft curls and he gives it a sharp tug, dragging Santi’s pretty face up to his gaze.
"No," he barks out. “You stay right here with me Santiago.”
And Santi whines. Fucking whines.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted me to touch you. You started teasing me because you needed me to take you apart, didn’t you? To make you come right here like this.”
Santi is ridiculously wet, just leaking everywhere, like he’s two strokes and a thrust away from coming and Frankie’s not far behind. It’s good, feels so fucking good.
But what’s even better is the way that Santi’s gone shameless and needy, starts to babble incomprehensibly the way he does when he’s so close to losing it. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck. yes. Jesus fuckin’ fuck! yes. Frank. Please.”
And Santi begging, pleading...
Right now, Santi is without pretense.
In this moment, Santi is too far gone from trying to constantly provoke him.
Frankie loves that version of Santiago. Loves that he can bring that man to his proverbial knees and make the most insufferable teasing, competitive person in the universe, surrender.
And that is exactly what this is: a surrender to Frankie. It’s obvious watching the man now, limbs trembling, barely able to stay standing as he ruts mindlessly into Frankie’s palm; eyes dilated with feverish need and desperation as he’s begging to come.
It makes Frankie want to give Santi what he wants. Makes Frankie forget about what a tease the man’s been and what he’s put him through. Wants to reward him with that release now when he’s being so good. Reward them both with it—
There's a sound from the living room, the front door opening then slammed shut, a chorus of contented barks from the dogs to announce that you’re home from your walk.
—Or maybe not.
“Guys, I’m home,” your voice calls out through your home. At the sound of your voice, Santi's eyes shoot up, and Frankie can’t help but smirk, a new and better idea forming in his head.
He leans down, brushing his lips against Santi’s ear with a low whisper. "Should I call her in here? Let her see how needy you get for me?"
Santi’s not the only one who can be an insufferable tease.
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-Dedicated: to my most beloved 🍑 👁 🐏@thirstworldproblemss whose milkshake brings all the boys to the yard and they're like, "Damn right, it's better than yours, I can teach you, but I have to charge." —And I would pay all my worldly possessions and savings for your wonderful milkstoriesshakes! 🤡💖🤡
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softpedropascal · 8 months ago
a man and a woman walk into a bar...
Pairing: Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader
Warnings: Just some friendly flirting. Oh, and Frankie gets a boner. I also mention the belt buckle and y’all know how I feel about that so I’ll just make it a warning lol.
Words: 839
Summary: You and Frankie are just friends but once dance may change that.
[frankie masterlist][frankie masterlist pt. 2]
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You sat on the stool nursing your beer as Frankie sat beside you timidly.
“Do I make you nervous, Frankie?” you asked, and he scoffed.
“What? No!” He chuckled nervously and drank from his glass. You shook your head and turned to the small dance floor where Santi and Benny were dancing horribly while trying to some woman’s attention.
“Wanna dance with me?” You tilted your head at him and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.
“I…can’t dance,” he said and kept his eyes on the glass.
“Okay, well…” You hopped off the stool and stood next to his. “What do you wanna do?” you asked. He turned to you and cleared his throat.
“I…I…want to…” He shook his head rapidly and turned back to the bar, asking the bartender for another pint. Then he spoke again, taking you by surprise. “I do want to dance with you but…not out there.” He nodded toward the small dance floor. There were a lot of things he wanted to do with you, but he was planning on keeping all those things to himself.
“So, we’ll dance right here.” You touched his knee and he looked down at your hand.
“Here?” He was still looking at your hand.
“If you want.”
He stood with a groan and you giggled. “What do I do?” he asked.
“You can just stand there if you want,” you told him and he stood there awkwardly. You took the time to survey him—the beautiful, brown curls hidden beneath his cap, those coffee brown eyes that you dreamt about too many times, the strong nose, the strong jaw with patchy scruff littered with grey that made you want to kiss the bald spots, and his lips. You tried not to stare at those too long.
“What’s wrong?” he asked and you shook your head.
“Nothing. Just looking at you.” You playfully tugged on the collar of his brown jacket. The grey shirt under it was stained in a few spots but that made him even more appealing to you for a reason. Your eyes wandered lower to the slight pudge in his tummy. You placed your hand on it and you could feel him tense.
