thisneozonerecs - Tumblr blog

thisneozonerecs · 13 days

Text

“You want me to be yours?”

He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.

“Want to be mine, Francisco?”

His hand grasps your hip more intently. “More than anything.”

THEY ARE SO PERFECT ♥

9. breath of fresh air

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Baby, where are you?

I’m coming now just needed to get some plants.

If you’re the forest on wheels coming towards me line up somewhere else.

Wow, that's mean, Morales.

I am. But also, that’s a fuck load of plants.

It is and we’re going to have so much fun naming them.

Surrounded by unopened boxes, and paint tins that are due to be put on the wall, you both sit cross-legged on the floor of your soon-to-be office floor.

It's hard to stop it, the smile which spreads across your lips. The scent of fast food flows from your ripped-open bag and his neatly opened one, as you watch him turn his cap backwards and dig a hand into the paper bag as he pulls out a sauce pot.

Of course, he still finds a second to glare at the plant behind you.

“It’s up for debate, but french fries might be the way to my soul.”

Dipping his own into the sauce, he smirks. “What’s the other contender?”

You, you think.

It's there, threaded inside of you. Sewn in now. Stitched so deep into you that he’ll be remembered forever, no matter what.

Meeting his eyes mid-chew, the word you reverbing around your skull. Echoing. Practically marking itself against any surface space it can in there.

“Your mouth.”

Choking, his hand is quick to cover his mouth, eyes alarmed, quickly filling with tears as he continues to hack. Sliding his drink towards him, across the floor of the project that brought him here today.

“You can’t…” he begins, taking another mouthful, “Do that to me.”

Smirking, you grab another handful of fries. “From the gleam in your eyes, I say you like it.”

“I am not gleaming.”

“No? Damn, I’m disappointed.”

Rolling his eyes, he nudges you with his foot—your eyes glancing at the dinosaur-covered socks for the twelfth time since he’s been here.

“Luca has good taste in socks.”

“You’re telling me,” he replies, “I also have Batman ones, some cartoon ones and ones with flowers on.”

Smiling, you continue to chew. “Which ones are your favourite.”

Scrunching up the paper your food came in, you throw it into the bag. Watching him take a final bite of his own as you smirk.

“It’s the flower ones, isn’t it?”

“Definitely the flower ones.”

Laughing, tongue peeking between your teeth, you lean back on your hands, legs outstretched. “Saving them for a special occasion?”

Nodding, he takes another slurp of his drink, feeling his eyes drag up and down your legs. “Thought I could wear them for when I woo you later on this week.”

“Yeah? You want to model your socks for me, Morales.”

“Dinner and a show I heard is the perfect date night.”

Wiping his hands on his napkin, he stares at you—clean hand on your ankle, massaging it.

“You keep doing that, and we won’t be building furniture.”

Groaning, he sighs. All deep, layered with confliction—until he whispers it: after. It’s low, practically dragged through the gravel of his voice by the time it reaches your ear. Heat spreading through your stomach, not able to tear your eyes from him, just thankful that he does when he goes to stand.

A moment of reprieve, a chance to collect yourself.

That is, until he stretches out his hand, sliding yours into it as he pulls you up to stand. For a moment, just paused—staring at him, a tuft of curls poking through under the rim of his hat.

“I told you how handsome you are,” you say, arms sliding around his neck, leaning close—just enough, to press your mouth to his. “Cause you are.”

Biting the edge of his lip, he smirks. “I’ve got a utility knife in my pocket.”

“Oh?”

Brows lifting, grinning, Frankie pulls you closer. “You into that?”

“On you? Fuck yeah.”

Your lips glide over his, tasting the salt from his fries and the onion from his burger. Not caring, not as you hold him close, keeping him flush, deepening it until he clutches your jaw, walking you both back, kicking a box.

“Fuck.”

Almost laughing, you smirk. “We should…”

Tongue swiping over his lip, Frankie nods. Gaze unmoving even as you step back, bending to tidy the wrappers and bags as you glance back periodically.

“What?”

Shaking his head, he shrugs one shoulder, eyes widening as he smiles. “Nothing. Jus’… hurry back.”

It leaves your lips breathlessly, the word sure. It flows through the air to him, before you leave the room, before giddiness swallows and smothers you up. A grin not easily wiped by your knee connecting with the cabinet as you skid into the kitchen. Dousing your hands in cold water, hoping the temperature will touch your cheeks and cool them.

Thinking of him waiting near the checkout—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his worn

You do. Almost skidding in your kitchen when you throw the trash away, pausing at the sink to wash your hands, before you’re casually walking back. Doing so, just in time to see him slide that knife along the flat-pack furniture, unboxing the drawers—staring at them all crouched wearing a furrowed expression with an IKEA pencil behind his ear.

And you’re glad he doesn’t look up at the doorway, because it gives you a minute, to lean, head resting as your heart skips a step, feeling all large and full and full of happiness. A feeling, one surging up inside of you—full of lightness and truth—swirling around your breath and trying to form into words.

But, then he looks at you. Lifts his chin, the biggest brown eyes smoothing out to look at you—and you’re sure the words are going to rip out of your throat. Forced to greet the air, and burn themselves into it.

I really like you, Frankie.

I really, really do.

Each letter swallowed back, sight dropping to the knife he holds back—an act you’re apparently quite into from the way you feel the heat in your stomach, a little ripple of want starting to stir as you slowly edge your way into the room. Listening, hanging onto his words as he offers suggestions of how the two of you can do this.

It’s why it makes sense, at first, when he asks if you’d begin building the drawers while he begins the carcass. His toolbox he’d brought in with him opening, pulling various tools you’re not sure were listed on the instructions.

It continues to make sense until you realise you began constructing the drawer, incorrectly. A disappointed voice ebbing, beginning to nip. It breeds in doubt as you study the paper again, and again. Mouth opening and promptly shutting as you try to make heads or tails of what should be a very easy thing.

But that means confessing you’re about as hopeless at building as you are at the rest of the DIY project.

Peering at the instructions again, you try not to sigh. Try not to let a heavier exhale escape through your nostrils, and possibly showcase your growing anxiety-brewed annoyance.

Because you hope he’s not having you build drawers because it’s easier. Because he views you as this hopeless thing that can’t be taught. Even if, in some ways, that assumption would be correct. You just hope that it isn’t pity or any other negative connotation that has begun popping into your mind and bursting behind your eyes in sorrowful falling dark-hued confetti.

An increasing need to prove yourself rising, flooding you as though it wishes to drown you. Making it hard to swallow, never mind breathe—eyes glancing down as they begin to burn with worry, with annoyance and a lot of other emotions you’re struggling to handle—

“Hey,” he says, soothing—hand cupping your cheek as you're tilted up from diagrams to his eyes.

The ones that soothe, that calm—that feel like a safe place.

“Hi.”

Slowly smiling, he strokes your skin. A thing you’re not sure you’ll ever tire from. Not ever. Not as long as his eyes remain as kind and full of warmth.

“I was calling out for you.”

“I’m so—“

“Wondered,” he continues, interrupting, burying your apology before it meets land and plants itself, “If you wanted a go at helping me build this bit.”

Swallowing, both the emotions that remain fizzing and the worries, you smile. “You sure? I’m not… this isn’t something I’m good at.”

“That’s why I’m helping. To teach you, right?”

Nodding, you grin when his lips find your forehead, helping you up before grabbing something from his toolbox. If newer, shinier than the one you’d seen him using—a colour as close to the one you’d said was your favourite.

“Did you buy me a tool, Butterscotch?”

Scratching the back of his head, he tries not to blush. A thing you can tell from the way he averts his eyes, and pink creeps up his neck. “Yeah, it was nothing. Just thought it be easier for you to have your own.”

“My own… prodding device?”

Shaking his head, his eyes land on you. “It’s an electric screwdriver.”

“Of course it is, I was testing you.”

Snorting, he grabs a piece of wood, bringing it between the two of you. “I almost believe you.”

You think Harry would hire me even if I know absolutely nothing about hardware or tools?

To annoy me, most probably. You doing okay?

Not really.

They want more tweaks?

Yeah. I don’t mind making the changes, but wish they’d been more clear from the beginning. So I don’t feel like a failure.

You want me to call in half an hour? Can try and make you smile.

You make me smile effortlessly. But no, it’s okay. I’m going to enjoy a shower and have an early night. Sleep off my bad mood and rest my muscles from building all that furniture the other day.

You goof.

A goof who has your toolbox and her own electric tightener.

That will sound so wrong to anyone else.

Especially if I tell them it goes with my bedside power tools.

Are they what I think they are?

Maybe.

Fuck. Put thoughts in my head now.

Do I look hot?

Always. Will you message me in the morning?

Of course, baby. Try not to dream of me.

Impossible, baby.

Just got out of the movies, was able to eat half the popcorn tub before a jump scare made it mysteriously land on the floor.

Do butter-caked fingers have anything to do with it?

No. I believe the leading cause was a mean friend picking a movie that they knew would scare me. The jury is still out on whether I could have saved the popcorn if properly notified of the jump scares.

You both have fun though?

Yes, a lot. Even if I won’t sleep for a week. I’m excited to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you.

You’ve missed me?

Try not to grin too much, Morales.

Too late for that, Rainy. I've missed you too.

I've missed butter-SCOTCH fingers.

Can tell me how much later, if you want?

Do you want to phone sex with me, Morales? I think I'd rather make you wait till tomorrow when I see you.

Now who's mean.

It’s hard to avoid the smile on your face, even in the fogged-up mirror. Water dripping down your neck, collecting in the towel wrapped around your chest as Frankie presses his lips to your hairline.

“You feelin' clean, baby?”

“I don't think what we just did in your shower could constitute as cleaning, Butterscotch.”

Smirking, skin radiating heat, Frankie tips your chin up, mouth sliding back over yours like he had done when the two of you had stepped under the shower. The intention innocent, until hungry eyes raked over bare skin.

"Robe's on the back of my bedroom door, baby," he whispers, leaving you to finish drying in his bathroom.

As though it’s normal, routine.

Your toothbrush beside his—the products you’d packed in your overnight bag on the side of the counter.

It's a thing that makes your teeth bite down on your lip and your fingers retraced the path he drew against the suds on your skin. Thinking about how the water fell down along his jaw, ran down between your bodies as he hiked your leg up—

You jump when a clatter pulls you to the present. Heart fluttering, body resting against the side of the basin as your breath dances with the steam. Even if he's rooms away, you hear him singing.

It travelling, calling to you.

A soundtrack to you re-dressing as you hang the used towel on the hook, sliding some clean clothes on, before padding out to wrap the robe around you and grab his t-shirt from the bed.

With each step to the kitchen, you're aware of how your body smells of his body wash. A scent you wish your skin only ever smells like now, if it can’t be his aftershave. Just so you could have a piece of him, a thing to go with the texts, phone calls and video chats when the two of you find moments in between the busy.

There's no need for that tonight, not as he’s cooking for you.

Shoulder resting against the door, you find yourself not wanting to announce your arrival. Just take in his frame, how his back is to you, allowing you to watch how his muscles flex along his bare back as he grabs a knife from a drawer.

“You know, if you posted this kind of video on your Instagram, I think you'd beat that one where you're showing people how to paint wood."

Glancing over his shoulder, you hold the top up. His face shifts into gratitude as he drops what's in his hand and takes it from you. Simple, a very nothing thing that his face seems to show the opposite of.

He fidgets uncomfortably, the shyest smile trying to appear. “Shut up.”

“While you were very informative about preparing the wood before beginning in that video, I think I know how you got one hundred thousand views in a weekend.”

Smirking, he folds his arms. “Because you watched it on repeat while you missed me?”

“No,” you grin, watching him run his tongue over his teeth to stop himself from smirking. “You like to do a little thot-shot.”

“A what-what?”

Licking your lips, leaning against the wall, watching his fingers run up and down his bicep, arms still folded. “You wipe your face with the bottom of your t-shirt, Morales. Showing off your… physique.”

“Mierda.”

“You look very good. Had to watch it myself a few times, to be sure.”

His eyes dart away, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I mean it,” you add. “You look really good, Frankie.”

Stepping forward, you kiss his cheek. The heat from it warms your lips as you try to hide your grin. Instead, pulling out a stool from under his island and sliding onto it, elbow on the worktop, you rest your chin. Watching him turn, facing back to the ingredients and pans.

That's when you spot it. The loose curl that has fallen over his forehead as he leans forward. It just hanging there. Slowly beginning to sway as he resumes chopping and slicing.

“What're you making me?”

“Special asado tacos.”

It’s hard to suppress the whimper in the back of your throat as your stomach rumbles, his chin lifting—brow raising as you try to clear your throat.

“Sounds delicious… what makes them special? Is it the chef?”

Smirking, he shakes his head. “It’s a family recipe. So, I hope I don’t fuck it up.”

“I doubt you could, right? It’s in your bones.”

Shrugging, he stares down at some paper—his pinky flattening it, before he brushes the chopped peppers into a pan and grabs something else.

“I don’t make it often.”

“How many times have you?”

Pausing, he doesn’t look up. Just stops his knife over the skin of the vegetable.

“Frankie. Is this the first time you’ve made it?”

“No,” he answers. Quickly, red rising up his neck. “It’s just… the first time I’ve made it for someone.”

Licking your lips, you smile—fingers outstretching over his counter, it cool under your touch. “Oh, you like me, like me.”

Smirking, he continues to chop and dice, shooting glances at you. “Maybe.”

“I think you do.”

The precision he cuts with makes you almost forget your teasing—your own name, even. The quickness of it, the perfect way they’re all cut. It’s enough to make your thighs press, a new competency unlocked it seemed—as though you were both collecting and becoming aware of them all at once.

Distantly, you hear your name. Briefly aware as you flick your gaze up, of the concern etched there—the sudden silence damning.

“Hm?”

Grinning, shaking his head as he slides the chopped food away. “I said, what makes you say that?”

Sighing, all deep—almost soothing, you smile. “Well, you named all my new plants with you.”

“I did do that.”

Nodding, you roll your lips as he uses his little finger to trace down the recipe in front of him.

“And you didn’t judge me for the fact they all needed a name.”

Casting a glance your way, he both frowns and smiles simultaneously. “Baby… I’d… I’d never.”

“I know,” you say, encased in confidence, sitting up straighter, “Because you like me.”

Shrugging, he begins moving around, collecting ingredients—the back of his hand brushing over his forehead. “Maybe you’re on to something.”

Humming, you shift on your stool—watching. Finding it hard not to keep your eyes on him, not as he moves around confidently, capably, sprinkling things in and adding pinches of others.

It isn’t until he seems more content, that things are doing what they’re supposed to, do you slip from the stool. Moving towards him, sliding between him and the worktop as your fingers brush over his cheek—an act so similar to the shower, before his hand slid between your thighs and made you struggle to stand.

“I like you too,” you whisper.

His eyebrows raise at the suggestion, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Is that so?” he asks. “Well, guess if we both like one another, that means I am allowed to ask something…”

Sucking in air through your teeth, you scrunch your nose. “I don't know, do you think you're allowed?”

Pinching your side softly, he smiles. “I wanted to ask... what we are, what are we?”

Narrowing your eyes, you roll your lips, fingers continuing to twist his curls around your nails. “What do you want me to be?”

Shrugging, he smiles—eyes slowly crinkling, all slow in the way they eventually narrow, mouth parting, basking you in human-made sunshine.

“You want me to be yours?”

He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.

“Want to be mine, Francisco?”

His hand grasps your hip more intently. “More than anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Nodding, you tug him closer too, bodies flush, little space between the two of you. “All yours.”

His nose slides against your cheek, before his forehead rests on yours. His eyes almost blend into one large brown oasis—almost.

“Now I’m your girlfriend, do I get extra privileges?”

Frowning, he steps to the side, stirring the cooking food—one hand on your hip, as though not wanting you to move.

“You know, show me how to use your power tools?”

Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “You say mine like others are different.”

Smirking, looking at him with the most innocent eyes you can fake, taking his hand in yours. “They’re different from mine.” Frowning, he stares for a second, seemingly baffled. “Mine aren’t used to build things, rather… make legs shake and make me cry out your name.”

You hear his swallow, as well as see it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he lies, stirring again. “Jus... Y’just incredible.”

Picking up a piece of pepper, you smile—all wicked. “Oh, I know. And aren’t you lucky I’m yours?”

THEY'RE BACK, GOD I'VE MISSED THEM. next week, we enter a spicy chapter (muhaha) and a nice little announcement about them too.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

#goshhh I love themm they are goals #frankie morales #pedro pascal

287 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 14 days

Text

FINALLY!!! THEY ARE GETTING RESCUED!!!

I am so so happy for them, Jett!!!! But I am also skeptical you might trick us 👀

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 14

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: In the aftermath of the tsunami, Frankie and Jude are haunted by dreams, and struggle to determine what is real and what isn't. Very, very brief mentions of suicidal thoughts, and mentions of drug taking.

Song sung in the chapter is:

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 13

As Frankie slowly regains consciousness, he finds himself enveloped in a disorienting haze - a fog of confusion that clouds his mind and dulls his senses.

The sterile scent of antiseptic assaults his nostrils, and the rhythmic beeping fills the air; a cacophony of sound that seems to echo in his ears, its rhythm erratic and unsettling.

His head throbs with a relentless ache, every pulse sending a sharp stab of pain shooting through his skull. His mouth feels dry and parched, as if he hasn't had a sip of water in days, and a bitter taste lingers on his tongue - a reminder of the poison he’s willingly ingested.

Every movement is an effort, every breath a struggle against the weight of exhaustion that presses down upon him. His body feels heavy and sluggish, as if it’s weighed down by invisible chains, tethering him to the hospital bed with a cruel inevitability.

And then there’s the sensation of the IV line - a thin, plastic tube that snakes its way into his arm, delivering a steady stream of vital fluids and medication into his bloodstream. The sensation is strange and disconcerting, a constant reminder of his own frailty, his own mortality.

He can feel the cool touch of the saline solution as it courses through his veins, a lifeline tethering him to the world of the living, anchoring him to the present moment.

With a groan, Frankie attempts to sit up, only to be met with a wave of dizziness that sends him reeling back onto the hospital bed. Blinking against the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, he struggles to piece together the events that have led him to this place - a place of sterile white walls and solemn faces and plastic name tags who speak in foreign medical terms; a place that feels worlds away from the place he once called home.

And then, like a bolt of lightning striking through the fog of his memories, it all comes flooding back - the overpowering rush of euphoria, the reckless abandon of his actions, the acetous taste of regret that lingers on his swollen tongue.

He’d overdosed on the coke, lost in a haze of self-destructive impulses and desperate cravings, until the world had faded to black and he’d slipped into unconsciousness.

His eyes adjust to the dim light of the hospital room, and he surveys his surroundings with a growing sense of unease. The other bed beside him lays empty and untouched, the sheets neatly folded back as if waiting for someone who’ll never come.

The silence that fills the room is deafening, a hollow echo of the emptiness that gnaws at Frankie's insides.

Something doesn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be here.

For a moment, he lays there in stunned silence, grappling with the enormity of his solitude. His mind replaying the moments leading up to this candid awakening - moments filled with reckless abandon, self-destructive choices, and a blind refusal to acknowledge the consequences.

He’d driven them all away with his addiction, with his lies, with his inability to see beyond his own needs. And now, when he needed them the most, he found himself abandoned, left to face the consequences of his actions alone.

To wake up, alone.

Frankie feels the sting of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, a silent testament to the pain that grips his soul tightly in gnarled claws. He’s pushed everyone away, burned bridges with those who had once stood by his side, and now he’s paying the price for his folly.

As the reality of his situation sinks in, Frankie feels a cold knot of fear tighten in the pit of his stomach - a sinking realisation of the depths to which he’s fallen, the consequences of his actions laid bare before him in stark relief.

He’s come so close to losing everything - his life, his sanity, his chances at redemption - and yet, somehow, he’s been given a second chance as he feels that familiar shake in his fingers tingling.

The heavy silence of the hospital room is suddenly pierced by the sound of the door swinging open. His heart skips a beat as he turns his gaze towards the entrance, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

And there, standing in the doorway, is Benny - the steadfast friend who has never quite given up on him, even when Frankie's given up on himself.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Frankie's lips as Benny strides into the room, a personality as big as his boots, holding steaming coffee cups in his hands.

"Hey, Fish," Benny greets him, his voice warm and familiar. "Figured you could use some of this to chase away the cobwebs."

Frankie nods gratefully as Benny places a cup on the bedside table, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. He watches as Benny winks with a knowing smile.

And then, as if on cue, the door opens once more, and Frankie's heart skips another beat as Will and Carla enter the room.

There’s a moment of hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty in their eyes, before they approach Frankie's bedside with tentative smiles.

"Hey, buddy," Will greets, his voice tinged with concern. "How you holding up?"

Frankie meets Will's frosty gaze with a mixture of gratitude and relief.

"I'm... I'm okay," Frankie replies, his voice hoarse with emotion.

As Carla steps into view, her gaze immediately falls upon Frankie, but she can't bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead, she keeps her focus fixed on the floor, her hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, the tinkling of her bracelets like familiar music in his head.

Frankie can sense Carla's discomfort, the tension radiating off her in waves. He wants to reach out to her, to offer her some measure of comfort, but he hesitates, unsure of how to break through the barrier that seems to have sprung up between them.

It’s clear from the tightness in her expression that she’s anything but okay with him right now. She’s struggling - struggling to come to terms with everything that’s happened, struggling to face the reality of Frankie's addiction, struggling to find the words to express the turmoil raging inside her.

The anger. The love. The hatred. The helplessness.

Frankie watches as Carla takes a hesitant step closer to his bedside, her eyes still fixed on the floor. He can see the conflict etched in her features - the desire to reach out, to offer support, warring with the fear of saying the wrong thing, of making things worse somehow.

And yet, despite this comforting picture, something feels off. Something’s askew, not quite right. A weird sense of Déjà-vu almost. It’s like trying to grasp at smoke - elusive and ephemeral, slipping through his fingers just when he thinks he has it within his grasp.

The disquiet within him grows stronger, a nagging voice at the back of his mind urging him to question, to probe deeper into the recesses of his memory. Prickles on his skin making him shudder.

But try as he might, Frankie can't quite put his finger on what’s wrong - only that something is amiss with this scene.

“Frankie?” Benny asks. “You alright, man?”

Frankie swallows and looks up at his friend, and that’s when he sees it. See’s odd movement in the IV bag out the corner of his eye.

There are fishes in the bag, swimming around.

“W-what-” Frankie stammers.

His attention is pulled by the sudden screeching, and he turns his head to see a monkey sitting casually on Carla’s shoulder as she speaks with Will. A tiny monkey with big, yellow eyes staring back at him.

“What’s h-happening?” Frankie queries, feeling dizzy. Like he’s being tossed about on an unsteady bed that feels like it’s floating. “¿Qué está pasando?” (What’s happening?)

Water is trickling down the walls, steady tracks that grow in width and speed.

Frankie's voice echoes through the building furore, but his friends seem oblivious to the rising floodwaters around them. They continue to move about the room with casual nonchalance, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

That their feet aren't sloshing around circling waves of water flooding in from under the door and through the windows now.

“Fuck!” Frankie hollers as he scrambles out of the bed.

As the water continues to rise, inch by inch, Frankie feels a sense of desperation clawing at his chest. He knows he has to get out, has to escape before it’s too late and he drowns.

But as he struggles to find solid ground amidst the swirling currents, a sense of futility washes over him - a sinking feeling that he’s trapped, that there’s no way out. He looks down at the deflated lifejacket now around his torso, his fingers frantically pulling on the useless cords.

“No, no, no…”

The walls seem to blur and warp around him, and a strange sensation sweeps through his body, like the ground shifting beneath his feet. Panic surges through Frankie's veins as he looks around frantically, searching for some semblance of solidity in the shifting, swirling chaos.

The water rises steadily higher with each passing moment, until it reaches his knees, then his waist.

“Benny!" Frankie calls out, his voice swallowed up by the roar of the water. “Will! Carla!”

But his friends are nowhere to be found, lost amidst the churning currents that threaten to engulf him.

As the water rises higher and higher, panic gives way to a sense of resignation - a grim acceptance of his fate. He knows he’s dreaming, knows that none of this is real, but that knowledge offers little comfort in the face of the impending deluge.

He’s not waking up.

And then, just as Frankie feels himself on the brink of being swallowed whole by the raging waters, a voice cuts through - a voice that is familiar and comforting, like a beacon of light in the darkness.

A voice that he knows only too well rushing into his ears around the water as he sinks beneath the surface.

“FRANKIE!”

A tsunami can last anything from a few minutes to several hours.

The energy of a tsunami runs through the entire depth of the ocean. It only becomes deadly when the ocean floor becomes shallow enough, and all that energy compresses into a smaller amount of water.

The deeper the water, the faster the tsunami, travelling up to speeds of five hundred miles per hour, and taking mere minutes to reach land.

Once it reaches the land, the raw energy of thousands of tons of water destroys everyone and everything in its path in mere seconds. It’s a myth that you can outrun a tsunami of that magnitude - you simply can’t. It will engulf you before you even comprehend the thought in your mind of running.

The survival rates of a tsunami can vary depending on several factors such as the magnitude of the tsunami, the distance from the coastline, the elevation of the land, and individual preparedness and response. Generally, survival rates are quite low in areas directly impacted by a large and powerful tsunami, particularly if people are caught off guard and unable to evacuate to higher ground in time. And even if you can, your chances are still dubious.

You just gotta hope that luck is on your side.

Jude’s tumbling through the water, swallowing more of it as the deadly moments wear on; the lifejacket seemingly useless as she keeps being pulled under as she’s swept along with the ferocious current.

She surfaces momentarily to yell out for Frankie, before she’s dragged under again.

“Frankie!” She screams, more water pouring down her throat making her choke and gag.

She kicks her legs, her lungs on fire as she surfaces again, blinded by the inflation of the life jacket as she tumbles like she’s in a spin cycle in a washing machine.

She glances at her wrist as she surfaces again; part of the ripped shirt is still wrapped around it, but Frankie isn’t on the end of it anymore.

“FRANKIE! FRANKIE!!” She screams out in the water, the waves continuing to crush her head on a relentless repeat.

She splashes around frantically searching for any sign of him in the choppy current as it pulls her along.

“FRANKIE! WHERE ARE YOU?!” She cries out again, a choked sob overcoming her but refusing to admit defeat - he has to be here, he has to have survived this just like she’s doing.

They survive together, that’s the deal.

“FRANKIE!”

But then his lifejacket didn’t inflate. What if he’d been knocked out as his head had smashed into a rock under the water? What if he’s already dead?

“NO!” Jude cries out, swimming as hard as she can as the waves try to pull her under again.

“NO! NO! FRANKIE!” She screams again until her throat is raw. “FRANKIE! FRANKIE!”

With each passing moment, the waves seem to grow taller, more relentless in their assault, threatening to engulf her completely. She fights against the current with all her strength, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave with her bare hands.

As she struggles to stay afloat, her mind races with a thousand fears and uncertainties. What if he can't hear her over the deafening roar of the waves? What if he’s hurt, trapped somewhere beneath the surface? What if...

She can hear choking and yelling, and turns in the water to see Frankie swimming towards her.

He disappears under a wave as it rolls on top of him and she takes a deep breath as the wave crushes her head only seconds after. She resurfaces just as Frankie reaches her and she clings onto him as he splutters and chokes.

“Thank God! Fuck!” Jude exclaims, thrashing amidst the frothy chaos, her body battered by the relentless force of the sea.

Without hesitation, Frankie reaches out, his strong arms encircling her trembling form as they ride the waves together. For a fleeting moment, time seems to stand still as they cling to each other amidst the fury of the ocean.

The water crashes around them, the salty spray stinging their eyes and coating them with a thin film of mist.

“Hold on to me!” He makes a weird gurgling noise as he tries to speak and coughs. “Holy fuckin’ shit!” Frankie cries out in disbelief as he paws at her and her hands grab a tight hold of his t-shirt.

He looks like a drowned rat, his hair and beard covering him and sticking to his skin with the saturation. There’s no sign of his trusty, familiar cap.

Frankie coughs again as water splashes over his face as they ride the waves of the tsunami, desperately clinging onto one another as they tumble and swirl with the ocean’s aftershocks.

Jude grips so hard onto him that her hands will ache for days afterwards, but she’s determined not to let him go this time.

It’s hard to tell how exactly long they’re in the water for.

The sun has moved across the other side of the sky as they bob there on the waves as the remnants of the tsunami begins to fade out on the ocean.

Thankfully, the tsunami wasn’t all powerful or engulfing enough that it’d taken their lives, but it was still incredibly damaging.

Exhausted, Frankie rests his head against the front of Jude’s inflated lifejacket with his eyes closed. But he’s still holding tightly around her waist as they float in the water, aching all over from their battered bodies.

“Look, over there!” She says to him, rousing him, and he lifts his head when they spot the island in the distance.

“Can you swim that far?” Frankie asks her.

“Yeah. We did it before, we can do it again, right?”

He nods. “Take it slow. Don’t burn out.”

They swim together against the current slowly; their limbs searing and getting pushed back with the waves every now and again as they continue to surge.

It seems like they aren’t making much in the way of progress, stopping occasionally to catch their breath and check the other is okay to carry on, but the island seems to grow closer, until eventually they can stand on the ocean floor again and stagger up the shore to the sandbank.

They both collapse on the sand; Frankie falling onto his back gasping for air like he’s having an asthma attack. Jude falls onto her knees, battling to get the life jacket off and dry heaving as she coughs up copious amounts of sea water until she eventually pukes it all out.

“Are... you... okay?” Frankie gasps in between each word as he hears her upchuck relentlessly.

She looks up at the beach, front wiping her mouth when she’s done spitting out, and is dismayed at what she sees.

“Oh God...” Jude’s voice breaks.

In the aftermath of the tsunami, the once eerily quiet island lay battered and broken, a landscape transformed by the merciless force of nature.

Trees lay uprooted and strewn about like discarded matchsticks, their branches stripped bare and twisted into grotesque shapes by the ferocious waves. Debris littered the sandy shore, a grim testament to the havoc that had been wrought upon the island in a matter of moments.

A scene of utter devastation that seems to stretch out as far as the eye can see. The once pristine, rocky beach is now marred by the impacting detritus.

It’s gone - all of it. The shack, the fire pit, the solar stills, just... gone. Nothing but a sparsely flooded and barren landscape greeting them, and not much else.

Jude staggers up the soggy sandbank wandering aimlessly in shock and disbelief. Face blank and eyes wide in disbelief. Body trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline as it confuses her nerves.

Frankie calls after her, rolling over onto his front and taking in the overpowering sight of destruction presented before him.

“Fuck.”

He drags himself to his unsteady feet and follows behind her in a stunned silence as he casts his weary eyes about the place. Their movements are slow and unsteady, as if they're moving through a fog, each step weighed down by the crushing weight of the destruction around them.

Every sound - the crash of waves, the creak of splintered wood - amplified, assaulting their senses with a relentless barrage of stimuli.

Jude stops when she spots something near the cave mouth as they begin to pass it.

“Oh no,” she whimpers, and drops to her knees when she reaches it. “No, please no-”

She picks it up and cradles it to her chest, her hands trembling as she strokes his cold, sodden fur. Frankie approaches, and she looks up at him with silent tears streaming down her face.

“Egon...” Jude blubs through choked wails, as she holds the little, lifeless monkey inside of her arms; his once wide, yellow eyes closed forever in a drowned sleep.

Frankie drops to his knees beside her and despite his will, he can’t help but shed some tears for the little critter who, as Jude had said before, he actually loved more than he let on.

People of faith will often be heard saying ‘God is testing me,’ when things ultimately get tough in their lives.

Like a bearded man, wearing Birkenstocks, relaxing on a cloud and sipping from a G&T, is observing your plight and revelling in it, chuckling haughtily like watching an episode of a trashy talk show.

God is clearly a sadist after everything he’s put them through, and as she watches Frankie scooping the pile of sand back into the hole he’d dug with his shovel-like hands for Egon’s grave, Jude can’t help but feel a deep sense of harbouring resentment for her maker right now.

Frankie rubs his hands against the thigh of his damp shorts and looks up at her as she stares down at the sandy grave.

“Do you think we should say something?” He asked her, scratching at the back of his head and squinting.

“There isn’t anything left to say.” Jude mutters and strides off, sitting on the sandy shore and staring out at the ocean.

It’s calmed considerably; the oncoming dusk making the horizon glow pink in the distance.

Frankie plonks himself beside her after a few minutes of staring at the monkey’s resting place; returned to the earth in the cycle of life, a festering ouroboros of gut-wrenching despair swilling inside of him, alongside copious amounts of sea water.

Hugging his knees and holding onto his wrists as he looks out at the horizon too. He breathes out a deep weary sigh and sniffs in deep.

“I’m sorry,” Jude says to him after a few moments.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, hermosa,” Frankie turns to her.

“Yes I do. I’m sorry for berating you so much about having hope all those times. You were right not to. There is no hope for us. We’re going to die, just like Egon.” She speaks like a robot, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and it rattles his bones to see her talk like this, to see that she’s just done.

“Stop it,” he warns, pulling her towards him, but she resists, pulling her arms back away, but he grips onto them, grappling with her.

“No-”

“Hey, stop it!” Frankie yells, and pulls her in close as she wanes and falls against him without any more fight left in her.

“We’re going to die!” Jude wails into him and sobs as he holds her tight, almost like he’s a boa and is constricting the life out of her.

She writhes and her shoulders heave as she cries for what feels like eternity. Her sobs louder and more haunting and all Frankie can do is hold her in his arms and never let her go.

But his arms feel weak, no longer the strong barriers they once were to protect her anymore.

He doesn’t say anything to her; offers her no reassuring lies of comfort because there’s no point. She’s finally accepted it now like he had; they were going to die.

And it kills him all over again.

There’s nothing to pick through or scavenge.

It’s almost as if they’re just going through the motions to stay busy and not to actually drown themselves willingly in the water to end all the pain and suffering they’ve endured.

How much suffering can two people withstand before it finally breaks them? When is that breaking point, the crux of no return? When do you take that step and what is it that will finally give you that unwavering courage to turn your back and fall off the ledge?

Beaten, crushed... starving; on the brink of death and looking into its inviting, comforting jaws as it reaches out to you and convinces you in a soothing lullaby that everything will be okay, and you start to believe it for a while. That life on the other side will be better than this - anything will be better than this. The allure calls to you like a Siren song and it gets harder not to become bewitched by it and resist.

They don’t speak much, in fact at all. Jude simply watches Frankie get up from the sand where they’ve slept all night from their exhaustion, and observe as he starts hunting for things - anything that he can find and strike gold on.

Knowing it’s pointless, she stands up anyway, robotically copying his every move, searching for any stray bottles or clothes and not really understanding why she’s doing it. Searching for anything at all that can prolong their survival, even just for the tiniest bit.

But of course it’s fruitless - the tsunami has washed it all away.

Frankie reaches the tree line, surveying the damage of the wooded area that's halved in size, and he can no longer see the fuselage anymore that was previously stuffed into the bank on this side of the bay. There’s a singular piece of wood from the shack, split and broken as it floats in a muddy pool by some snapped tree trunks.

He glances up at the ridge and there’s no trace of the branch igloo and he sighs, deflated and beginning to hear that deathly Siren song tinkling inside his ears.

Jude wanders around aimlessly; frying under the heat and constantly pulling up her jeans that are falling down when she takes a few steps forward. Her legs have that dark shadow of hair growth and she hates the fact that she hasn’t been able to shave them for some time now.

She hates the fact that her stomach seems on a constant, never ending rumble. She hates that she can’t just lie down face first in the water and just go. She hates that she can’t do it because of him.

She hates that Frankie won’t simply let her die.

As she wanders along the shoreline, her eyes scanning the debris scattered by the waves, she spots a familiar sight - a baseball cap, swirling amidst the calming foam and froth of the ocean.

With a quickening of her heart, she wades into the shallows, the cool water lapping at her ankles as she reaches out to retrieve the cap, trembling with disbelief, she can't help but feel a surge of astonishment.

As her fingers close around the familiar fabric, fingers gliding over the sewn-on patch of the Standard Heating Oil logo, she chuckles out in disbelief. This simple piece of fabric, battered and worn by the elements, had made it back to him somehow. And she’s glad to see it - Frankie isn’t quite Frankie without his cap.

They meet back on the beach a little while later and slump themselves in the sand defeated with heavy thuds, hungry and tired and irritable beyond all reason. That kind of heaviness that swamps your head and crushes it until your brain splurges out of your ears.

Jude hands him the cap and he’s just as astonished, if not relieved to see it, as she is. But she doesn’t say anything to Frankie as she watches him put it back on his head under a scraggly mess of overgrown curls. And Frankie doesn’t say anything to Jude after offering her a limp smile.

She lays back and rolls over on the sand, facing away from him; willing the sand and rocks to turn into quicksand and just swallow her into the suffocating dark.

They stand on the ridge, the sun on high and the breeze blowing through her braid.

He’s always so fascinated with those stray wisps of hair that will escape it, no matter how tightly he ties it for her. They’ll flock to her face and cling to her cheek, pelting her with never-ending kisses affectionately.

Frankie’s sitting amongst the half constructed branch igloo; sticks scattered all around him that he’s whittling with the switchblade, and Jude’s looking over the ledge of the ridge and humming a faint tune that’s barely audible, wandering back and forth as she stretches her legs.

His hands are tight and raw, blister with the effort exhumed, but he continues on with the job nonetheless, numbing out to the aches and splinters. As Frankie stretches, cracking his back, he hears her hum out again.

“Sing it for me.” Frankie prompts her, and Jude turns to catch his smirk with glowy cheeks. “Go on, hermosa.”

Jude takes a breath with a grin and sings.

“In the end. As my soul's laid to rest, what is left of my body? Or am I just a shell?”

She starts moving her head, swaying it side to side as her shoulders begin to follow. She can hear the music inside her head as though they have her playlist right here blasting out on the rocks beside them; the beat of the drums counting her in and the strum of the guitars plucking through the riffs and melodies.

Frankie stops whittling, resting the stick in his lap squinting up at her with a smirk stretching his pink, dry lips.

“And I have fought. And with flesh and blood, I commanded an army. Through it all, I have given my heart for a moment of glory...”

He laughs as she rocks her hips with vigour and then punches her fist up in the air.

“In the end. As you fade into the night-”

“Woah-oh-oh-oh!” Frankie yells out singing along to the tune.

“Oh fuck, you know it?” Jude exclaims, smiling in happy delight at him.

Frankie nods. “Keep singing,” he encourages.

“Who will tell the story of your life? And who will remember your last goodbye?”

“Woah-oh-oh-ohhhh!” Frankie hollers again as he stands up, taking her hand and twirling her around whilst she laughs again, her eyes crinkling and throwing her head back.

“Cause it's the end and I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid to die.” Jude sings.

“CAUSE IT’S THE END, AND I’M NOT AFRAID - I’M NOT AFRAID TO DIE!”

They both fist punch the air over the ledge as they sing the final words out loud together, echoing all down the ridge across the island.

It’s a memory that splinters him. That was the happiest he’d seen her since they’d landed upon this dreadful island. Carefree and joyous, a wild jackal roaming unrestrained and free.

It was in that moment right there, as they’d both looked at one another with their fists in the air and turned them into the finger; giving the middle finger to the island that had bullied them for so long, through breathy smiles and wondrous awe, that Frankie realised he loved her. He fucking loved her.

I fuckin’ love you!

He’d suspected it for a while leading up to it, those sickly butterflies whenever she was near becoming more apparent. The thrumming of his heartbeat when she touched and kissed him; those early premonitions when you just know and feel giddiness from the high of meeting someone who’s so in tune to your frequency.

But that was the moment right there when it registered deep inside of the layers of his heart and winded him. Terrified, elated; utterly sound in the knowledge of the sincere truth as it flowed through his blood and over his bones.

Convinced he wouldn’t possibly feel this way again about someone, fearful that it could turn into that awful situation again where he could be selfish and push her away. But Frankie was so desperate to learn from his past mistakes, to not repeat them and be better - be better for her.

That’s love, right? Wanting to be the best you can be for someone?

Frankie-

I fuckin’ love you!

No. No-no-no!

BRAAACE!

I fuckin’ love you!

Frankie glances over at Jude lying in the sand away from him, her back to him and slipping further and further out of his reach.

‘Cause it’s the end and I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid to die!

Frankie turns towards the sea, and after he’s had enough of that horrific view staring back at him, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears from slipping out of them again.

The droning noise wakes her, along with the muffled sounds of shouting. Like her head is under the water and hearing it pummel her eardrums as someone is yelling above the surface.

She sits up in the sand squinting and can see Frankie at the shoreline, waving frantically. Her eyes soon look past him to the small speedboat hurtling towards the shore.

Jude flies up on her legs, any sense of sleep rolling right off of her as she watches Frankie’s animated face astonished, and looking back at her, as his hands continue to signal to the boat.

The little boat with the inexorable humming noise like a swarm of hornets approaches the shore closer. Out in the distance she can see a larger boat, a little like a liner. Its grey shadow is stark on the blue horizon - a cancerous smear on a perfectly undisturbed cobalt backdrop.

It’s all lies... wake up, you’re dreaming.

Frankie begins to swim out towards the boat and Jude pads towards the shore in complete disbelief, her heartbeat kicking it up a gear as Frankie gets closer and closer to it.

The boat skids to a halt on the surface and she watches as the person inside heaves Frankie into the boat with his arm, and Frankie points back towards the shore with flailing fingers.

Wake up! It’s a dream!

Panic overcomes her, Jude can see Frankie waving to her, and she freezes, watching as the boat turns in the waves and holds her breath.

No, come back!

Circling, the boat speeds towards the shore again and the spray hits her in the face as she wanders out to it, her feet sloshing through the water, stunned and hyperventilating a little.

Oh God! Wake up! Please, wake up!

Frankie hops out of the boat alongside the person, who turns out to be two separate people, in blue and white lifejackets. Frankie reaches out to Jude, saying words that she can’t hear or understand, almost as if he’s jabbering away in excited, fast Spanish and she can’t decipher or recognise any of the sounds as they flow from his labrose lips.

She feels him pulling her into the boat and a foiled blanket is wrapped over her shoulders, a bottle of water placed into her numb hands.

“Wake up…” Jude mutters from trembling lips. "Wake up, wake up..."

More incomprehensible gibberish is exchanged between Frankie and the men, and she glances over her shoulder at the sight of the island suddenly shrinking away forever in the distance, reaching a gnarly hand out to her that can’t quite keep up.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me.

It’s like an out of body experience; she’s floating and watching it happen. She pinches her arm and feels the pain ebb into her skin.

Wake up!

Frankie turns her chin towards him and presses his forehead against hers, breathing out as he pulls the blanket over her wet shoulders further.

“We made it, hermosa.”

She remembers hearing him say it to her, but the words don’t sink in; slowly being squeezed one at a time into her ear canal making the slow journey towards her brain that’s a messy pan of sloppy scrambled eggs.

“You guys, alright?” Comes a loud voice over the sound of the engine. “You get stranded after the tsunami, your boat capsize?”

Frankie and Jude look up simultaneously at the speaker holding onto the side of the boat whilst the other one steers it.

Frankie shakes his head. “No, we’ve been out here f-for over a year.” He speaks up through a deep hoarse voice that’s scarred from the sea water he’s swallowed in his desperate swim towards the speedboat.

“What do you mean out here?” The man asks.

“Our plane crashed, and we-”

“Fuck, you guys were on flight eight-sixteen?” The man questions taking off his sunglasses; the concern and astonishment palpable on his face. He has frosty blue eyes that instantly remind Frankie of Will’s.

“Y-you know about that?” Frankie asks with a widening mouth.

The man nods. “Sure, the whole damn world knows about it. They didn’t find any survivors. Looked everywhere.”

“You didn’t look hard enough!” Jude suddenly shouts at him over the sound of the engine, her voice tight from being throat punched back into reality.

This isn’t a dream. She doesn’t need to wake up. She can feel the vibrations of the boat on the waves as it bounces over them. She can see the island shrinking, feel the wind in her hair.

Frankie clutches onto her as the man dips his head in sympathy, unable to meet her stunned gaze.

“We were always here...” She trails off, looking back out at the island in wonderment.

Come back, Jude. Don't leave me. Come back.

“You guys are gonna be alright. You’re safe and we’ll get you home.” The man confirms putting his sunglasses back on. He reaches for the boat’s radio and speaks into the receiver, his voice swallowed up by the humming of the boat.

Jude clings onto Frankie and looks up at him, with eyes as watery as the ocean.

“Is this really happening?” She asks him, searching his eyes for the moment she’ll wake up from this terrible, reoccurring dream she’s doomed to live through on repeat forever.

We’re never going to get off this island. It can't be this easy.

Frankie nods with a bewildered smile through his bushy whiskers, the wind from the speed of the boat rippling through the curls behind his ears as he holds onto the cap, a giant palm flat on his head.

Jude clutches onto his wet t-shirt and rests her head against his chest hearing his heart beating as loud and as fast as hers is, even over the sound of the speedboat.

The larger ship in the distance is a US Navy vessel; called out in the wake of the tsunami to look for survivors, and to scout the ocean for capsized boats or people who had gotten into deep water.

Once on the ship’s main dock, a plethora of uniformed personnel busy themselves as Frankie and Jude are ushered towards the main control room.

She clocks a helicopter on the landing pad and shudders, recalling the countless times her mind had convinced her in her sleep that Frankie was leaving her on one, shrinking in the sky.

The captain of the ship greets them both with a caramel tan stark against a crisp white shirt, regarding them with some kind of disbelief when the rescue officers explain they originate from the doomed flight that had disappeared well over a year ago.

“Are you American?” The captain asks them both and Frankie nods.

“We’ll call the consulate. Get you some representation to help you back home.”

“Where are we, captain?” Frankie asks, and he looks back at him with a bemused expression.

“The SS Pendrinhas; US Navy.”

“No, I mean, where are we in the ocean? The island?” Frankie clarifies.

“You’re approximately one thousand and forty-three miles off the coast of The Prince Edward Islands. We’re in the Indian Ocean, sir.” The captain explains.

“We are?” Frankie asks him, turning white as a ghost.

“Yes,” the captain nods. “The island you were on is one of many scattered islands that are vastly unpopulated, surrounding the main Prince Edward Islands. You couldn’t see other peninsula points?”

Frankie shakes his head. “There was a-a ridge, but we couldn’t see any other land from that.”

“Damn. So near, yet so far,” the captain concludes with a frown, but it doesn’t offer any comfort at all. “We’ll take you down to the med bay, get you some dry clothes. It’ll be a couple hours before we reach the mainland. You look like you could do with a coffee.” The captain claps Frankie on the side of the shoulder and he winces. “Maybe something a bit stronger, huh?”

They’re both escorted down into the ship’s hull towards the med bay, passing officers stop to glance at their dishevelled appearance occasionally like they’re a rare exhibit in a museum.

Once inside the bay, another officer gathers some papers on a clipboard and proceeds to run through a list of questions, firing them off like ammo.

“Can you... Can you leave us for a few minutes?” Frankie says to the officer, noting the painfully vacant expression on Jude’s face. A thousand yard stare he recognises only too well.

The officer nods, looking somewhat relieved. “Sure. Take as long as you need.”

“What day is it?” Jude asks the officer, who stops and looks at her with a strained smile.

“It’s the nineteenth of July, ma’am.”

“And the time?” Frankie follows up.

The officer pulls back his sleeve and checks his watch. “Twenty-seven past six in the evening, sir.”

Once the grunt leaves, Frankie approaches Jude and puts his hands on her shoulders.

“Look at me,” Frankie persuades “I’m right here, find my eyes…” and her eyes slowly find him. “We made it, we’re off the island. We’re alive, hermosa.”

It takes a few moments, a couple of beats for the words to really sink in. We made it, we’re alive.

We’re alive.

Jude slumps forward into his arms, like she’s lost all her air and she sobs in abject relief. She feels him emit a small chuckle as he breathes out at his own realisation; his hands massaging her back up and down in deep circles soothing her, but they’re shaking.

“We really got off the island?” She asks him, absolutely astonished and wiping at her eyes that are so dry and sore.

Frankie pulls back looking down at her with a relieved smile; he smooths away the tear tracks from her face with his thumbs and kisses her gently on the forehead.

“We did. I love you,” he whispers to her.

Jude looks into his intense brown eyes, and remembers him shouting at her that he loved her right before the tsunami swallowed them up. She realises she hasn’t said it back.

But the look in his eyes right now assure her that saying the words out loud doesn't matter - he knows that she loves him back unconditionally.

When you spend that amount of time with someone - in that kind of situation - fighting for your life on a continuous basis, not only do you learn about your own resilience, but that of the person with you. You begin to depend on one another, work as a team; look out for each other’s well being, because understandably, if you can prolong their survival, you undoubtedly prolong your own.

But not only that, you become company for that other person, a means of distraction and escape from your plight, even if it’s just temporary. Lost in the sounds of her melodic laugh, or the way in which his muddy eyes regard you as you speak.

You begin to care for that person, worry for them and soon enough, you become attached in so many ways. An intense bond that no-one else can ever understand, and it can never be severed, even if you were to part ways - forever bonded in your strife and survival.

And eventually, you grow to love them; to depend on them to the point that you can’t function through a single moment without them, and it kills you to be apart from them for even the briefest of moments. You fall in love with them.

Jude pushes her forehead against his, breathing out, and Frankie feels her breath warm his face and insides in equal measure.

“I love you so, so much, Frankie.” Jude hiccups, holding onto him tightly. “Te quiero, te quiero.”

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: I'm no longer adding tags due to some of them not working correctly. Please ensure you're following me and turn on notifications so you don't miss a chapter instead. If you'd like to be removed from the tag list, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

@suzdin @missladym1981 @millennial-teenybopper @legendary-pink-dot @msjarvis @tightjeansjavi @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin @chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog @myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs @fckyeapedrothots99 @goodwithcheese @anavatazes @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @76bookworm76

#Frankie morales #pedro pascal

203 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 16 days

Text

Homage - A Javi Gutierrez x Blind F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: A collision in a coffee shop with an enigmatic man sparks an exhilarating romantic encounter.

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x Blind F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, Reader does have hair. Reader is completely blind. Reader speaks & understands Spanish.)

Word Count: 6.7k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral F receiving/fingering/lots of kisses/Reader is completely blind and uses a cane and guide dog/I've tried to write this story without describing Javi's expressions etc... because Reader would not see them, but there is a little bit of Javi POV/Javi falls hard for you/lots of slushy, soft romance/mentions of Nicholas Cage

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

In the bustling coffee shop, the air is filled with familiar, enticing aromas that dance on your senses.

The rich, earthy scent of freshly ground coffee beans mingle with the sweet scents of caramelised sugar, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere around you.

Notes of toasted bread and buttery croissants waft from the bakery counter, tempting patrons with their comforting fragrance. Amidst the sweet haze, hints of cinnamon and nutmeg linger, adding a touch of spice to the air.

You can hear the air humming with a melodic symphony of sounds, creating a vibrant backdrop for conversation and camaraderie that surrounds you. The rhythmic whirring of coffee machines echo throughout the space, accompanied by the gentle chinking of cups and saucers as baristas expertly craft each beverage with care.

Amidst the chatter of patrons and the occasional burst of laughter, the soothing melodies of soft music plays in the background, adding to the ambiance.

It’s a song you know and you hum along to it as you patiently wait your turn.

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the coffee shop, the sounds of steaming milk and frothing foam mingling with the hiss of espresso machines, envelops you in a comforting and familiar embrace. It’s a weekly treat coming here after a busy week of work.

You feel Nicolas’ tail pad against your leg and you reach to pat his head, scritching behind his ear that you know he loves.

“Almost there, Nicolas.” You reassure your canine friend, who is also your trusty pair of eyes.

You clutch onto your cane and wait patiently in the line pondering in your mind what takes your fancy today.

Nicolas guides you through the bustling queue of the quaint coffee shop until you’re at the front and place your order with Juan, who greets you personally and asks how you are. You always like the sound of his voice, he always sounds so peppy.

As you patiently wait for your coffee to be made, recognizing the familiar voices and chatter of the other baristas, a sudden collision startles you.

"Dios, mio! I am so sorry!" (Oh God!) A male voice exclaims, laden thick with embarrassment.

You chuckle softly, your fingers searching for your cane that's no longer in your grip, but the band around your wrist guides you to it dangling within reach.

“No harm done,” you say with a warm smile. Collisions happen on the regular in your world.

But the man continues to ramble. “I am so blind, I should look where I am going. ¡Ay no, mi camisa. Está arruinada. Probablemente el café no salga con el lavado, and... Oh, shit.’ (Oh no, my shirt. It is ruined. The coffee probably won’t wash out.)

The man's tone shifts, realising his mistake. "Oh. I didn't mean to... I-I didn't realise you can’t… Oh, and now I feel terrible for making such a ridiculous comment about my ridiculous shirt."

“I'm sure your shirt is okay.”

“No, it really is ridiculous, even without the coffee stain.” He chuckles. “Are you okay, you didn't get splashed with hot coffee, did you?”

You smile into the direction of his worrisome sing-song voice. “No, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I…” You hear him sigh “if you could see what I look like now, it would make you really laugh.”

You smile, your curiosity piqued by the nervous energy radiating from him. "Well, you certainly sound cute when you're flustered."

You hear him fumbling for words. "Thank you... I-I... oh, wow."

“Let me buy you a new coffee.” You offer.

“Oh no, let me buy you one. I bumped into you, it is the least I can do for my clumsiness. Please, I insist.”

You accept graciously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”

“Not at all. What would you like?”

The man orders your coffee with Juan, and his again, and introduces himself whilst you both wait.

“I am Javi.” His Spanish accent colours his words.

You reach out for his hand and it’s soon filled with a soft, emanating warmth. His hand feels big and his grip gentle. You tell him your name in return amd he sighs enthusiastically.

“And who is this handsome fellow?”

“This is Nicolas.” You say, stoking behind the canine’s ear.

"Oh, I love your dog's name! Did you name him after Nicholas Cage?"

“No.”

“Oh, I love Mr Cage. I am a big fan.”

“Me too.”

Javi chuckles nervously, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment, not that you can see it, but you can sense it in his smile and the way he titters nervously. You've conjured up an image in your mind of him wringing his hands eccentrically, and it makes you smile.

“Uh, would you like to sit and drink your coffee with me?” He asks.

Your face lights up with a smile as you nod in agreement. "That sounds lovely, Javi," your voice tinged with excitement. “Lead the way.”

“Would you like to take my arm? My hands are full of coffee cups.”

“I can follow your voice if the route is clear, and Nicolas can do the rest.” You explain with a smile.

“Okay, great… Shit,” you hear him mutter followed by the sound of something scraping against the floor.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. I just… Uh, the chair. I did not see it. I promise I'm usually more coordinated," he replies sheepishly.

Your laughter rings out melodiously. "Oh, I'm sure you are. It's just my luck to encounter the exception," you tease, following the gentle pull from Nicolas carefully.

Javi grins, relieved by your lighthearted demeanour. "Consider it a unique skill of mine, I was hit by a car once." He quips, his accent adding charm to his words.

“Gosh, that sounds awful!”

“I was fine. We are here, right in front of you. Can I help?”

"I got it." You reach out for the table edge as your fingers glide across it and you slide into the chair. "You're quite the character, Javi," you remark, taking a sip of your coffee.

Javi chuckles nervously. "I guess I am. But you know what they say, it takes one to know one," he replies with a mischievous sound in his tone.

You raise an eyebrow, feigning offence. "Are you insinuating that I'm clumsy too?" You tease, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

“Of course not! You're the epitome of grace and elegance," he replies with exaggerated sincerity, earning another giggle from you.

“Well, you're wrong, I fall over a lot, mostly over this.” You say, tapping your cane against the table. “Nicolas keeps me upright most of the time.”

“Then he is doing a very good job.”

As you drink your coffee, Javi can't contain his excitement as he begins to recount his favourite Nicholas Cage films.

"You know, Nicholas Cage is a cinematic legend. Have you ever watched Con Air?" Javi asks eagerly.

You smile, shaking your head. "I haven't. Tell me about it."

Javi rambles with enthusiasm as he dives into an animated description of the action-packed film.

"It's a rollercoaster of adrenaline! Picture Nicholas Cage as Cameron Poe, a former Army Ranger who finds himself on a prison transport plane filled with the worst criminals imaginable."

You listen intently, captivated by Javi’s passion for the movie. "Wow, that sounds intense."

Javi murmurs in agreement around a slurpy sip of his coffee enthusiastically.

"Absolutely! He can seamlessly transition from action-packed roles to more nuanced characters. Take Leaving Las Vegas, for example. It's a poignant drama where he plays a suicidal alcoholic. His performance is truly mesmerising."

“Have you ever met him? You sound like quite the fan.”

“Yes. He came to my birthday party last year. I turned forty.”

“Really? That’s amazing!”

"Yes, it was. We had a good time together. I just realised... I've been talking about these movies as if you've seen them, but..." Javi's voice trails off, his worry palpable. He hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. "I... I didn't consider that you might not be able to see the films," he admits, sheepishly. "I'm sorry if I made assumptions."

You smile warmly, reaching out to gently squeeze Javi's hand and find his wrist instead.

"It's okay, Javi. I appreciate your honesty. I may not be able to watch them in the traditional sense, but I can still listen to them. Audio descriptions allow me to enjoy the stories, just like everyone else. And, I absolutely love movies."

Javi’s sighs with relief, his worry dissipating as he breathes out. "That's fantastic! I'm so glad to hear that," he exclaims, his enthusiasm returning.

"Yes, it's pretty cool how technology has made entertainment more accessible for people like me. So, feel free to keep sharing your favourite movies with me, okay?"

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“How am I blind?” You pre-empt.

“Yes. But only if you are comfortable in telling me.”

“I had Meningitis when I was a child. It attacked my optic nerves and I lost my sight.” You simply say.

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it could’ve been much worse. I’ve adapted and I have a really good life. Nicolas gives me a lot of independence.”

“Were you very young?” Javi asks.

“Yes, I could see and I remember things. I remember what my parents looked like, and the sun. I loved watching the sun set. I think that is what I miss the most.”

There is a reflective pause between you before Javi speaks again.

“I think you are very brave, and very beautiful. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be very forward.”

“It’s okay, I quite like it.” You smile, as you drink more of your coffee.

Your conversation about movies continues, and Javi offers a pastry and more coffee, to which you accept as you spend a couple of hours together in the coffee shop talking and laughing.

Summoning his courage, he asks you a question with a hopeful tone.

"Would you like to watch a movie... with me?" Javi asks, his voice tinged with excitement.

Your face lights up with surprise and delight. "Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes, I mean… shit. Yes, if you would like to, perhaps this evening? You might have plans and that is okay, but I am enjoying talking to you and would like to get to know you some more.”

“That sounds wonderful, Javi," you reply, your smile growing wider.

Javi beams in response through a giddy chuckle, relieved by your positive response.

"Great! We can choose a movie that has audio descriptions,” he suggests eagerly. “I have a home cinema, if you feel comfortable coming back to my place?”

“I do. Besides, Nicolas would tell me if you had bad vibes.”

“Animals always know.” Javi agrees. “I like him.”

You nod enthusiastically. "Nicolas loves movie nights just as much as I do," you say, patting your guide dog affectionately.

“I have a few errands to run in town first, but if you like, I could pick you up later?”

“I’d like that.” You nod.

He explains he has a villa on the coast, which is a short drive from town, and you're familiar with most of the landscape except the coastline, so you're touched when he tells you to put his address in your phone and text someone you know for reassurance.

He also gives you his number and is fascinated when he sees you navigating your phone with confidence using a talkback app.

“This is marvellous!” He says as you explain how it works as the little computerised voice talks back to you. “Can I drive you home?” Javi offers after you both finish up your coffee.

“No, that’s okay, I have errands to run too,” you smile.

Javi holds the door open for you and Nicolas, and outside the fresh air and warmth of the summer feels good on your skin.

“Well, I shall see you later this evening, mi sol.” (My sun)

Smiling, you feel him squeeze your hand affectionately. “I look forward to it, Javi.”

“See you, Nicolas.” He says, and you hear him walk away, leaving you with the biggest smile chiselled on your face.

Using your fingertips, you dab on a slick of lip balm, and spritz a final spray of your favourite perfume, inhaling the delicate notes with a smile, when Nicolas barks softly as a car pulls up.

Opening the door, you can hear Javi greet you on the other side.

“Oh, wow…” He says. “It is possible you look even more beautiful than when I saw you earlier today. You are glowing, just like the sun...”

“Thank you, Javi.” You say, feeling your cheeks warm.

You fetch your purse and step out with Nicolas in tow, with your cane looped around your wrist.

“Would you like to take my arm? My car is parked a little way down the road.” Javi offers, and you smile linking around him, Nicolas padding along on the other side, and your cane out in front.

You hear him greet passers by in Spanish, in between talking with you, and it warms you that he’s not averse to being seen with you as he pats your hand with his around his muscular arm, and makes a note to warn you when an uneven payment or dip is approaching.

And you can only smile at his rapt attention to you and your surroundings.

Most strangers you encounter are indifferent or ignorant to the limitations of your world, more often than not getting annoyed at you when they’re the ones who bump into you to begin with. But Javi seemingly embraces the challenge naturally, adapting effortlessly as you walk along and talk animatedly with him, his laughter infectious.

As you walk throughout the world, you rely on your other senses to guide you, and Nicolas or GPS apps on your phone always help. The sounds of traffic and the chatter of pedestrians provide valuable cues about your surroundings, helping you to navigate the busy thoroughfare with confidence.

With each step, your cane will sweep the ground in front of you, detecting obstacles and uneven surfaces. Remembering routes, using auditory cues that took years to move around the town confidently by yourself.

But when you can take someone’s arm, like Javi’s, that load is shared and you can relax a little more into the trust that he’ll lead the way for you safely, without letting you trip and tumble or get lost.

The car journey is pleasant; he has a convertible and you can feel the warm wind in your hair, and smell the salt from the coast. You both listen to gentle jazz music as he drives and describes the sights to you.

Inside the villa, he tells you where most things are situated, and you explain to him that it will take time for you to remember a new space. He tells you to let him know if you need the bathroom or anything at all, and he can happily show you the way.

He leaves you on a comfy, velvety feeling sofa that you sink into, as he fetches a bottle of wine and some glasses. Placing it in your hand, you sip from the cool crispness of the dry Vermentino, as he explains his home movie collection to you.

After deciding on Con Air - purely from Javi’s energetic description of it in the coffee shop - you feel him settle in beside you, a dip in the cushions, as his shoulder brushes against yours.

You can’t see it, but Javi can't shake off the nervous excitement coursing through him, but you can certainly sense some of that energy as it bleeds into your skin.

With a gentle nudge, he casually drapes his arm around your shoulders, trying to appear cool and composed despite the butterflies in his stomach.

You hear the clicking of his mouth as he smiles when you lean into the comforting warmth of his touch, a contented smile playing on your lips too as the movie begins to play.

You can sense Javi's nerves, but his presence feels reassuring and comforting.

And he smells really good, like fresh mandarin, vetiver and a faint blend of coffee beans. Each inhale of his scent at this close proximity makes your mouth water.

As the movie plays on, Javi's attempt to be cool is palpable, but his nerves are betraying him. You can't help but notice his subtle fidgeting against you and the way his breath catches every now and then.

With a playful smirk, you whisper teasingly, "nervous, Javi?"

Javi’s stutters, caught off guard by your observation. "Me? Nervous? No way," he replies, attempting to maintain his composure.

Javi tries to focus on the movie, but his mind keeps drifting back to the warmth of your presence beside him. As he steals a glance at you, he catches you smiling softly, lost in the magic of the film's audio descriptions as you listen intently.

“Is this okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. It’s perfect.” You say, listening to the audio and the sounds of explosions and gunfire from the screen.

A little while later into the movie and summoning his courage, Javi leans in a little closer, his heart pounding in his chest. "I hope you're enjoying the movie, mi sol," he whispers, his voice barely above a murmur.

“I am. I can hear that you are.” You say. “I can hear you smiling. I’d love to see it.”

“Shall I tell you what I look like?”

“Actually, I have a way of seeing what you look like.”

“How?”

“May I?” You ask, raising your hands and turning to him.

Javi's heart skips a beat at your request, but he agrees, his own curiosity piqued. “Yes, of course.”

“Can you guide my hands to your face? I don't want to poke you in the eye,” you giggle.

Chuckling, he takes them and places your palms onto his cheeks and they feel soft and prickly at the same time.

“You have facial hair,” you smile in wonderment.

“Yes. It is short, how I like it. Too much and I look like a crazy scientist.”

Your fingertips begin to trace the contours of Javi's face, delicately mapping the features you can't physically see. You feel the warmth of his skin, the curve of his cheekbones, and the soft, silken stubble of his jawline beneath your touch.

With each gentle caress, you paint a mental portrait of the man before you, capturing the essence of his presence in your mind's eye. And he's a sight to behold.

Javi holds his breath, feeling a rush of vulnerability and intimacy as you tenderly explore his face. He allows you to touch and feel without reservation.

He watches you as you concentrate and smile, your eyes pulled just over his shoulder as you explore.

As your fingers trace the contours of Javi’s face, you start to comment on what else you can feel.

"You have a strong jawline," you observe softly. "And your cheeks... they feel warm, like you're smiling."

Javi’s breath catches in his throat at your words, a warmth spreading through him at your gentle touch. "That's because I am," he admits, the smile evident in his voice.

Your fingers continue their exploration, lingering on Javi’s features with a gentle curiosity. "And your nose... it's curved and proud," you remark, your touch light and reverent.

Javier chuckles softly, the sound tinged with affection. "Well, thank you for the compliment, but I have a big nose and a big head," he replies, his heart swelling with gratitude for your openness and acceptance.

You work your hands over his prominent eyebrows and into his hairline, feeling silken curls cascade down either side of his face as you weave them through your fingers like ribbons.

“What colour is your hair?” You ask.

“Brown, like chocolate.”

“I imagined it to be brown. I like chocolate.” You smile, sweeping your fingers to the centre of his face and your tips skim over a fuzzy, well-groomed moustache and glide across his lips.

They feel plush and full. You feel him breathing against them, warm and a little moist.

Then you feel him pucker and kiss them gently. He immediately apologises when you drop your hands into your lap.

“I am sorry. I-I don’t know what came over me.” He flusters.

“It’s okay, Javi, really-”

“Are you sure? I-I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, I mean, I would've preferred it if you’d kissed my lips instead.” You say, smiling.

“You would?”

“Yes.” You nod.

“Oh. Then, I can kiss you?”

“Yes.”

You feel him get closer, like a shadow encasing your face, and you feel his own hands cup your cheeks; his breath felt on your lips as he gently presses his mouth to yours.

You moan into his mouth as he kisses you delicately, lips parting around him as he smooches gently, and you dare yourself to dip your tongue inside to fully taste him.

And it immediately makes him whimper, the sound traversing your spine and into your core - prickles bursting all over your scalp, tingling.

He strokes the skin under your eye with his thumb and you feel him shuffle closer. Your hands feel across the expanse of his shoulders that feel broad and thick, and sweep up his neck into the bundle of small curls at the back of his nape.

Your body feels like it's fizzing; your mind perfectly silent as you lose yourself in the feel of his kiss.

His tongue gently swirls against yours and you can feel the fuzz of his facial hair tickle against your chin and lip.

His kiss dazzles you, leaving you breathless and wanting.

“That was really nice,” you say, your breath still tangled in your throat as you part.

“Really nice.” Javi agrees. “I should stop before I get carried away.”

“Me too.” You chuckle, but you pull him closer for another, lingering kiss, enamoured by the way he tastes and explores your mouth.

“I would really like to see you again, another date, perhaps some dinner?” Javi asks, he peppers your cheeks with a slew of little kisses.

“I’d really like that.”

“Perfect,” he smiles. “Oh, let’s rewind the film. We have missed the best part.”

He pulls you gently into his arms as you both settle in to enjoy the remainder of the film, Nicolas laying at both your feet snoozing gently.

Javi is the perfect gentleman, driving you home after the film, and kissing you again on your doorstep, leaving you to go to bed that night with the biggest smile on your face, so much so that your jaw aches.

Your dates with Javi go well and increase in frequency.

You spend a lot of time with him, his warm hand secured in yours as you go wine tasting together, and he watches you sip at the different fruity wines and comment on which ones you like best.

He cuddles up with you, watching more films together as you snuggle into his muscular arms and share more heated kisses.

He takes you back to the coffee shop and buys you breakfast. He dotes on Nicolas and plays with him, whilst you listen to the sound of Nicolas grunting as Javi rubs his belly.

He’s the perfect fit for you with how gracious and attentive he is. He’s always asking questions too, learning eagerly about how you navigate the world; his curiosity welcomed and encouraged as he asks things that surprise you and make you smile at his thoughtfulness.

He finds it all genuinely fascinating and you don’t feel like you’re invisible when you're with him.

Then comes the day when Javi asks you if you’d like to stay over after proposing to cook dinner for you, and you agree that you’d love to, despite the nerves surfacing.

It’s been a long time since you shared a bed with anyone, and even though the excitement of being in his arms floods through your veins, a little trepidation also surfaces.

Javi arrives to pick you up at your homey little apartment in town, Nicolas is left with a friend for the evening off, and Javi carries your overnight bag into his convertible.

He holds your hand and opens the passenger side door for you, letting you sit comfortably.

You can't ignore the growing sensation blossoming between you both, Javi had been sudden, like the weather. A ray of warm sunshine falling into your lap, quite literally it seems.

With every shared laugh, every gentle touch, you feel that warmth spreading in your chest, igniting a spark that dances in the air whenever you’re together and it emanates and glows brighter each time.

It’s a feeling you can't quite put into words, a subtle yet undeniable connection that tugs at your heartstrings and leaves you breathless at his enigmatic and infectious energy. It’s as if something magical is unfolding between you, a budding romance that defies explanation, but feels undeniably real.

In Javi's presence, you feel alive in a way you haven't before, as if you’re able to see the world through his eyes. His laughter is music to your ears, his touch sends shivers down your spine. He imbues you with a certain confidence you’ve never possessed before.

He makes you bold, and daring, as you stand on the precipice of the cliff with him, his hand tightly wound around yours.

“Are you ready, querida?” Javi asks, as you feel the setting Mallorcan sun streaming on your skin.

“Yes,” you laugh, giddily.

He explains that below the cliff there is the ocean water, and you’ll be safe and far enough away from the rocks. He’ll hold your hand tightly as you both jump.

“Oh my God, we’re really going to do this!” You squeal as he tells you to step back a few paces with him.

His hands guide your waist as you step backwards and you feel it lingering there and burning, long after he lets go and takes your hand again.

“On three, we run forward together!”

You can hear the wild excitement in his voice as your heart hammers in your chest, steeling yourself for the exhilarating plunge ahead.

The wind whips around you, carrying the salty scent of the ocean and the distant cry of seagulls on its breezy tendrils.

“Oh fuck!” You tremble with a manic laughter pouring out of you.

“Ready? Uno. Dos-”

“Javi!” You giggle. feeling a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“Tres!”

He runs with you, hand tight in yours, and yells at you to leap at the exact moment - and you do, feeling yourself fly through the air off the cliff edge as it disappears from under your feet.

The rush of air engulfs you as you descend, sending you hurtling towards the water below. For a brief moment, time seems to stand still as you plummet through the air, heart pounding as you brace yourself for the eventual impact of diving into the water.

Then, with a splash, you break through the calm ocean; the shock of the cold momentarily taking your breath away.

As you surface, laughter bubbles up from deep within you, mingling with the sound of gentle waves and Javi’s rambunctious laughter echoing off the rocky cliffs.

“Javi, dios mio! You do this for fun?!” You exclaim as you cough; salty water washing around your mouth.

“Si, it is exhilarating, no?”

“Oh, can we do it again?” You nod excitedly. “Shit, that was amazing!”

“You crave more!” He chuckles loudly. "You crazy woman! I love it!"

You feel his arms around you in the water, drawing you near as his lips graze over yours. He kisses you as you wrap your legs around his waist to stay buoyant.

“You’re crazy. ¡Estás completamente loco.” (You’re completely crazy) You say, smiling and still buzzing with him guiding you through the exhilarating adventure, and reminding you that with him by your side, you’re capable of doing anything at all.

“Crazy for you, mi sol.” Javi says, with wet, salty lips pressed against yours.

Together, you swim to the shore; the adrenaline still making your body shake as you bask in the euphoria of your daring feat.

After drying off back at the villa, you sit with him on the terrace and enjoy a gorgeous cooked meal of Bacalao a la Vizcaína, or Basque-style Cod.

You sniff your fork and take a tentative bite, savouring the rich flavours of the tender fish and tangy tomato sauce, closing your eyes, relishing the taste of the dish as it dances on your taste buds.

"What do you think?" Javi asks, his voice filled with hope.

You nod enthusiastically. "It's delicious, Javi. The flavours are incredible!"

"I'm glad you like it," he replies, his voice tinged with satisfaction.

You sip on more delicious wine from the bottles he’d brought in abundance from your wine tasting date. As you talk and laugh and hold hands, eventually it gets later in the evening, and Javi suggests going up to bed together.

You can sense some hesitation in his voice though.

“Javi, take me to bed.” You say to him, stroking his face.

“I am not expecting anything.” He says as he kisses your knuckles.

“I am.” You say and he titters. “I want you.”

You kiss his cheek and his hands slip around your waist.

“Te deseo más que nada,” (I want you more than anything) Javi says, his breath warm on your face. “Come, this way.”

He guides you up the stairs slowly, letting your hand touch the wall and your feet stepping carefully up. He lets you know when you’ve reached the top.

You round a corner with him and he opens a door. It smells of him in there, his familiar cologne tickling your nose and beckoning you in as you enter.

He walks you towards the bed and you sit on it, feeling it plush and springy under your weight. You feel it dip beside you as he sits.

“Are you nervous, Javi?” You question with a soft smile.

“A little. I-I want to please you.” He says.

“I’ve no doubt you will.” You reach for his face, grazing your fingers against his silky cheek as he kisses you.

“I must confess, it has been a little while,” he says carefully.

“Me too.”

“Oh, that makes me feel a little better,” he chuckles.

“Quítame la ropa, Javi." (Take my clothes off, Javi) You whisper to him.

You feel his fingers undo the buttons on your shirt and he slides it off over your shoulders, kissing over them gently. You can feel his hair brush against your skin making you shiver.

He lays you back and removes your jeans until you're in just your underwear.

“Beautiful,” he says.

“Let me take yours off.”

He guides your hand to the buttons of his own shirt and you undo them, stopping to stroke at the smooth skin and leaning forward to kiss at his neck.

His hands weave inside your hair as you kiss down his throat and onto his chest. He lays back as you reach his slacks, hovering over the button.

“Please, querida.” He whines as you unbutton it and slip them down his waist.

“Javi, are you not wearing any underwear?” You giggle as you feel nothing but smooth, warm skin under your fingers as you move up and down his hips.

He chuckles. “Sometimes I like to go without. It is very freeing.”

Laughing you run your hands into his thighs, feeling the soft, downy hairs there become more plentiful and a little coarse.

Soon your fingers reach his cock, hard and thick as you glide over the smooth curve of its swell resting up against his belly. You feel it pulse and twitch under your fingers.

You can feel the wetness at the head, slick and sticky, as you slide your thumb over it, and he hisses.

“You feel big…” You say as you pump gently, listening to the sounds of his breaths catch in his throat.

“It is average, I think.” He gasps. "Mmm, that feels so good."

“You feel amazing.”

You feel his hands unclip your bra and then caress your breasts, massaging gently as you whine at the feel of his pads trailing across your nipples.

His lips find their way into your neck as he kisses and gasps whilst you touch him.

He lays you back and you feel him remove your panties, the silk of them sliding down your legs.

“Mira tú, eres tan hermosa” (Look at you, you are so beautiful) Javi whispers. You gasp as you feel his breath warm your thighs.

You reach for him, hands gliding over his shoulders and he runs his nose across your stomach.

“Can I taste you, querida?”

“Yes, please…” You groan, feeling your body tingle in anticipation as his breath draws closer to your hot, pulsing centre.

“Javi!” You gasp, as you feel his tongue sink into your folds.

Warm and wet, you feel him explore and trail his tongue through your slick, groaning in delight as he breathes and hums at the taste of you.

“Deliciosa…” he sighs. (Delicious)

You feel his tongue flick across your clit, back and forth as he works you up; your thighs twitching around his face as your fingers tussle inside his hair, surrendering yourself to the dreamy, floaty feeling that envelops you.

He sucks on your clit a little harder, and you feel his fingers sliding through your folds. You moan out when you feel them penetrate you, spreading you open around them as he slides them in and out.

“Mmm, Javi, you’re so good at that…” You whine as he laps at that sticky seam between your thighs, nose snuffling against your mound.

“Feel good, mi sol?”

“So good.”

You feel a warmth spreading through your body, like a gentle embrace from the sun you remember as a child.

It radiates from within, filling you with a sense of peace and serenity that washes over you like a swelling tide as he laps and kisses at your sopping cunt.

His tongue flicks over your clit again; your body jolts, the stream of pleasure flooding bright light through your limbs.

“Por favor, no pares Javi, se siente tan bien…” (Please don’t stop, Javi, it feels so good.)

You feel his breaths increase around you as he licks and sucks harder, his fingers diving deep and stroking against that fleshy spot inside, bringing you to your knees as you cry out for him.

Your body shakes, your spine arches off the bed as you come; his name falling from your mouth around incoherent expletives as he continues to stroke and lick you through it.

Feeling weightless, you’re floating on a cloud, carried away by the currents of the wind until you come back again, panting and breathless for more.

Javi crawls up your body, planting kisses as he goes, until he reaches your mouth. You groan when you can taste yourself on his lips; feel the wetness of his chin graze against yours.

“You taste really good,” Javi whispers with a smile laced around his teeth.

You giggle nuzzling into him as you feel his length brush against your thigh.