“Sorry…” You were about to pull your hand away but he grabbed it.
“Don’t be. I’m just not used to being touched…like that. It’s been a while, you know.” He shrugged shyly.
You looked down again and looked at his belt buckle. You secretly loved it even though you had always poked fun at him about it.
“I’m gonna apologize in advance,” he said over the music, close to your ear.
“For what?” His breath against your ear nearly made you tremble.
“For any…reaction I may have…to you.” Suddenly, he pulled you against him, his big hand warm against your lower back. “…When you’re pressed up against me.”
You both swayed slowly to the music—looking at each other then looking away with small laughs. You bit your lip when you felt something hard against you but when you looked down you realized it was only his belt buckle.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked.
That question always made you nervous but you nodded.
“I like you. A lot,” he confessed then pressed his lips to your forehead as you continued to sway against the bar.
“I like you too, Frankie. A lot,” you said with a smile.
“I’ve dreamt of this…dancing with you,” he began. “Of course, in my dreams we’re not in a hole in the wall bar but honestly any place will do as long as you’re the one I’m dancing with.”
You looked up at him and scratched at his beard then kissed one of the bald patches. He sighed then looked down. Your eyes shifted and you bit your lip to stop from laughing.
“Yeah…that’s not my belt buckle this time,” he joked and you hid your face against his shirt and laughed. “What can I say? I’m a simple man—a beautiful lady scratches and kisses my beard and I…react.”
“React,” you teased.
“Yeah and good thing you’re pressed against me this way so that reaction is hidden.” He chuckled then kissed your cheek.
“You always know how to make me laugh, Frankie.” You rest your head against his chest.
“It’s my favorite sound,” he said the kissed your forehead. “Always has been.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. He looked past you at Santi and Benny who were still drinking and dancing. “You wanna get outta here?” he asked.
“Sure. Where to?”
He slapped a twenty down on the bar and took your hand, leading you out the door into the cool night air.
“Anywhere,” he said.
“Anywhere sounds good,” you agreed.
He let go of your hand to open the truck door for you before jogging over to his side. Once he climbed in and started the truck you went for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.
“Let’s go anywhere,” you said.
“Let’s go.” He smiled brightly, showing off that beautiful dimple.
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writefightandflightclub · 11 months ago
Promises (Frankie Morales x GN!reader)
Summary: you’ve been married to Frankie for a decade and he is your dream come true. However, you can’t help but feel that he is a dream you will one day wake from. In your experience, love ends. Can your sweet Frankie convince you he wants you forever, and then some?
Genre: some angst and then teeth-rotting fluff. Soft! Husband! Frankie - established LTR.
A/n: DON’T LOOK AT ME. Not my best characterisation of Frankie at all, but I was in some feels and I needed to see this scenario play out. Blast me. I think it turned out cute.
Rating: Teen, I think, but my blog is 18+, thank you.
Warnings: married couple; quite intense relationship insecurities (unfounded but feelings are valid); abandonment themes (past implied, fear of in future); casual alcohol consumption; language. TYPOS and mistakes. Very subtly implied sexual activity (off-screen, non-explicit); kissing.
GIF: @uuuhshiny
Tagging: @pedrostories
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“Ten years of marriage. Fuck me, Cat,” Santi breezes, accompanied by a loose, throaty laugh. “Hell. I knew from the first time you met this one” -he gestures to you with the mouth of his beer bottle and a smile creasing his eyes- “that you were in some deep shit. But who the fuck knew we’d be sitting here toasting you a decade later, hermano?”
“I coulda guessed,” Will beams and you return his easy smile. “These two got it made.”
The group all clink beer bottles and exchange goofy, beer-addled smiles. Happily, you link your closest arm into the crook of Frankie’s where he idles next to you in the booth, smoothing your other palm up and down over his soft, worn flannel and basking in the jovial atmosphere, your dearest friends and the love of your life surrounding you.
“Well. Congrats, to the Morales family,” Benny pipes up with a beaming flash of teeth as your bottles touch. “Ten fucking years, boys,” Benny adds with jumped up eyebrows and a little shake of his head with respect and disbelief at your milestone. “Power to ya, man. It’s beautiful.”
At that, Frankie twists to plant a little kiss on your head where it’s resting on top of his shoulder, his grizzled, patchy beard tickling against you. You can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, and it makes your own cheeks hurt in turn. “Ten years with my soulmate,” Frankie purrs, his voice logged with such wet, sappy sentiment that it gains good-natured groans from the group.
Santi’s expression becomes wistful, and he swigs on his beer pensively. “Shit. I couldn’t do what you guys do. Sticking with one person? I gotta play the field a bit longer, man.”
Santi’s comment is light-hearted, you realise. You know that deep down he longs to settle, to be loved, but you indulge him in his bravado with a polite chuckle. Benny, meanwhile, almost spurts out his beer at the prospect that Santi is still trying to sell himself as a bit of player, even as the wash of grey has crept entirely over his once raven curls.
“What?” Santi says, his defensiveness spiking, even as his words are paired with a lopsided grin. “My knees have some life in them yet.”
“It’s not your knees I’m worried about,” Benny sniggers, and the two fall straightforwardly into characteristic bickering. Your eyes crease with fondness. You don’t think the two of them will ever truly grow up, even if Benny does have his partner and four kids - a fifth soon to join the family. That man wants a whole damn squad.
You let the boys’ banter wash over you, a pleasant background noise. You enjoy the slight buzz from the beer, and the sturdy warmth of your beloved Frankie at your side.
You’re happy.
You really are. Here with your husband and your best friends, in celebration.
But… there is a niggle you have been wrestling with. A whisper under the surface. A worry that you’ve had ever since you found Frankie.
How much longer can this last?
Frankie is too good to be true, and sometimes, you feel like he’s a dream you’re about to wake from.
“What’s your secret then, guys?” Will asks, politely shifting the focus back to you and Frankie, and you quickly counteract the frown that has unwittingly settled itself on your brow. “Got any sage wisdom for the rest of us?”
Yeah. Sure you do. You’d have plenty if you thought about it. Your relationship is stronger than ever. It’s a true partnership, and you take care of each other. Adore each other. But there’s something about this milestone which has your age-old insecurities flaring up.
Maybe he’s bored of me.
Maybe he’ll want someone else. Maybe he does already.
Maybe he’s unhappy.
Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.
Maybe he regrets marrying me at all.
Maybe he’ll leave me.
How much longer can this last?
A hard, involuntary gulp trails down your throat, and you attempt to plaster over your niggles with a soft, unconvincing laugh. “Well… ten years and Frankie hasn’t left me just yet. Think we’re doing okay - I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Your comment could have been passed off as a light-hearted one, if it wasn’t for the fissures in your voice. The slight wetness in your eyes, causing the boys to exchange surreptitious glances of concern and awkwardness with each other.
“Baby,” Frankie says into your hairline, voice rich with love. “Never. I’ll never leave you.”
You want to believe him. You do. You have tried.
Frankie makes it easy to trust his love for you; but your insecurities make it hard, and it’s a constant battle. You wish you could be certain, but in your experience, the only certainty is that eventually, love ends.
Love is routinely talked about as if it’s forever, but it’s more often fleeting. Only ever temporary. No-one loves you your whole life, after all, do they? Even if you feel that you love Frankie so much that it hurts - that an eternal flame burns in the pit of you which could light the vastness of the universe and the rest of time… in your experience, love ends.
This love will end. His love for me will end.
He had promised you he would be with you until death, but you’d never had it in you to believe Frankie’s promise completely. Even as that made you feel guilty, as though you were doubting him.
You’re along for the ride, for sure, as long as it lasts. You’re invested and you’re damn grateful; but… somewhere deep down, you just keep waiting for it to run its course. To… stop. For the wheels to fall off. For it to languish into nothing. To be torn apart abruptly, intricately stitched together souls ripped painfully from the joining seams. There seem to be a million ways it could end and only one way it could last, and a part of you has been waiting for it to end since it began.
People leave you.
People have left you over and over, one way or another.
Why would Frankie be any different? Frankie is a dream come true; and dreams always end, don’t they?
In your experience, love always ends.
Frankie makes it easy; so easy. But other things make it hard.
You smooth the worry lines from your face, glossing over them with a closed-lipped smile.