Your hands trail down his body, feeling every inch of warmth from his smooth skin; infatuated at how he shudders as your fingers glide down his spine, and you fondle over his pert ass, listening as he grunts when you squeeze it.

You reach for his hard cock between you, feeling him twitch and throb inside your hand as you stroke him; eliciting strained groans from the back of his throat around his generous kisses.

“Your cock feels so hard,” you smile as you run it up and down inside your grip, your fingers on your other hand cupping around the tight swell of his balls.

“Mmm, so hard for you, mi sol. Fuck, that feels so good.”

“You like that?”

“Yes. Very much.” You can hear him grin.

You just listen to his pants as you pump him, how his voice is strangled in the back of his throat to the point he’s almost whimpering.

He sounds so good that you could just come again listening to him as you clench continuously.

Soon his hand stops you as you increase the tempo.

“I am sorry, but if you keep doing this, I will come. And I don’t want to leave you unsatisfied just yet. It might change how you feel about me.”

“Nothing could change how I feel about you, Javi. I really like you, a lot.”

“Good. I really like you a lot, too. And I am not a selfish lover.”

You guide him towards you, feeling him prod gently at your slick entrance as you both groan. He teases his head in your folds, running it up and down and feeling how you tigthen and squeeze, just barely over the thick crown of him.

“I want you inside me, Javi.” You breathe.

“Si, I want you too, mi sol. I have thought of this moment.”

He sucks gently on your bottom lip as he pushes his hips forward and slides into you.

You clasp onto him gasping, it feels incredible; him slowly opening you up as he pants into your face, telling you how beautiful you are in a mixture of English and Spanish pelts.

“Oh shit… mi sol…” He whines as he works his hips, thrusting in and out slowly and you can hear how wet you are around him as it squelches with every movement.

You wrap your hands around his neck, as he buries his face into yours. His hips thrusting a little faster as he builds you up.

"You have such a gorgeous pussy for me," Javi whines into your shoulder. "Oh... wow. Feels so good."

"You feel amazing, don't stop," you groan.

He sucks your nipple into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist, bringing him closer.

His hips begin snapping harder into yours as he watches your breaths catch at the back of your throat with each shunt into you.

Holding onto your hands as he slides his cock in and out of you; his hips doing all the work as your fingers interlock in midair.

He leaves you suspended in a growing bliss that will neither drop you unexpectedly, or force you to confront your finish with a speedy resolution leaving you unsatisfied. Building you up slowly, listening to your moans and pants and feeling your body clench and buck around him when he hits the right spots.

He edges you with his cock, slowing down when he can feel you drawing near to that peak, and your face contorting in pleasure as he lets you skirt the edges of your orgasm, around and around on the precarious ledge.

Then, his hips will snap harder again pulling you to the edge of that cliff once more when it settles, and feeling you claw into his back gasping and whining for more as you start to shake around his cock.

“Javi!” You groan, your skin damp with sweat and you feel his hand on your face, thumb stroking around your lips as you suck it into your mouth.

“Let me have it, mi sol.” He encourages with gritted teeth as he watches you combust. “Oh, you look and sound so good when you come for me. Yes, yes… more! Take more of my cock, it is yours. All yours, mi sol...”

You can’t help but just burst and quake beneath him as he fucks you harder. Calling his name, clawing at his shoulders. Writhing and bucking and arching.

You ride him to his own finish, his hands on your waist as you rest yours on his chest and work your hips. You feel his thick length bottom out inside you as you slide down him each time. Hear the way his breaths quicken, how his body tenses under your fingertips as you gyrate and grind.

“Si, si…” He stutters as he tenses underneath you. “I am going to come. Where do you want it, mi sol?”

“Inside,” you say as you lean over him as he cradles you. “Come inside me, Javi.”

He crushes you to his chest as he thrusts upwards in a steady, hammering rhythm as he empties out with a loud grunt.

“Oh shit!” Javi whines, his hips jerking as he fills you full, and you moan softly into his neck, sucking on the clammy skin there as he shakes.

He holds you in his arms afterwards, pressed up tightly against his chest as he kisses over your head; the two of you silent save for your waning breaths.

“That was incredible,” Javi whispers, nuzzling into your neck. “You are so beautiful. So perfect… I’ve never seen beauty like it before.”

“Javi, you’re a poet.” You grin, reaching up to touch his face.

“Ah, but you like it, yes?”

You nod, smiling and completely blissed out.

“Was it good for you?” He asks gently.

“It was perfect,” you agree with a smile and running your hands through his silken, sweaty curls.

“I am glad I bumped into you in the coffee shop, querida.” He says in your ear, tip of his nose brushing your conch. “It was the best day, even though I ruined a perfectly good shirt.”

You chuckle as he pulls you closer in his arms. “Definitely the best day.” You agree.

“I am a very lucky man.”

“Yes, you are,” you smirk, and he chuckles, kissing and nuzzling into you.

“I want to do so much more with you, mi sol. More dates. More of this. I really, really like you.”

“I really, really like you, too.” You twist to kiss him and feel him smile against your lips. "I feel like... I feel like I've seen the sun rise again, with you." You whisper, feeling like you've never experienced a true happiness like this before. "Thank you, Javi."

It does indeed feel like the last ever sunset you saw. Beautiful and lasting forever inside you. It's rays permeating through your bones with every touch, every kiss. Every singular word of affection given.

"Really? Oh, wow!" He gushes as he squeezes you tight. You hear him sniff and you reach up to his face feeling a wetness under his eye.

He kisses your fingertips gently. "You are my sunshine. Mi sol... You are everything."

You wrap yourself around him as he pulls up the sheets over you both.

“Sleep, querida. In the morning I shall make you a delicious breakfast.”

“Sounds amazing. Or you could just have me for breakfast instead.” You suggest with a grin.

“Oh, mi sol. I plan to.” Javi smiles. "And for lunch and dinner..."

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Javi, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

JAVI GUTIERREZ MASTERLIST

#I just love Javi and I loved this so much #😍😍😍#Javi gutierrez #pedro pascal

191 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 19 days

Text

Frankie getting sick, the LOVE CONFESSION, THE TSUNAMI

Amazing as always ✨

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 13

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 7.3k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude are tested to their absolute limit. Mentions of smut.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 12

The pen runs out of ink on the fourteenth of April.

Frankie looks down at the notebook as his scrawl becomes nothing but faint indents on the paper. He shakes the pen in frustration, but it’s no use. His writing days are over now.

They’ve been on the island for almost a whole year. Surviving, barely, on fish - and now tamarind - and rain water.

Jude would make a pulpy sweet mush of the tamarind to flavour the fish, and it jazzed up the cooking for a while. But soon, like the fish, eating the tamarind soon lost its sweet taste on their tongues.

The school of fish had dwindled dangerously for a while, but soon more began to appear in the bay as the weather shifted. The rainy season seemed to end and the scorching sun was back with a vengeance.

One day whilst they were fishing, Frankie continued to scout around the rock pools and found a few mussels - and was careful not to step on any urchins this time - as he pried them off the rocks with the completely dull switchblade.

He proceeded to explain to Jude in great detail about all the tasty ways you can cook mussels; rambling on excitedly like a five year-old who won’t shut the fuck up about dinosaurs, and it made her smile fondly at him to see him smile about something again.

They ate the mussels from their shells, steaming them in the tin over the fire and that seemed like a treat, something different which revitalised their spirits for a little while.

But still they continued to appear more gaunt, often going days without eating at all, not because they didn’t have any food - what with the tamarind pods filling up a suitcase that they’d taken out as Frankie climbed the trees and shook them loose onto the ground for Jude to collect - but because when you eat the same thing over and over, you soon begin to lose your appetite for it.

“If we ever get off this island, I’m never eating fish or tamarind again.” Jude remarks one evening as they’re sitting by the fire outside together.

Frankie has his arm slung over her shoulder and is twirling his fingers idly in the sand beside him, drawing squiggly lines absentmindedly.

“I second that.” He smirks. “I think I might just live off of Mcdonalds for a month or something. Get a bit fat.”

“Mm. I can see you with chubby cheeks and wearing sweatpants with your gut out, shovelling burgers in your mouth. Hot.” Jude giggles.

“Living the dream,” he agrees. She feels his chest heave as he chuckles.

“Do you think they had a funeral for us?” Jude asks a little time later, and the question winds Frankie; he stops drawing in the sand.

He wraps his arm around her tighter and kisses the top of her head.

“I think they probably did.” He admits, trying not to think about it, admittedly.

“What do you think they would’ve said about you?”

“Hopefully good things, but I doubt it." He says, sadly.

“Of course they did. You’re a good person.”

“Here, maybe. But I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of. Even before the coke.” He kisses her head again and rests his chin on it, staring out into the flames. Thinking about all the mistakes.

“I miss my mom so much.” Jude whispers.

“Me too, I miss all of ‘em. Everyone.” Frankie confirms.

He thinks about his family and the guys. Their faces flit behind his eyes. He even thinks about Carla a little too; wondering if she’d attended his funeral. He considers if she’d stood up and read from anything, or said anything heartfelt and cried with black mascara tears streaming down her face. Whether she’s mourning the loss of him and wishing things had been different.

His chest feels tight at all of the murky recall.

Jude feels him sigh out and cuddles into him further. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking is all.” Frankie assures.

“I know, I can hear the cogs turning.”

His fingers jab, tickling into her side and she flinches, laughing.

“I’m alright. Just comes in waves, y’know?” He explains.

“I know. When I think about it, it’s like I can’t breathe. I can’t imagine their pain. Not knowing what happened to us; that we’re right here, waiting.”

“Yeah.” Frankie nods.

Jude reaches for his hand and interlocks his fingers, squeezing them tightly inside her own. “We have each other though, right?”

“Right,” Frankie nods to her as she looks up at him.

She kisses him, lingering on his lips and breathing him in. He kisses her, his beard scratching against her lips and it makes her giggle.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?” Frankie says.

“No. You don’t tell me nearly enough.” She grins.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling her in and squeezing her hips and she laughs.

They spend time curled up together by the fire as it gets dark and she hears Frankie yawn.

“You feeling sleepy?” Jude asks him and he nods, those eyes of his looking a little droopy.

“Let’s go to bed,” she smiles at him and stands up. As she does so, she stumbles backwards a little unsteady on her feet.

“Dizzy?” Frankie asks her, steadying her with a hand on her back and one on her stomach.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” She pats his hand and begins walking towards the shack with his arm around her.

Jude rolls over on the cushion bed a few days later and watches Frankie as he sleeps through her fuzzy vision coming into focus, rubbing crusted sleep from her eyes.

She notices small beads of perspiration on his forehead like diamonds glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the window hole, and watches as his eyes dance crazily back and forth under his eyelids.

He flinches a little and groans as he dreams.

She places her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thrumming inside it. His skin is boiling to the touch and she sits up, a little concerned.

“Frankie...” She whispers close to his ear and he stirs, groaning. “Frankie, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

He opens his eyes slowly and turns his head towards her; focusing in on her face as she wipes at his forehead that seems utterly drenched.

“Hey,” she greets him and he blinks several times before smiling, then frowning.

“Fuck, my head is hammering,” Frankie reaches up and runs his hand over the top of his skull with his thick fingers.

“Are you feeling alright, you’re pretty hot?” Jude touches his skin around his scarred neck. “Having a sexy dream, were you?” She snickers.

“Pornographic.” Frankie smirks.

He sits up slowly and the shack begins to spin. “Fuck.” He slumps back down on the bed and Jude fetches him some water.

“Here, drink this.” She unscrews the cap and he glugs quickly from the bottle feeling incredibly parched.

“How much do we have left?” He gasps as though the thirst will never be satiated.

“Enough, just drink it.” She encourages, touching over his head and feeling how hot he is. “You’re burning up. Just stay in bed today, you need the rest, okay?”

Frankie nods and flops back down on the bed grunting.

“I’ll go catch us some fish, you need to eat something. I know you haven’t been.” Jude says, narrowing her eyes at him.

He smiles faintly at her through purplish-pink lips. He runs his pointer finger around the top of his head in a circle indicating there’s a halo there, and she smirks with a little unimpressed snort.

“Take my cap, it's hot out.” He says, tossing his cap at her and she plonks it on her head.

Jude leaves him to sleep off what is probably chronic exhaustion and hunger, and heads to the bay to fish.

The water is mostly still as Jude wades around the rock pools, watching the fish and spearing them.

She catches several and smiles as they fill the tin; a sight she hasn’t seen for a long time. She glances up to see the empty shell of the fuselage on the sandbank still, ageing with an early birthing of speckled rust as the sun scorches it daily.

Her mind wanders back to the harrowing moments of the plane crash, a memory etched into her consciousness like a scar on her soul.

The cabin engulfed in chaos as the plane shuddered and lurched through the turbulent skies. Panic-stricken passengers clinging to their seats, their faces contorted in fear as the realisation of their impending doom washes over them like a tidal wave.

Jude can feel her heart pounding in her chest, each beat a thunderous drumming in her ears as she braces herself for the inevitable impact, but it goes dark, just like it did when she blacked out.

She looks out at the horizon, thinking about the impending anniversary of them both being on the island for three hundred and sixty-five days, and all that they’ve accomplished and endured on this piece of shitty rock they’re still marooned on.

She feels a tickle around her thighs and looks down, freezing instantly.

It’s a small shark in the water, barely longer than her arm in length, swimming around her legs curiously and she smiles widely as she aims her spear.

Jude heads back to the shack with the tin of fish and slimy shark corpse. She approaches the fire, tossing more kindling on it, encouraging the flames to grow once more ready for their meal, and goes to check on Frankie.

She enters under the plastic sheet. “Hey, guess what I caught in the bay, it’s a-”

She stops dead in her tracks when she sees Frankie on the ground, laying on his front, vomit all around his face and a red blotchy rash covering his back and arms.

“Frankie!” Jude lurches forward and shakes him; he’s unresponsive and she immediately sticks her fingers into his mouth, clearing away the vomit.

“Frankie! Wake up! Frankie!” She shakes him again and he groans with a choked gurgle.

“Oh, thank God! Frankie, can you hear me?” She pulls back his eyelid with her thumb and his eyes are rolled into the back of his head.

She pours water from a bottle over his chin, rinsing away his vomit from around his mouth, and then uses her wet hand to touch his forehead that still feels aflame.

“Frankie!” Jude calls out to him again, shaking him and once more he groans.

He’s alive, but she’s completely panic stricken. His breathing is shallow and laboured, his pulse weak and thready beneath her touch.

A wave of dread washes over Jude as she realises the gravity of the situation. He's sick. He's sick on an island without a doctor or any meds.

She strips him of his clothes; his body is saturated with sweat, and the heat radiating off of it feels like the sun’s corona burning her fingertips.

The rash is all over his torso, in and around his groin in patches of red lichen-like blotches which look mean and an angry red.

She hooks her arms under his armpits and drags him towards the bed, groaning out at the weight of him.

Despite his drastic weight loss, he’s still heavy. Jude lugs him backwards more until she’s able to roll him onto the bed. She turns him over into the recovery position, tilting his head up so he doesn't swallow his tongue.

She dabs away vomit chunks from Frankie’s beard and washes him down with sea water she collects, trying to cool his body temperature.

Jude spends the next two days by his side, periodically pouring water down his throat as he drifts in and out of a heavy consciousness.

“Wake up, Frankie, please.”

But Frankie remains stubbornly unconscious, his features slack and pale against the crimson blotches. He’s sick several more times, and when there’s blood in it, she freaks.

“Frankie, stay with me,” Jude pleads to him as he passes out again; the water dribbling from his lips.

She doesn’t sleep. She never got to cook the fish or the shark.

Instead it stays untouched outside on the beach, slowly rotting in the sun.

Dengue fever isn’t pleasant.

Of course, at the time neither Jude nor Frankie knew that’s what he had.

It’s caused by mosquito bites, and only a few days prior to falling ill, Frankie had been bitten by one that was infected as he fished in the bay.

He’d slapped the pest dead against his arm and didn’t think much of it. He’d been bitten around the ankles by horseflies in the grasses and all sorts of bugs since being on the island - just another pest taking a bite out of his tasty skin.

But it was as simple as that - a simple, little bite.

Ordinarily, if he’d been fully healthy, the effects of the fever wouldn’t have maimed him as much. But we all know that from his current state of malnourishment and dehydration, he wasn’t strong enough, and his immune system struggled to suppress the infection.

It had already begun to spread through his body and started laying down the foundations of the attack.

The signs were there; hot flushes, stomach cramps and vomiting. But yet he’d been doing that on the regular, so what was there to notice differently, really?

Frankie had caught an abundance of fish; nine in total, before the school figured out their numbers were dwindling before their eyes, and scooted off into the deep again from whence they came.

He’d cooked them all over the fire and mashed more tamarind with it, and they’d feasted like kings that evening, filling their bellies up until they felt like they would pop uncomfortably.

They sat opposite one another, eating and playing another game of Tic-Tac-Toe in the sand and talking like they usually would.

Frankie had the hiccups; probably from eating too fast he assumed at the time, and the little belches that rolled out of him had made Jude giggle.

“Where did you get that scar on your hip?” She’d asked him randomly, as he placed down a shell in the middle box of the hand drawn grid in the sand.

“I was shot.” Frankie’s mind casts back to the helicopter crash and the feel of the bullet ripping through his skin.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He’d hiccupped again, keeping his mouth closed.

“You were shot at a lot, weren’t you?” She placed her pebble down.

“Nine times.” He holds his wrist up at her with the numbers tattoo.

“I couldn’t imagine that.” She said, scrunching up her face.

“I shot back, too. Thirty-nine confirmed kills.” He was concentrating on the grid and looking carefully at where to place his next shell, when his shoulders heaved again from another rolling hiccup.

“You got any scars, aside from the crippling emotional ones?” Frankie had questioned and she’d tossed one of her pebbles at him. He whinnied as it landed in his lap.

“A few,” she’d drawn her leg up and caught sight of the pink, ragged scar on the back of her calf, probably the most prominent one now to adorn her body.

“I have this one,” Jude had said, turning her face to the right and pointing just under the top of her cheekbone. A small, faded circle was there, indented into her flesh.

“I wondered about that one. It looks like someone hole-punched your face,” Frankie marvelled.

He hiccupped again and put his hand over his mouth tasting bile in the back of his throat.

“No, it was chicken pox. My mom says I kept scratching it and scratching it, and now I have a scar there.” She shrugged.

“My brother and I got the pox at the same time. It was fuckin’ carnage in our house when our cousins got it too. My pop just threw us all out in the garden in the pool and let us get on with it.” Frankie smiled, putting down another shell, and she’d blocked him making a complete line with another pebble.

She watched as his face changed; a sudden look of widening eyes and a serious mouth as he looked across at her.

“What?” She questioned him curiously.

Frankie promptly stood up and dashed off over towards the tree line.

Once there, he threw up; barely making it to the ground on his knees before it flooded out of him.

He pulled off his t-shirt and wiped his mouth with it, looking disgusted at the lumpy swill of barely digested fish. He groaned out as he felt it rise up again in the back of his throat and he bent forward heaving it all out.

“Hey, you okay?” Jude asked him, approaching and rubbing his back as he’d sat upright on his knees, the pile of fish and tamarind mixed puke visible in front of them.

“I’m fine. Except everything comes out of my body in liquid form now,” Frankie winced, gripping his stomach and spitting onto the ground.

“Too much fish?” Jude asked him tenderly as he stood up.

He nodded. “Maybe, I dunno. Probably.” He scrunched the t-shirt up in his hand.

“Come on,” she had said sympathetically, putting her arm around his waist and walking with him slowly back to the fire.

Four days later and he’s drifting in and out of consciousness; dreaming of nothing but black feverish voids as he burns up and his body gives birth to a ferocious rash that prickles at his already scorched skin.

Jude dips a t-shirt into the tin of sea water and wrings it out on the third day that Frankie remains hardly responsive.

She dabs at his chest and shoulders, giving him a tiresome bed bath to cool him off, titling his head back and tipping rain water into his mouth in the small instances when he’ll come to.

She occasionally dozes off for a few moments beside him, absolutely shattered.

She’ll suddenly jolt awake when he groans out or throws up again, and the longer he remains like this, the more fearful she becomes that he’ll actually die.

“Don’t you fucking dare die on me. You hear me, Frankie.” Jude warns him as she watches him just lying there, occasionally grunting in pain.

She hovers her fingers under his nostrils to feel for any air flowing out of them when she’s staring at his chest, convinced she can’t see it rising and falling like it should be, and working herself up all over again.

She picks up his hand and kisses it, holding it close to her lips and feeling utterly helpless and terrified.

With each shallow breath that escapes Frankie's mouth, Jude's heart clenches with a sense of impending doom, the fear of losing him clawing at her chest like a ravenous beast.

She can't bear the thought of him slipping away from her, of being left alone in this desolate wilderness with nothing but memories of what could have been.

There’s no way she can get through this without him; she’s resolute in that fact. It’s thanks to him that she’s even made it this far; the swamping loneliness on the island would have driven her insane during the first few weeks alone.

With him here, grinning at her moronically through mouthfuls of fish to make her laugh, or showing her how to light the fire; rubbing the small of her back when she sleeps in his arms, are the moments that make life bearable on the island - make it seem normal somehow in their routine.

The island is him - it’s Frankie.

A whole year almost of just being in his personal space and learning about his life previously makes facing each day worthwhile, something to look forward to. And to take that from her now would be cruel.

She knows if he slips away she’ll undoubtedly follow. A life without him on the island isn’t a life she wants to live through. She’s confident in that thought, as harrowing and scary as it is to consider.

It would drive you mad, a year in this place, all alone. Loneliness is an acute disease; people die of loneliness all the time.

Have you ever heard about those stories of an elderly couple being married for years and years, and when one of them sadly passes on, the other physically can’t live without them and passes away not too soon after, dying of a broken heart? Yeah, that.

You give up; you don’t want to face the world alone without them, because you simply know you can’t.

Imagine wandering the shoreline without anyone to talk to out loud, no-one to share your fears or worries with or talk them through rationally when they try to overcome you and drown you like the ocean’s waves.

No-one to calm you down when the sheer terror will rattle through your bones convincing you that you’re going to die out here.

No-one looking into your eyes with their warm cocoa ones and telling you to breathe deeply and try again, with an encouraging smile beaming out at you from under a navy Standard Heating Oil baseball cap.

No-one to hold you in his strong, broad arms and tell you stories about his life, his hopes, wishes and dreams as you listen to the music of his body; twirling your fingers around the curly hair at the nape of his neck that has grown longer as the days had worn on.

It doesn’t bear thinking about, right?

Frankie was a stranger once; just another passenger on a plane headed for a final destination into carnage, but now he’s the better half of Jude - the stronger one, her protector.

The one to get her through, the one who had seen every single side of her, including the vulnerable, the weak and the damn right acutely terrified.

He’d seen all the ugly parts of her when no-one else had seen them before, and yet he still scooped her up in his arms and told her she was strong, brave and beautiful.

It dawns on her that if he actually dies, if he is to slip away right now from her on this thin thread of a hard life they’ve been walking on for some time now, she’ll never recover from the loss.

Because he’s everything; he’s saved her, without a shadow of a doubt, and in more ways than one.

I love him. I fucking love him.

Jude’s dabbing him with the wet t-shirt again around his neck, looking closely at the faint, pink scars on his skin from when he was burned by the aviation fuel in the water, when Frankie reaches for her hand.

She looks up at his face, his eyes bloodshot and blinking at her through heavy, tired lids.

She scrambles up closer to his face and strokes through his wiry hair, her eyes filling with water.

“Hey,” she says, and kisses the top of his head in relief. Thank God.

“Why you crying?” Frankie croaks out through a constricted throat.

“Because of you, you dummy.” Jude reaches for the water and tilts the bottle towards him so he can drink. “I think you caught a fever or something. You had a rash and passed out. You’ve been out for days.” Jude rubs away the water that drips from his mouth and glistens in his beard, over-spilling.

“What?” Frankie coughs. He tries to sit upright on the bed.

“Slowly,” she urges.

“I passed out?” Frankie asks her, a little confused, rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah.” She wipes her own eyes as he lifts his fingers to them and smears away a tear or two.

For a moment, Frankie seems disoriented, his gaze searching hers as though trying to make sense of the world around him.

But then, as the fog begins to lift and clarity returns, a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips - a silent reassurance that speaks volumes without a word being said.

“How are you feeling?”

“My head is still fuckin’ throbbing,” he says with eyes like he’s squinting.

Jude places the wet t-shirt on his head as a cool compress for him. “I caught a shark.” She smirks as he closes his eyes in relief of the compress.

“I knew you were badass,” Frankie smiles.

“It was a bay shark, kinda small. I couldn’t cook it; it’s probably no good now.”

“That sucks.” Frankie remarks with a faint smile through his cracked lips. He can taste blood on them and the stench of vomit lingers in his nostrils.

She leans forward and kisses his forehead. Most of the rash has disappeared from his body except around his legs where it’s still fading. His palms and ankles are a little puffy and swollen and he looks pretty out of it still.

Jude's eyes shine with tears as she reaches out to grasp his hand, her fingers trembling with emotion.

"Thank God you're okay," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "I was so scared..."

“You look tired,” he observes, pulling on her braid gently.

“I didn’t sleep much for the last three days.” She smiles faintly, blinking and her eyes feel incredibly irritated, despite the tears now falling out of them.

“Come here, hermosa,” Frankie encourages, holding out his arms and she shuffles into them. He wraps her in tight and he feels much cooler to the touch.

He kisses the top of her head several times and squeezes her, a silent reassurance that he’s still with her, that they’ve weathered yet another storm together.

“I thought you were gonna die” she peeps timidly, her voice breaking.

“No. You don’t get rid of me that easily,” Frankie breathes into her hair, his throat feeling tight and raw.

Jude looks up at him and he leans in for a kiss, but she baulks as she can smell vomit on his breath.

“Maybe wash your mouth out first,” she laughs, wiping her eyes.

“Fuck that.” Frankie pulls her face towards him and kisses her, smiling.

They both sleep for what feels like a hundred years.

Frankie is stroking her face as she sleeps in his arms. Her rhythmic breathing is a soothing melody in the otherwise quiet dawn, a reminder of the fragility of their existence on the deserted island.

The idea of Jude navigating the challenges of survival without him fills him with a sense of guilt, a pang of regret for the moments he had been unconscious, unaware of her struggles.

He can't bear the thought of her facing the dangers of the island alone, her resilience and strength a testament to her unwavering determination to survive.

And yet, as he gazes down at her peaceful expression, a sense of gratitude washes over him - a deep-seated appreciation for her unwavering faith in him, her steadfast belief that they’ll overcome whatever obstacles lay in their path, together.

And he believes it too, knowing that with Jude by his side, he's the strongest he's ever been in his life.

With a soft sigh, Frankie presses a tender kiss to the top of Jude's head, his heart heavy with the weight of his own fears and insecurities, but they’re muted for a while longer as he lies with her.

She wakes a little while later and it’s barely light out.

“How are you feeling?” Jude asks him through a stifled yawn.

“Better.” His stomach rumbles and they chuckle together. “Hungry.”

“You feel up to going fishing today? Might find another shark.” She asks with a small birth of hope in her voice.

“Yeah. I’ll give it a go.” He nods and kisses her forehead again.

Frankie sits up slowly and takes his time standing fully upright on his legs that feel weak and like they don’t belong to him.

“I need a wash first though, I stink.” He says, getting a whiff of himself.

“Yeah. You’re a bit ripe.” Jude laughs, wrinkling her nose.

She takes him by the hand and leads him slowly down towards the shore, stopping by the cave mouth to pick up the remaining soap and shampoo. He looks at her expression and shrugs as she explains that it’s the last of it.

“Well, it was a nice luxury whilst we had it,” Frankie remarks casually.

They wade into the sea and he dips under the water and resurfaces, running his hands over his face, water dripping from his beard that’s longer and more coarse.

Jude squirts some of the shower gel into her palm. He holds his out and she squirts the last of it into his hands in a bubbly dollop, and watches as he rubs them together making a creamy lather.

Smirking, Frankie runs his hands across her chest, massaging the soap into her breasts, and stopping momentarily to feel her nipples harden under his palms.

She leans in, kissing him and tasting salt on his lips. She runs her soapy hands through his hair, scratching through it as she works the lather and makes him groan out in a satisfied grunt.

“I like it when you make that noise...” She breathes, smiling as he opens his eyes and looks back at her.

“I like the noises you make, too.” He grins.

Jude presses up against his chest; her breasts crushed tight against him as he kisses her with some sudden uncontrollable urgency. His tongue darts into her mouth and his hands paw at her ass.

She reaches down into the water and finds his cock, hard and rigid. He grunts out into her lips as his fingers swim up inside her pussy, and makes her gasp out too as his thumb brushes against her clit.

“Fuck me...” Frankie whines into her mouth enticingly as she pumps him.

“You should really take it easy,” she says around his lips, unable to resist that pull of him as his fingers slide in and out of her.

He shakes his head. “Fuck me, Jude.” Frankie whines again, smirking with glittery eyes.

She bites down on his lip making him hiss. He lifts her up onto him; the soft, bounding waves keep her buoyant as she wraps her legs around his waist.

Jude cries out as she feels him slide into her, making him grunt in unison.

He holds onto her ass cheeks as he rocks his hips back and forth in the water, fucking her deep and with intense strokes.

“You feel so good,” she whines.

Jude clings on around his neck, crushing her lips to his and moaning out as she bounces up and down on his thick cock, with a little help from the waves in a deliciously intense rhythm.

“Fuck!” Frankie grunts out, gripping onto her ass tighter.

“Frankie!” She throws her head back as she comes hard and fast; her braid dipping into the water and he’s gasping out through his own rolling orgasm as he pumps out inside of her, shaking.

She holds onto him as they stop moving, feeling his cock slide out of her, and he kisses her again.

They chuckle, and she watches as he dives under the water, rinsing the suds from his hair and swimming around her, poking her in the stomach or butt cheek from under the water.

Jude looks up at the sky, a huge weight of relief sliding off of her shoulders that had been wrought and tense for the last few days.

Thank you...

She’s running, but no matter how fast she runs, the helicopter is falling further and further out of sight, away from the island.

“Wait! Don’t leave me!”

Her voice is being swallowed up by the sound of the crashing tide rolling in beside her as she runs down the beach.

Jude can see Frankie inside the helicopter looking out at her; the wind flapping through his unruly locks, and waving back at her as he shrinks further and further into the horizon, until the helicopter disappears completely and Jude is left on the beachfront, falling to her knees in horrific disbelief.

No, NO!

She wakes up with a jolt; her heartbeat reverberating crazily inside her chest like it’s trying to escape.

She’s had this nightmare a few times since being on the island, but it seems more intense this time - more like it could be real and she’s waiting for it to happen where she won’t wake up, no matter how many times she pinches herself.

She finds Frankie crouched by the fire pit cooking a singular fish and turning it over on the flat stone.

Egon is perched beside him on the rock watching the fish sizzling intently; looking for a snatch-and-run opportunity.

Frankie scoops a piece of tamarind out of the tin he’s been mashing up and offers it out to Egon; the little monkey’s fingers curl around his own.

“That’s all you’re getting.” Frankie advises him.

He looks over his shoulder as Jude approaches. “Hey,” he croons to her with a sleepy smile.

“Morning, Captain Morales,” she yawns, planting a kiss on his crown before heading down to the shore for a swim to wake her up.

It’s been several weeks since Frankie suffered through his horrific fever, and although it seems as though he’s recovered well physically, mentally is another question.

He’s been a little quiet; withdrawn and reflective as she often catches him just staring into nothing.

Completely zoned out at the furthest reaches from her, until she’ll touch his hand and he’ll come back to her with a little startle and a faint smile to convince her that he’s okay.

She wonders what it is that he sees in that thousand yard stare.

She slips off her clothes that are like a tent on her now. She’s been reduced to just wearing the bikini bottoms and a t-shirt that swamps her as of late; the shorts and her jeans no longer stay up around her waist of their own volition and she’s tired of hanging onto them all the time.

Frankie wears a t-shirt, or a plaid woollen jacket on the days it’s a little chillier, and he often drapes it around her shoulders to keep her warm at night.

When it’s unbearably hot, he’s often fully naked and letting it all hang out and free, and it's a sight that admittedly, she won’t tire of.

The flip-flops have long since broken and so he walks on bare feet, the skin on his soles hard and dry.

Jude’s hair has grown so long that it almost touches her lower back and it seems almost daily that Frankie re-braids it for her after combing the knots out with his fingers as they sit by the fire or on the shore whilst he does it.

His own hair and beard is even shaggier now and grease slicked from sweat. The cap barely keeps its unruly mess at bay.

She’s noticed his weight loss increase further over the last few months, seeing the bony bulges of his spine now too when he hunches over the fire.

How his rib cage is showing under his skin and how sunken and sullen his face looks, more so than it ever had before. He’s so skinny it’s spooky.

It’s a harsh reality to confront that essentially they’re only just keeping full starvation at bay. She dreads to think what they'll do when the tamarind stops growing, or the fish stop coming into the bay altogether.

It gives her shivers to even venture down that route of dark, swirly thoughts that are like gnarled fingers reaching out for them and following them around, ready to snap them up at any given moment.

Jude wades into the water to cool her skin and notices the sky is a swirl of blue and grey. Clouds are forming on the horizon and the breeze contains a little nip, even through the heavy heat.

She swims around in the water, untying her braid and diving under to resurface again to wash her hair without shampoo as she scratches through her salty scalp with her fingers.

Frankie’s padding into the water, and she smiles warmly as he swims towards her and kisses her deeply.

She wraps her legs around his waist as he holds her whilst they bob in the water.

“I made some food. Fish and tamarind paste, my specialty.” Frankie smirks at her.

She clutches his chin with her thumb and finger and kisses him again.

“And maybe some monkey, because if Egon steals it I will actually gut him.”

“You love him really,” Jude smiles, patting his hairy cheek.

He dives under the waves and as he resurfaces, he clocks the panic stricken look morphing on Jude’s face as the water rinses out his ears.

“What?” He questions, frowning.

Then he feels it himself; the intense shaking and rocking of the seabed floor.

She plops backwards in the water as the heavy rumbling intensifies, knocking her off balance.

“Fuck!” Frankie swims to her as she resurfaces, wiping at her face and spluttering in shock.

“Holy shit, was that an earthquake?!” Jude exclaims to him as he hoists her up on her feet in the shifting water as the rumbles die out.

“We need to get outta the fuckin’ water!” Frankie presses to her with wide eyes.

“Wait,” she pulls him back, but he simply grabs at her hand, pulling her forward

“I’m serious, Jude. We need to get to high ground, quickly.” The panic is palpable in his voice. “That was a fuckin’ earthquake. We’re on an island in the middle of the ocean. A tsunami will be imminent. We have to get to high ground!” Frankie repeats to her, looking Jude dead in the eye.

He isn’t messing around.

Jude can feel her heartbeat crashing inside her chest as he says the words. “A-a tsunami?”

“Yeah, we have maybe fifteen minutes or so, maybe less.”

“How do you know that, it might not even happen?”

“Do you wanna take that chance? C’mon!” Frankie makes a dash for the shoreline and they run naked towards the shack.

She frantically pulls on clothes as does he inside of it.

“Here!” Frankie tosses her a life jacket; one of the two he’d kept rolled up all this time on the case beside the bed.

A warning sign; a deadly prediction from his gut thriving into fruition right under their noses all this time.

It only perplexes him how, at the time all those months ago when he’d made that decision not to cut these two life jackets up, that he would be right not to.

He hopes he’s wrong. Hopes that nothing will happen and that his overzealousness will be met with a rational calm later.

With trembling hands, his senses on high alert, he searches in his mind for the safest route to higher ground. Every second feels like an eternity as they stumble through the frantic chaos.

Jude unravels it and puts it over her head, fastening the ties, but not inflating it.

He nods at her as she glances at him as her hands work the ties in a blur, time seeming like it grinds to a complete halt as the looks they exchange terrify them both to their cores.

They both run out of the shack. Frankie looks out at the sea and it all seems calm and normal. No signs of any turbulent water, but they can’t take the chance and be caught unawares.

“Up to the ridge, go!” Frankie instructs.

They scramble up the hill towards the ridge; getting up there in half the time it usually takes them. Frankie’s pulling her by the arm, almost yanking it out the socket as they pelt up the hill as fast as they can muster.

They reach the top of the ridge and Frankie’s branch igloo is still there; as is the ugly shirt flag fluttering in the breeze. Jude puts her hands on her knees and breathes in heavily, staring out at the horizon, watching... waiting.

“What do we do?” She puffs.

“We wait. It’s all we can do.” Frankie confirms bleakly.

“It might not happen,” she murmurs, convincing herself.

“Almost after every earthquake at sea, there’s a tsunami that follows,” Frankie informs her, but it doesn’t make it any better.

His mind races with the memories of the devastating effects of tsunamis he’d witnessed during his time in the military, on search and rescue recon’s - the sheer power of the waves etched into his memory like a nightmare he can't shake.

“Are we up high enough?” Jude asks, fear gripping her.

He doesn’t answer, feeling the heavy breeze blow through his beard and watches as the wind whips around her hair, casting it about wildly like a sea monster with several hundred tentacles coming at him.

Frankie secures his own life jacket around his waist and then tugs on Jude’s to check its tightness. He undoes it and ties it again for her, and she feels him pull on it again afterwards to test it won’t come undone.

Frankie looks up at the flag shirt and reaches for it, tearing it down from the branch. She watches him rip through the fabric with ease.

He takes her right arm and wraps it around hers and then around his left one, effectively tying their two hands together.

She locks her fingers into his and he grips onto them tightly.

She can already feel the bind of the shirt cutting off her circulation, but it’s nothing compared to the sheer terror raging through her body right now.

And that's when she realises it. Realises how eerily quiet it’s suddenly become.

“Shit...” Frankie gasps looking over her head at the horizon, his eyes widening in fear.

He pulls her back towards him as she turns and sees the waves high in the sky in the distance.

All she can do is gulp at the sight of it hurtling towards the island.

Frankie tugs on the pull cord of her life jacket, the hiss pours out of it as it inflates around her chest and throat.

He does the same with his, but nothing happens.

Jude looks wide-eyed at him; hearing nothing but her heartbeat inside of her ears almost deafening her now.

“No, no, no-”

“It’s ok,” he reassures. “Just don’t let go. It’ll be okay.” Frankie squeezes her hand tighter than ever. "Don't fuckin' let go."

Jude looks out at the horizon, at the waves hurtling towards them; thundering across the ocean and staring at imminent death in the face as it smiles back at them viciously.

It’s been waiting for them, waiting for so long and is now coming to reap the reward of its patience.

“Frankie-” She begins in a terrified voice that whimpers and cracks. “Frankie!”

“I fuckin’ love you, Jude!” Frankie calls out to her frantically over the storm of the relentless tidal commotion that bellows through their eardrums.

She looks back and sees the transformation on his face.

It’s like super, slow motion as his nostrils flare, his eyes widen as big as they'll go, and his mouth morphs into a large engulfing hole; his teeth bared and shouting as loudly as he can at her.