“I know. I know, Francisco,” you say with as much lightness as you can muster, covering over the fissures with an attempt at humour. “But if you ever change your mind you let me know, mmmkay?”
And, you stand from the table, under the guise of buying a fresh round of drinks, that single blaring thought is loud in your head.
How much longer can this last?
He was younger when he married you.
You were younger too.
You were different.
He couldn’t know how it would turn out.
How you would turn out.
What you would become together.
Who else he would meet. Who else he might want.
A tangle of emotion burns in your gut. You wish more than anything that you could feel safe and secure in this love -it’s what Frankie deserves for the way he so diligently loves you - but some things, quite simply, make it hard.
You hasten over to the bar and join the queue, grateful that you are distanced and facing away from the group as tears shimmer in your eyes, which you try hard to bite back.
Maybe he regrets it.
Maybe you’re runing his night by getting all upset.
Maybe you’re ruining his life.
Maybe he’d be better off without you.
Maybe he’d be happier with someone else. Happier alone.
People always leave you.
You’re not good enough to be loved forever.
Love always ends.
“Never. You hear me?” Frankie asks, drawing up to your side in the queue, his warm hand appearing at your waist and smoothing the faintest and gentlest of circles there.
You close your eyes tight and maintain your position, hands folded in front of you.
Frankie knows you. He knows you in a way no-one else ever has. He is familiar then, with the weight of your insecurities. He has held you while you cried over them. He has kissed them from your bare skin. He has driven as many of them away as he could, with his love alone.
But he knows. He knows that a certain, ever present shadow lingers. That sometimes, it rears its ugly head. That sometimes, loving him hurts.
He knows you so well, in every aspect, and he shows it in everything he does. To him it is effortless to love you. Painless. Healing.
Even the weight of his hand at your back is perfectly judged. The tone of his voice. The careful balance between the amount of reassurance he knows you need and the amount of softness he figures you can bear before buckling under your emotions. He knows you won’t wish to get upset in front of the group. He knows what you need.
He is here by your side. He always is. You wish you could believe he always will be.
He’s here with you now, and you are endlessly grateful as he kisses the top of your head and reiterates his promises.
He’s a dream come true, this man.
You love Frankie Morales so much it hurts.
But there it is, all the same. That niggle. That shadow.
How much longer can this last?
One week later
“It’s been ten years, baby,” Frankie begins, his voice all choked up.
He has whisked you away on a surprise weekend to the cabin, the two of you enjoying quality time - relaxing days and cosy nights, and celebrating your milestone in the way which suits you both; together. No distractions. A “dumbass free weekend”, you call it, finally getting some time away from the squad as well as the stresses and strains of daily responsibilities.
Your insecurities have waned since that day in the bar, though they aren’t all the way gone - might never be, but they are far enough from your thoughts right now for you to be present in the moment, enjoying your husband in all respects - his company, his conversation, and his body, whether looped in his arms with your head against his chest as the fire crackles before you, or writhing, smooth and warm and tangled under the itchy wool blankets as you stave off the chill in other ways too. You are in heaven, spending slow days and nights tasting wine on his tongue and cologne on his neck and salt on his skin. Basking in him. It’s a rare and perfect treat.
This evening, you are standing out on the wraparound porch, where Frankie had hung strings of fairy lights upon your arrival, giving the place an ethereal glow.
You nod and smile through shined eyes as Frankie speaks, your husband gathering your hands up in his and bringing them to his lips. He plants trembling kisses over your knuckles, your whole middle aching with the tenderness of it.
Aching because of loving, and because of being loved in equal measure.
He drops a kiss on your wedding ring with a smile - as though he’s still happy about the promise he made you all those years ago. As though it continues to bring him joy; the fact that you are his. That you promised to love him.
Frankie has been doting on you all weekend, of course - always does- but his statement smacks of a new intensity. A depth of feeling and intent that makes you straighten up and listen.
“Ten years, baby,” he purrs in his revving, rich voice. “And I love you more every goddamn day.”
A half laugh half sob escapes your lips as Frankie’s deep eyes shine with an adoration more sublime than the starlight, creases radiating out across his cheeks and deepening that single dimple on his cheek.
You’re so happy.
So happy it hurts.