He wrenches Jude backwards into his arms as the waves fully engulf the island in a thunderous roar.

“BRAAACE!!” Frankie yells.

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MAIN MASTERLIST

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

@suzdin @missladym1981 @magpiepills @millennial-teenybopper @legendary-pink-dot @msjarvis @tightjeansjavi @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin @chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog @myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs @fckyeapedrothots99 @goodwithcheese @anavatazes @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @76bookworm76

#Whyyyy why do you torture us Jett 😭#Frankie morales #Pedro pascal

184 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 26 days

Text

It's incredible how addicted I am with them it's like I can't get enough of them! They are so perfect 😭😭❤❤

PD: when he shhh her by kissing her I might have collapsed?? 😍

8. dark olive

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eight of do me yourself

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Rounding the corner, hands pushing the cart, you spot him immediately. Hands busy, comparing two types of tape in the middle of the aisle he’d left your side for.

Fuck, the tape looks so small in his hands.

A thought you're quick to shake out, eyes glazing past items on the shelves as you wander to him.

This store is so different from the one you met him in—the one he works in. Even if the circumstances feel oddly similar. Him, down an aisle; you, hopelessly and completely out of your comfort zone, still struggling to understand what it is you're here for.

It also smells different here. The place is a lot brighter, the lights above gleaming—newer, more LED than bulb—and the floor has little to no stains. You’d also noticed that the paint tins live across several aisles, with more colours than you thought possible.

Mostly, you miss Harold.

Oddly, for saying you’d rarely been there, you feel like you’re cheating on him. Almost betraying Harold's Hardware by being inside this larger, more fancier store.

A thing which tugs at the corner of your lips when you come to a stop near him. Finding Frankie turning his chin, wearing a puzzled look across his ridiculously handsome face. One that almost makes you break out into a smile, instead choosing to drag your tongue across your bottom lip as you inhale—trying not to let your eyes drop from his loose curls to his dark jeans.

“Do you feel like you’re cheating?” you ask, voice dropping as you come to a stop next to him, watching as he simultaneously places one tape back and one in the cart as he moves around to where your forearms are resting. “Because we’re shopping in a store that isn’t yours.”

Sliding his fingers under your chin as you straighten, making it easier to slide his mouth over yours.

Smirking, you bite your lip. “I feel like he’s going to know—Harold. He’ll smell it on you.”

“He’s not a vampire.”

“Could be. Instead of blood, it’s wood chippings and—”

Fingers crawling up your cheek, you catch the whisper of shh before he kisses you.

An attempt made to steal your breath, a thing you allow him to take willingly, practically handing him all you have in your lungs as your smirk and thoughts fade. At the feel of his hand sliding around you, you melt. Hands sliding from the cart to his face, feeling the fuzz of his hair against your palm, the smile that adorns his face against your mouth as you do all you can to hold back a moan in the middle of a tool and supplies aisle.

“Morales,” you warn as your mouth parts from his, catching the sound of him groaning—even from the back of his throat.

Tongue peeking through his teeth he snorts. “Morales? Ay?”

“Butterscotch in the sheets, Morales in the streets.”

Even if he shakes his head, you spot how soft his eyes are—all adorned with mischief, love. A sight you can't get over as it does a good job of making your heart flutter, especially as he continues to stroke your cheek—his calloused thumb dragging back and forth in gentle movements.

One he woke you up with the other day; one he does when he can tell your heart is racing quicker than your worries.

Fuck, you like him.

A lot.

His thumb still drags along your cheek as you think as much, as he sighs—all faint, with ease. As though he’s thinking something similar. Or maybe, you're just hoping.

“I think it's our little secret,” he murmurs.

His hand slides down, brushes down your body before he reaches for another item on the shelf. Not even looking—just knowing.

And, for the third time since being in here, it makes you warm. Makes you hot. It makes you want to drag him back to his truck and ask him to park it somewhere out of sight.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you smile, hands finding the cart again. “I just…”

“You just?”

Running your tongue over your teeth, you lift your chin. “I don’t know how you just… do things, sometimes. You’re so—”

“Handsome?”

“—Competent.”

Narrowing his eyes, he tries not to smirk. You can tell. Giving you that look—the one he gave you in your kitchen, in the aftermath of when he almost choked on his juice, when you said you had breakfast he could eat. Meaning eggs. Even if the two of you burnt them doing something far more fun.

“Do you like that, Rainy?” You try not to warm at the pet name, at the nickname that’s grown to have more meaning than your own. “That I’m competent?”

Grabbing the cart, you nudge it into him. “Stop.”

Smirking, he winks, adding a noted before he begins leading you. The two of you weave through the aisles, mundane items ending up in the cart—the mess of things all rolling around the metal frame. On occasion, he mumbles something before scratching his forehead with the back of his hand, while you hover, not at all sure if he's naming a product or just making up words.

And, you just admire.

Completely in awe as he calculates something and then looks at you—like you’re the answer. Or because he knows now that it somehow turns you on.

“Have I told you how pretty you look today?”

Rolling your lips, you shake your head, watching him add more things to buy.

“Twice, actually.”

Pulling a face, and moving closer, he hooks a finger around the loop of your jeans. “Doesn’t feel enough.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, you stare at him—right into his eyes, falling into them. “We should go pay.”

He smiles at you, the corners of his lips curling into something more as he nods his head and leads you to pay—joining an empty checkout.

"Same time next week?" he asks.

“Are you making these hardware dates with me a regular thing?”

“Why not? Maybe we can visit them all—I know some guys take girls to new cities or towns, but I wanna show you all the hardware stores.”

Laughing, you watch him empty everything, shooting you a grin each time he grabs something else from the cart until it empties.

Then, you bite the inside of your cheek when he goes to grab his wallet, fumbling for it. Your eyes spot it, that line—the one you love to smooth out with your palm—and how it begins to deepen. Moving from your place as you slide your phone out, ass brushing against him as you mumble that you’ll get this one.

It’s only when you hear the distinct beep of the payment, that you look over your shoulder. “You didn’t lose it,” you announce, watching him pause, face smoothing out. “Your wallet.”

Hands pause on the back of his jeans, he stops.

“It’s here,” you continue, patting the pocket of your jacket, “But, I’ll let you buy me lunch if you want?”

The cashier chuckles, hearing it, distantly, something about your girlfriend is funny—even if you’re focused on him, on how his eyes soften and his lips have curled into a grin.

We should think about constructing your shelving soon.

Good afternoon to you too, baby. That sounds fun. How do we do that?

Hello baby. I’m thinking, as it’s entirely bespoke that we get some drawers from IKEA, but the shelves above we make ourselves.

Does this mean you’re going to show me how to use power tools?

Yeah, sure. Probably be safer at mine, then I can transport them over to yours when we’re done?

Sounds good to me. So, an IKEA date?

Yeah. That can be next week's Hardware trip.

Oh, how you spoil me.

You know it, hermosa.

I still need to pick a paint, right?

Yes, you thought about any of the swatches you’ve done?

Frankie answers in record speed, your back leaning against the wall—staring at the now smooth wall the two of you had gotten pristine.

“Thought this would be easier.”

“Admit you missed my voice.”

Fighting a groan at the sound of the way he lowered his voice, you flex your toes in your socks. “You’re getting awfully big-headed, Butterscotch.”

Snorting, you hear a crash from his end of the phone, and the distinct sound of the phone being brought away before he shouts to Luca.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s building the equivalent of Jurassic World in my living room.”

Smirking, you lick your lips. “You sound thrilled.”

“Tim and Vinnie needed a home. And, it’s cruel of Daddy to make them homeless—”

Nodding, you glance at the swatches as you listen. Eyes flicking over taupes and golden yellows, over soft pinks and sea blues, but you keep being drawn back to one shade each time.

One that makes you linger, before gazing away from it—hesitant, somehow. The reasoning is half-known, yet you don’t want to unfold or unravel it properly.

Because you know why you like it—why you’re drawn to it.

Why it makes you want to smile, why it makes you feel at ease and calm, safe—

“—Is that your friend, Daddy?”

“Luca—”

“Hello, Daddy’s friend!”

His voice, all little and high-pitched—almost out of breath, as you imagine him running—makes your heart flicker, managing to croak back a, “Hi there.”

“My name is Luca and I’m—Daddy no—”

Your hand comes up to your mouth, grinning behind your fingers as you hear giggles and little screams. Frankie’s voice jokingly calls out that he’s a little monster��the phone clanging and clattering before the most joyous sound of two laughs blending into one before you’re picked up from whatever place you’d fallen to.

“I’m back.”

“Hi, baby.”

Sighing, he apologises, “Where were we?”

“Olive green. I like olive green.”

He makes a noise, one that you can’t help but think he’s surprised by.

“What—green is growing on me,” you add.

And he makes a different noise, one you suspect is married to a smile—a grin. One you’re pretty sure you’re mirroring neighbourhoods away, as you hear Luca in the background cheer at the sound of another crash.

So, I know you mentioned us going out for dinner tonight, but I wondered if I could interest you in something else.

I’m intrigued.

Well, you said you were still sore from training yesterday with Ben and I know you’ve been doing extra at the store, so how about UNO and pizza?

Baby, I promised you I’d take you out.

And you are. From my kitchen counter to my living room.

Is this what you really want?

Yes. Please.

I'm starting to think you don't like going out.

Why would I want to share you with more eyes, Morales?

Let me bring pizza then.

I guess I can agree to that.

Throwing down the last card, cheering, you watch him scowl—the few UNO cards he had left thrown down onto the table as you grab another slice of pizza. Wearing your win on your face, letting it descend like mist to your shoulders, hips as you do a little wiggle—all cross-legged on your living room floor.

He, on the other hand, huffed in faux annoyance, a glint in his eyes—the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Best out of three?” he proposes, already reaching forward and shuffling the deck with a smirk.

“You know you’ve lost two already.”

“Best out of seven then.”

And so, the game continues. Frankie on your sofa, leaning forward over the coffee table—surrounded by the remnants of pizza and scattered UNO cards. The glow from your lamp cascaded over the room, his curls teased and pulled on as he lost another game.

“Alright, cheat. Last round,” he declares.

As the game unfolds, you can't help but feel so incredibly happy. Just being here, with him. It's a simple night, nothing fancy, yet it feels more special than any other night with any other people.

You don’t even mind that he wins the last round, rolling your eyes at the triumphant grin on his face. “Told you I could beat you,” he gloats, gathering up the cards.

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile on your face. "Alright, alright, don't let it get to your head," you tease, unfolding your legs as you stand, grabbing the plates and napkins.

After everything is tidied up, you both settle down on the couch, snuggling into each other. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close to his side. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh.

“Thank you for tonight,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up at him, a soft smile on your face. “I had a great time.”

“Because you won?”

“Because I won.”

He swallows, shaking his head lightly as he stares at you—as you purse your lips and think about throwing your legs up over his. Heart doing a steady skip, the longer you stare, mouth opening to ask if he wants to stay when his opens and beats you to it.

“I want you to meet Luca.”

Face softening, your eyes widen to match the smile spreading over your face. “Yeah? You do?”

Nodding, he runs his knuckles over your chin. “I talked to Sam—Samantha. ‘Cause I wanted to make sure she was okay with it, y’know?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want to do it without her being okay with it.”

Smiling, his hand drops to your knee, drawing a square. “You’re also… the first person,” he adds, nose scrunching as the words wash over you.

“Oh. Well, Frankie, I’d love to meet him. When you’re ready.”

His eyes drop, and you feel it—the air shift, something changing—before he clears his throat again. Retracing his hand, the heel of his palm runs across his forehead, and your heart’s pattern changes, and alters.

A dread falls out, sliding down over your skin, cooling the warmth that had been steadily growing all evening.

“But,” he swallows, fingers brushing over your knee. “I need to tell you something first.”

It’s quiet, the okay that escapes. That slithers out and spreads its fingers towards him. A panic rising in you, twisting—knotting. It makes you want to clear your throat, swallow, and do all you can to make it shift, but you can feel it pulsing, waiting.

Swallowing again, you spot Frankie’s hands twitching nervously. "Remember I told you about when I helped a friend—the dangerous thing?”

Eyes flicking, watching his hand lock over the other—fingers moving back and forth, scratching, eyes on you like a hawk as you nod, bracing yourself.

“Well…”

And it falls out of him. Listening, even over your racing heart—taking it in, as much as you can, more than bits and pieces, but not confident the full thing is reaching your brain.

You match the names of his friends to the ones you met, two shadows forming in the picture he paints—briefly wondering if they were in the photo at his, if they were people you’d heard about before, and never known. Hearing names like Ironhead and Pope, not realising until a second later explanation of who they were.

The more he spills, the more panicked his voice becomes—the more breath he attempts to take in. As though it's been shoved somewhere inside of him, crammed in a space too large, it bursting out of him now. All visibly affecting him, making his hand continue to scratch, nails digging deeper into the other. Red lines appear, clawing into the back of his hand as he continues on, and on—

“Frankie, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I do, baby. I do because—” he chokes, a sob there—likely bubbling and unwilling to burst in his throat, eyes shimmering, swimming in unspent tears, “—I made a rushed call, and… and my friend—“

“Frankie.”

“He died.”

It feels like you’ve been hit in the chest.

A hand reaching in, twisting in past your ribs. A tightness that had been turning and shifting, suddenly explodes, leaving you breathless. Your mouth falls open, thoughts empty as you simply stare, blinking.

Not because of what he said, but because you knew it before he said it. Before he confesses the next thought, which you had a feeling had been eating him alive since he first began—

“And it was my fault.”

Your heart breaks, shatters for him.

Worsened by the way his words catch on his teeth as he shakes his head, as a tear falls down his cheek—as his nails continue to scratch, and scratch, more words tumbling out from his tongue.

The weight of his confession presses down on you, a suffocating force that threatens to crush your spirit. The air is heavy in the room, charged with sorrow and regret, his eyes encased in torment as his skin begins to peel apart—a raw wound laid bare, both metaphorically and literally.

“—and if I hadn’t crash landed, if I hadn’t taken the shot, if I hadn’t—“

If I hadn’t. If I hadn’t.

If I hadn’t.

The words are balled up, dropping out—followed by other things. Failings, all of them. Ones that have rippled inside of him for longer than you care to think about; them all likely rotted, become a mass of heavy regrets that have clung to the inside of his chest.

You whisper his name, but it’s like calling out a person in the centre of a stadium full of noise.

It’s swallowed, smothered. Barely reached his ears as you want to reach out and touch him, to centre him, bring him back to you. In all the ways he does so with you.

“—It's why I couldn’t fly, why I took the job, why… she left me.” His eyes snap to you, all clear, focused—unlike they’d been a moment ago. “You deserve to know—to choose, to know who you're with. ‘cause I fuck up. I fucked up and I took a man from his kids. I lost my head, I just needed to get out and I—”

Eyes flicking to his hand, you stand up, all suddenly, forcing his voice to trail off as he stares up at you. The room falls quiet as big, brown weeping eyes watch you shift your weight from side to side.

He looks lost, floating in a sea of pain that’s drowning him, that he can’t kick up from as he tries to keep swimming.

And he says your name. All broken, the edges of it chipped—cracked and fractured.

It’s quick, the way you mumble one minute before moving into your kitchen. The way you scramble for the green box, knocking over bottles of cleaning products and bleach as you hear him crumble, as the sound worms in your chest and cracks you. Hearing it, the distinct sound of shit and the way he curses himself for fucking up.

You barely shut the cupboard behind you when you’re moving back to him, seeing him panicked, gasping for breath between sobs. Sorries echoing, vibrating out. They're all a mashing of words and syllables, yet you can discern every single one as you drop back beside him.

Watching him try to shift away, your hand grabs his—quicker, smothering out over the one that sits on top of the one he’s scratched.

“Breathe. In, and out.”

Your name slithers out, between gasps and shakes.

“In for four, that’s it—then we hold for seven, like me—and exhale. Good. Again.”

Watching him come down, settle—ease falling out over him as you hold his hand, grip it, hold him so tight so he knows you’re not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to—”

“I just needed to get this,” you soothe, grabbing the first aid kit, placing it between the two of you. “You… you’ve cut yourself, baby.”

Swallowing, he blinks—either at the name, or the softness of your tone—before he glances down.

“Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” you say, a double meaning.

Opening the kit, pulling out antiseptic and bandages, feeling him watch you as you gently clean his wounds, his breath hitching when the antiseptic stings, but he doesn't pull away. Not even when you ask if he's talked to someone, or when he nods, when he explains that he had to, that he hadn't been able to sleep and he was worried about having a baby overnight.

Frankie doesn't move even after you’ve cleaned it, or when you softly bandage it. Your fingers move with precision, all the while careful not to press too hard.

When you're done, you let your hand linger on his, your thumb gently rubbing over the bandages. You meet his gaze, seeing nothing but pain—wishing you could light a flicker of hope, do something to ease it.

“I need you to hear me say something, Frankie. Can you do that or would you prefer I wait?" you ask, voice steady, even though your heart pounds in your chest.

Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

Swallowing, he averts his eyes. “Yeah. I can hear it."

Your heart falls in your chest. “Frankie, I'm not ending it." You reassure, thankful his head shifts to face you. “Baby, whatever happened, it happened. It doesn't—it doesn’t change things for me. Doesn’t change the person I know. I know it’s a part of your story, a thing I can never heal for you, and I know there's likely more there, but you don't need to tell me. I don't need to know the whole thing.”

His eyes don't leave yours, and you see them fill with tears again. But this time, there's relief in them, too. Your hand lightly brushes over the bandage.

“Because what I do know is how much I like getting to know you. I know how Ben talked about you—how good Will said you were, are. I know what person I’ve been seeing, so, I don’t feel any different, about you—about us. Okay?”

Nodding, chewing his tongue for a moment, he slowly pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your neck. And, you hold him just as tight—hand stroking his back, feeling his tears on your skin. How his breathing steadies, and becomes more regular.

Only when he loosens his grip do you pull away slightly. Seeing enough to catch his face, how he's looking at you with such raw gratitude and vulnerability that it makes your chest ache. Pressing your forehead to his, closing your eyes as you take it in, you lay a soft kiss on his mouth, taking a moment, letting it all settle.

And then you clear your throat. “But, you are really bad at UNO.”

He snorts, eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Like really bad—maybe the worst person I’ve ever played UNO with—”

Grabbing you, almost tickling you, he half-smiles, somehow having shifted himself to be above you, pressing you into your sofa cushions. “Yeah, alright”

Smiling up at him, you flick your eyes from his to his lips. “Do you want to stay and make me eggs in the morning?”

Rolling his lips, he takes a deep breath, before slowly nodding. "If that's okay?"

"I'd like you to."

Baby, you were fast asleep when I had to get up for work, so I made you a thank-you-for-listening-to-me-omelette. The recipe was complex, with lots of various thanks woven into it, so I hope you like it. I also spotted my brand of coffee in your cupboard, I’m trying to stop grinning at that, so I’ll try and call on my break if you want—so you can remind me how bad I am at UNO.

I just woke up, so I’m going to hunt down this omelette that definitely didn’t need to be made from thank-you-eggs.

Okay, first report, your omelette is almost as good as your coffee. Which yes, I bought.

Starting to think you really like me, Rainy.

I might do, Butterscotch.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

AN: hope we're all doing okay

#Frankie morales #Pedro pascal

327 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 29 days

Text

I'm so addicted to them! Everytime I read a new chapter I get like this:

7. honey cream

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.9k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. bad tool names. anxious!reader. an: can i just say a massive thank you to all those who show up EVERY SINGLE WEEK. i adore you so much. thank you. if you're new to the ride, also welcome. even if i loved this story so much, i never expected people to love it even half as much as me, never mind the love i keep getting. so thank you.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Nice forearm in your story.

Thanks, It’s this guy I met in a hardware store? We’ve been kind of seeing one another.

Oh, tell him he has a nice watch.

I’ve been told to tell you that you have a nice watch.

You’re hilarious.

I try to be.

You can say no to this, but do you want me to call you later?

That’ll be nice. I’ll be working late so I'll take a break when you do.

Tomorrow, I just need to grab some bits from the store and then I’ll be with you.

Are you sure you want to spend your day off helping me paint?

I was promised to see you in overalls, so yes.

They’re nice, but please lower your expectations.

I bet they look great on your ass.

Everything looks great on my ass.

Including my hand.

Yes, specifically when you slipped your fingers in my jeans pocket on the way to brunch.

I can’t wait to see you.

Drive safely, Butterscotch.

“I feel bad that your day off is spent painting.”

Flicking the lid off with a screwdriver, Frankie just smiles—eyes looking up at you from under his cap.

When he looks at you, you might as well be a fly irresistibly drawn to the brilliance of it, captivated by it.

He’d come in clothes that were long since paint-splattered. A set, you assume, he wears most times—an over-washed and over-loved flannel over a greying white tee, and a pair of cargos that have more pockets than you know what they could be used for.

It had been more natural when he’d arrived this time. A sweet kiss at the door, a long hug where he walks you in and his heel kicks your door shut. A muttering of 'you smell nice', into your neck—grinning over his shoulder because you’d sprayed far too much of your perfume.

“Don’t—I want to be here.”

“I think I’ll likely apologise another three times, at least, before we’re done.”

Standing, wearing a slightly twinged expression on his face, he steps over the clean trays and folded step ladders. His hand rises, turning the beak of his cap around, before he’s in front of you, staring at you before he kisses you.

Kisses you like he wishes to rid you of your worries and make your guilt wash away. Like he wants to empty your mind of things you’ve once been told, make you forget them, purge them. Fuck, his mouth almost does.

“So, rule of thumb—ceiling, walls and then kickboards, window sills.”

“Did you… Did you really just finish kissing me and immediately talk about painting?”

Grinning, he chuckles, bending down to grab a paintbrush. “Did you want me to linger on why you feel bad, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?"

You hesitate for a moment before taking the brush, fingers brushing over his. “I guess I’ll get dirty, since it’s with you.”

He seems to swallow, gaze holding yours as a soft smile tries to tug at his lips before flattening out to a line. Then, you just watch as he pours the off-white paint into the trays—its thick, glooping contents filling it quicker than you’d banked on, but he took it perfectly in his stride.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, forearms flexing as he tilts the larger tub until he appears content with the measurement in the tray.

You know a thumb covered in paint shouldn’t cause your throat to dry, but it does. Your mind thinking up all the places he can leave a stamp of it, a trail of it, turn you into a map showing where he’s been—over a thigh, collarbone, your —

“Race you to the end of the wall?”

Blinking, finding him already readying his roller on the blank, sun-stained wall.

Before you can respond, he's off. The roller glides smoothly across the wall, leaving a trail of fresh paint in its wake. You laugh, shaking your head at his competitive spirit before joining him, your own brush meeting the wall—cutting in.

In time, the room fills with the rhythmic sound of brushes against the wall, the occasional laughter, and gentle conversations. The room transformed over the hours, looking fresher, already a thousand times better than it had this morning with the patches off filled in holes and cracks.

Taking the brush from your hands, you step back to the middle, looking around, not initially aware of how he’s looking at you. Not until you spot a satisfied smile and a glint in his eye.

“We did good, didn't we?”

You shrug. “Think you could do better—put your back really into rolling next time.”

Shaking his head, he throws your brush into the used tray before he’s grasping, tugging, your body connecting with his in an oomph—his reflexes quicker, arms longer than you’d expected—as laughter escapes out as you slide your hand around the back of his neck.

“Thank you. For helping me.”

“Sure,” he whispers, cheek close to yours, fingers on your hip. “Have I told you how good you look in your overalls?”

Rolling your lips, you slowly turn in his hold—all set to turn his cap for him again. To whisper to him that they’re easy to remove too, that he could slide his fingers up, even slant your mouth back over his again.

But you hear his stomach. It rumbles—practically thunderous.

“I haven’t even offered you food,” you confess, words laced with guilt. “I should make you food.”

“You don’t have to…”

Fingers entwining with his, you pull him—finding him happily following, even as he mumbles about cleaning up, that the paint will dry in the tray. You don’t loosen your hold until the two of you are in the kitchen, a hand needed to open the fridge, both required to pull out some ingredients.

“You cooking for me?”

“I’m going to try, if that’s okay?”

He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft smile.

“I'd love that, baby,” he says, the affection in his voice making your heart flutter like it keeps doing.

Before you’ve even sliced the first vegetable, Frankie excuses himself—a kiss to your cheek, all domestic, normal. It not feeling weird even as he goes back to the “project room” and you hear him tidying.

Because it’s not odd in the slightest him being here.

A thing you turn over as you continue to prepare ingredients, cutting and marinating. By the time he’s returned, sporting an amused smile on his face, you’re about to begin frying things.

“Can I do anything?”

Shaking your head, you glance at him over your shoulder, finding he’s taken up his earlier spot. “Just keep me company.”

And he does. Asking you things, questions—some about your childhood, your family, friends. Every word spoken, he hangs onto. Staring like he’s making notes in his head, committing them to memory, somewhere inside that beautiful, amazing mind of his.

“Should I get used to you cooking if I come round and help you with your project?” he teases, taking a water from the fridge like you’d instructed.

“You better not get used to it,” you retort, throwing a small piece of bell pepper at him playfully. He ducks, laughing. “I batch cook most of the time—easier when you eat for one.”

His eyes follow as you move around the kitchen with a fondness in his eyes, you focusing on not burning anything. Stomach knotting itself when it comes to dishing it up, placing it down, and watching him slide into the stool.

When he takes the first bite, you swear you are frozen—unable to move, or think. Eyes just focused on his, watching, waiting, until you breathe a sigh of relief at the way his eyes light up. “This is really good, baby.”

You can't help but feel a little proud. “Thank you.”

He raises his water in a toast. “To more cooking then,” he proposes, and you laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly.

As you stick your own fork in, it's easy to find comfort in the shared silence, a contentment you continue to be amazed at. The atmosphere all at ease. There's no need for words as you both eat, side-by-side, a relatively normal thing for most, but not for you.

But, none of it feels weird, awkward. It never has—even if part of you continues to wait for it. If anything, it continues to be comfortable, right.

Even as the food effortlessly vanishes off both of your plates, it's not until you've reached your fill that you clear your throat.

“So, how often do you have Luca?”

Chewing his food, he puts down the remainder—wiping his fingers on the napkin. “It’s a weird rota. But it works? I’ll have him in the week for two nights and then overnight on a Saturday one week and then one night in the week the following and then Friday to Sunday, and then I’ll have him for three nights in the week the following. Sometimes, extra if I have time off or I want to take him to see family.”

Nodding, you take a sip of your drink.

“Does that… bother you?”

“No! No, of course not,” you grin. “He’s the most important, in all of this. It was just curiosity, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work out the pattern.”

Chewing his cheek he smiles. “You trying to work out when I’m free?”

Shrugging, you look away, aware of the heat warming your cheeks. “Well, someone did post about brunch on their Stories…”

“I remember someone else posting my forearm on theirs.”

Smiling, you plate your cutlery down. “It’s a very nice forearm.”

Shoulder nudging you, Frankie chuckles—cutlery lined up on his plate, your hand moving to take it. Sliding around the kitchen as he begins debating what part of him will appear next, a thigh, an ankle.

“I can include all of you next time, if you like?” Hand testing the hot, soapy water filling the bowl.

“Yeah?”

Licking your lips, you smile. “I don’t cook for anyone, Morales.”

Shifting to meet your gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Is that right, Rainy? I must be pretty special then.”

“You have no idea,” you reply, your voice a mere whisper but the words carry an immense weight, one you suspect has snuck out, and embedded itself into him.

You're quick to turn your back to him, hide the heat and shyness, as you carefully rinse off the dishes. Only hearing the stool shift at the last moment, the sound of his sock-covered feet padding around until he's standing behind you.

His presence is unmistakable, more so when he places his hands on your hips. “I think I'm beginning to,” he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

You turn to face him, the plates forgotten in the sink. Looking up into his eyes, seeing a reflection of things fluttering in them.

“You better,” you say, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “because I'm not planning on posting anyone else’s arm for a while.”

His grin widens at your words, his hands pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "Good, because I don't plan on trying brunch with anyone else."

And as he leans down to kiss you, he pauses, mouth hovering over yours. “Speaking of…”

Narrowing your eyes, you retract your head, soap suds sliding off your wrists.

“My friends… they want to meet you.”

His words catch you off guard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Meet...me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

As soon as he confirms with a simple nod, you feel a tightness in your chest. An explosion in your mind. A vortex of thoughts, all overwhelming, non-stop.

Each second you try to breathe, the knot in your chest tightens, sitting, carving a bigger hole where your happiness had just been—

“Yes,” he confirms, his hands soothingly rubbing circles on your hips as though noticing your sudden tension. “I think, maybe, I’ve talked about you too much?”

Running your teeth over your lip, you feel a piece of skin. One sticking up, not as smooth as the rest. Lip balm would solve it, fix it—but you pick at it anyway, pick, pick, pick—

Running your teeth over your lip, you notice a stray piece of skin, protruding slightly, disrupting the otherwise smooth surface. Lip balm would fix it, effortlessly smooth it out—but despite knowing this, you find yourself unable to resist the urge to pick at it. Listening to him as he explains, hearing names, a day suggested. As you compulsively pick, pick, pick—

Until he says your name.

Soft. Gentle. So cautiously spoken it makes your heart do a double take as you taste copper on your tongue.

“Are you sure? I mean, I want to. I just… don’t want to intrude or anything,” you reply, and you know it’s left your mouth shaky, bathed in nerves.

Attempting to shake the suds from your hands, hoping to fling off the worries with it, you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. Mind a flurry, a snowstorm of ifs, buts and maybes.

Because meeting his friends is a significant step—a thing you’re happy about, pleased he feels the same way. Yet, you're also terrified.

Digging your hip into the counter because of it, rooting yourself as you flex your fingers.

“Hey.” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to look up at him; eyes full of warmth and reassurance. "You wouldn't be intruding, baby. They're… they’re like my family and… I want them to meet the person I can’t stop thinking about.”

Shoulders sliding down from your ears, you move to rest your hands on his waist. “You really talk about me that much?”

Scrunching his nose, he smiles. “A bit.”

“Okay,” you agree, your voice sounding more confident than you feel. “I'll meet your friends.”

“Great,” he grins, his relief evident. He pulls you close, hugging you tightly. “Benny—the one who fights—that's who we'll be supporting.”

“When?”

He frowns, but vanishes it away as though realising you hadn't been listening. “Not this weekend, but next. They’re going to love you, I promise.”

“I hope so,” you whisper into his chest, your heart rate trying its best to slow down.

I need you to tell me what I need to do with the office room, if your friends happen to not like me. They’re going to like you. But if they don’t. Rainy, they will. Introducing you is more so they don’t think I’ve made you up. You have a habit of making up people? No. But apparently, the way I talk about you makes it seem like you’re made up. Why? Because you’re perfect. I am not. You are, but let’s have that battle another day. What are you worried about?

It sits there, in your fingers. The answer to his question.

Foot kicking out at your kitchen island, laptop light illuminating your face as you roll your tongue over your lips.

Foot kicking out nervously at the kitchen island, the harsh glow of the laptop casting an eerie light across your face, you roll your tongue over your lips.

A nervous tic. One you find yourself repeating—letting it trace over the same path again and again, desperately seeking a sense of calm that seems perpetually out of reach.

The question doing its rounds, spinning and swirling: What are you worried about? What are you worried about?

Like a bell has been wrung, it blares out. The answer.

It vibrates through your bones and comes back to you in an echo. Almost a chorus: That I’m not good enough.

A thing you’ve done well to ignore, to stuff down. But now, it's crawling up out of its boxes, the tape having barely kept it down, flapping about in the whirlwind of worries in your head.

As your phone screen dims, memories flood, recalling the evidence. The words flung at you, feelings you’ve wrestled with in bathrooms at loud parties and brutal quiet nights; arguments in places that don’t feel like home and tears against brick walls that cut shoulders.

Unlocking your phone, you tighten your jaw because he's not like them. He's good, kind. A sudden unwillingness to bend to insecurity roaring inside of you as you list every good thing about him; not willing to let a good thing be ruined by things that could never happen.

Sliding your fingers over the screen, you type words that seem easier, less difficult to confess:

Living up to the stories you’ve said. No stories, just a mention of your name and apparently a smile they’ve not seen in a while.

With a mouth-closed grin, you purse your lips.

Reading over the message again and again as your teeth sneak out to bite your lip, thumbs darting out over the phone’s keyboard.

Would it be okay to pick you up? You want to pick me up? I do. Yeah, sure. I was going to offer to pick you up. I think I’d like to pick you up, and if I don’t make a fool out of myself, would you like to stay over? I’ll pack your robe.

As soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into your car, you feel at ease.

The drive over to grab him had been a combination of whispered mutterings about how it was going to be fine and a mind full of all the ways it wouldn’t be.

It’s further helped when his lips press to your cheek, allowing hands to loosen on the steering wheel, and when that low voice sweeps over you as he greets you—as other words hang there unspoken.

You almost say it on sight, I've missed you.

Because you have. A week and a half of messages and phone calls sufficing, but you’ve missed his presence, his face, the chance to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“You look nice.”

Eyes widening, he stares down at himself, palms brushing out over his thighs. “Me?”

“No, the ghost you brought with you—of course, you.”

Snorting, he fastens his seatbelt. “Says you, hermosa.”

“Smooth talker.”

The drive to the fight continues with similar, gentle teasing, all comfortable conversation filling the vehicle. He begins to fill you in on the new developments in the saga of Luca’s newfound love for blanket forts rendering the living room a disaster and you about the sign-off on the work you'd been worked up over.

As you navigate the roads, excitedly sharing about how you've picked a wallpaper you like, Frankie's warm hand finds a home on your thigh, his thumb idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your jeans as he continues talking.

No smirk, nothing. Just the usual smile, as if he'd done this before.

Yet, he hasn't. Unfamiliar sensations surge through your body, catching you off guard, body all ill-prepared for the way it warms you. It almost urges you to shuffle in your seat so his hand rises north; Electricity crackles along your veins, accompanied by a tightening in your abdomen that refuses to dissipate. And, it only worsens when he coughs and his hand grips you a little tighter.

As more of the cityscape flits past your windows, you steal glances at Frankie. His profile illuminated intermittently by the passing street lights, shadows highlighting the rugged contours of his face.

By the time you're pulling into the parking lot, you wish the drive had been longer. Momentarily, you press your thighs together, for reprieve. Only doing so when his hand moves to open the door, the liveliness and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as he comes around the vehicle to take your hand.

“So, where will your friends be?”

Frankie tightens his hand on yours, leading you, holding the door open. “They’ll be in the locker room. Will is Ben’s non-official trainer.”

Nodding, you smile, letting him lead until the two of you come to a stop at the bar—him asking you what you’d like, giving you a look that says please don’t fight me as he takes out his wallet.

“You not needed there?” Shaking his head, ordering drinks as he faces his head forward but his eyes slide down to you. “And what are you, what's your role?”

“His other non-official, less present trainer.”

“You slacker.”

Shrugging, he shakes his head, paying for the drinks. “I know, so much free time to do it too.”

Grinning, you follow him to a spot out of the line, sliding your arm around his back, curling into him—the ice cubes in your plastic cup colliding in the fizziness of your drink.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Because you missed me?”

His mouth opens, parts—the tip of his tongue peeking out as you feel his chest expand before relaxing. “Yeah. Nine days was too long.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide your hand under his jacket, it taking a moment, more awkward than full of ease before you can fan your fingers out against him.

“Technically, it was five—if you count me half-waving to you when I came in to get a screwy.”

Almost spluttering as he takes a sip, he clears his throat, staring down. “You can’t call it a screwy?”

Narrowing your eyes, smirking away. “And why not, Morales?”

“Because suena mal... dirty,” he argues, trying to suppress a laugh.

Your eyebrow raises in question, but before you can retort, his lips are on yours, effectively silencing you. The place around you is all of a sudden silent, muted—as if no one else is around at all. The ring, the lights, and all of the people blurring into nothing, not as your fingers tease over his chin, as your mouth reminds itself what his feels like.

Pulling back, mouth hovering close to his. “So, what do I need to know about your friends? Outside of the obvious.”

The obvious is that they all served together. Frankie had explained it one night as you cooked for yourself, him on a shelf—face filling the screen as you sliced and brewed on the stove.

It was clinically given, top-level you'd been sure. Just the need to know—the need to understand.

“Well, Ben is loud—but he’s gentle. Will is a bit protective, especially since we've all been through a lot together," he begins, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. “But they're good people. They're upfront and honest.”

“Does Harold like them?”

Tutting, he pauses as he lifts the plastic cup to his lips. “The only person Harry likes is you. And his own family.”

“I’ll be sure to drop that in conversation then. Show them I’m one stamp approved already.”

Tilting your chin up, he licks his lips—slowly, intently. “You have nothing to worry about, alright?” You nod, trying to take in his words. “I mean it.”

“Okay.”

Kissing the top of your head, Frankie keeps his arm around you. Even when Benny's name is shouted and the crowd goes wild.

I think they like me.

Are you texting me from the bathroom?

Maybe. But, I think it’s going well.

Baby, are you peeing and texting me?

No! I dried my hands and then messaged you.

So you’re leaning against a dirty wall texting me.

Are you grinning like an idiot at your phone?

Don’t answer I can see it.

Shut up.

If that’s the grin you wear when I message you, no wonder they wanted to meet me.

Basta!

You're cute when you're flustered. Can see the red climbing up your neck from here.

Come back and keep me company.

Grin a bit more and I might.

Rainy.

Fuck you're handsome, Butterscotch.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: while the meeting happens off-paper (haha wanted to say off-screen) all meetings won't appear like this 👀. we knew they'd love her, and in time we'll see how much. also, her texting him in the bathroom may be my fave thing she's done off her own accord (i am merely just a body and fingers when rainy begins talking to me)

#They are so perfect 💗#Frankie morales #pedro pascal

310 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 29 days

Text

Maybe, Baby?

Summary: You and Frankie aren't trying for a baby just yet, but when your weird symptoms start to throw your body for a loop, you start to wonder if you actually might be pregnant

Pairing: Husband!Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), Unprotected p in v sex (wrap before u tap, silly gooses), creampie, praise kink, size kink (if u squint), unintentional breeding kink (lmaoooo, it's me, sorry not sorry), birth control/family planning, pregnancy (or maybe not? part 2 maybe? hehe) symptoms, Frankie and reader mention being closer to 30 than 16 (turns out when you're an adult, it's not a teen pregnancy anymore), reader has hair that can be played with, Frankie being the sweetest husband alive (all the gold stars for him), Frankie is so excited to be a dad that I just may pass away

A/N: I know y'all voted for me to finish chapter 20 but i lied (I'm so sorry), but I wrote this in a day and husband Frankie was really speaking to me on this one 😭 This one is brought to you by my raging baby fever and perhaps some real life inspiration WHOOPS, art imitating life on this one ig 💀 Poorly beta'd bc that's how I roll!!!

Ever since getting off birth control a few months ago, your body had felt… different.

While you were glad you had made the change for yourself, you still found yourself shocked every month when a new sort of symptom decided to appear at some point in your cycle that you had never dealt with before- acne in new places, weird cramps, and crazy mood swings that showed up out of nowhere before your period were just a few of the things you were learning to manage as you figured out your body post birth control.

Another symptom you hadn’t expected was that now, you were insatiably horny.

All the time.

While Frankie had been more supportive and caring in helping you deal with all of your not so pleasant symptoms than you could have hoped for, he was also more than happy to help you with your newly found positive one, too.

The only problem was, after so many years of not having to worry about the consequences of your sex life on birth control, you and Frankie were finding it very hard to adjust to be more… careful.

As you got hornier and hornier, the box of condoms that Frankie had bought after you stopped taking the pill had been seeing less and less use, and to be honest, hadn’t really seen the light of day from the back of his nightstand drawer in about a month an a half- and if you were being even more honest, on top of that, Frankie’s pull out game was almost nowhere to be found.

You both knew that you wanted a family in the future- That was a part of your reason for getting off birth control to begin with. The two of you had agreed to hold off at least for a little longer to try and get your life more in order before bringing a baby into it, but with with your new lack of protection when it came to sex, and constant horniness around the clock, you both were beginning to have a feeling that that your agreed upon timeline for having a baby might be harder for you to maintain that you thought.

Especially when you found yourself morphing into an unspeakably horny monster when you were ovulating.

So little did you realize, that as you were brushing your teeth in the bathroom as the two of you were getting ready for bed and you caught a glimpse in the mirror of Frankie, stripping out of his shirt and jeans, leaving him only in his boxers as he searched around in your dresser for pajamas, that was the reason you nearly spit out your entire mouthful of toothpaste to try and get a mouthful of something else.

You couldn’t help but ogle at your husband's broad body and freckled tan skin, muscles flexing as he shuffled through your drawers, pulling out an old, worn gray t-shirt and tugging it over his head, running his hand through his messy, curly hair before searching for his pajama bottoms.

At this point, you had honestly braced yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter to keep yourself from falling over at how mouth-watering he looked, already feeling the wetness beginning to pool in the cotton of your underwear at the thought of wanting to rip his clothes off just as fast as he had put them on.

Letting out a yawn, Frankie raised his hands above his head so a sliver of his soft belly peaked out between his waistband and shirt hem before making his way into the bathroom, sleepily padding along the tile floor until his body was behind yours, chest flushed against your back and arms wrapped around your waist. Even more prevalent, his bulge pressed against your ass, making the wet spot in your underwear grow damper by the second.

“You ready for bed, querida?” Frankie cooed, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder and smiling at your reflections in the mirror.

While you were absolutely ready to get into bed, sleeping was not going to be your activity of choice.

“I think that maybe…” You paused, turning around to face Frankie, his body caging yours against the counter, palms splayed flat on either side of your hips, looking down at you with his sweet, brown eyes, “I think that maybe we should do something else before we go to sleep.”

“Something else, huh?” Frankie smirked, raising his eyebrows at you as your hands began to run up and down his arms, slightly squeezing the muscles of his biceps as your fingers crept under the fabric of his shirt sleeves. “And what might that something else be, Hermosa?”

“You know exactly what it is, Fransisco. You expect me to watch you just roam around shirtless in our bedroom and not get all hot and bothered? God, you’re so fucking hot.” You moaned, letting your hands run up his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him in for a long, electric kiss.

“Damn, what’s gotten into you, babe?” Frankie chuckled, trying his best not to blush at your comment, sliding his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I don’t- Fuck, I don’t know, I just know that if you don’t fuck me right this second, I think I’m gonna explode.”

While your statement may have had a flair for the dramatic, it was just about as close to the God’s honest truth as you could get- You were so worked up, you felt practically feral, the ache in your core so strong that you really did feel like you were on the verge of implosion.

Before you even gave Frankie time to respond, your lips were crashing into his with a ferocious intensity, your hands grabbing fistfulls of his t-shirt as you stumbled back towards your bedroom, bodies bumping and bouncing against the walls and door frames, mouths never parting as the back of Frankie’s knees finally hit the mattress, forcing him to fall backwards onto the bed.

Crawling overtop of him, you were already straddled over his hips, grinding your bottom half on the bulge growing in his pajamas as your hands crept under the hem of his t-shirt, running along the tanned, soft skin of his chest, making him let out a low groan that rumbled in his throat.

Frantically shuffling himself further onto the bed, Frankie’s hands dug into your hips and over your ass as your hands slid down from his chest to his waistband, fingers tugging at the elastic to shuffle his bottoms and boxers down his legs, quickly followed by your own, dropping to a crumpled pile on the floor.

Feeling your fingers wrap around his cock, already painfully hard, you swirled the precum leaking from his tip with your thumb before dragging your hand up and down his length, leaving Frankie sitting up in surprise while he watched you begin to hover over him, dragging his dick through your folds.

“Hermosa, are you sure you don’t need me to-” But before Frankie could finish the rest of his protest to make sure you were ready to take him, you were already sinking down onto him, whimpering at the sweet sting and stretch of his fullness, followed by the ragged moan escaping Frankie’s lips.

“Oh fuck… Nuh uh, Frankie. I need to feel you, baby. Needed to feel you inside me.” You whined, taking Frankie cock inch by inch until he had bottomed out inside you, his tip kissing your cervix, the fullness making you cry out in pleasure.

Normally with Frankie’s size, you would have needed to warm you up first, but with how wet and worked up you already were, you were able to take him with ease, desperate to feel him buried deep inside you.

“Jesus fucking christ, queirda, you’re so fucking wet. Fuck, baby.” Frankie moaned, feeling you begin to slide up and down his length, coating him with your arousal with each swirl of your hips.

Arching your back, you jutted your hips forward, bracing your hands on Frankie’s strong thighs, circling your bottom half against his, whimpering at his fullness and the hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your clit, selfishly already longing to chase your own high to ease the ache that had been burning in your core.

“Fuck, Frankie, you feel so good. Feel so fucking full with you in me.” You whimpered, bouncing even harder and faster on Frankie’s cock, the lewd sounds of your skin slapping his and wetness dripping from your heat coating the walls of your bedroom.

“Yeah? This what you wanted, pretty girl? Wanted me to stretch this pretty little pussy out and fill you up?” Frankie groaned, gritting his teeth as he began to jut his hips up into yours as you rode him, the added depth of his thrusts making you cry out in pleasure.

And for as fucking good as it felt, the horny monster you had morphed into had you greedily craving more- to have Frankie stretch you open in a way that had you seeing stars, so much that you could still feel the next day, long after the two of you were finished.

“I-I want more, p-please, baby. Fuck- Fuck me harder, Fransisco.” You cried, your sweet voice whimpering his full name turning him almost as feral as you were, letting out a low growl as he grabbed you by your hips, flipping you so that your back hit the mattress and he was caging his broad body over yours.

Practically ripping the t-shirt still covering your upper half off your body, Frankie dove face first between your breasts, groping one while hungrily sucking at the other, flicking your pebbled nipple with his tongue, his free hand reaching down to line his cock back up with your entrance, sliding back in to your aching core with ease.

Frankie let himself sink all the way back in, filling you to the brim before hooking his arms around your knees, pressing your legs against your stomach, smirking to himself at the ragged moan you let out as the new angle opened you up even further.

“You want me to fuck you harder, Hermosa?” Frankie mewled, slowly dragging his length out of your heat, looking down to see your shiny slick soaking his cock before looking back at you and the wrecked expression plastered across your face, frantically nodding in desperation. “Tell me how badly you want it, sweet girl.”

“Fuck, I need you so bad, Fransisco, please.” You begged, damn near close to tears with how deeply you needed to feel Frankie ease the emptiness inside you. “Please, baby, I- oh fuck-”

Before you could even finish the rest of your plea, your breath was already hitched in the back of your throat as Frankie began to pound into you at a relentless pace, tightening his grip around your thighs while he pressed them closer to your chest, grunting with each rut of his hips into yours.

“This what you want, querida? Meirda- so fucking wet and tight, baby girl. You feel so fucking good, holy fuck.”

It didn’t take long for the all too familiar tingle at the base of your spine to start spreading through your body like a wildfire as Frankie continued to slam into your g-spot, making you chant his name like a prayer, your brain at a loss for any other words than “Fuck, Fransisco.”

And as if you already weren’t close enough, when Frankie reached down to thumb at your clit, rubbing in relentless circles against your sensitive nub, you knew you were a fucking goner.

“That’s it, Hermosa. Cum for me, baby. Want that- oh fuck- want that prefect pussy to fucking soak me.” Frankie groaned, feverishly pounding into you, desperate to feel you come undone for him giving him long enough to fight off his own high that was rapidly building in the pit of his stomach.

A few more thrusts were all it took to have the coil snapping in your belly, crying out Frankie’s name as you came, orgasm ripping through your body with a blinding intensity, eyes scrunching shut and jaw hanging open while pleasure and euphoria flowed through every ounce of you.

Still blissed out and wrecked out of your mind, your eyes shot open as Frankie’s mouth crashed into yours, swallowing your whimpers and moans in a messy dance of tongues and teeth.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum. Jesus fuck- fuck, I’m close too, baby. W-where do you want me, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, barley holding on long enough for you to answer, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as his hips began to stutter, gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow with every ounce of self control he had left.

Still barley coherent enough to form a sentence, your brain blurted out the only thing you could think of, and the only thing that you really wanted in the moment.

“Inside, Fransisco. Fuck, cum inside me, baby.”

That alone was almost enough to send Frankie over the edge, letting out a long, low groan, sloppily rutting into you as his brain went blank alongside yours, starting to babble incoherently.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck- you want me to fill you up, queirda? Fuck, I’ll fucking fill you up so good you’ll be dripping out of me for days. Oh fuck, shit baby, fuck, oh I’m gonnaahhhhhh-“

Just like that, Frankie took one last thrust, spilling deep inside you, coating your walls with his spend as his body slumped into yours, the pair of your chests rising and falling in sync as you both came back down to earth.

“Jesus Christ… Holy fuck, Frankie.” You giggled quietly to yourself, blissfully filled with post orgasm ecstasy as your husband carefully pulled himself out before rolling over next to you on the bed, pulling you close against his chest.

“Fuck me, Hermosa, holy shit.” Frankie chuckled, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead, tracing small circles on your back as he held you, heat radiating off of each other's sweat-ridden bodies. “God, I love you. We should probably get you cleaned up. You wanna shower?” He asked, smirking as your face lit up at his nearly rhetorical question.

“Only if you’re up for round 2, Morales.”

“My eyes are up here, Fransisco.”

“Hmmm? What did you say?”

“Exactly my point. Can you stop looking with your man eyes and look with your normal, helpful people eyes to help me decide on a dress for Benny and Victoria’s wedding?” You sighed, laughing to yourself as you raised an eyebrow at Frankie, his gaze still fixed on your chest.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be helpful.” Frankie huffed, overdramatically rolling his eyes at you, playfully throwing his hands up in defense as he leaned back against the dressing room door, looking you up and down in one of the cute floral dresses you had picked to try on for your friends’ upcoming wedding. “It’s just that… Nevermind.”

“It’s just that what, Frank?” You asked tilting your head in confusion at your husband as his eyes traveled back to your breasts, furled look in his brow like he was really staring there to prove a point.

“It’s just that- Baby, I don’t know if it’s just the dress or what, but your boobs look huge. Like, they always look good, believe me, but like… Whew.” Frankie whistled, practically shaking his head in disbelief at how good you looked.

“Really?” You asked, turning around to face the mirror in the dressing room, gently cupping your breasts, grimacing as you held them in your hands. “Yeah, I guess they do… Honestly, I was gonna complain about how sore they’ve been all day. I wonder if maybe my period is just coming early?”

“Maybe? You did ride me pretty hard the last couple nights and put on a good show, so maybe they hurt from all that bouncing and-”

“Frankie! We are in public!” You playfully scolded, giving him a flimsy slap to the chest to cut off the rest of his thought, the two of you quietly giggling to yourselves and trying to “Shhhh” each other from drawing too much attention to your dressing room stall. “The dress, you goofball, yes or no? Sooner we pick, the sooner we can go get food, because your wife is starving.”

“I vote yes on the dress. You look beautiful in it, querida.” Frankie smiled, stepping behind you to press a kiss on the side of your head.

“You just like it because it makes my boobs look huge.”

“What? Can you blame me for wanting to stare at my gorgeous wife’s boobs all night?”

“God, you are ridiculous, Fransisco. Fine, boob dress wins. Now let’s get out of here and go get some food before you get stuck in a titty trance and I die of hunger.”

While the rest of your Saturday was spent enjoying the delicious Mexican food that you had picked up on the way home and a much needed night in on the couch with Frankie, there was a tiny part of your brain that couldn’t seem to shake his comment from earlier about how big your boobs looked.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t agree with him, because truth be told, they felt huge, too. They had been sore since you had woken up this morning, and while you had chalked it up to what you and Frankie had been up to the past few nights, or bad PMS symptoms, there was still just something about you that felt off.

Later that night, during your movie marathon, you had paused whatever new action movie Frankie had been begging to watch since it had popped up on Netflix a few days ago for a popcorn refill.

While Frankie meandered around the kitchen waiting for the next bag of popcorn to finish popping, you stayed curled up with your blanket in your corner of the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, until a sharp twinge began to cramp in your lower stomach. The feeling took you by surprise, digging your fingers into your side to try and ease the dull and achy sensation as your face scrunched in confusion, wondering why in the world you had what felt like period cramps in your belly.

“Hey, you okay, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, returning with popcorn in hand, his face painted with concern to see the pained look scrunched between your brow as you curled deeper into the couch.

“Oh, y-yeah, I’m fine. I just um, I just had a weird cramp I guess. Probably just ate all that popcorn too fast.” You replied, trying to convince yourself just as much as you were trying to convince Frankie that you were overthinking whatever mystery symptoms had just flashed through your lower half.

“Here, lemme just set this popcorn down and then I can rub your back while we finish the movie, okay?” Frankie smiled softly, setting down the bowl on the coffee table before crawling back under the sea of blankets on the couch with you, laying your head against his thigh like a pillow while his hand traced up and down along the small of your back.

“Thanks, Frankie.” You whispered quietly, taking a few deep breaths as the familiar warmth of your husband’s palm worked up and down the worn fabric of his shirt that you had put on earlier.

“Of course, baby. If you need anything else, just let me know, okay? Just promise me you’ll take it easy on the popcorn if you have any more there, Killer.”

The two of you laughed quietly as Frankie leaned down to press a soft kiss into your messy hair laid across his lap before picking up the remote to let the rest of the movie play as your eyelids began to get heavier and heavier as you slowly drifted off to sleep.

“What’s inside this box?”

“Open it up and find out! It’s a surprise for you!”

“Okay? Huh, why is it just a pregnancy test in there?”

“It’s yours! Congratulations! You’re having a baby!”

“Ahhhhh!” You shrieked, panting as you woke from a cold sweat, shooting up from the couch. “What the fuck…” You whispered to yourself, coming to and realizing that you were now awake and had only been dreaming moments before this. Running your hands over your face, you blinked a few times to be greeted by the dim light of the TV still flickering in the background, Frankie sprawled out and snoring by your side where the two of you must have fallen asleep on the couch during the movie.

“What a weird fucking dream…” You sighed to yourself, shaking your head as you quietly pushed yourself off the couch to stumble to the bathroom, pulling your phone out of your sweatpants pocket to check what ungodly hour of the night it had to be since the two of you had crashed on the couch.

2:07 A.M.

You let out a low grumble, pushing your sweatpants down to your ankles as you sat down to pee, blinking your eyes open wider to look through the notifications piled on top of each other on your lockscreen. Mindlessly swiping through a few junk emails and text messages from group chats, one notification in particular caught your eye, rousing you from your half awake state.

“Feeling down? As you begin your Luteal Phase of your cycle, it’s normal to be less cheerful compared to last week when you were Ovulating! Click to track your cycle symptoms for today!”

Oh shit.

You could feel your heart beginning to race as you opened up the app, scrolling to the calendar tracker for the month. Swiping through the days, it didn’t take you long to realize that despite all of your weird symptoms you had been chalking up to PMS, you were almost two weeks away from starting your period. Frantically scrolling backwards, you began to try and rack your brain of all of the times in the past week that you had sex with Frankie while you would have been ovulating, and out of that number, how many times he hadn’t finished inside you, let alone even attempt to pull out.

And that number was a big, fat zero.

That’s when it hit you like a fucking freight train- You weren’t PMS-ing.

More than likely, you were pregnant.

“Holy fuck…” You whispered to yourself, your voice trembling and heart pounding as you buried your face in your trembling hands, your mind flooding with a million different thoughts all at once.

How could you not remember that you were ovulating? Would Frankie be upset? The two of you weren’t even trying for kids right now. Would you be a good Mom? What were you even going to need to do to prepare? Your house was starting to get small for just you and Frankie, let alone a baby. How were you going to find a new place to live in 9 months? And get a new car? How were you-

“Baby, you good in there?” Frankie groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he stumbled into the bathroom, letting out a yawn as he opened the door, bright light flooding into the hallway and revealing the sobbing mess you had become, still pants down, hunched over the toilet.

“Woah, hey, hey, hey. Baby, baby, what’s going on? Talk to me, Hermosa. Are you okay? What happened?” You could feel Frankie’s demeanor immediately switch as soon as he saw you in the bathroom, instantly dropping to his knees by your side, his hands gently grabbing your face to shift your gaze towards him, carefully swiping his thumb to dry the tears that had been streaming down your cheeks.

“Frankie, I- I- Fuck.” You stuttered, gulping hard as you tried to catch your breath, fighting back your nervous sobs as you locked eyes with Frankie, wondering how in the world you were ever about to brace him for the news you were about to tell him.

“Hermosa, what is it? Please, tell me baby, what’s wrong?” Frankie pleaded, softly squeezing your face in reassurance as he waited for your response.

You took a few more deep breaths, composing yourself enough to at least try to get a coherent thought out, swallowing hard as the words left your mouth.

“Frankie, I-, Frankie, I think- I think I’m pregnant.”

Frankie’s eyes went wide, his jaw practically hanging open as he tried to process what you had just told him, wondering if he hadn’t heard you right in his groggy state.

“W-what?”

“I think I might be pregnant, Frankie.”

Before you could even bear the thought of looking at his face again, filled with fear that it would be a look of shock and disappointment, you buried your face in your hands again, fighting with everything in you not to cry and keep your composure.

Frankie sat quietly for a moment, his hand covering up the gaping hole his jaw had made as it nearly hit the floor, shaking his head in disbelief before wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulling your hands to look at him.

“R-really? You- fuck- You really think you’re pregnant?”

As your eyes met his, you couldn’t believe the look on your husbands face- Not only was Frankie practically grinning from ear to ear, the sweet brown of his puppy dog eyes were welling with happy tears of their own, waiting on your every word as if he still didn’t believe what he was hearing. Silently, you began to slowly nod your head, biting down on your tongue, your heart feeling like it was about to shoot out of your chest.

“You’re...y-you’re not upset?” You stammered, sitting up a little taller at Frankie’s reaction.

“Upset? Hermosa, why in the world would I ever be upset?” Frankie laughed quietly, gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as his other hand cupped your jaw. “Querida… There’s nothing more I want on this earth than to have a family. And-fuck- The fact that it gets to be with you? That you might give me a family? How could I ever be upset about that?

“Well it’s not like we were really trying for a baby, Frank. We said another year or two. With the house and money -”

“Hey. We’ll figure it all out, okay? I promise, we’ll be more than okay.” Frankie smiled, his goofy grin still stretched wide between his cheeks, finally easing some of your worry.

“I don’t even feel like I’m old enough to have a kid. I feel like I need to call up MTV to tell them I’ll be on the next season of 16 and Pregnant.” The two of you snorted, shaking your heads in awestruck disbelief that a stupid joke about a reality TV show could soon become your reality.

“Well considering we’re married, have a house, and most importantly, are much closer to 30 than we are 16, I think they may have a hard time pitching the show “Married Couple Has a Baby”.” Frankie teased, giving you a playful nudge as the two of you laughed, giving you a few seconds to catch your breath before trying to dig into details. “Did- Did you take a test? How long have you known?”

“No, I don’t know for sure yet, Frank. It’s… It’s just a feeling, I guess. But the huge, sore boobs, weird, period-like cramps and the fact that we really haven’t been the most careful are all pretty good clues.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t know, we’ve tried to be care-”

Before Frankie could even finish the rest of his thought, you were already giving him the sassiest look you could muster in your overwhelmed and sleepy state, making the two of you laugh again he let out a sigh of defeat.

“Okay, yeah, we really haven’t been that careful at all. Sweetie, listen, I- I know it’s not what we had planned, but… I mean, if you are pregnant…” Frankie paused, smiling at your stomach as he gently place a hand over your belly, tears welling in his chocolate brown eyes, “Baby, I would be so excited. Nervous as hell, but so fucking excited.”

“Me too.” You sniffed, looking down at Frankie’s palm splayed across your stomach, heart swelling at the thought of Frankie being dad, thinking of how sweet and caring and perfect he’d be as you grew your little family together. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled Frankie in close, letting out a shaky sigh, whispering your words through happy tears.

“I love you so much, Frankie.”

“I love you so much too, Hermosa. More than anything.”

For the sake of Frankie’s shoulder, you pulled away to wipe your tears to keep from soaking your husband’s shirt, quietly laughing to yourself at the fact that this whole time you had been talking to Frankie, you had still been pantsless, hunched over the toilet.

“It probably would have been way more romantic to tell you all of this not at 2:30 in the morning, pantsless and hunched over the toilet like a little gremlin.” You snorted, Frankie following suit as he shook his head, running his hand through the sleepy curls of your hair.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way, mi amor. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed.”

As the two of you sleepily trotted your way upstairs, curling together under the warmth of your comforter with Frankie’s chest pressed against your back, you couldn’t help but smile as his arm draped over your stomach, hand resting on your belly while his thumb traced soft circles on your skin, imagining what it would be like if a few months from now if you really were getting ready to add another member to your family.

The next morning, as the sunrise began to spill through your curtains, casting bright orange and pink shadows on your bedroom walls, you couldn’t help but stir as the familiar scent and warmth of Frankie’s body was missing from his side of the bed.

As you sat up in the sea of blankets and comforters, softly rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you saw Frankie’s frame quietly sneaking through the bedroom door, fresh mug of coffee and bag of breakfast in hand with a stupid smile plastered across his face as he was greeted with your barely awake grin.

“Good morning, beautiful.” Frankie cooed, setting down the coffee and breakfast down on your nightstand as he sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, pressing a tender kiss into the sleep-ridden ends of your hair before wrapping his arms around you in a long embrace.

“Good morning, handsome.” You yawned, stretching your arms over your head, letting out a little grunt and laying your head on Frankie’s shoulder. “What’s all this for?” You asked, gesturing towards the coffee and oversized McDonald’s bag, assuming it was the reason for Frankie’s absence when you woke up.

“I- I don’t know, I uh- I was just really excited when I got up this morning. It was early, and I didn’t wanna wake you up, so I made a trip to CVS to buy some pregnancy tests for you and figured I’d pick up breakfast on the way home.” Frankie smiled sheepishly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, brushing past his untamed morning curls. “I know- I know you can’t really take the tests yet- I spent a lot of time reading the boxes in the store and wasn’t really sure what the best one was to take, so I got like, 4 different ones for when it's time.”

“God, you’re so sweet. You’re the best, you know that? It’s about to be a long week of waiting before I can take one of those. Do you- fuck, Frankie, do you think it could really be positive?” You asked, tears beginning to well in your eyes again as you smiled up at your husband, already beaming back at you, picturing the two pink lines showing up on all of the tests he had bought for you.

“Maybe, if we’re lucky.” He smirked, gently cupping your face, swiping his thumb across your face. “But if it’s not, then maybe… Maybe we start trying for a positive one on purpose.”

“R-really?” You grinned, biting down on your lip in excitement.

“Really, really.” Frankie replied, bringing his lips to yours in a long, slow kiss, soaking in the sweet taste of you on his tongue. “And maybe…”

“Maybe, what, Fransisco?” You giggled, bringing your mouth back to his in a sweet and sloppy kiss.

“Maybe…. We start trying right now, ya know, just to be sure. Wouldn’t want all those pregnancy tests to go to waste.”

Taglist:

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24 @3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @messinadress @milly-louise @jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog @hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild @copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog @amyispxnk @samgirl4life @pigeonmama @pedr0swh0r3

#They are so cute and adorable!!#Frankie morales #Pedro pascal

893 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 29 days

Text

I LOVED THIS

Sweat

I might have seen a picture, and I might have gotten thoughts, dirty ones. And what could be a better idea than to turn them into words and share them here while having fun with the Happy Frankie Friday?

pairing: Frankie Morales x fem! able bodied reader summary: After a month apart Frankie comes back home earlier than planned word count: 1200 words. tags/warnings: 18+ mdni., established relationship, smut, unprotected piv sex, mentions of vaginal fingering, mentions of oral fem!receiving, no body description, mentions of body hair, nakedness. no beta. no use of Y/N.

Dividers by @saradika

Waking up before the sun, jittery and anxious, had been a given, welcomed, something to be happy about due to the day it was. The good night's sleep you got beforehand hadn't, but you'd never look a gift horse in the mouth when sleep is concerned. No one had told you adulthood could come with presents or how you'd be a lucky recipient. Yours, a spiteful, vengeful, and temperamental one called insomnia. Frankie, the sweetest and kindest man you've ever met, always did his best to understand and help as much as he could and not be another cause of it, even if it ended with that detrimental habit of his off-guilting himself when a poor night came to you despite how many times you'd told him how better it had gotten since you'd started sharing the bed.

You hadn't expected the toll it would cause not having Frankie with you every night, nor how it would make the days longer and the nights even more with how living together was so recent. Frankie going on work trips hadn't been something new, but you should have known this one would be special, be it for being the first since moving in together or for its length. Text, phone, video calls, and even seeing him as lost as you with the distance had helped with the sting but hadn't been enough. An entire month without your man, your Frankie, your love was too long.

Neither of you had loved the idea, but the benefits had been too many and too good not to do it. A sizeable promotion at work, better pay, better hours, and barely any travel in the future, and the few times it could still happen, it would only mean a night or two away from your side and your bed.

Drowning in chores, since waking up, one after another, with barely any time between them, had been the best plan to occupy your mind and not end up in front of the clock, willing the time to go faster. Tending your vegetable garden, cleaning the house, and finally going for a run, coming back home sweaty and messy but with a quiet mind, with the right amount of time to shower, doll yourself up, and go to the airport.

But any plan of yours had flown away as soon as the entrance door had opened, leaving you speechless and rooted where you had been standing. Frankie had been there, calling your name, drinking your body with his eyes, looking disheveled and breathless, like he had come running to get home as fast as possible and onto you before his name had any time to leave your lips, hugging and kissing you like a starved man, touching you everywhere like he couldn't decide where to touch, mumbling how much he had missed you, how much he loved you, and to please let him touch you. Lifting you by your thighs and quickly taking you to your bedroom, to your bed.

Your back had barely touched the bed before his hands had been on your tights, the look in his eyes asking if it was ok to rip them away from you, asking if it was ok with you to ravage each other.

Frankie had never voiced a preference or pressured you in any way; always happy and ready to enjoy you with what you chose for yourself as long as you were comfortable and satisfied, but you’d never started anything when you'd felt so grimy, so sweaty, and smelly or were so hairy. You knew, with how filthy the both of you ended after sex, it was a contradiction, but it was a hard habit to shed. The weather and your moodiness hadn't offered any incentive to keep your self-care routine and grooming up to date. That's why you had planned that shower. For yourself, to feel clean and get your skin smooth, to feel pretty, confident, sexy, and ready to tease Frankie with the new lingerie you had bought while he was away.

It had made you almost say wait, just for a second, wanting to give in and let your self-consciousness and the thought of the amount of hair your skin had, take control until his eyes had stopped you. Those beautiful brown eyes that had been looking at you like you were a goddess, sin reborn. Wrecked. Desperate. Feeding you his desire and his need, making you feel bold and sexy, making you consent enthusiastically, eagerly. Skin had touched skin after your clothes had been ripped, and the kisses had turned frantic, messy, and hurtful with more teeth than lips, leaving a road of lovebites on your body as Frankie had traveled south to feast between your tights. And feasted he had, as always, meticulously, like a hungry beast with a purpose and mastery you hadn't experienced before, with love and pleasure, stripping you away from your perception of time and reality, turning you into a pliable thing, a fucked mess of skin, bones, and muscle, letting him move you at his will.

He's on top of you, inside of you, crushing your hips with his against the bed. You can barely breathe between the intensity and his weight over you. Open to him, not able to move, only able to take what he gives you, and his coarse hair is rubbing your clit constantly. You're in utter bliss, oversensitive and leaving marks on his thick shoulders where your hands try to keep some leverage with no control of your strength. One of your legs is around his hips, the other cradled on his elbow, pushed upwards, almost glued to your chest. His forearms sneaked under your back, palms facing up to be able to grab your shoulders as if to keep you from going away, caging you, not that you had any plan to. His forehead rests against yours, and your breaths mingle, unable to kiss anymore. He looks as wrecked as you feel, his pupils blown and glazed, and the strength to moan or talk has long left you. The only noises leaving your mouth are pitiful, broken cries answered by Frankie's grunts.

It's rough and intense. Tomorrow, you know your hips and cervix will be tender, and the thought makes you feel exhilarated. You’ve forgotten how many times he has made you cum with his mouth and fingers. You can only think of the last one he gave you with his cock, thinking it would be the last one, but he’s still hard, ramming into you, and you can hear the bed rocking against the wall and Frankie's words in your ears, there's no room for anything else. He’s begging you. Nena. Hermosa. Dámelo. Dámelo. Dámelo. Por favor. Mi amor, dame uno más. (Baby. Beautiful. Give it to me. Give it to me. Give it to me. Please. My love, give me one more.). His trusts are getting sloppier but not less powerful, and his body is recoiling in tension like the water about to boil. He’s almost there, and he’s taking you with him. You feel it in your skin, in how your tights are trembling, in how you're squeezing him inside of you, in how he's swelling. You’re going to give it to him. What else can you do when he’s begging you so much, and you want to feel him come inside of you? And as soon as you hear him say how much he loves you, you give it to him.

#Frankie morales #Pedro pascal

73 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

wildflower and barley -- joel miller x reader

pairing + fandom: joel miller x reader, the last of us (hbo)

word count: 5k+ oops

warnings/notes: smut smut smut!!! minors DNI, 18+!!! no outbreak!au. age gap (it's implied reader is in her 20s while joel is 45) and mentions of joel being kinda perverted and liking it lol. drinking (both reader and joel, not excessive), use of a dating app like tinder but not specified, unprotected PIV w creampie and oral (m+f receiving), do not fuck your tinder hookups without protection i'm just horny and gross. excessive use of darlin' as a nickname. implied that reader likes men. she/her pronouns used, afab!reader (with mentions of body parts), no use of y/n. if i missed anything lmk!

a/n: heavily inspired by this post by @yesttoheaven about joel's tinder profile!! it has been rotting my brain since i saw it which literally inspired me to write my first fic in the tlou fandom ever so please be gentle with me. i imagined show!joel because i've never played the game so do with that what you will. please reblog and leave comments if u enjoy it <3333

divider by @cafekitsune

summary: after deciding to change your age range on a dating app in hope of a change of scenery, you stumble across joel miller.

No one likes using dating apps.

Swiping left, left, left mindlessly at troves of men holding fish, showing off their trucks, or with deer heads mounted to the walls behind their selfies holding guns.

This was Texas, after all.

Having just moved here, it was a little shocking, to say the least. But you were getting used to the “eligible” bachelors that were your age generally looking and acting the same. When you did end up finding someone of interest, you were usually turned off pretty quickly by whatever shitty pick-up line they had chosen. Or, your personal favourite, “wanna fuck?”

No thanks.

It was an idyllic summer evening, the hot stuffy air of Austin flowing in through your windows. You laid in bed, propped up on the pillows against your headboard and sorting through the faces that adorned your screen. No one particularly interesting, as usual, and every profile was starting to melt together to look the same.

You sighed, looking into your settings, adjusting and increasing different metrics to hopefully change the pool just enough for there to be someone new or interesting.

Age range: 25-30

Your eyebrow cocked as you looked onto the screen, pulling the slider more to the right experimentally. No one was here to see you, and even though it was slightly embarassing to be interested in older men, you’d be lying if you said it didn’t pique your interest to imagine it. Even just to try, and see, if they ever really did grow up. You imagined it was wishful thinking, but increased the range anyways.

Age range: 35-45

Feeling the need to throw your phone across the room after doing that, you placed it face down under your pillow and slid out of bed. No use in swiping through them now, and you were getting tired of looking. A pint of Ben and Jerry’s and a new episode of your favourite show was waiting for you downstairs.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

Joel Miller does not use dating apps.

He barely knows how to send a text on his phone, let alone navigate the world of online women. Not to say he didn’t explore the options, so to speak, but they usually were not ones that were single, his age, and in his area. Unless the ads on those sites were real, that is.

“It’s starting to get sad,” Sarah had remarked at breakfast, when they got on the topic, and Joel feigned hurt. Hand over his heart, he dropped his fork onto the plate. “It’s not sad, Jesus. I’m just busy, is all.”

“Busy not gettin’ busy,” Sarah remarked, and Joel’s eyes widened. “Hey now! None of that.”

A blush spread up his cheeks and ears as they continued to eat breakfast in slightly awkward silence, before Joel took his plate to the sink. “Okay, off to school, you. And no more conversations about my dating life. Ever.”

Sarah laughed as she finished off the last of the juice in her glass. “I’m just saying, dad. You can if you want to. Might be nice for you.”

Joel planted a soft kiss to her head before she bounded out the door, rolling his eyes and calling out a ‘love you’ before she closed the door swiftly behind her. Joel stared at his cell phone on the table. Maybe it would be nice.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

The following evening, you were a little too excited to see the dating app specimens you had acquired. Not sure what to expect, really, and you went in with no expectations. It’s not like they’d magically all be tall, dark, and handsome, but some variety never killed anybody.

Paul, 41

Daddy, but not yours. No libs allowed. 6’ because that matters.

You sighed deeply. Some things never change.

After swiping through much of what you were used to, a profile managed to catch your eye among the sea of disappointment.

Joel, 45

Just a Southern gentleman trying this out for the first time. Contractor of over 10 years. I love my daughter, BBQ, strong coffee, and sleeping in.

Now that was the most interesting thing you’d seen in a while.

He didn’t look a day over 40. His eyes creased at the corners when he smiled wide in his photos. He looked tan, a product of the Texas heat and his job, you thought. His features were accompanied by salt-and-pepper facial hair and messy curls that looked soft and pliable. His photos showed off his physique incredibly, tight wash-worn t-shirts pulling over his arms and shoulders, looking big, broad. He was no doubt the most handsome man you’d seen on an app, maybe ever.

When you swiped right before you could think too hard, you were surprised to see the green “Match!” Flash across your screen.

Your fingers ghosted over the keyboard on your phone, thinking of a witty thing to say, probably for too long.

Your phone buzzed as you saw a notification pop up.

Joel has sent you a message.

Hey, darlin’. How are ya?

You felt your face warm at the sweet message, when was the last time someone had called you darlin’? Ever?

Hey cowboy. I’m great, how are you?

He was certainly an eager responder, taking only a few seconds to reply. You found yourself smiling down at your phone screen.

Cowboy… I like that. I’m better now that I’m talking to you.

Oh, Joel, who told you to say that? 😂

No good?

Not bad. 6/10.

Only 6/10? I’ll work on it. I like to think I’m better in person.

I would love to find out.

You found yourself emboldened by how easy the conversation was flowing. Joel was certainly easy to talk to, easier than the other matches you had going for you, and infinitely more handsome.

Oh, would you? Alright. I’d love to take you to dinner sometime. If you don’t mind being seen with an old man such as myself in public. Or meeting a stranger from the internet.

He’s a very handsome stranger. I would love to go to dinner with you. Know any good spots? I’m new around here.

There’s a great barbecue spot in downtown Austin. If you’d prefer something fancier, let me know.

I love bbq. Just tell me where and when, cowboy.

Tomorrow, 7pm ok?

You sent him your phone number in the message. Fuck it.

Sounds great. Text me the address, I’ll be there. :)

Joel’s reply didn’t come. Instead, a text appeared at the top of your screen with an unknown number.

It’s Joel. This the right number?

Yup. You found me.

Great. Talk tomorrow sweetheart. Looking forward to it. :)

He texted you the address of the restaurant, right before you opened the contact card, saving his name as “cowboy ♡”.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

Cowboy. Cowboy. Cowboy. It was playing over in his head like a broken fuckin’ record.

Joel was positively freaking out about this date.

Sarah had managed to secure a sleepover at her friend’s place, so the house would be empty for the night. He had been busying himself with cleaning the entirety of the house, even taking the time to mow the grass before work and vacuum the family room. He can’t remember the last time he vacuumed anywhere.

Would she even make it back here? How does this work? Will she want to sleep over or hang out on the couch or should he be making a dessert for after?

His mind was brought out of it’s craze by Sarah jumping down the stairs. She plopped her bag down on the freshly wiped countertop.

“Careful,” he warned, putting a hand up. “I just cleaned that off.”

“I can tell. It smells like the cleaning aisle threw up in here.”

He smirked before patting her head with his hand, as she aggressively smoothed out her hair. “Dad! Don’t!”

“When do you wanna go to Ellie’s?” He asked, more gaging how long he has left to get ready than actually asking.

“Probably soon. Why? Tryna get rid of me?” she poked her dad in the side, but when she flinched away instead, a large smile spread across her face. He was tense.

“What’s your deal?” Joel hated the way she knew him so well sometimes.

“Nothing.“

“Are you going on a date?”

Silence fell over the kitchen between the two of them, as Joel’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “How did you know?”

“Oh my god, you actually took my advice,” Sarah laughed, watching her dad’s face burn red with embarrassment. “Just don’t do anything weird on communal surfaces, please.”

Joel shook his head at her suggestion, already becoming annoyed with the whole prospect. He was so nervous, about what to wear, how to act, what the expectation was… let alone, what would happen if they made it back to his place at all.

Although, when he was able to shake his nerves for a second, he was just really fucking excited.

“Wear those dark jeans, and that green shirt you wore to Tommy’s last week. Looks good on you.” Sarah smiled as she put her arms around Joel’s middle, while his worries melted away with her touch. “She’ll love you, I promise.”

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

It had been such a long time since you’d been on a proper date, you were starting to lose your mind at the simple process of deciding what to wear.

Clothes were strewn across every surface of your apartment, shoes matching with jeans that matched with cardigans, tops that matched with belts and jackets.

It’s 87 degrees at 5 o’clock, idiot. You’re not wearing a jacket. Relax.

Exhausted of picking out outfits and making decisions, you collapsed on your couch and took a look at your options. You landed on an easy sundress, putting the rest of your clothes back in their respective drawers, and pulling out all of the products you were expecting to use to get ready.

You scrolled through your phone aimlessly as a notification bubble popped up on the screen.

We still on for tonight darlin’? Or did you change your mind?

No worries if you did. I respect that.

You let out a cackle at the message, thinking about how he must look right now. Was he nervous? Scared? Was he just looking for a controversially young fuck?