“Ten years,” he continues, his voice cracking, as though he needs to find more room in the thrum of his voice to let all the love in. Imbuing it with even more warmth than usual. The sound of it, thick with emotion, makes a lump ball in your throat. “A lot has changed along the way, cariño. We’ve changed. You’ve changed. But I love who you’ve grown into. I love who we are together.” Your eyes search his, with a rare trepidation, and you find nothing but sincerity living there. “I love the life we’ve built, together. I have roots now, baby. Something I didn’t have for a long time. I have that thanks to you.”
Your lower lip trembles as Frankie continues his praises and his professions.
Frankie is a quiet, thoughtful soul. An observer. A perceiver. A man of few words; and, when he does elect to speak, to share, his words are chosen carefully. That means when he speaks now, his sentiments are all the more profound; you know he does not say things he does not mean.
Frankie inhales a breath, a punctuating moment before gently dropping your hands and reaching inside his jacket, face cloaked with a soft, watery smile.
“I say it, that I’ll never leave you. That I don’t want anyone else but you. But I want you to know it. To believe it. And I figure, if asking you to be mine, and promising to be yours -that one time all those years back isn’t enough, I’ll ask you again. To show you I don’t regret this. That I would make that same decision -from ten years ago- a thousand times over, baby.”
Frankie pulls out a small blue velvet box, and your palms travel up to your face, covering your mouth in shock.
“I would marry you again today,” Frankie chokes, tears beading in his eyes. “In a heartbeat. I would marry you again tomorrow. And the day after that.” He gets down on one knee, wooden boards creaking beneath him as he settles in place at your feet. “I would choose you then, baby, and I choose you now. I’ll choose you every damn day of my life. I promise you.”
Frankie ceremoniously flips open the lid of the blue velvety box, and to your surprise, there is a pendant and chain pooled inside, coordinated perfectly with your wedding ring, sparkling up at you and glinting in the fairy lights.
You look down at your husband, misty eyed and entirely taken aback for a moment, causing Frankie’s face to split into a grin.
“You already have a ring. You’re wearing my promise on your finger. I’ll hang it ‘round your neck too. I’ll put my promise on every inch of you,” Frankie’s voice cracks and with it tears ball in his shined eyes. “I’ll get up in front of you and everyone all over again and show them how much I love you. Will keep loving you. So, will you marry me, baby…” - his mouth tips into a cautious smile- “…again?”
“Frankie….” you breathe, your fingers still clasped over your mouth, shaking against your lips as your husband sets the box aside, in favour of smoothing his palms up and down your thighs and hips, needing to touch you. Smoothing his promise into you with his palms like you are a blessing cupped in his hands.
Tears spill over your cheeks, confused noises of surprise and elation and emotion passing your lips.
“Frankie,” you repeat, looking down at him on one knee for you, asking you to be his.
Just like last time. A little older; sure. A little greyer. But every bit as sincere.
Ludicrously, Frankie almost looks just as nervous as he did the first time, and it causes a sweet, musical laugh to escape you as you reach down to clasp his warm hands in yours.
“So… will you?” he asks, his soft brown eyes swimming with apprehension. “I chose who you were then, and I choose who you are now. Do you choose me, to be with you?”
You choose him. Of course you do.
You choose him everyday.
You know that this is a gesture. You know that this may have been spurred on by a desire to calm your insecurities. But Frankie doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Looking at him now, you know he means it just as much as he did ten years ago, and, here’s the kicker; maybe even more so. Maybe even more so because your love has only depeened since then. Because you have become more solid and more intertwined and know each other better. You are better able to promise. Better able to love, with all these new parts of yourselves uncovered.
“Fuck. Please say yes,” Frankie says, reaching up to scratch his mop of hair, and a small quiver in his voice - hovering somewhere between nerves and humour.
Your face splits into a grin of unadulterated happiness, adoration spilling out of you. “Yes, Frankie. Yes. I’ll marry you again.”
With a gasp of air, Frankie surges up to kiss you, sudden and tender, then his arms drawing you more deeply into his sturdy embrace.
“I love you,” he revs softly into your hair as he kisses your hairline. “You make me the happiest man alive.”
A fresh batch of tears -happy tears- wet your cheek. “I love you so much it hurts, Frankie.”