You weren’t… completely against that.

Didn’t change my mind, wouldn’t in a million years :)

Meet you there. Can’t wait to see you.

His eagerness to meet up would’ve been a red flag if it were any other run of the mill guy, but something about Joel felt special. There didn’t seem to be any funny business with him; too sincere to try anything other than just a good old fashioned date.

You too, cowboy.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

When Joel showed up at the restaurant, he clenched a small bouquet of pink peonies in his right hand and checked his watch obsessively. The minutes ticked away, as he kept a high alert for anyone who could be his potential date. He knew what you looked like, of course, but this being his first time doing anything of this sort is making him hyperaware of anything going awry.

When he does lay eyes on you, his whole gaze softens. A pink sundress, hair pristinely styled and a bounce in your step that reminded him of summer. You looked like an angel, the sunset behind you painting the sky tangerine, which reflected off of the shine against your supple skin. So young, beautiful, it was taking his breath away.

“Joel?”

Your voice matched your sweet demeanour, and he was taken out of his waking daydream.

“Hi,” is all he can say, letting his breath out as he relaxed. “Yes, hi, sorry. I’m Joel.”

“Hi,” you laugh back, eyes darting to the flowers in his hand. They matched your dress.

“These are for you,” he gets the hint, extending his arm out, and you can see the veins bulging in his forearm. He looked so much stronger in person, it was making your knees go weak.

“Thank you, wow,” you held them up to your nose to smell the sweet aroma. “I love peonies.”

“Me too,” he smiled, showing off a string of pearly white teeth, that contrasted with the pink of his lips and the even tan of his skin.

“Shall we?” He extended his arm to you for you to grab onto, and you got to feel the warmth of his skin for yourself. Your hand wrapped around his forearm as he opened the door of the restaurant for you, leading you inside and catching a glimpse of the backs of your thighs as you walked in front of him.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

When you were finally sitting, the conversation flowed easily. He was truly a Southern gentleman, like he had said. It wasn’t normal for you to open up so quickly, but Joel was so easy going and smart, he asked the right questions and knew when to listen. He knew how to listen, a warm gaze and a nod along, asking follow up questions to your answers and easily getting to know you.

You asked about his daughter, his family, his work. He was happy to tell you.

“So, what’s a man like you doing being single in this city?” You take a sip of the wine in the glass in front of you, burgundy staining your bottom lip.

He takes a bite of the food in front of him, a napkin pressing to his lips quickly after. “Been busy,” he started to say, honey brown eyes meeting yours for a second. His gaze sent an electrifying pulse down your spine.

“And, well, when Sarah’s mom left there was a ton to do,” he says it nonchalantly, as if that should be something normal to happen. “House, work, school, she keeps my hands full. Hasn’t been a lot of time.” His syrupy drawl is pulling you in, you’re enticed by the way he speaks to you. So easy, warm, soft. You wonder what his hands feel like on your body, lips pressed to your neck, torso pressed against yours.

“Sorry, that’s a lot of information for a first date,” he laughs to cover the awkwardness, and quietly curses himself for going into so much detail about his precarious family situation and basically admitting to you that he hasn’t fucked anything other than his hand in the last 5 or so years.

“No, it’s okay,” you slide your hand across the table, palm up, urging him to slot his hand into it. He takes it, easily, enveloping yours. His fingers find the pulse point on your wrist. You let your eyes drift up to his, drinking in the way his chest fills out the shirt he chose.

“What’s your story?” He asks earnestly, giving your hand a squeeze. “Can’t imagine there isn’t a long line of people outside waiting to take my place, darlin’.”

You blush furiously at the nickname, and let your eyes meet his once again. “You have no idea the… mess that is out there,” the wine is calling your name to take another sip at the mere thought, but you refrain. “Certainly not too many I am interested in.”

“So, is that why you’re on a date with an old man on a beautiful summer night in Austin?”

You could tell Joel, in a twisted way, liked that you were younger than him. It made him feel younger by admission, that you’d want to spend time with him.

“You’re not that much older,” you laugh, not even believing it yourself as the words left your lips. “And I like to try new things. Don’t you like trying new things, sometimes?”

It was his turn to let his face go red at your insinuation. If only you knew how ‘new’ this really was for him, how much he was pushed out of his comfort zone right now.

You didn’t notice.

A little more polite small talk and exchanging of stories was all you could take before the tension was becoming too much. After another glass of wine and a shared plate of sky-high chocolate cake for dessert, you were enjoying his company and could tell he was enjoying yours all the same. When you met his gaze again, hands still intertwined, you could tell there was a question on the tip of his tongue.

“Would you want to…“ - a nervous pause, with a halo of lust - “come back to mine for a nightcap? I’ve got an empty house this evening.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, knowing in your heart that Joel must’ve made arrangements for his family not to be home in anticipation. He had to have planned for you, known in his heart you’d say yes.

“I’d love that.”

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾

Joel’s home is unmistakably him. It smells like a pine candle that sits near the front door and a faint aroma of laundry detergent. There’s photos everywhere, him and his daughter, his brother’s family. Big windows were letting in the twinkling lights of the city outside, the inky sky making them look brighter against its canvas.

“You have a beautiful home,” you say, although it seems a little formal for the situation. What else do you say to a grown-up in their house?

“Thank you,” he takes a bottle of whiskey from the bar cart and pours two rock glasses, handing you one. He flicks on a lamp, ambient light filling the room and painting his skin amber orange, as he joins your side by his kitchen table.

“I did a lot of the construction myself, the decorations are my daughter.” He points lazily to the trinkets on the shelves and photos on the wall. “I don’t really have a good eye for that type of stuff.”

You take a sip from the drink and it coats your throat, burning down as you suppress a cough at the taste. You nod along as he explains the design choices he made in the home, and you play along, knowing it’s likely out of anxiety.

“What about upstairs?”

Your eyes are innocent as they meet his, although you understand the implication you’re making whole-heartedly. He puts his glass down on the kitchen table and you follow his lead, his strong hand around your wrist as he leads you up the stairs wordlessly.

“It’s not anything,” - he clears his throat - “special,” he shows you around the second floor, finishing at the door of his bedroom that has been left slightly ajar.

You step in quietly, leading him inside as you take in the bedroom. Neatly folded clothes, a made bed that looks well loved. Blue sheets and fluffy pillows, big bay windows that let the moonlight in.

“I think it’s nice,” you say simply, letting yourself turn around to meet his broad frame. He looks down at you slightly, eyes meeting yours as your hand drops from his grasp and snakes around his neck. His hands come up the sides of your dress, pulling it up slightly, but landing on your waist.

“Is this okay?” He asks tentatively in the dark of the room, his lips so close to yours already you can practically taste the whiskey on his lips for yourself. You answer him by pressing your tentative lips to his, slotting them together easily.

Joel’s grip on your waist tightens momentarily as he takes you in, pulling you as close as he possibly can. He can smell the perfume on your neck and the wine on your lips from earlier, and it’s making his need for you increase tenfold.

You pull him into you as you stumble back to let your knees hit his mattress, sitting down and letting your hands come to his belt buckle. Your hands came to undo it as he pulled his t-shirt off to throw onto the floor beside him, bending down to help you pull the dress over your shoulders to meet his t-shirt.

You made quick work of his jeans, pushing them to the ground and looking up at him with a keen glance. You could see the breath making his belly rise and fall, anticipating your touch on him any second.

When your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, his breath hitched and his head rolled back. He was already half-hard only from kissing you, so a few pumps made him easily ready for your mouth.

“You’re so big,” is all you can think to say, head spinning from the sheer size of him right in front of your face. Your mouth watered at the way his hand palmed through your hair, pulling you in closer to him for some relief.

It was intoxicating to him, the way your mouth fit around his cock. Such a beautiful sight to see, your head licking and sucking at his tip, gathering spit there to lubricate him. His knees were going weak as he watched intently, no thought able to cross his mind, other than maybe how long it had been since he’d had anyone to do this with. He was going to have to pace himself if it was all like this.

Your mouth constrained around the length of him, taking him deeper and deeper with every bob of your head. Filthy sounds were filling the room now, of your eager mouth pulling him in as best you could. His hand stayed steady at the back of your head, not pushing, just softly pressed there for support. His other hand found your shoulder, pushing down your bra strap.

“God, darlin’,” was all he could choke out, using his hand to pull you off of him. Your hand lazily stroked him as you looked up at him, spit collecting at the corners of your mouth. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep doin’ that,” his laugh eased some of the tension in the room, as you took your other hand and wiped the spit away.

He leaned down, pressing a fervent kiss to your lips before using his own hands to unclasp your bra and let your breasts free. His lips traveled to the side of your neck, before he was kneeled down between your legs, sucking your nipple into his mouth. He lapped at you, all consuming, as his hand came up to grasp the other breast that wasn’t being serviced. He moaned at the noises you were making, lewd whines into the night air that only encouraged him.

His lips made their way down your body to your clothed centre, your back against his soft sheets. You looked down at him intently, watching as he pulled your panties down your legs and immediately delved into your pussy with broad strokes of his tongue.

Your body jerked upwards at the contact, hand fisting the sheet beside you as he lapped at you, like a man starved. His expert tongue found your clit easily, sucking and licking at you for what felt like hours. You thought about his heavy cock between his legs, begging to be touched, hard as ever as he licked at you desperately.

“Joel,” you whined out, feeling your hand reach down to grab at his curls and push him deeper into you. That only made him moan, one hand lazily fisting his cock as the other came up to dip a finger into you, allowing you to see stars when you screwed your eyes shut.

His fingers were so large, pressed into your core as you fucked yourself on them and his tongue in tandem. He was groaning and grunting, and you hoped his neighbours couldn’t see into the window at the desperate filth that was going on in his bedroom.

“Fuck, Joel, please,” you begged, but he had no mercy, and your orgasm was creeping up on you. He was ready to watch you come undone, pushing a second finger into you and furiously sucking on your clit. His other hand left his own pleasure and wrapped around your breast, pressing and playing with the hard nub there, pinching to provide a little bit of sting to it. It was sending you into another dimension.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” and his voice is gravely and debauched, enough to send you into your first orgasm, chanting his name and pulling on his hair. He was happily licking at you, fingers still pressing in and out as to not mess up the rhythm, as you rode out your orgasm against his face.

When you started to come down, he finally detached himself from you before standing up between your legs and pressing his broad palms to your thighs. He stayed there for a moment, cock still hard and heavy between his legs as you gazed up at him, out of breath from his work.

“You’re really good at that,” was all you could think to say, head clouded with arousal. You moved up on the bed a little, opening your legs and pressing your knees apart to show your pussy to him again.

“Please fuck me, Joel,” you breathe out, letting your hand find your own clit to rub it teasingly for him. It was still so sensitive, but the way he was looking down at you, eyes dark and stormy with need, you could almost come again just from that.

He put a knee down on the bed and crawled on top of you, his lips finding yours once again as your hands found his face. You held him there, savouring the kiss as his tongue crashed against yours, all warmth and spit and the taste of you. His hand found your breast and continued to play with your nipples, softly, coaxing more moans into his mouth from yours.

He leaned back and slipped his cock inside of you, filling you up immediately and making you gasp. He groaned into the side of your neck, tonguing the side of your ear and kissing you feverishly as he pumped in and out of you.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly close, your moans filling the room as he rocked in and out of you. He kissed your jaw and chest, before reaching down between your bodies and pressing his thick finger to your clit again, using the wetness there to draw circles around your sensitive nub.

“So pretty,” he smiles into your neck, your hand on the back of his, playing with the now-sweaty strands of hair on the nape. “So pretty for me, taking my cock,” the dirty talking is welcome as he continues to bring you closer to a second orgasm, your breath hitching once again.

“Come inside of me,” you say it like a whisper, a secret in the stillness of the room, and Joel is unsure he even heard you correctly.

“Are you sure?” He says it not accusingly, but in a way that conveys he feels like he just won the lottery.

“Yes, please, fill me up.”

You can see the way his eyes darken more, shifting so he’s on his knees and using your body to fuck himself on his thick cock. His hand continued to play with your clit, bringing you so close to your orgasm that tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. His cheeks were getting hot as he thrusted in and out furiously, and you could almost see the stress melt off of his face as he came close to his own undoing.

The white-hot feeling washes over you once again, eyes shutting before you’re back on your elbows and watching intently. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire as his thrusts become sloppy, your name pouring out of his lips like a prayer. You’re clenching around him and letting him ride out his high alongside you, slowing after his hot cum coats your walls and leaves you full of him.

He collapses on top of you, cock softening inside as you both catch your breath together. Your chests are sticky with sweat as you breathe, taking in the smell of him, and the feel of his warmth on your body.

He pulls himself from you and flops beside you, still taking a moment to admire you. You look over at him, a lazy smile on your face as your hand reaches out to caress the skin of his chest. He takes the time to run his fingertips up your arms and back as you lay there in silence together, just soaking in the moment in a post-sex glow.

“I guess I should get going,” you say after a few beats, sitting up to grab your dress off the floor. You cringe at the thought of throwing your underwear on and leaving, this being just another random hookup for you that never lead to anything. Joel was sweet.

A confused look spreads across his features and his brows knit together, before sitting up next to you at the edge of the bed.

“I mean, I don’t know how these things usually go,” he laughs, as his hand finds your lower back. “But you don’t gotta run outta here like a scared animal or somethin’.”

You look up at him again, unsure of what to do next. In your, albeit limited, experience with dating app hookups, you were expected to leave pretty much right after.

“Oh, um,” you look around the room at the soft worn-in sheets and the TV across from Joel’s bed. You take a look at him again, your eyes meeting his to match his gaze, where you can tell he’s mentally begging that you’ll stay the night.

“I mean, if you don’t mind, I’d be happy to stay.” Joel smiled lopsidedly and let his hand rub soothing circles at your lower back.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he laughs, stepping over to go into the bathroom and warm up a cloth for the mess spilling out from between your legs. “I wouldn’t mind wakin’ up and doing all that again tomorrow.”

You laugh and lay back onto his bed as he presses the warm cloth to your pussy, his lips once again finding yours to pull you in for a sweet kiss.

You nod, sliding between the comfortable sheets as Joel runs downstairs to grab your abandoned drinks as well as a couple of bottles of ice cold water. He slips into the sheets next to you, not bothering to throw on any pajamas (not that you were complaining), and settling in beside you. After a few gulps of water, you nestled into his chest and let your hand find his tummy, resting on it as you listened to the even pattern of his breath.

“We should do this again. Like, after tomorrow morning.” you say quietly as you’re drifting in and out of sleep. His fingertips continues to slide across your arm and give you goosebumps as you snuggled closer into him, hearing a laugh exhale out of his nose and feeling a kiss press to the top of your head.

In his sleepy, deep southern drawl, he replies. “Don’t have to ask me twice, darlin’.”

#this is such a fantasy that I have #joel miller #pedro pascal

2K notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

I'm crying so hard that was so beautiful! 😍 and at the same time I don't want anything bad to happen to them!! I want them to live their happily ever after! 💜💜💜 Amazing as always Jett 🙌

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 11

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 9.1k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude give into one another and share a passionate night together. Time moves on, and Frankie and Jude have to face the consequences of being stranded for so long on the island. SMUT IN ABUNDANCE!

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 10

Frankie steps backwards, still kissing Jude and leading her into the shack, where he pulls her down onto the cushion bed and wraps his arms around her, crushing her against his chest tightly.

His kiss is delicate and gentle at first, deep and feeling her all over his fuzzy lips as she kisses him back with as much fervour and heat.

Jude clings onto him, feeling his skin blister under her fingertips, the curve of his arms; the smooth paunch of his soft belly as her hands run across his body at last.

He kisses all along her bottom lip; suckling it gently between his teeth before running his mouth across her cheek and towards her neck.

The soft nips in between his lingering kisses from those puffy, pink lips of his begin to engulf her as he nips and licks along her jaw and her throat.

She can hear his breath gasping inside her ears, an ocean all of its own crashing against her, as he trails up to her earlobe before taking it between his teeth and biting it gently, sending her pussy to its knees in subjugation of him.

Those little butterfly kisses from his eyelashes where he blinks, flit against her skin; the soft graze of his beard sprouting catches against her throat.

“Frankie,” Jude whimpers out to him, her hands roaming over his chest and getting completely lost inside of the feel of his mouth wandering across her skin.

“Fuck, is this really happening?” He gasps, his body shaking against hers.

“Mhm,” she replies, smirking into his mouth. “I want you, Frankie.” She pushes his turned cap fully off, and winds her fingers in all those soft, unruly curls as they bounce free out from under it.

“Not as much as I fuckin’ want you, hermosa. Me vuelves loco.” (You drive me crazy.)

They lay on the cushion bed curled up in one another and taking each other in without saying a word, hearts beating against their chests wildly in unison.

He kisses her some more, hooking his leg over hers and clutching her lower back, holding her close.

The faint orange glow from the fire outside illuminates the shack and he can see Jude’s face clearly through the darkness that swirls with the light and shadows.

His fingers scratch away inside her scalp, and she runs hers over his bottom lip and jaw, studying his face.

“I have a secret to tell you.” Frankie admits to her softly.

“You’re really gay? I knew it.” Jude whispers before giggling.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes, and she laughs a little louder.

“No, I’m not gay,” he confirms, smirking and stretching on the bed beside her.

“You’re a eunuch?”

“Seriously?” Frankie grabs her hand and places it on his cock - rigid and tenting painfully inside his shorts - without thinking about it.

“Oh,” Jude smirks, as he lets go of her hand, but she doesn't remove hers.

Instead, she gropes him and feels his hard bulge making him breathe in and close his eyes as she rubs up and down slowly, touching him and not wanting to stop. He feels huge and it’s a little daunting to say the least.

“What’s your big secret, Fish?” She whispers, kissing his jaw and inhaling the sea salt inside his beard.

“It’s... mmm, it's my birthday today.” He replies, running his hand up and down her back affectionately.

She looks at him and baulks. “For real?”

Frankie nods. “August eleventh.”

“Wow. And how old are you today, Mr Morales?”

“Forty-four.” He winces.

“Ooof. Ancient.” Jude grins.

“Cállate, traviesa.” (Shut up, cheeky.) He teases, mock punching her on the jaw ever so gently.

She squeezes his cock a little firmer inside her grip and he hisses out. He bites his lip as he closes his eyes and enjoys the feel of her touching on him, finally.

“I didn’t get you a birthday gift, I’m afraid. Amazon doesn’t ship this far out.” Jude remarks.

He smiles at her. “I already know what I want.” Frankie replies, pressing his lips to hers again.

The words clack around inside her skull, but he swallows up any chance that she has to pick them apart and unravel any hidden meanings or weight to them.

She straddles him, kissing along his neck and when she reaches the scarred burns, she licks across them gently, flicking her tongue over the puckered, pink lines there and making him groan.

They crush lips and it’s delicious torture. He kisses her longingly. She kisses him back; their tongues massaging against one another, the sounds of their passionate osculation filling up the shack like clicking background music to the prominent sounds of their breathy moans and heartbeats filling their ears.

She sits upright, her hands on the front of his blue floral shirt, looking down at him and his wanton expression smouldering into her.

“Maybe I should make your birthday extra special for you.”

“What do you have in mind?” Frankie queries, stroking her knee gently and looking up at her sitting on him. Resting against his stiff cock inside his shorts that he’s all too well aware of as it throbs.

Jude promptly lifts the sundress up over her head to reveal her completely naked body to him.

Frankie baulks in astonishment. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You’ve been naked under that fuckin’ dress the whole damn night?!”

He runs his bulging eyes over her soft skin, his fingers twitching on her knee as he aches to touch her, to hold her in his arms against him; to have her.

“What? It’s laundry day.” Jude giggles coyly, and leans forward kissing him deeply as he pulls her against him.

“Seeing as it’s my birthday, I know exactly what I wanna do.” Frankie husks.

He runs his tongue down her legs before kissing back up them again, then settles himself in for the long stay between the apex of them.

He twists quickly, so she’s lying beneath him, giggling and gripping onto him for more kisses.

She can only hum out as he trails wet, open mouth kisses down her body, stopping to lick and suck around her nipples. Nibbling deliciously on the hard, fleshy pebbles around his lips before he continues down her stomach.

“Frankie,” she hums out, his breath fanning over her mound, slick with want and need. Warm and hot as she anticipates his next move. He places an agonising kiss on her inner thigh.

“God, please don’t tease me,” Jude whines, her fingers curling around the waves behind his ears listlessly.

He smirks up at her with dark, hooded eyes. “But that’s the best part.” Frankie cajoles. “¿Es todo para mí?” (Is this all for me?)

Cranking her head up, Jude watches, holding her breath as he runs his nose around the outside of her lips, inhaling deep as he goes.

His fingers press into her thighs, parting them wider as he finally licks a slow, fat stripe up her bubbly seam with his tongue.

She throws her head back on the bed as he finds her swollen clit instantly and begins sucking on it. Drawing deep and intensely on it with a tongue that won’t relent.

As it flicks over the tip of her clit, Jude bucks like she’s been electrocuted.

"Oh, fuck..." She mewls.

“Holy shit!” She groans out, fisting through his hair as his large hands slip under her thighs and he settles in, getting comfortable.

Prodding idly with their clumsy fingers until they discover that fleshy mound of nerves to lick upon that makes your legs twitch like a cross-eyed mutt riddled with fleas. Oof, that’s the spot, Buck Rogers - right there!

Most guys when they go down on a woman haven’t a fucking clue what they’re doing.

Discovering the female clitoris is akin to finding the Holy Grail; they know it’s there somewhere - they just don’t know where to begin looking for it - and sadly some never happen upon it ever, poor bastards.

Francisco Morales, however, is none of these things. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

But it’s the process they go through, which is the most entertaining, when you’re lying back and trying to think of England with that unsexy jabbing going on, or an inadequate tongue sloshing away down there.

It’s akin to a toddler with their hands swathed and smooshed in a bowl of mashed potatoes, going twenty to the dozen around your lady bits whilst simultaneously trying to back the shit away from it - eww, get it off, I don’t like it!

Unlike a panicked student in a sweat cramming for finals, he’s cool, calm... collected, as he swirls and swishes that skilled tongue around Jude’s succulent cunt like he has a diploma in the art of muff diving hanging proudly on his wall.

“Oh my God, yes!” Jude whines out; her legs bucking and twitching as though she has no real control over them anymore. “Frankie!” She yelps, as he builds her up to breaking point already, after just a few precisely controlled licks in the right spots.

The feel of him lapping her up begins to make her shake; breathing and panting around him as her hands fist inside of his chocolate curls. She lifts her head slowly up again to be met with those intense eyes watching her reaction to him mouthing on her pussy.

The feel and taste of her wetness instantly hitting his taste buds makes him groan long and deep, as he stretches her open with his thumbs and runs his tongue up and down her juicy slit hungrily. Tasting and enjoying her sweet nectar as she spills into his waiting mouth.

He’s salivating and beside himself at the way she’s dripping for him.

“Are you gonna come for me, Jude?” Frankie asks, calmly; his lips shiny with her before he dives back in.

She gasps, nodding, feeling like her head might fall off as she grips around the cushions, feeling her body tighten and coil, on the verge of snapping completely in two.

He slides two of his thick fingers inside of her; curling them up and stroking in all the right place as he sucks harder on that tingling nub.

“Fuck!” Jude cries out, her whole body engulfed in warmth and tingles as her orgasm smashes into her like a tidal wave, pulling her under into the deep.

Her mind goes blank, a head full of expanding air as her breath echoes inside the vacuous tunnels of her ears. The heat licks at her spine; a hot bolt coursing through it as she arches and twists in on herself, Frankie’s tongue chasing her all the way through it.

"Dámelo todo, Jude. Te quiero a ti completamente.” (Give it all to me, Jude. I want you all.) He mouths around her as she shakes and shudders buck wild.

He rises up, mouth soaked and licking his lips and she stammers and shudders, lost for words; her skin on fire with heat and sweat as she reaches for him with shaky arms.

His hands are clawing at her body, removing his clothes clumsily at the same time. Pulling her closer until she pushes against his chest and rolls so he’s on his back and she’s straddling him once again.

“Fuck... I want you.” Frankie grunts into her mouth, and it leaves electric sparks over her skin to hear him say it.

That yearning weakness in his voice, surrendering wholly to her and getting swept away in the ocean of her eyes and smile - he’ll happily drown in them over and over again.

He’s big; thick and long and it’s a little unnerving to have him in the vicinity. She breathes out, bracing herself as she watches his eyes glisten at her as he waits in aching anticipation.

She bends forward and kisses him; nipping on his bottom lip as his hands grab at her ass and grope it inside his large hands.

She reaches down to his cock and holds it upright against her; that swollen head probing at her slick entrance.

Jude sits down on him slowly; readying herself for the imminent stab of pain, but only a little, delicious pinch is felt, which soon melts away as she slides all the way down him until he’s buried deep into the hilt inside of her.

“Oh my God, Frankie... shit,” Jude moans out, closing her eyes and savouring the feel of him filling her up entirely.

Frankie gasps out and watches her eyes roll into the back of her head in euphoric ecstasy. She feels so tight and soaked around him; their eyes locking onto one another’s and panting out in delight as they finally become connected.

There’s a pause between them; a few seconds of intense passing where they adjust to the swell of him inside of her, twitching, before she begins rocking up and down on him.

He reaches up to her head and pulls her down on him, kissing her and pushing his heels into the cushions and bucking his hips up into her gently.

“You feel so good,” Jude whines into his face and he smiles at her before smothering her in deep, sensual kisses as he fucks up into her a little faster.

He glances down, getting the view of him sliding in and out of her; his cock shiny with her slick and the sound of their sex heard inside his ears like his favourite song on repeat.

Her gasps and moans only add to the tempo that he gets so fucking high off of, and his grunts and whines make her lose her damn shit every time they pelt her in the face.

Jude sits upright; her fingers kneading into the skin below his paunch, her body starting that thunder rock as she shakes again. Grinding deeply and moving back and forth on his cock with vigour and intense, undulating rhythm as she finds her pleasure.

Juddery moans flow out from her throat and into the air around her head. She grinds down on his hard cock, back and forth, back and forth, clenching and bubbling to epic proportions.

Her clit grinds against the fuzz of his groin he’s so deep inside her; the pleasant graze from his pubic hair making her buzz uncontrollably with each intense thrust he gives her.

"Fuck, Frankie." She whines.

"So fuckin' beautiful," he groans.

Frankie squeezes her hips, moving her against him and lifts his head off the pillow: the strain in his neck cords visible as he breathes in deeply and out sharply. He feels her squeeze and contract around his cock as she comes all over it.

“Yeah! C’mon, Jude!” Frankie grunts out to her, watching mesmerised as she explodes all around him and continues to ride him through it, even after she’s done; wanting more from him, her stamina seeming not to wane but intensify.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Jude runs her hands through his hair and tugs on it a little, and he growls out biting down on her lip a little more forcefully as their movements evolve into a frenetic, hard fuck as they both scramble at one another’s limbs.

She grabs his wrist, pinning it into the makeshift pillow; he gropes her ass harder inside his grip, pinching the skin almost. He bites down on her neck and sucks at the skin there, and she pulls harder on his hair, wringing it around her fingers as he growls at the feel of it tingling at his scalp.

Both vying for that dominance; both submitting to one another in equal turn.

Frankie rolls, taking her with him until she’s underneath; her legs wrapping around his trim waist and gasping out loudly as he fucks her harder and deeper in this position.

“Harder, oh shit,” she whines out, taking all he has to give to her.

“Frankie! Fuck!” She cries out as he pants and grunts into her mouth.

He takes both her arms and holds them down above her head against the pillow. He hammers into her; the sounds of his thighs are loud and slapping against her sweaty, wet skin.

“Like this? Harder like this?” Frankie pants as he works, cock driving deep and hard.

She grabs at his back and digs her nails in; biting down on his shoulder as she whines and pants.

“Fuck, yessss,” he hisses out enjoying the masochistic sensation of her nails cutting into him.

Sitting upright on his knees, Frankie shunts his hips into her in a relentless rhythm. Her back arches and he can feel her pussy tighten around his dick as she’s coming again.

“Oh fuck, Frankie!” Jude calls out.

“Come all over me,” he breathes out, almost pleading for her as she does so; feeling her wetness soak him as his cock slips in and out of her contracting hole. “Come on my cock! Yeah, just like that. So fuckin’ good, baby.”

Here, they’re merely encased inside of one another where Frankie’s eyes look deeply into Jude’s soul, and her grip on his body cocoons her from any physical harm.

They don’t need air, water or food - just the feel of one another is enough to wash everything else away.

In these moments they aren’t on an island smack bang in the middle of nowhere, nor are they fighting for their lives each day.

He’s panting and groaning as loudly as she is as she comes.

“Yes, yes, Frankie...”

“Fuck, yeah. Oh Fuck!”

Their skin is dripping wet with the scorching heat inside the shack; their minds swimming and bodies contorting around one another’s. Her voice is faltering and vibrating in the back of her throat as she whines out for him.

He hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, anchoring himself. Pressing his other hand flat against her sternum and moving with deep, intense shunts.

They both moan out in sweet relief; their foreheads pressing against one another as they bask in the feeling.

Hearing him say it, caving into his primal base urges for her makes her glow and set off sparks.

“Shit, this is so fuckin' intense…” Frankie admits to her as he pushes into her more gently now.

His fingertips brush against her skin on the side of her face, his other hand clenched into the cushions supporting himself as he winds his hips deep and languid, and Jude can feel every inch of him like this.

This isn’t just fucking now, he’s sure of it. It’s something else; something unique and special and something that tugs at him deep inside somewhere, waking something up within him that he never knew existed until now.

Something that as a man - this simple, weak flesh - he never knew he could feel, or deserved to feel.

She’s gasping for him; mouthing around mmms and aahs silently, feeling him deep inside of her and the mutual feel of it tearing both of them in half, as they touch and kiss and lose themselves.

“You feel so good,” Jude chokes out, completely running around inside the maze of his eyes like a lost idiot and failing to find her way out of them.

But she can’t escape even if she wants to, she can’t draw herself away from those pools of chocolate and how deep they are. Seeing the gold and obsidian once more weaving around them and letting it drip out of his irises in the firelight to coat her skin.

“Don’t stop, Frankie… don’t stop.” Jude whines to him, as he drives deeper into her; lighting up those sparkly neurons inside her head like triggers leading to an almighty explosion of glitter and embers.

She cries out as he breathes with her, trying to keep himself under control as she calls out his name, but it’s useless; he craves everything she’s giving to him right now - the looks, the sounds, the feel of her tightening around his cock again - craves it like the fucking dog he is.

Her back arches as he brushes against that sweet spot inside of her and makes it vibrate within her. Fingers interlock with his as Frankie kisses her once more, their mouths exploring each other all over again.

She grips onto his hands tightly as her moans begin to amplify; she crushes him into her further with her legs.

“I fuckin’ need you,” he whimpers to her - surrendering to her fully and unable to ignore his piece of shit heart anymore.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Jude” He pants, astounded at how she really is.

It makes him weak the way she looks up at him; makes his tiny world complete, makes him feel despicable that he should be feeling this way about her - that he should even be doing this to her when at any moment it could all be taken away.

Frankie pulls back, looking at her again and the glistening sheen filling her eyes, feeling what she’s feeling wholly as he rocks on top of her. His thumb wipes the wet tracks away and feels the agony they evoke as he relives everything about her that makes him weak and feeble and gutless; her smile, her laugh, the sight of her in her pretty dress tonight.

“Kiss me,” Jude pleads as she can feel herself beginning to let go, beginning to start the delicious unfurling around him as she releases again.

Letting herself suffocate under the swamping emotion of it all; the tears start to prickle in the corner of her eyes and pool, unable to stop them seeping out.

Frankie kisses her, struggling to hold it together himself completely, and begins unwinding. His body doing things to him inside that he never thought was possible.

How she’s saved him again and again, even though she doesn’t know how. How she’s saving him now, lying underneath him, staring up at him as though he’s the only man in the world and she’s the only woman.

Like they’re created for one another and he’s finally understanding it all.

“I’m close,” Frankie whispers; pleading in a weak voice hanging onto the cliff ledge, his fingers slipping and ready to fall into the waiting abyss of her.

He runs his calloused thumb over her lip and she kisses it delicately as he slows his pace right down; fucking into her with deep, grinding movements so that his cock can savour every inch of her cunt that feels implausible around him.

He wants to come inside her, wants her to feel what she’s doing to him. Wants to fill up her with him and never stop.

Jude nods, breathing with him, pulling his face closer to hers.

“Come for me, Frankie,” she moans into his lips as he thrusts one, two, three more hard times until his legs spasm.

Rational sense finds him, and he pulls out and pumps himself out onto her stomach, grunting as he empties pearls over her skin as she strokes his arms, moaning his name in rapture.

He collapses on top of her; his forehead clammy against her shoulder, curls glued to his forehead as they both pant and come down together from that sweet, caustic high they’ve flown up to.

She nuzzles into him. “Happy Birthday.” Jude smirks and she feels his shoulders heave as he chuckles.

“Gracias. Shit.” He sighs out, completely spent.

Frankie closes his eyes and loses himself to the feel of her fingertips stroking gently across the crest of his hip bone until he falls asleep.

Jude hears the shift in his breathing become heavier and lays there against him, wide awake for a long time, just listening to the sounds of him, the occasional soft expel of his breath from his nose as he slumbers.

The orchestra of his body pacifies her, like a comfort blankie she can cling to when the dark thoughts begin to creep in.

She thinks back to earlier on the beach, those moments when the infecting persuasion to just end it all would seep in like poison in her veins, and could hear those words that she had read in the notebook from Frankie’s inner cogs pulling her back out again.

Strength, grit, determination; whatever it was, she’d summoned it from deep within because he needed it too; needed her to be strong for him.

Her mind drifts back to Frankie's admission earlier that evening. She can't shake the weight of his words, the raw honesty with which he’d shared his past struggles with addiction.

Glancing at him now, sleeping beside her with small snuffles escaping his nose occasionally, Jude can't help but wonder what demons he wrestles with when the world falls silent; when the darkness closes in around him like a strangling grip around his throat.

The fire had cast flickering shadows across his face as he spoke, the warmth of his presence a comforting anchor in the darkness of the beach.

But beneath the surface of his stoic facade, she could sense the turmoil that lay dormant, the ghosts of his past haunting him in the quiet moments of the night.

The thoughts make her heart ache with a mixture of compassion and concern. Wandering uninvited into a realm of uncertainty as she ponders what would happen if they were to be rescued.

Would Frankie be able to resist the lure of drugs once they return to the real world? Would the chokehold of his past vices be too great to resist, pulling him back into a spiral of addiction and despair?

The thoughts send a shiver down her spine, a cold chill that threatens to consume her with worry the longer she ruminates in them.

They both need each other.

Whether he meant to burden her with that worry or not, it’s settling in regardless.

She's his life line; that piece of wing debris keeping him afloat, and he's hers too now; an exchange of unspoken understanding existing around them.

Casual dating or getting to know someone in the real world takes time and a working effort.

Two months, it’s a short amount of time to spend getting to know someone in the grand scheme of things.

Ordinarily being thrust under each other’s noses all day in the real world probably wouldn’t work. They’d have their distractions like life, work, friends and family parting them for long periods of the day.

The amount of strength they’ve summoned within one another, let alone themselves, is something that is hard to understand fully.

But time is all they have on the island.

The past two months of them talking all day, learning from one another and slowly stripping away pieces of themselves to feed to the other to gorge upon the knowledge of the people they are, and more importantly, the people they're becoming.

It would take so much to topple them and together they’re a united front of brute strength - as long as they have one another.

Anyone is capable of something under the right conditions. Crash landing on a desert island sure shows you what you’re made of. Sink or swim, fight-or-flight. Jude understands that now.

She understands that under the scared facade they both present outwardly, they’re both made of steel on the inside, and it'll be hard to break them down fully.

They just have to be.

A rock, an anchor; a compass to guide you home, whatever you want to call it, that’s what they are and it’s unspoken.

Just the knowledge that as long as they can survive this, get through each day together, they’ll be okay in the end.

She knows that back on land things could be different. In another world they would have never crossed paths; his world is completely different to hers, she didn’t exist to him before and vice-versa.

And moments like this, nestled in Frankie’s arms, makes it all the more better and gives her something to live for.

But here it’s different. Here their worlds evolve around one another; tied together with braided vines and leaves to keep it sturdy and from collapse.

Here, they’re all each other has, and they’re making the best of it.

Jude closes her eyes and has the best night’s sleep she’s had so far since they’ve been on the island.

And she knows it’s because Frankie doesn’t let go of her all night, even in his sleep.

As she opens her eyes, after enjoying those few moments of feeling his lips push against her skin over and over, she smiles out at the monkey’s inquisitive face coming into focus. Cocked and observing the naked pair on the seat cushions in the early light of the morning.

Jude wakes with Frankie wrapped around her from behind, the heat of his body stifling against hers, sticky with sweat.

She feels him trailing a slew of delicate, sleepy kisses across her shoulder gently. His hands and arms are wrapped around her waist and the sound of his breath close to her ear is a calming tide all of its own.

“We have a voyeur,” she murmurs to Frankie, and he stops kissing her shoulder and looks up, snickering at Egon, staring them both down through curious eyes.

“Morning,” he groans to her as she reaches down and feels how hard he is again inside her grip.

He screeches and then scarpers off from the window hole back from whence he came.

She turns over with Frankie enveloping her and pulling her closer to his tan skin.

“Good morning,” Jude whispers into his pert, pink lips and kisses him again.

She pumps him a few times; rolling back his foreskin and sliding her thumb around the wet secretions that leak out of him, making his hips buck into her fist.

His thick cock is warm and fleshy; a rosy pink hue and feels smooth inside her hand.

His cock is so close to her pussy between her legs, and they both look down as she works him inside her palm a little faster and tighter.

“Well, this is an unexpected wake up call...” Frankie groans out to her through sleepy, satiated eyes.

But as tempting as it is to have him again, Jude pushes his legs apart and lays in between them and begins kissing around his thighs.

He watches carefully before she smooches on his balls, running her tongue over them making him shiver and gasp.

"Call it a belated birthday gift." Jude simply smiles up at him, his cock inside her hand, and he watches as her tongue licks up the length of it like a popsicle on a hot summer's day.

“Fuck.” Frankie groans out, throwing his head against the makeshift pillow as she takes his rock solid length fully inside of her mouth and sucks on him in a sweet, delicious rhythm that makes him instantly weak.

She wiggles her head as her lips touch down on his groin; adjusting the back of her throat to compact him all in there.

Frankie sits up a little, leaning forward into her; his abs crunching under his paunch as he slips his hand around the back of her neck as she sucks. He starts moving his hips; flexing automatically as he slowly fucks into her mouth.

He groans out as she swallows him deep again, her lips pressed right into his groin and his head lolls back.

“Fu-uu-cc-kk...” He rabbles, his tongue crushed between his teeth.

He slides his palm down flat across his stomach towards his cock, angling it for her whilst his fingertips thrum against his balls in a mouth-watering pitter-patter.

She licks the tip, teasing him, flicking her tongue around the slit and tasting his secretions that drip out of him.

It makes his cock jerk and jiggle of its own volition inside her fingers - a literal happy dance, if you will.

His leg twitches each time she does it, and she notices it as she licks and sucks harder.

She licks across his taint; venturing further towards No Man’s Land, and Frankie’s eyes widen as she runs her tongue up and down that sensitive skin between his balls and his puckered hole, delectably.

“Fuck, Jude!” He gasps. “Se siente tan bien…” (That feels so good.) He mumbles as he collapses back.

He remembers thinking, through the heady bubbles that fill his mind, that her ex-fiancé is a fuckin’ idiot to ever let her go and not experience her mouth like this again.

But then his loss is clearly Frankie’s incredible gain right now as he looks down at her working his cock with her hands up and down and pumping him, whilst she smooches and makes out with his swollen, wet head in a way that puts porn stars to shame.

He groans out, his voice getting lost inside the strangled squalls of his satisfaction blooming and buzzing, enjoying the tight feeling inside of his balls, itching to drain them all down her throat.

“Ahh, that’s so fuckin’ good.” Frankie sighs out, propping himself up on his elbows again and reaching down to knot her hair around his fist out of the way so he can see it all.

She hums out on his incredible dick in agreement; the vibrations from her throat making his cock tingle and throb inside her mouth as she works him into an uncontrollable frenzy.

“Fuck, I’m gunna come! Jude!” Frankie gasps out, waiting for her to pull away in disgust like Carla would’ve, but instead Jude stays put with him deep inside her throat and massages his balls gently, tugging on them as she feels his cock pulse and twitch inside her mouth as he releases.

“Aww shit!” He groans, his legs tensing for a few seconds and then shaking as he comes, spilling warm and plentiful in her mouth.

Jude swallows him down in a few gulps, and licks her lips as he pops out of her mouth. He collapses down fully onto the bed again, spent and beside himself. Grinning in an incredible awe at her as she shuffles up the bed and he pulls her into his arms, crushing her against his clammy chest.

“Jesus…” Frankie sighs, rubbing her arm affectionately.

She kisses his chest, just above his nipple as they both lay there on the cushion bed, satiated and content for a while.

Jude hums dreamily, still tasting him on her lips. He kisses the top of her head and whispers how incredible it felt into her hair.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Frankie chuckles in disbelief.

Or at least they would’ve if it weren't for each other keeping them from slipping into the void of crazy town.

Time on the island passes differently than in the real world.

For starters, the days repeat on an endless cycle of monotony, and when we think about the definition of insanity - which is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome each time - then surely they’re going slowly insane, right?

Jude’s birthday rolls around on the island shortly after Frankie’s, and she hasn’t even noticed or holds any desire to even care.

There’s nothing to celebrate after all.

“Are you building sand castles?” She muses, as she approaches him with her towel in hand and some soap.

She heads down to the shoreline on the day in question, where she can see Frankie bent over in the sand; his tan, bare back to her and his shorts low on his hips.

The muscles in his back moving of their own volition as he stretches forward moulding sand into heaps.

He looks up at her and smiles, squinting in the sun under the snap of his cap.

“Something like that,” Frankie replies, all mysterious.

“Well, you and your five year-old self have fun,” Jude remarks as she passes him and walks down to the beach to bathe.

“¡Feliz cumpleaños!" (Happy Birthday!) Frankie exclaims, and steps aside to reveal a large birthday cake sand sculpture.

She rinses her hair, becoming evermore a tangle of knots as it grows, and stands waist deep in the water staring out on the horizon.

Staring blankly out at the world that has turned its back on them. She dries off and walks back to the beach front.

He’s spent the morning layering the sand and shaping it into cake pieces on top of one another. He’s placed twigs in the top for candles, which he lit with the fire and their flames flicker in the breeze.

“It’s my birthday?” Jude questions perplexed as he nods, standing up with a crooked grin plastered on his face.

“Yeah... I made a note of it in the notebook.” Frankie admits, rubbing his hands free of the sand clumps between his fingers.

She swallows down the dark serpent-like thoughts circling through her mind and looks at him.

She looks down at the sandy layered cake with a small frown knitting between her eyebrows.

It’s October already...

Frankie watches her withdrawn face slowly mould into a small smile.

“If that’s not a chocolate cake, I’m gonna be pissed, Frankie.” She remarks, trying to hold back the smile from widening fully.

“Of course it’s chocolate, what do you take me for?” He snorts, with mock offense. “Make a wish,” he suggests with waggling eyebrows.

“What did you wish for?” He enquires curiously, although truth be known, he knows exactly what she’ll wish for, because he’ll wish for the same.

She kneels down in the sand, plopping the towel and soap beside her.

He kneels down with her, his hands on his thighs watching as she closes her eyes for a few moments, and then blows out the candles on the sand cake.

“If I tell you, it won’t come true,” Jude smiles standing up. “Thank you, it’s really sweet of you. Looks good enough to eat for real.”

She kisses the side of his neck fondly.

“Happy Birthday, hermosa.” He says, pulling her in for a tight hug.

The sand cake remains on the shore until the tide picks up and washes it away, crumbling it and taking another piece of Jude with it.

Frankie soon calculates that it’s February twenty-second with his repetitive tallying of the days in the notebook.

Eight solid months have passed them by since they crash landed, including Christmas.

He heads out the shack to spot her sitting on the rocks and stops in his stride. He feels it stab his gut as he watches her; unmoved and vacant, the wind whipping tendrils of hair around her face.

He had observed Jude sitting on the rocks just like this on Christmas Eve too; staring out to sea with her chin buried into her arms, and felt an intense, similar pang swilling around inside of his gut amongst the hunger pains.

“I have something I want to show you,” Frankie had said to her a little later as he slipped onto the rocks beside her; a place that was seemingly a regular comfort for her these days.

Frankie recalls himself automatically disappearing into the wooded area and he began scouting for it; it had to be perfect, he would accept no less.

When he eventually happened upon it, he took out the switchblade that had dulled significantly, and began carving and shaping until he was soaked with sweat and his palms bleeding from blisters.

He felt the unease swim around him as he observed her sitting there daily and silent; an apparition of her former self on the rocks staring out at the sea.

Jude had smiled faintly at him as she allowed him to lead her back to the shack. Once inside, she spotted the little tree with garlands of beach shells wound around it.

He’d decorated the shack roof by hanging braided vines, imagining them to be colourful paper chains in his head, as they hung low in their dried, crisp loops.

“Frankie...” She breathed, feeling his arms wrap around her waist from behind.

Her eyes welled and she blinked the tears away as her lip trembled as that itching feeling crept into her nose.

“It’s really pretty,” she'd said in awe, reaching forward and fingering one of the pale, chalk-coloured shells.

“Can’t break from tradition,” Frankie had said.

“What Christmas traditions do you have with your family?” She'd enquired as the cold breeze blew in from the ocean around them in the shack.

He’d held onto her tighter as she'd shivered.

“My mom always makes Nog and hangs frayed stockings on the mantle. It’s funny, because some of them are so old and have holes in them, so when she puts the little gifts in, they fall right out of the bottom. My dad is always moaning about it when he unwraps broken chocolates.”

“I don’t really have any.” He’d shrugged

He omitted the part where he’d spent numerous Christmases either alone or high.

“That sounds nice,” Frankie smiled as he cuddled her close, and they both tried not to contemplate whether this would be the only Christmas without seeing their families, or whether there’d be more to follow.

She held onto Frankie’s arms around her waist as she felt him plant a small, delicate kiss on the side of her face.

They stood there admiring Frankie’s little Christmas tree with a silent, unwavering guilt hovering over them.

Their families would be mourning them this Christmas; it wouldn’t be the same, and yet here they were, unable to reach out and tell them that they’re okay and alive.

It felt wretched and cut them both to shreds internally.

“How do you say Merry Christmas in Spanish?” She piped up, feeling his beard crunching against her cheek.

“Feliz Navidad.” Frankie confirmed.

“Feliz Navidad, Frankie.” She’d whispered to him as she rested her head back against his chest.

“Feliz Navidad, hermosa.” Frankie had replied back softly.

Frankie just pulls her in close with his arm as her head rests against his shoulder, and they both sit and wait silently together.

He hesitates now, watching Jude sitting and unmoving in her ritual, before he approaches gingerly and sits beside her.

He doesn't say anything, even though she offers a faint smile in his presence.

The climate on the island feels much cooler for a while in January and February, despite the sun still high in the sky.

In March, Jude is sitting back against Frankie’s chest in the sand; his hand is swooping all over her neck and clavicle as he smooches the side of her face delicately, the fuzz of his ever growing beard tickling inside her ear.

The nights become colder and the rain falls more frequently for a while.

Their daily routine continues, as arduous as it is. But it’s made all the more bearable when they lose themselves from reality for a while, staring into each other’s eyes as they come together, clutching onto one another’s skin.

He has his other hand between her legs; his fingers circling on her clit and making her thighs judder.

Frankie knocks her legs open wider with his feet hooked around hers, pulling them apart so he can slip his fingers deeper inside of her.

They’re on the shore, facing the open sea - defiant in the face of the island that has tried to swallow them up for so long now.

Presenting a united front to it; it won’t stop them, won’t break them down. Not when they have each other.

His other hand gropes affectionately at her thigh, kneading the skin there and sucking on her ear lobe as she throws her head back against his shoulder, panting.

Jude turns her head in towards him and they lock lips; tongues finding one another and performing an unrelenting waltz of hunger inside their mouths.

Frankie whines out through their kiss; the kind of whimper that sounds like you’re about to break and weep uncontrollably.

He can’t get enough of her; rubbing his fingers back and forth over the hard nub of her clit and feeling her body sink further into his until he’ll inhale her fully, all the way in.

She’s climbing further up against his chest, her hands almost pushing her off the ground as she squirms and bucks with his fingers curled and hooked inside of her.

Her feet are pressing into the tops of his; her body trembling. His teeth are scraping against the curve of her chin as Jude peaks and shakes - her body a violent hurricane as she comes hard.

“Frankie!” She gasps out; her eyes snapping open and meeting the grey sky above, seeing ultraviolet dots in it swirl and glitter and make her dizzy as they multiply.

She shuts her legs, unable to take anymore; crushing his hand between her thighs, but he still continues to stroke her insides; the wet fapping of his fingers in and out of her cunt, riding her through her orgasm as she gasps and begins that floaty ascent.

His other hand sweeps up her stomach and over her breasts, squeezing and kneading as she catches his mouth with hers again, tasting all the colours of his soul.

Frankie withdraws his shiny, wet fingers and circles against her clit gently which makes her jolt and buck; her breath catching in the back of her throat as it feels wonderfully unbearable.

Jude grips onto his thigh, squeezing it and feeling the downy hairs soft against her palm as she breathes out; her vision falling back towards the ocean who’s witnessed their united spectacle and is now retreating in fear of them.

Frankie continues to kiss her relentlessly, running his lips against her neck and cheek and shoulders for what seems like hours afterwards as they sit on the beach in the same spot, watching as the sun is slowly being swallowed up by the ocean to die for another night.

The heat is still present in the air, but not as intense as it’s been over the previous summer months.

They’re both tanned and marked forever by the sun, but come the evenings they put on shirts and oversized t-shirts to wrap up warm as they huddle together on the cushion bed keeping one another warm as best as they can when the breeze comes back on the tide with a bite.

His fingers feel over the prominent nodules of her spine and Jude winces under his touch.

She’s enjoying the feel of Frankie’s fingers stroking up and down her spine as they stare out at the ocean together, noting that blank horizon presented back at them.

The daily reminder of their continuous isolation slapping them across the jaw and dragging them back into a brutish reality to face again after those few moments of escapism and distraction within one another.

“Did that hurt?” Frankie asks her as he plants a kiss on her temple.

“A little; just achy.” She replies softly with a faint smile.

He watches with a terrible sear across his beating organ, that has already endured so much, as she stands up and stretches, brushing the sand clumps from her thighs.

And Frankie frowns, taking in her body and how it’s changing right before him.

He feels it swill around inside him at the realisation that the longer they’re on the island, the longer they’re both suffering from the effects of it.

How Jude’s shrinking before his eyes, and he’s been noticing it for a while, but it really hits him in the gut now with the stark reality of it all.

The supple curves that she once had are slowly being replaced by the bony protrusions of her hips; the sockets of her eyes becoming a little more hollow than he remembers them ever being.

Detriments to their health and mental state, and as Frankie takes in her gaunt, harrowing appearance, he fears what lasting consequences it will have on her - on them both.

She glances down at him studying her body, no longer worried about him seeing the hair on her legs or under her arms. She has no choice; she’s unable to shave it all away due to the razor slicing off chunks of her skin instead whenever she tries to use it, completely blunt now.

“It’s just hair,” he’d said when she’d shied away from him at first, but clearly he was having none of it and continued to kiss and touch her and stroke her skin, completely unfazed by the fuzziness of it.

Looking at his face, full of a sinking forlorn dip, his eyes appear watery at her.

They walk back to the shack, hand in hand along the sand.

Jude outstretches her hand and he smiles up at her from the concern swimming in those beautiful peepers, and she helps him to his feet.

She stands on tiptoes, reaching up to kiss him, to taste him and stroke the fuzzy growth of his beard that seems fuller as the days wear on.

There are days when there are no fish. Scary days when the water is gone and not being collected fast enough in the solar stills anymore, and they both pray silently for more rain, feeling themselves get weaker and dizzier.

Frankie goes spearfishing without her whilst she sleeps.

She’s become more tired and her energy wanes quicker now it seems. He’s constantly fatigued as well; the long days weighing heavy on his own shoulders that were once broad and stocky, and the long term effects of onset malnutrition plays havoc with their bodies now.

But an abundance of rain never lasts for long; short rains that barely fill the bottles. He can’t remember the last time they had a decent downpour that would fill them entirely.

And when she’s awake, he’ll kiss her dry, chapped lips and hold her in his arms to keep her warm. She’s losing weight faster than he is, and he notices she begins to wear some extra layers now during the day, despite the intensity of the heat that still lingers over the island.

Frankie’s jaw constantly aches from sucking against his tongue during his sleep; sleep that’s more and more swamping, and he often wakes feeling worse for wear.

His mood dampened and he’ll stay quiet, watching Jude as she sleeps.

The school of fish is becoming more and more sparse, he's noted; maybe one or two fish will swim by if he’s lucky. He feels his strength departing before he’s even got started with the fishing; his arms aching where they hadn’t ached before.

Frankie stands in the shallows around the rock pools in the bay, staring down into the water that’s void of any fish and willing for them to appear as his stomach rumbles.

Rigid in his posture, the sun beating on the back on his neck and shoulders uncomfortably, whilst he waits for the much needed food to arrive.

He eventually catches only two fish and cooks them, taking them through to Jude in the shack; rousing her awake gently by stroking her hair that has gotten so long that he’d braided it for her weeks ago to keep it out of her face in the breeze.

She wakes up through sleepy eyes and smiles up at him.

“Hey,” he says to her, “you hungry?”

“You should eat. Here.” Frankie hands her the fish he’s laid on a flat stone for her, and she looks down at it, her stomach rumbling involuntarily.

She shakes her head and coughs, her throat feeling tight and raw.

“Not really.” But of course it’s a lie - she’s starving.

“What about you?” She asks him. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that he isn’t as bulky as he used to be; those muscular shoulders have shrunk.

And although she can't see a lot of his cheekbones anymore due to his beard growth, she knows that those once fatty lines on his face are more sharp and defined now as the skin has sunk in around his bones.

“I had some already,” Frankie assures, but of course, that’s a lie too.

He hasn’t eaten for a few days now, instead giving whatever he catches to her. The dizzy spells seem less frequent; he’s kinda numbed out to them in a way.

But when he’d passed out in the bay, falling face first into the water, and the shock of it bringing him back around as he spluttered and coughed, it had scared the shit out of him.

He hasn’t revealed it to her; he doesn’t want her to worry, but it’s enough to convince him that he does need to eat something soon.

“Don’t make me throat punch you, Fish.” She warns with a wry smirk.

Jude breaks apart the fish and scoops some of the meat into her mouth and then pushes half of it towards him and gives him the look.

The look that says he needs to eat some and she isn’t going to take no for an answer.

Frankie smiles at her compassion, giving in and taking a couple of mouthfuls, but ensures she eats more than he does.

Afterwards, Frankie collects a small amount of water from the solar stills and glances up at the sky to see no hint of dark clouds swirling around - another day passing them without any rain.

He tries not to think of what will happen once they’ve drunk all the water completely.

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

MAIN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

#frankie morales #pedro pascal

176 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

I CCAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT THIS

Practice Makes Perfect

A/N: You know I had to. Can you tell I have studied rhetorics at uni?

Summary: You are Mr. Ted Garcia’s political advisor and you help him with practicing his upcoming speech.

Pairing: Ted Garcia x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, oral sex m receiving, strip tease, dirty talk, verbal humiliation, praise kink, come swallowing, face-fucking

Word count: 2.4k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54597913

Practice Makes Perfect

“Go over it again,” you order as you are perched on the desk, one leg crossed over the other by the knee and your red-bottom stiletto dangling from your toes. You are gripping the edge of the table, and whereas your position looks downright sinful, the smile on your face sports innocence, “Go on, Mr. Re-elected Mayor.”

Ted whips around to face you, reaching up to loosen the knot on his tie. He smiles, a little uncertain of what to make of you, “You don’t know that yet, sweetheart.”

“I know you won’t win the reelection if you don’t practice,” you shrug your shoulders and then move your hands to lean back on your arms.

“I’ve gone over it a million times,” he says with a sigh, “Would much rather call it a day and order some food. We haven’t had Chinese in a while, have we?”

“Ted,” you stop him, “I need the speech tomorrow to be absolutely flawless. I’m your advisor; it’ll reflect badly on me if you stumble. Not to mention, I’m a woman so I have to work twice as hard to earn the public’s respect. They probably think you hired me to suck cock. That’s what they’re saying anyway.”

“Didn’t I?” He jokes and steps towards you.

You glare at him but there’s no malice in it, “I could get you fired for that statement, you know.”

“I should fire you for being so distracting,” he retorts. When he gets close enough, he reaches out to curl a strong hand around your thigh and uncrosses your legs. He steps between them but you shake your head when he tries to lean over you.

“Go over it again,” you repeat. You lean back a little further until you are able to lift your leg and place your heel on his chest, pushing him backward and away from you. He follows your silent order of staying back but still grabs your ankle hard enough to make you shiver.

“From the top,” you say to not lose face.

“And if I don’t, Ms. Advisor?” He challenges.

“You’ll regret it,” you tease him by sounding almost bored, “Try and see what happens.”

Ted sighs and lets go of your leg, simultaneously letting go of the idea of getting to fuck you as a way of ending his work day. He moves back to the center of his office, clears his throat, and shakes his arms as if trying to loosen up his tense body, “Right, let’s give it another go.”

You cross your legs again and wait. He is going to have no idea what hits him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of our beloved city, as I stand before you today, I am filled with hope and optimism for the future of our city…” He begins and his tone is laced with a charm that you know better than to believe. Others, however, will eat it up.

“Very good, Ted,” you praise when he is a few more lines in. He meets your eyes for approval, a playful smirk on his lips. You wipe it off his face not a moment after, having reached up to unbutton your shirt until it falls open and reveals your lace bra, “Continue.”

Ted’s gaze shamelessly lingers on your chest for a few seconds before he does as he is told. It is so easy, like Pavlov’s dog.

“We stand at a crossroads, where the decisions we make today will shape the trajectory of our city for generations to come,” he speaks with confidence, fuelled by the shirt falling off your shoulders and pooling around you on the desk. He looks deep in thought as he tries to remember the keywords that guide him forward in his speech but when you let a shoe fall to the floor, only to let the other one follow, he looks up to satisfy his curiosity, “And I believe that embracing technology is not just an option, but a necessity if we are to thrive in the 21st century.”

“God, you are killing it, Mr. Garcia,” you are only in your skirt and bra now but the bra won’t stay on for much longer. You reach up behind you to unclasp it but there’s no follow-through. You raise a brow in disapproval, “Well?”

“Fuck, where was I?” He runs a hand through his hair. You don’t blame him for forgetting because he doesn’t seem to have blood in his brain right now; it appears to have gone south where he is tenting in his suit pants.

“A mayor doesn’t swear,” you tut with a little shake of your head, hand still in a waiting position to expose your tits to him. You decide to help him, “My vision for our city…”

“My vision for our city is one where technology serves as a catalyst for positive change!” His voice is slightly louder than normal as if relief floods him because he knows by now that remembering will get him to see you naked. He straightens, “Where innovation brings economic growth, and where every person has the opportunity to succeed.”

You undo your bra and let the straps fall down your arms until you teasingly drop it onto the floor. Your breasts are exposed to the air conditioning unit sending out cold air in the mayor’s office, immediately causing your nipples to harden at the temperature drop. You let out a teasing moan and jump off the desk to make your tits bounce obscenely, “I wanna hear more, Ted. Please.”

“I— uhh,” his gaze is fixed on your chest.

You place a hand on the skirt’s zipper along your side, teasingly pulling it down along your thigh. It seems to kickstart his memory again, “Where smart infrastructure optimizes traffic flow, reduces energy consumption for a greener future, and - Jesus, baby - and thus enhances public safety. A city where access to high-speed internet and the newest devices is not a luxury, but a fundamental right…”

“God, you are so sexy like this,” you say with a grin, hoping that he catches onto the way your eyes drop to his mouth when he speaks, “Nearly convincing me, baby.”

You start to wiggle your hips to get out of your pencil skirt, causing your whole body to shake as you move the fabric down over your legs. It makes Mayor Candidate Ted Garcia’s whole brain go dumb because he stops reciting his speech altogether and simply admires the way your breasts jump with every movement of your lower body.

“Did I tell you to stop?” You ask when the skirt lies in the pile with your bra and shoes. You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your matching lace panties, “Just a little more.”

“But you’re nearly undressed,” he points out and hits his chest to clear his throat when his voice seems to have gone up an octave. He looks almost pained when you stop any motion to step out of your underwear.

“Listen, here’s what’s going to happen,” you move to stand in front of him with only inches between the two of you, “You’ll make the rest of the speech I wrote with your sexy, big cock in my mouth, and I won’t make you finish until you’re finished.”

Ted swallows thickly. He nods and tries to be cocky one last time during your relentless teasing, “You sure I didn’t hire you because of your fellatio skills?”

“Why don’t you use your own tongue instead of worrying about mine and make those little words roll off it?” You bite back, “One more line.”

“H-however, embracing technology is about a lot more than just improving efficiency,” he tries his best not to stutter too much. Oh, you cannot wait to hear him lose it when you close your lips around his beautiful cock.

“Mhm, what’s it about then?” You encourage. The panties come off then, pooling around your feet until you kick them to the side.

“It's also about fostering a culture of innovation and entrepreneurship,” he replies with his eyes between your thighs to watch your throbbing cunt. Despite your cool demeanor, you have never wanted him more than right now, and seeing him desperate and faltering because of something you have done is a feeling out of this world.

You sink to your knees with a dirty smile, keeping your eyes on him the whole time to watch the satisfying sight of his burning desire corrupting his concentration. You wish to tell him that he is so good today, that he hadn’t lied about going over the speech a million times.

You settle for showing it instead, undoing the button on his black slacks and then the zipper. He twitches behind the fabric. You are salivating by now, aching between your thighs to taste him on your tongue. You pull out his cock with little effort, grinning mischievously up through your lashes as it springs free and nearly hits your cheek.

“I’ll start dripping on your floor if you get it right, don’t you want that?” You say it and then start to gather spit in your mouth, preparing yourself for his generous size to slide past your lips.

“I want that,” he breathes, “Fuck yes, I want that.”

“Then tell me what you envision,” you hint and then you take him into your hot, waiting mouth. He tastes so fucking good, heavy on your tongue as you relax your jaw until he stabs the back of your throat.

He sucks in a breath as you hollow your cheeks and slowly pull off, only to repeat the move again and again, “I envision our city attracting the brightest minds from around the globe to come—“

You hum around his girth at the choice of word, a giggle bubbling up in your throat. The vibration of your noise makes Ted settle a hand on top of your bobbing head, ready to yank if it becomes too much and he needs release right then and there. He corrects himself professionally but falters once more because you moan at the taste of his precome oozing from the tip, “I mean work together and create the next huge— b-big thing.”

You reach underneath his dick to cup his balls and massage them in your palm, working your lips up and down his shaft simultaneously. You have to breathe deeply through your nose, resulting in your neck muscles tightening slightly while he speaks.

Ted moans out loud for the first time then, having gone past simply stuttering and swearing. He looks down at you with a slack jaw, and when he stays quiet for just a little too long, you start to pull off. He sounds panicked, yelling out a no.

“Of course, with great technological advancements come great responsibilities. We must be vigilant in protecting the privacy and security of our citizens,” as soon as he starts again, you go back into it with even more enthusiasm, removing your hand from his balls to reach up and grip his hip. You pull at it to show him what you want, and he breaks the long streak he has had with simply reciting his speech for tomorrow, “You want me to fuck that dirty little mouth? Huh?”

You moan in confirmation, nodding with his cock far down your throat. The eyes you send him have him breathing hard and nodding repeatedly, doing an experimental thrust, “Yeah, that’s what you want. You just wanna please your local elected official, you little slut.”

He can’t fail now. You furrow your brow up at him, trying to look displeased despite how wet you are right there on the floor. He catches on, tries his best to talk comprehensively whilst sliding wetly and repeatedly past the very tight space at the back of your mouth, “R-right, where was I? Shit, that’s right. That's why I will do everything in my power to implement the correct measures and promote trans - fuuuck - parency.”

You press your thighs together when you hear him moan through the end of his speech. He sounds so sexy that you can’t imagine stopping even if he doesn’t get to the last word, and you whimper around his thick cock to push him closer to the edge.

It’s the first tear that falls from your eye that has him on the brink but he still powers through, “Together, we can use the power of technology to build a city where innovation knows no bounds, and where the sky is truly the limit.”

You are sure it looks like you’ve pissed yourself with how wet you are by now, a patch having formed underneath your dripping cunt. You move your hips to find some kind of friction but to no avail. Above you, Ted rounds off his speech.

“So I ask you, my fellow citizens - fuck, honey, I’m gonna come… I’m gonna come right in your pretty mouth, ah, ah, a-almost - uhh, to join me on this journey towards a brighter future,” he thrusts his hips even faster at this point, his pitch climbing until he is whining instead of talking. The way you can feel his pulse on your lips lets you know that he isn’t lying, so you allow him to fuck your throat frantically even if it hurts a little, “Let us embrace technology with open arms, and together, we will— we will— shit, we will build a city that we can be proud to call home. Thank you!”

He comes as soon as he has said those last two words, and they become his mantra as he spills down your throat with several twitches of his cock that simply will not stop, “Thank you, oh fuck, thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

You swallow greedily, sucking him completely clean until he shakes his head in oversensitivity and pulls out of your mouth. He tastes like himself and power, enough to get you drunk.

“You are fucking fantastic,” he groans when tucking himself back into his pants. He crouches down to meet you at eye level, marveling at the way you are practically fucking yourself onto the air, “My sweet girl.”

“Fuck, I need you,” you pant with tear-streaked cheeks.

“Here’s an idea since I did so well,” he starts, reaching into his pocket to hand you his phone, “How about you call and order us some food and I rub your cute little clit while you do it? Then we’ll see who is the real professional orator here.”

You want to reply but you can barely press the number of his favorite Chinese place and you almost come the second he touches between your thighs.

FOLLOW @notjustjavierpena-fics AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS 💖❤️💖❤️

#Ted garcia #Pedro pascal

587 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

no words just:

6. morning coffee

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter six of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.5k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. an: if this was a sitcom episode, it would be called 'the morning after'

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

It’s hard not to smile when you open your eyes.

More so when you feel his breath on your neck, the scent of body wash you quickly remember him rubbing into your skin—the arm currently draped over your waist. The one keeping you firmly close, as though you would ever wish to be anywhere but here.

Seen, wanted and appreciated—even when he’s not entirely conscious.

The only reason you even contemplate moving from this—and the only real reason you’re awake—is that you’re desperate for the bathroom. It worsens the longer you lie there, thinking of it, the pressure on it from his forearm.

A quick glance at the clock on his bedside table tells you it’s far too early to disturb him. To wake him with a kiss and a whisper that you’ll be right back—especially when you think back to how late it was before the two of you finally whispered that you should sleep.

Even if you hadn’t wanted to.

Wanting instead to keep feeling his knuckles drag up and down your outer thigh and knee. The husk of his voice saying he should really flick the light off, even if he didn’t, instead letting you ask his favourite colour and him answering with a handful of shades you’d never remember.

Pick one, Francisco.

Mmm, not sure I can do that, baby. Too hard of a question.

Too hard to pick one thing?

Not when it’s the right thing.

Glancing over at him, fingers close to his, you swim for a moment in the memories of last night—the ache between your thighs a souvenir you can keep with you until it fades. Admiring the length of his lashes against his cheek, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips that you wish to kiss forever, as a thought—one strong and beating inside of you like your own heart—comes to you:

You don’t wish to trade this. Any of it.

Not just last night, but all of it—all of him.

But, you have to move. Even if your heart pleads with you not—eventually only doing so when your bladder twinges again in protest.

You find, slipping out from under his arm (all cautiously and carefully) is easy, until you glance back at his sleeping frame.

A calmness to him, a peacefulness. Chest and shoulder rising, face tilted ever so slightly into the plump pillow. It makes a pang of want thrum through you, one that doesn’t fade when you tiptoe back to the room and find him in a similar position.

Leaning on the wall, the one between his bedroom and en-suite, you flick your eyes to the half-open door. Spotting his bathrobe, fluffy and dark grey—flecks of white stitched in. Your throat suddenly scratchy, dry. Your body desperate for what usually fuels it when you’re up and about.

And you know you have to decide. Choose between attempting to slide back into bed or searching cupboards for coffee—both for you and him.

But you can’t stand there. Able to bet money that if he opened his eyes and found you staring, he’d one hundred per cent find it creepy.

You move when he sighs—further rolling into the space you had been moments ago. Smirking, you move, the decision made as you unhook the rope. Slowly sliding your arms into it until it’s draped over you and you’re welcomed by it: his scent.

That familiar one. The one which smells like pine cones, cedar wood and so much more. The one which had seeped into your clothes that first kiss close to your car.

And, thankfully, it only gets more intense as you step out into the hallway.

Brushing your hand over shelves as you pass, eyes lingering over the titles of books—ones about woodwork, decor and home. Fingers tracing the spines of them as you take in the photographs littered around.

Some are adorned with Luca, varying ages spanned across shelves. A tooth missing here, a gummy smile there. Some you assume are his family, and then a group of men, shirts off and standing in the middle of a dune—grinning, Frankie’s hair far shorter than it is now.

But, as you stare across his living area, you spot all the things you missed last night. The record player and the vinyls tucked on a higher shelf, placed beside crayon artwork framed in dark wood. There are mini-Lego figures in prime places, with wicker baskets containing multicoloured blocks and toys.

Then, there’s the closet near the kitchen you can’t remember from your tour—making a note to question him on later—before finally arriving at his kitchen.

And, fuck is it beautiful.

It’s all dimly lit by the early morning light flitting through the windows. Quiet, peaceful—save for the humming of the refrigerator and the distant chirping of birds outside. Like much of the place, the cupboards are dark, starkly contrasted by white-wash walls and pinned drawings on the fridge.

Centre-stage, and the thing you’re seeking, is his coffee machine. A sleek silver contraption that looks more complicated than you're used to. Shiny, remarkably clean.

Yet, you're determined.

Remembering his mention about his love of coffee and his preference for Cafe Bustelo. Trying to remember the rest, whether it was black drip, milk or no milk. Stroking a finger down the milk frother as you begin to piece it all together from fragments, hints he had dropped unknowingly.

Up until this point, you had found it difficult to find one thing about Frankie you didn’t like. Then you saw his kitchen layout.

Cupboard, after cupboard opened until you found the bright yellow bag. The smoky, rich smell wafting out as you tugged it close, all strong and inviting—it hooked a finger under your chin and coaxed you to spend several minutes fumbling with the machine.

Then, you hear the satisfying gurgle of brewing coffee.

Resisting the urge to break into a spontaneous dance, you opt instead to steal a momentary glance out the window. The world is stirring, its early morning canvas painted in delicate strokes of pink and orange, a serene backdrop as your gaze falls upon the garden. the worn slide of the wooden climbing frame, its sides adorned in an array of mismatched hues and haphazard brushstrokes. Your eyes begin tracing the trail of tiny handprints ascending one side, the lowest the smallest, increasing in size until halfway up. Then, at the top, larger prints that, just hours ago, you imagine were pressed against your own skin.

As a breeze blows through it, it swings multi-colour bulbs hanging, draped and swinging above. Letting your eyes sweep over the plants—the planters likely made by him, like you imagine much of the furniture outside is—suddenly spotting little figures buried into random bits of soil.

And it makes you smile, grin—full on fucking beam.

Only letting it flicker when you’re stirred by the beep of the coffee machine, pulls you from your reverie. Fingers returning to opening cupboards, seeking mugs, almost grumbling to yourself when you feel hands on your waist.

Ones that feel right, purposeful.

“Morning.”

It’s gravelly, coated in the morning—slowly closing the door before moving back into him, your back flush to his chest.

“Good morning, Butterscotch.”

Feeling him sigh, chin resting on your shoulder, you raise your fingers to brush against his cheek.

“You trying to bring me coffee in bed?”

Turning, you rotate in his arms. Eyes briefly catching the sight of him half-naked. Before taking a full on glance to spot him in a pair of sweats, ones that sit low on his hips. One of his hands crosses over the expanse of his waist, fingers scratching at his soft stomach while you look up to see his hair all at odd angles—curls slightly frizzed from being over-toyed and ragged.

“Well, I was trying too, but...”

“Machine confuse you?”

Narrowing your eyes, his hands coming around you, you smirk. “I will not confirm or deny.”

Running his hand across his chin, he looks over you before his lips twitch. “It was a gift—the machine.”

“From you to you?”

You watch as he sticks his tongue in his cheek, poking you lightly in your side. “The coffee place near work—it was being refurbed, I offered some thoughts as I was in there all the time, so they gave it to me.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

“Do you use all of its features?”

Swallowing, he sighs. “No.”

Sliding your fingers along his jaw, nose practically touching his, you find yourself unable to break his eyes. To not want to remain pressed against the counter in his kitchen, stood barefoot in his bathrobe, coffee scents filling the air.

“I bet you know exactly how to take it apart and put it back together.”

“Baby…”

“Bet you descale it regularly, when you’re supposed to.”

Groaning at the feel of your fingers in his hair, he buries his face into your neck. “Is that making you hot for me?”

“Oddly, yes.”

Snorting against your skin, he slowly lets out a slow exhale. “I hate that I have to open the shop.”

“What would your plans be if you didn’t have to?”

Smirking, he groans—low, barely reaching the surface, but it vibrates through you all the same. “I would for one have convinced you the bedroom was far more comfortable.”

“Hmm, tempting.”

Laughing, he pecks your lips, not moving from his place in front of you, even if his head moves back. “I like that you smell like me.”

“Territorial, noted.”

Turning, he points to the mugs, as you begin pouring the coffee—handing him one as his fingers brush yours.

“I just… I liked that you stayed.”

“Stayed or showered with you and let you see where soap suds go?”

Tilting his chin down, his eyes burn into your soul—all wide, brown, desperate to swallow you whole. “If I remember right, you were also seeing where soap suds go.”

Shrugging, you smirk against the mug, noting his finger resting on the knot of the belt—the one protecting your modesty. “Well, it would be rude to not watch the show.”

“A show? Glad I put on my best moves then,” he replies, voice all low, a hand coming to rest on the counter beside you.

You find it hard not to let your mouth become slack, breath hitching at the act.

“Glad it persuaded you to stay?”

Raising an eyebrow, you try to find something smart to say. Ticking. Whirring away. But then you see it.

Ever-present, hanging there—that worry in his eye. A look which half-pleads for you to pinch him and let him know it’s real. A thing you do as you clutch your coffee in one hand, avoid melting at his words and cup his cheek with the other.

The fabric of his robe-sleeve slides down and his breath flutters warmth against your wrist.

“You didn’t need to persuade me. I wanted to wake up in your arms…”

It’s smooth, the way one of his fingers undo the belt, body coming close as you place the mug down and feel his hands, all rough and worn, sliding over your hips. He's cautious to ensure his chest covers yours, as though attempting to keep you warm, concealed.

“—Plus, I really wanted to try your coffee. But, now I want to steal your coffee and bathrobe.”

His laughter trickles out and draws out against you. Frankie’s head shaking, wearing a large smile on his lips, “Well, I think I can come to some arrangement to let you.”

Sucking in a breath, finding his eyes locked on yours, you lean forward and kiss him. Gentle. Delicate. An assurance delivered softly as the coffee aroma continues to seep into your nose.

“I need to make you breakfast,” he whispers, mouth open, breathing the same air.

“Need, want or should?”

With a soft scoff, he leans in to capture your lips once more, whispering all three against you as his hand finds its way to the curve of your neck. Delicately tracing his fingertips over your jawline with a tantalising caress, you find yourself deepening the kiss, hungry for more. His grip on you tightens as you pull him closer, until there is no space left between you both. None that you want to be there. Desperate to be close, to have, to—

“‘m gonna make your breakfast now,” he says, voice close, pecking against your lips before his hands slide from your skin.

The loss is evident. Immediately missed.

Part of you longs to reach out, to draw him back until you feel him clutching the fabric together for you—a slightly lifted brow as you fumble for the belt, and he begins to pull things onto the counter.

Then, you watch him—tying his robe closed—half-in-awe of the meticulous way he moves around his space, grabbing things like he’s been thinking of what to make while you were busy rendered useless.

Eyes fixed on him so much, you see him pause—briefly. His gaze lingers on the coffee pot, glancing back, forcing you to laugh—a shake of your head.

"Thinking about how you’re going to miss this brilliant coffee, you know, since it’s mine now?" You quip, taking another sip of your coffee.

He turns, a pretend wounded expression on his face.

“I should confess that I’m not a nice person without my coffee," he replies, the twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement.

With a smile gracing your lips, you ease back against his countertop, enjoying the comforting warmth of both the freshly brewed coffee and his presence.

The sunlight continues to filter in gently, casting a soft and golden glow across the room as you pause to drink in the sight before you. Him, cooking you breakfast.

A thing you thought you could have only thought up weeks ago. His curls tousled, a charming mess.

"Selfishly then, I'll let you keep the coffee," you finally concede.

Nodding, he closes his eyes in gratitude before there’s a twitch of his lips. “Because you like me?”

“Because I really like this bathrobe—the robe is a non-negotiable."

He laughs again, shaking his head in defeat. "Fair enough, it's a deal."

“Because I look so good in it?”

“Well," he says, scratching the back of his head. “I think you look good in everything.”

Harry okay?

Yeah, he rocked up ten minutes after you drove off, was able to pick Luca up at normal time.

That’s great! Did you boys have fun?