He pulls back from you then, a dull, concerned spark in his eyes, his firm hands planted on your shoulders so he can examine you. With the crook of his forefinger, he swipes away a stray tear, his eyes shining with intensity. You see Frankie select his words carefully, turning them over in his head before he settles on them. “It shouldn’t hurt to love me, baby.” A lump swells in your throat as his finger traces along your jaw - hooks under your chin. It shouldn’t. Frankie makes it so easy, but other things make it hard.
“Sometimes… sometimes it does,” you admit, the bitter pain of your insecurities flaring subtly in your eyes.
Frankie nods slowly in understanding, drawing you closer, and a tentative smile passes over his sweet face.
“I know, baby.” He does. He does know. He knows you, and he loves you. “I know I can’t take your pain away,” he admits, winding his hands around your waist, a gentle heat brewing in his eyes. “But… if it hurts… will you let me kiss it better?”
You beam at him, brimming over with love, and a longing to hold Frankie closer - skin-to-skin - spreads warmly through your middle.
How much longer can this last?
You hope it can last forever, and, as Frankie gently draws your lips to his, for once you let yourself believe it. As he adorns your whole body with his promises, kiss by kiss falling over your skin like jewels, it finally doesn’t hurt to love him.
It finally doesn’t hurt to be loved.
There is a different voice you take note of. A faint one, but one you hope to stoke.
One whispering:
This can last.
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shinysnek · 11 months ago
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MY GOD... I can’t believe that this funny dad podcast is over... it has brought me so much joy since my friend recommended it to me, and I’m so grateful to Anthony and the Players for creating such a wonderful stoy and characters! I’m so proud of the way they’ve grown, and so happy they managed to get out alright in the end!
Right? (extra under readmore below IDs
[id: two images of the four PCs from dungeons and daddies. from left to right: Glenn, Darryl, Henry, and Ron. The first image depicts the dads at the start of their journey, standing in front of the Honda Odyssey. Glenn is squinting, holding his hand above his eyes and staring into the distance. He’s amuscular man with tan skin, dark brown eyes, long dark hair, and facial hair on his chin. He’s wearing a black and red leather jacket. Darryl is confused looking at a map over his shades. He’s a large man with tan skin, and brown hair/beard. He’s wearing a beige tee and an orange ball cap. Henry is staring anxiously over Darryl’s shoulder at his map. He’s a blond, skinny man with pale skin, dark green eyes and patchy facial hair. He’s wearing glasses, a jean jacket, and green flannel. Ron is looking concernedly at his phone, scratching his thinning hair. He’s a short man with light brown hair/mustache, and pale blue eyes. He’s wearing a pale blue button up and a striped blue tie. The background is a strange landscape, pink bushes under a golden sky. The glowing outlines of three purple hands reach towards the dads
The second image has the dads in the same order, now smiling and hugging. Glenn’s reaching across Darryl to grab Henry’s hand. is now a christmas demon with six red horns, a wreath around his head, holly shaped wings, and a long tail. The arm reaching to Henry is buff, red, and scaly. He’s older, with a beard and longer silver-streaked hair. His right eye is red, and his left has a red sclera and a white four-pointed star pupil. Darryl has shaved his beard, having a 5 o’clock shadow and longer hair, silver around the temples. He has one arm around Glenn’s shoulder and one on Ron’s head. Henry is leaning against Darryl’s shoulder, looking up at him. His hair is longer and he’s grown out a beard. His elven heritage has turned his eyes bright green and his ears pointy. His hair has leaves and branches in it, with two rounded leaves looking like bear ears. Ron is holding onto Henry’s arm. His mustache is a little larger and he’s greyed around the temples. All the dads are covered in scars, dirt, and blood. They’re bruised and battered but nonetheless alive. A halo of purple light shines behind each of their heads. /end id]
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gone gone, baby it’s all gone...
[id. The four dads in the same order, only this time they’re drawn in sketchy white outlines on a dark background. They’re gathered around Henry, faces full of fear. Henry is clutching his mouth and the wound on his chest, staring with wide black eyes as dark blood drips through his fingers. Glenn, Darryl and Ron are all holding onto him, shocked and terrified. Tentacles surround them, their suckers replaced with eyes that stare at the dads. The world is filled with static. /end id]
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