We did. He’s really into dinosaurs at the moment so I found this craft we could do where we make dinosaurs out of paper plates.

I like making things with him, plus it’s a nice gift for his mom when I drop him off tomorrow.

So handy and crafty?

Very crafty.

And very good with your hands.

You flirt.

You had a nice day?

I got some work done which I needed to get started, and I did some yoga.

Putting all sorts of images in my head.

Says you, talking about being crafty.

Bed feels weird without you here.

Imprinted on it that quickly?

Yeah. You’re the only one that’s been in it except me, and obviously Luca.

Shut up. I cannot be.

You are.

I don’t bring people back to my house.

Ever?

Never.

Never—

You don’t think.

Not of the time. That he could be tired. Or that his son is asleep in the next room.

Fingers sliding across the screen, finding his contact, and clicking. It's pressed to your ear before you consider whether this is a bad idea. Clutching it, holding it like a lifeline, knowing it's too late. Even if you end it, he'd know, see—

It barely rings.

Two at most, one and a half being a possibility.

And you sigh.

“Fancy hearing from you.”

Pulling your knees up, your bed groans at the sudden movement as you tug the duvet closer to your chin, cheeks rising with your lips. “You’ve really not had someone in your bed?”

It’s there, the sigh. Not full of annoyance, but more like he’s said too much.

“No… I’ve not had anyone else in it but you,” he admits quietly into the phone.

“Wow.”

“And Luca, of course. I always… you sure you want to hear this?”

There’s a softness in his voice that makes your heart flutter in your chest. An unexpected stroke of warmth through you at his question, at his consideration—prompting you to hug the duvet closer to yourself. A subtle smile dances across your lips as you let it wash over you.

“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me.”

Clearing his throat, you hear rustling, trying to half imagine if he’s turning over in bed, if he’s getting more comfortable—

“If I met someone, I didn’t… I only went to theirs.”

Biting your lip, you shift in your seated position, crossing your legs. “So, lunch and then theirs?”

“No lunch.”

“Coffee?”

Silence. Thick, ear-eroding silence. Before he breathes. “It would be a one-night thing and I wouldn’t stay.”

Oh. Your hand slides around your knee, trying not to grin too much. It's all far too easy to get ahead of yourself, to think too much. To run away and begin thinking this means more than it does. But, then—

“So, I’m…”

“Yeah.”

There’s more you want to ask, them sitting there, burning a hole in your tongue. Practically desperate to erode it, possibly poison it all—as questions sometimes do.

“And here I was thinking I was just another notch on your bedpost,” you tease, trying to keep your voice light, sweet.

He laughs then, a sound that makes you wish you were there with him, instead of miles apart in your own cold bed. “Not at all, baby.”

Toes twitching in your bed, you let out a breath. Sliding your legs out straight, slowly folding yourself down to the mattress, lying on one side as you hold the phone.

And you confess your own.

The reason you’re single, the reason you bought a house.

It rolls and falls, slipping with far too much ease into the air from your mouth. A burden-shifting, a weight from your shoulders lessening. The admission undoing the tightness around your chest as you continue to let the past be told in the present.

You don’t cry. Don’t even feel yourself well up. An improvement, a shift and change in you that you’re sure is brought on entirely by Frankie. On occasion, you hear movement from his side and the briefest whisper of your name. Not in pity—never in pity—just in understanding, in comfort.

“So, I’m the first—“

“Yes, Morales. You’re the first person to ask me out in a long time, big deal.”

“It feels like a big deal.”

Smirking, you twitch your toes. “In a few more dates I might confess that it is.”

“But not right now?”

Grinning, you bite your lip. “Feels like it would inflate your head, Francisco.”

More rustling comes down the phone before you hear a deep sigh. “Maybe. Are you in bed?”

“I am.”

You stare at the dark ceiling of your bedroom, a smile slowly spreading across your face.

“Is it weird to admit I miss you?”

“Not if it’s weird if I say I miss you too.”

You swear you hear him smile. That soft exhale he does dusts over your ear as he breathes your name, before adding, “I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

A comfortable silence flows out, spreading as you listen to him breathe.

“Want me to tell you my favourite dinosaur?”

You don't fight the laughter that rings out around your bedroom

Sunday tiptoes in with the slightest spring in its step.

With a gentle stretch, you reach for the familiar weight of your phone, heart already skipping ahead of your groggy mind.

There's a flutter of excitement, it mixing with a hint of nerves as you wonder if he's reached out yet. Because it's silly to be excited at the idea that he has, to be giddy at the thought of him thinking of you in this quiet morning hour.

It feels almost teenage-like.

But when your screen lights up you don't care what it is, because there’s little point fighting the grin. The pure eclipsing smile that smothers tiredness and makes your cheeks hurt instantly.

Enjoying my morning coffee feels different without a robe-wearing thief.

Rolling onto your front, the duvet sliding down your back, you dig your elbows into the mattress and run your tongue across your teeth.

Good morning to you too. If there’s coffee left, expect me in half an hour. Unless you fancy getting some with me?

Even if it feels like minutes, his reply arrives in seconds.

Instantly illuminating your phone against the backdrop of your pillow, prompting an involuntary smile to grace your lips.

Always. But I’m thinking brunch might be better?

Grinning, you fight a giggle. Teeth biting down on your lip as your thumbs type at record speed.

Can’t wear the bathrobe there. No, not really. But, I’ll keep it safe, don’t worry. Promise? Pinky promise. Brunch it is. I'll pick you up.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

#they are so so perfect whyyyy #frankie morales #pedro pascal

325 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

I loved this series so so much! Their chemistry is insane and how they start developing feelings for each other is so beautiful! If you want to see more of Angus Tully's vulnerable and soft side, this is the story for you. I absolutley loved this story with my whole heart and I'm so in love with this pair I can't describe it into words! ♥♥♥

the dinner party series masterlist (18+ ONLY)

series warnings include SMUT (minors dni), age gap, angst, infidelity, and drug use. read individual chapter warnings as well!

total series word count is just under 18k

part I: 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 // part II: 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 // part III: 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

#angus tully #the holdovers

203 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 1 month

Text

ugh i just loved this so freaking much!!! I'm in love with this Angus, how soft and tender he is with the reader!!! And can we talk about the LETTER SCENE his confession just killed me!!! This was incredible and I'm so happy they got their happy ending, very in love and together 💗💗💗

The gif also!! That's his reaction when he sees you at the party 😍

𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 | angus tully x reader (series finale)

read 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 and 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 first!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | angus has been waiting to see you again, but the more feelings get involved, the more complicated your affair becomes.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (18+ only!!), mega angst but also fluff too, infidelity, boring old people parties, reader is still emotionally constipated and angus still has a breeding kink, but that's honestly it it's just a bunch of emotions so strap in folks!

Angus was pretty sure he broke some kind of record, with how quickly he ran back to his room after talking to you on the payphone.

He was sure that was exactly what you were picturing him doing— he’d made it pretty clear what he’d do once you hung up, and you’d made it pretty difficult to do anything else with the way you were talking. You’d been winding him up on purpose, of course; so yes, you could easily imagine him making a mad dash to his room and slamming the door— if you really ever thought about him outside of those phone calls.

That was the thing Angus couldn’t figure out about you. Well, there were probably a lot of other things than that, but it was the quandary he spent the most time pondering: does she think about me?

Whenever he mustered the courage to ask you something to that effect, you would either change the subject or give a half-answer. Something about how you had a dream about him the other night or how your parents asked about him— never what he was really asking.

But, frankly, at that moment as he shut his dorm room door and jumped into bed, whether or not you thought about him much was not as pertinent an issue. Right then, all he could think about was getting his hand around his raging boner; his mind was just playing everything you’d said to him over the phone on repeat.

I’m touching myself right now, you’d whispered in a sultry voice, I’m so wet, Angus— fuck, I’m so wet…

He’d never had to work so hard to keep a straight face on the phone before… he figured if anyone was really looking, they’d notice how red he was turning or how he kept shifting uncomfortably. And he told you just as much, which of course only encouraged you. Don’t want them to know, huh? you’d taunted. Don’t want the other boys to find out you’re listening to me get off?

And no, he didn’t— you were such a precious thing, the boys here didn’t even deserve to imagine you— but when you offered to stop if it was too distracting, he only found himself shakily begging for more.

As he quickly opened his khaki pants and gripping his cock, he hissed through his teeth; his ego could barely take all you’d said about that cock, about how thick and ‘perfect’ (you used that exact word, perfect, and he thought he might float) it was, about how you wished you could come around it right then instead of your fingers.

“It’s all yours,” he mumbled to himself, under his breath, not even really noticing he was saying it aloud. “You want it, baby? It’s all fucking yours.”

He groaned as he stroked himself, the precum that had been leaking from his tip for a while making everything even easier. Shutting his eyes tight, he pictured you, like he always did: all of you, everything, anything he could remember.

You ever think about me? you’d asked him over the phone— and he’d blurted out his always before he even realized you meant while he was getting off. It was still true, but more specific than necessary. He craved to hear you say it: I think about you too. But he didn’t ask, and you just went back to moaning while you rubbed your clit— which, apparently, was already swollen and throbbing— and, well, he wasn’t strong enough to interrupt that.

“Fuck,” he grunted, deep in the back of his throat, finally letting his pace pick up until his hand was a blur: after all that anticipation and all that waiting, there was no use trying to hold back now. It wasn’t like you were here to worry about him coming too fast, even though you’d still maintained you found it endearing when it happened.

He repeated your voice in his head, the moment that had made him worry he would blow his load in his trousers before he could even get off the phone and back to his room: I’m gonna come for you, you’d warned him in the most beautiful moaning voice, Angus— I want you so bad, oh god— I’m gonna come for you, fuck…

His lip caught between his teeth, his hips rocked up into his own palm. “Yes, fuck, baby,” he panted, “I— fuck!”

He tried to conjure in his mind how it had felt to come inside you, but he knew even his vivid imagination could never really capture the feeling; nothing could even come close. Still, remembering it and letting himself indulge in his strangest fantasies for just a moment sent him over the edge. His face flushed suddenly as he came in long, heavy pulses, the back of his free hand falling over his open mouth yet doing little to suppress his moans.

It was intense— it was certainly better than his orgasms usually were when brought on by himself— but it only satisfied him for a moment. The moment he was finished, with a deep breath in and his hips relaxing back down onto the mattress, he wanted more— he wanted you.

His heavy eyes glanced to the side, trying to remember what it felt like to lie next to you. He’d never felt lonely after jerking off before he met you; now getting off seemed to bring a new wave of heartbreak each time.

When he shook off the thought and looked down at himself, he frowned as he realized he’d ruined his own shirt doing that— not that he could fully bring himself to regret it.

No, his regrets only really began a few weeks later, when the nagging loneliness in the back of his mind finally got the better of him.

It was the middle of the night when he wrote it, after he woke up from a dream of you that he just couldn’t shake from his mind. After checking that his roommate was fast asleep, Angus carefully slipped out of bed and tip-toed to the desk, and pulling out a box of cards and envelopes from one of the drawers. (He thought he’d never use them when his mom sent them with him at the beginning of the year, but a lot had changed since then.)

Something about the ungodly hour made him more honest— or maybe just more shameless. He wrote a frantic ramble, everything he’d wanted to say to you that he’d never had the courage to blurt out over the phone; all the feelings he’d felt since that incredible night in the backseat of your car, which he’d assumed would fade… which he’d tried to convince himself would fade.

Unfortunately, even the adrenaline of writing down the thoughts of you he’d been poring over for over a month wasn’t enough to overpower exhaustion: he awoke the next morning slumped over the desk, the pen still uncapped and fallen a few inches from his hand, the letter left folded open.

He awoke to the sound of someone’s door shutting down the hall, specifically; jumping and blinking quickly, he looked at the window— it was morning, though still quite early— and then at his roommate who was, thank god, still asleep.

Angus looked back at the letter in front of him, only making out a few words in his brief glance, before his cheeks began to heat up and he quickly folded it shut. As more footsteps moved through the hall, the boy in the bed nearby stirred and grumbled to himself, and Angus quickly snatched up the letter and shoved it in his book bag before he was caught red-handed.

Ironically, that little commotion was what actually got the other boy’s attention. “What are you doing at the desk?” he asked groggily, rubbing one of his eyes with the back of his palm.

“Oh, I, uh— I had to do some late night cramming,” Angus explained nervously, “that big Geography test coming up and all…”

The half-awake boy seemed to notice for a moment that the story didn’t really make sense, on account of the empty desk, but he simply shrugged and tossed his blanket aside to get up as well.

For the rest of the day, Angus couldn’t think straight— and not just because of his mediocre rest and achy back from the absolutely terrible sleep posture he’d had. He couldn’t stop thinking about the letter, even if he honestly couldn’t remember for certain everything he’d said… he couldn’t stop wondering if he should send it to you. He almost didn’t want to read it again first— he wanted you to read it in its most authentic state, he wanted to mail it before he chickened out just like he had when you said you two could just stay casual. Even if it made his heart race and his palms especially clammy, Angus decided in the middle of that goddamned Geography test that he was going to mail that letter tonight after dinner: he was finally just going to man up and tell you.

Of course, something went horribly wrong along the way: he made a fatal mistake. Looking back on it, he couldn’t tell for certain if his mistake was falling for you in the first place, or writing the infamous letter, or shoulder-checking Kountze without holding on tight enough to his bag.

The argument that happened beforehand was petty and forgettable, even if it gathered a small crowd of Kountze’s friends, but it ended with Angus trying to walk away a tad… aggressively, and with Kountze grabbing him by the strap of his bag which not only knocked Angus off-balance but spilled the contents onto the floor of the dorm’s shared room.

Everyone saw the books and papers hit the ground; everyone saw the off-white cardstock land right on top. Angus reached for the letter quickly, but Kountze beat him there, and held it back with a snicker.

“Well, well,” Kountze tutted proudly, “what’s this?”

“H-hey, don’t read that,” Angus warned, hoping the seriousness of his tone would somehow affect the other boy— but, obviously, it did not. Kountze started to open it and Angus instantly made a dive for it, only to be stopped by three other students who apparently were curious as well about the letter. “Don’t fucking read that!” Angus demanded.

“Oh god, it’s to a girl!” he realized. “Do you have a girlfriend, Tully?”

“I swear to god, Kountze, if you fucking read that—”

“I miss you,” Kountze began to read aloud as Angus thrashed around to try to stop him, “I miss you so much I don’t even know what to say.”

The boys holding Angus back were enraptured as Kountze read the letter; “Do you guys pay this much attention in class?” he mocked them, though they were ignoring him completely as they waited for the other boy to keep reading.

“I feel like I can’t breathe without you— aw, Tully, you’re a poet,” Kountze mocked with a smile. Angus’ heart raced as he remembered what part of the letter came next. “Not a day goes by where I don’t think about you and your smile— Jesus, this is some really sappy shit— or what it’s like talking with you for hours, or how it feels—”

He stopped, and Angus froze, and after a moment the group of boys started demanding the conclusion. “What— what does it say?!” “Read it, Kountze!”

“How it feels to be inside you,” Kountze continued with wide eyes, staring at Angus’ bright red face as the other boys began to react loudly.

Angus renewed his struggle against the kids holding him back, but even though he was taller than them, he was severely outnumbered. “Stop— that’s personal!” Angus demanded to no avail.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back to my hand after having you,” Kountze continued with a laugh. “From what I hear from your roommate, Tully, your hand is treating you just fine.”

“Shut up,” Angus hissed, but his words had lost their bite as his humiliation grew.

“I should’ve told you before I left—” he started, but finally Angus found some new strength within himself to shake off the boys holding him back: he dove at Kountze and took him down, scrambling to snatch the card away. He was going to be satisfied with just that, but of course Kountze still had to open his mouth, even when Angus had him pinned. “Jesus, Tully,” he scoffed, “how ugly is this chick that you got her to sleep with you?”

Angus brought a fist swiftly down to Kountze’s nose, who groaned in pain and held his face as Angus got up and ran away. The other boys let him pass, thankfully, and Angus wasted no time getting to his room and slamming the door behind him.

Defiantly wiping a tear from his cheek, Angus took a quick look at the letter— wrinkled, stained and scuffed from the fight with Kountze— and crumpled it up, tossing it into his wastebasket before throwing himself onto his bed and hiding his head under the pillow.

He was stupid to even write it, let alone consider sending it; it was no use, you obviously didn’t feel the same way about him that he did about you. You were the one who said it should just be what it was— a fling. But Angus felt like he’d been flung directly into hell, the way it tore into his chest to imagine you didn’t really want him.

Even if he never read the letter again that day, he remembered how it ended— and it was the part he couldn’t get out of his mind even when he wanted more than anything to forget it all.

Is this what love feels like?

It reminded you a lot of that dinner over Christmas break, except somehow, it seemed like he was staring at you even more. Shouldn’t he have gotten that out of his system a bit by now?

But then again, maybe you should’ve been more used to it, since it had been over an hour of picking away at this quail dinner, and he’d barely taken his eyes off of you. Something about him looked different; it was basically impossible that he could’ve visibly aged in just a couple months, and yet he seemed like he was carrying just a bit more age on those thin shoulders. Maybe it was just the slight five-o-clock shadow over his jaw— but, no, there was a different look in his eyes, too—

Realizing you were, in fact, staring back at him, you quickly snapped your gaze back down to your plate.

You’d been wanting a chance to talk to him before this dinner, to hopefully prevent exactly this issue, but once the dinner ended you found yourself avoiding him. Of course you weren’t ready to talk to him— of course you had a million thoughts in your head and half of them didn’t even make sense.

For once, you actually tried to talk to all of your parents’ snooty friends, repeating the same answers over and over about how you were going to graduate school in the fall and how you were looking forward to your family’s Paris trip in the summer and all that jazz. It was worth it to keep Angus off your back for a moment, even if you could still feel his eyes boring into said back from time to time.

Midway through a mind-numbingly boring conversation (if something so one-sided could be called a conversation) with the Gordons about renovations they’d done on their summer house, you glanced around the room over your shoulder and noticed that Angus was apparently absent. His parents were still there, sitting on a couch— that is, his mom and stepdad— so he couldn’t be far, but out of view he was far enough. Figuring he’d gone to the kitchen or the restroom, you figured it was the perfect time to disappear into the downstairs bedroom and, hopefully, hide out for the rest of the party. Excusing yourself quickly, you made a polite dash for the other end of the room.

And yet, somehow, he appeared out of thin air; as you turned down the hallway, only a dim lamp on an antique credenza lighting your way, you heard Angus’ hushed voice behind you. He laid his hand on your shoulder, and the moment you turned to face him, he was on you— his weight pressed you into the wall and you felt trapped in a way that was annoyingly pleasant.

“God, I missed you,” he breathed, kissing you hard and sudden; you whimpered a little, nearly melting into it, before you pushed him back at his shoulders.

“A-Angus, wait,” you sighed. “You, um… you didn’t call for a while.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, “um, I’m sorry— I just got busy with midterms and stuff— but I really wanted to!”

He moved like he was about to kiss you again, but you kept your hand on his chest to keep him away. “I wanted to tell you…” you trailed off.

“Tell me what?”

“You remember Brian Stevenson?”

“Oh— um, yeah, I guess so,” Angus frowned a little, clearly confused by what seemed like a non sequitur. “I used to go over to his house when I was little, although it was just to play with his little brother, but… yeah, I remember him.”

“I’ve been sorta, y’know… going with him,” you explained, hesitantly meeting Angus’ gaze just in time to see the most terrible sadness cover his face.

“O-oh,” he choked out, quickly stepping back from you and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, twisting your loafer-clad foot on the carpet nervously. “It’s just, you know, he asked me out a couple weeks ago, and ever since then—”

“So is he, like, your boyfriend?” Angus pressed. You nodded. He looked away. “Right— that’s… cool. That’s cool.”

You bit your lip slightly, hating that he wouldn’t look at you all of a sudden. “Angus, it’s just that, you know, we said—”

“Right,” he interrupted sharply. “Right, I remember what we said— what you said, that we weren’t— you know. That it wasn’t anything.”

“I didn’t say that—” you tried to correct him.

“You said you were mine,” he added suddenly, making your eyes widen. “Did you even mean that?”

“I— Angus, come on,” you laughed nervously. “That’s… that’s just something people say…”

He scoffed, and looked to the side as he pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek; contempt looked sort of good on him, you thought, except that it was directed at you. He was trying to hide it, but his eyes were watering.

“I’m sorry,” you began but he cut you off right away.

“No, don’t do that,” he shook his head quickly, crossing his arms and staring down at the floor. “Don’t lie to me anymore.”

“No— I really am,” you tried to assure.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he insisted sharply. “It’s— you know, it is what it is. It was just one of those things.”

“If it’s fine, then look at me,” you pleaded. He didn’t. And for a long moment, the two of you stood there, still and silent.

“It’s fine,” he repeated softly, turning on his heel.

“Angus, wait,” you hissed, not wanting to raise your voice with all the guests not too far away— of course, it was fruitless, and he briskly blended back in with the crowd.

Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands. That wasn’t how you ever wanted this to go, you never wanted to hurt him; honestly, you’d assumed he’d be irritated, but not… sad. Not devastated. Of course he would prefer to be getting laid, but you figured he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding some other girl to screw around with— sometimes, you’d wondered if he already had.

It was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be casual, it was supposed to be fun. You couldn’t think of anything you’d ever done, or anything you’d ever felt, that was less fun than this.

It made a strange sort of sense that the next time you saw him was at another party. Of course, this party was entirely different from the last one: for one, it was hosted by your boyfriend, and there sure as hell wasn’t any quail. There was a lot more alcohol, though.

You were hanging off to the side, not feeling quite up for mixing in with the crowd as they danced to the record Brian had put on. Even if they spared you from the same boring questions that your parents’ friends bombarded you with, they were uninteresting in their own way as every conversation seemed to come back to politics or pot.

Brian startled you a bit by coming up beside you, resting his hand on the small of your back. “Hey,” he greeted, and you smiled up at him. Your eyes lingered on his face— he looked… grown up. It was probably just because he had a beard; he certainly didn’t always act grown up, but overall, Brian was perfectly acceptable. He’d asked you out, he’d actually had the bravery for that, so that was a great head start.

You tried to shake the thought out of your mind, looking away from him; it wasn’t a head start because this wasn’t a race. Who, after all, would he be racing against?

For some reason, your eyes turned to the front door— and you bit your lip as you saw Angus coming inside, slipping off his coat and looking around the room (for you, presumably). He looked even more haggard than before: a little pale, eyes sunken and dark, and he definitely hadn’t shaved since you saw him.

Brian looked to find where you were staring, and frowned slightly. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, um— Angus Tully, his parents are friends with mine, I used to babysit him when he was a kid.”

You knew that wasn’t really what he was asking, so you weren’t surprised when he got to the point more directly: “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, hoping Brian wouldn’t somehow figure out that your heart was racing.

Brian’s hand moved up to your shoulder and gave it a squeeze, just as Angus noticed you and hurriedly shoved his way through the crowd to come face-to-face with you.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” he asked, his voice raspy and hurried as he took a quick glance at Brian in his peripheral.

“Um— sure,” you agreed awkwardly, not sure which answer would be less suspicious. Of course, when you glanced at Brian, he just looked mildly annoyed— bored, even. You realized in that moment that you didn’t need to worry about him suspecting you and Angus of anything, because he barely registered Angus’ existence: he certainly wouldn’t acknowledge him as some kind of sexual threat.

“Privately,” Angus added— and that actually got Brian’s attention, though he seemed more aware of your discomfort than anything.

“Anything you wanna say to her, you can say in front of me,” Brian assured firmly, and Angus swallowed anxiously— it was obvious from the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Actually, uh, somebody was looking for you out front,” Angus told him. “Something about a keg getting delivered to the wrong house?”

“Shit,” Brian hissed, dropping his hand from your shoulder and looking towards the door again. “Fucking idiots…”

Having made quick work of Brian, Angus put his attention back on you. “Let’s go outside,” he suggested.

“W-we can just talk here,” you tried to say, but he was already grabbing your wrist and guiding you out; why did your heart still skip when he touched you?

Once he’d taken you through the kitchen and out to the back porch— where you could still hear the music and chatter, but it was much quieter— you spoke.

“Angus, I really am sorry about— you know— but you can’t just—” you started.

“It’s not over yet,” he insisted, surprising you with his intensity; you leaned back against the wooden railing, and he stood just a little too close with those dark brown eyes piercing through you.

“If you tell me you’re happy with Brian, I’ll leave you alone,” Angus decided, puffing up his chest a bit.

“I’m happy with Brian,” you said sternly.

A brief moment passed. “Okay, I lied,” Angus admitted.

“Jesus,” you hissed.

“But only because I don’t believe you!” he explained. “We were so good together.”

“Yeah, we were,” you admitted, “but… it’s over now.”

“No— it’s not. It can’t be!” he insisted with a whine, and you scoffed as you shook your head.

“Angus, you’re being childish,” you scolded.

“Oh, don’t say that,” he grimaced. “Don’t hold that against me— I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Of course you’re not— but you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Damn right I’m not!” he spat. “You’re all I could think about, for months! Months, I couldn’t fucking get you out of my head! And not just the, you know, the dirty stuff— everything. Every moment I spent with you, every dumb thing we talked about for hours, every time you laughed at one of my shitty jokes—”

“Angus, please,” you breathed, glancing down; you could only take so much of this, and you worried he was figuring that out.

“Does he make you laugh?” Angus pressed, stepping a bit closer to you. “Does he make you feel special? Does he make you come?”

“Yes,” you said sharply, “he’s great, okay? I’m happy— so please just stop fucking this up for me.”

“Okay, fine,” he conceded, “you’re happy, I believe you. But… but what about me, y’know? He doesn’t need you like I do.”

Your face warmed up and you crossed your arms tighter, staring down at the ground.

“Of course he likes you— who wouldn’t? But he couldn’t even imagine how I feel about you— how long I’ve been thinking about you. I mean, I’ve wanted you since I was a kid! You’re my dream girl!”

“That’s— that has nothing to do with me,” you tried to explain. “That’s a fantasy!”

“But it’s real, baby,” he sighed, bringing his hands up to gently hold your arms at either side. “It’s so real, you know it is.”

You didn’t even have the heart to deny it— or to tell him not to call you that. You knew if you looked up at him, you wouldn’t be able to fight him anymore; he must’ve known that, too, because he delicately lifted your chin until you met his gaze.

And then he kissed you: tender, sweet, and shameless. He didn’t care if anyone saw, if anyone knew— even Brian. You, on the other hand, still cared enough to try to stop him; but even you couldn’t resist a kiss like this, and you found your hands pulling him closer as quickly as they’d tried to push him away.

He took you home, without another word about what this meant or where you stood with each other. You snuck him into your room and he climbed into bed with you and he touched you like he’d been waiting a lot longer than just a few months for this moment. Frankly, you were beginning to realize that you’d been waiting a lot longer for this, too.

Before, Angus had always been talkative during sex— sometimes annoyingly so. But this time, he didn’t say a damn thing; neither of you did. And yet, somehow, just by the way he looked at you, just by the way he held you, just by the way he moved inside you... you felt like you heard more than you ever had.

You sat next to each other on the bench, staring forward into the dark treeline ahead— there was still a layer of frost around their roots, and a new snow had begun to fall even if it wasn’t cold enough for it to stick on the pavement. You tried not to look at him too long, in case it made this any harder, but you did appreciate that he seemed a bit more put together than he had the last time you went a few days without seeing him. He was clean-shaven, too… is it wrong that you kinda missed the stubble?

“Thanks for, you know… giving me a couple days to think about it,” you mumbled, and he nodded.

“I thought you might have somewhere better to be on a Friday night,” he said— trying to lighten the mood a bit, you could tell; trying to make you comfortable.

“Well, even if I did, I think this needs to be done,” you explained, and he pressed his lips together a bit.

He waited patiently, though, for you to break the silence and explain yourself, even if he didn’t seem too surprised when you did it.

“It was a mistake,” you decided. “It was great, but it was a mistake— and I’d really appreciate if we could just… let it go. And if you didn’t tell Brian.”

“Okay,” he nodded slowly. “I wasn’t gonna tell him. But I still think you should dump him.”

“Well, that’s my decision,” you reminded him, crossing your arms.

“I know,” he breathed.

You could already tell, just by the way the next silence began, that he was going to interrupt it with something stupid… you just never expected how stupid.

“The thing is— I love you,” he blurted out suddenly, turning to look at you again as your eyes widened. “I fucking love you.”

“Angus, I— you can’t—!” you choked out, but he continued before you could try to think of a response.

“I know I do— don’t say I don’t know what that is, or that I’m too young or something stupid like that,” he pleaded. “I know how I feel, okay? When you miss somebody this much, when you think about somebody this much— what else could love be, but that?”

You sighed, looking away, and he moved closer to you on the bench. Even if you knew it was preposterous that someone else would be in the park at the end of the street at this time of night, you still fought the urge to look over your shoulder.

“Don’t tell me I’m crazy,” he breathed. “You love me too, don’t you? I mean— I thought you basically forgot I existed, but last night… that sort of thing doesn’t just happen, does it? It’s not… it’s not usually like that.”

“No, it’s not,” you admitted, “that was different.”

He perked up, smiling wide when you looked at him again. “Just say it,” he begged, “say you love me too— ‘cause I know you do.”

“I— Angus, it’s more complicated than that,” you explained. “We’re still— there’s Brian, for one thing… we can’t really go on like this, you know that.”

“I know— I don’t want to keep doing this. I want to really be together,” he replied. You tried to turn your body away from his slightly, but he grabbed your hands and held them tight until you looked at him again. “I’m almost done with high school— I’ll go to college where you’re going for grad school!”

You shook your head. “No, you can’t do that.”

“Just think about it: us, together— we could actually go on real dates, and go to college parties together, and, like, study out at the library— or, you know, whatever you college kids do,” he fantasized. You smiled, but shook your head again.

“We… we can’t do that,” you denied.

He frowned, and turned away from you, staring darkly at the ground. “I knew it,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “You’re embarrassed— you’re ashamed of me.”

“What?!” you blurted out. “Angus, no—”

“It’s okay,” he said in a terribly unconvincing way, crossing his arms. “I don’t blame you: I’m just some dumb kid from your hometown. You want a guy your age— not some random freshman… you want something better.”

“That’s bullshit,” you replied instantly, “you can do so much better.”

“C’mon, I’ll never do better than you,” he insisted.

Even though he’d misunderstood you, your heart still swelled a bit at the compliment. “I meant for college, Angus,” you explained, and he deflated a little. “You can do a lot better than a state school.”

“Well, I, um… I don’t know if I can,” he admitted nervously. “My grades are kinda… inconsistent. And I went to so many different high schools—”

“Who gives a shit?” you scoffed. “You’re fucking smart— way smarter than anybody else here. You act like an idiot sometimes, but you’re eighteen, it kinda comes with the territory.”

He frowned, but couldn’t exactly deny it.

“You deserve to go somewhere amazing,” you told him. “You need to go somewhere amazing— and do something amazing.”

For a long moment, he just stared out into the dark; until, suddenly, he whipped his head back around at you with a quizzical look on his face. “Wait— is that what this is all about?”

“What?”

“Do you not want to be with me because you think you’d, like, hold me back or something?” he accused.

You blinked quickly; something about the way he said be with me caught you off-guard— like it was a term much more mature than you had expected from him. Instead of answering directly, you just stammered. “Well, y-you’re young, and—”

He cut you off quickly with a laugh. “Oh my god! You think I give a shit about that?”

“No,” you shot back, “but you should. You realize how fucking dumb it would be to change your whole life for the first person you ever slept with?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds dumb,” he admitted, looking down at his feet swinging over the edge. “But what if it’s somebody that, you know, you think you really have a shot with? What if it’s somebody that you feel like you can’t live without? Somebody that makes you finally get all those songs you hear on the radio—”

“It only feels like this to you because you’ve never felt anything else,” you explained gently. “It’s your first love. It fades.”

“But I don’t want it to,” he said instantly, looking at you with the most heartbreaking eyes you’d ever seen. “God, I don’t want it to.”

You looked up at him as his hand brushed over your face, and felt tears welling before you could fight them off; he kissed you, in a way that you thought he might have never really kissed you before. In a way nobody had kissed you before, in fact. It wasn’t very long, but it felt like it might as well have gone on forever.

When he broke away, he kept his eyes shut, and he pressed his forehead to yours as his thumb stroked your cheek. “Tell me it doesn’t have to end,” he breathed, “please. Tell me it’s not going to end.”

“It has to,” you whispered back, watching his shoulders sink and bringing your hand up to clutch at his chest. “It has to end, someday.”

You took a shaky breath, watching a tear fall from his jaw onto your arm, feeling everything you’d held back finally breaking through as your grip on shirt tightened and your lip began to quiver.

“But it doesn’t have to be tonight,” you sighed.

Gasping with relief and joy simultaneously, he kissed you again, and pulled you closer at your waist, and wrapped you up in his arms tightly.

There was, of course, this nagging voice at the back of your mind— that maybe it didn’t have to end. And god, you wanted to silence that thought permanently if you could, because it had never done you any good. That hope had only ever led to pain before. But, without it, nothing would ever really have a chance: if you weren’t willing to risk the heartache, you’d never let yourself love Angus the way that he deserved and the way that you knew, deep down, you already did.

So, as he kissed you that way you thought people only kissed in movies, and whispered to you those words you thought people only said because they were poets and dreamers, you realized that maybe it didn’t have to end someday. Maybe he would spend the next several years of your lives convincing you that you didn’t need to protect yourself from your own feelings. Maybe he would actually have the patience to break down walls he never built, to fix wounds he didn’t leave. Maybe he was ready to give you something to believe in, something worth taking risks for while you were still young and reckless. Maybe he, like the oncoming equinox, would melt your ice so new life could grow.

Or, maybe, this feeling he had really would fade once he gained a little more life experience; maybe you would make too many mistakes for him to forgive. Maybe you would always be friends, or maybe you would have too much history to be able to see each other again. Maybe you would grow apart— maybe you would have to brace yourself for that, to sit next to him on a cold dorm room mattress as you both realized it just wasn’t working anymore.

The most important thing that you realized in that moment— that eternal moment in his arms, in the dark, in the last snow of Spring— was that it didn’t matter. It didn’t have to be forever to be perfect; it didn’t have to be the ending to be beautiful. He loved you. Even if you were still trying to figure out why, he loved you; and that was true, and real, and special. His love couldn’t fix you, but it made you feel fixable, and you hadn’t seen yourself that way in a long time— you could only dream that you might see yourself the way he saw you.

When you pulled back from the kiss for a moment, you smiled wide— you laughed, actually— and sniffled as he wiped your tears away. “I love you,” you told him, and even though he kissed you again, you didn’t stop saying it. You wanted to keep it on your lips until it didn’t scare you anymore; you wanted to keep your heart open, even if it made you vulnerable, maybe because it made you vulnerable. After all, you couldn’t ever be sure it wouldn’t come back to bite you… if you could, it wouldn’t mean anything.

Even though all you said to him was I love you, each one meant something a bit different. I trust you. I’m not sure I’m ready, but I’m going to try. I’m sorry. I’m so glad I met you. I’ll never forget you. Please don’t let me go.

Somehow, you felt like he heard each one. Each time he told you that he loved you, though, you heard the same thing: I won’t let you go, ever.

Easter Mass was relatively pleasant, if a little too long. You did notice Angus sitting with his family, across the aisle and a few rows back, but you only gave him a quick wave before the service started and managed to resist glancing back at him after that.

The best part of Easter was always afterwards, though: you stood at the furthest end of the lawn, in front of the ivy-covered exterior wall of the chapel, as children ran around snatching up colorful eggs to collect for their baskets. Even if it was totally stupid, and irrelevant to the actual message of the holiday that the priest had just spent the whole service hammering in, you got a kick out of the fancy clothes and tiny dress shoes, the squeals of delight, the candy and toys in bright pastels. You were just thankful the weather had warmed up in the nick of time for all the festivities— indoor egg hunts never have quite the same effect.

Angus sauntered up beside you, sipping on a styrofoam cup of complimentary coffee, and you didn’t even look at each other, but you both smiled.

“They’re cute,” he stated after a little while.

“Yeah,” you agreed.

“Do you wanna have a kid?” he asked, and you gave him a hesitant glance only to find him looking right back at you— his expression was friendly, but neutral enough that you couldn’t read if he meant having a kid with him or just, you know, in general.

Deciding it must be the second one, you let out a soft, nervous laugh. “Uh, I dunno… maybe someday,” you offered, as non-committal as possible.

“How about right now?” he challenged, lowering his voice slightly, but not enough to stop you from glancing around to make sure nobody heard.

“Angus, fucking Christ,” you coughed. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not,” he shrugged. “I mean, maybe I’m not being literal, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being serious.”

“Well… we can’t,” you mumbled, looking out at the lawn again, hoping not to stand out too much. “Not here.”

“I know, I know,” he agreed, and the two of you fell back into a silence— an oddly comfortable one, even. You crossed your arms as you watched the kids run around and he kept sipping on his coffee. After a few moments, though, you spoke again.

“Meet you in the Sunday school room in the West wing in five minutes?”

“Yup,” he said, already turning to leave. You smiled slightly to yourself, glancing down at your white shoes planted in the grass. Even on such a delicately-manicured lawn, wildflowers were already springing up— little periwinkle diamonds scattered here and there.

When what felt like a reasonable amount of time passed, you made your careful and casual exit from the egg hunt to slip back inside. Once you were away from the crowds and on your way to meet Angus, you couldn’t stop yourself from running… and you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, either.

#Angus tully #The holdovers

1K notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 2 months

Text

This was beautiful. So freaking beautiful. From the way they touched each other and they caressed each other. It felt so real! How soft and delicate they were to each other but also the desire to explore more it's just wow! and this PART:

“Do you like it when I talk, baby?” his voice becomes an anchor. Keeping you here, not allowing you to float too far as you nod, crinkled pillows sounding as you do. “I think you do. I think you like hearing how hard you make me, how much I think about you in this bedroom, in the shower—at work—“

I'M GONNA FKFIFGN COLLAPSE ♥♥♥

5. pepper red

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter five of do me yourself

wordcount: 2.5k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] SMUT. p in v. dirty talk/mutual appreciation. minor competency. frankie is pretty, thick and sexy. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. you wear a date outfit but not specified. no use of y/n. an: if this was a sitcom episode, it wouldn't be allowed to be aired and also, i passed my exam, wahoo.

prev chapter | series masterlist

For some reason, it doesn’t surprise you that his bedroom is forest green. Or, that it’s accented by strong whites and similar dark woods as the living room. All earthy tones, him.

In the same way, it doesn’t surprise you that his skin is soft, all smooth as your fingers brush over his skin when you lift his t-shirt from his frame.

Because he looks as good as he did in those videos you’d watched over and over. Getting the chance to see if the silver scars were tricks of the light or stories he hadn’t shared. Your fingers discovered it was the latter.

“God, you look good, Frankie.”

He snorts, before sliding a thumb under your jaw, forcing you to confront big, doe brown eyes. Ones that you’d fall into if you could, especially as they pause, stare from one eye to the next, likely to see if there’s a lie there—a slither of untruth to your confession.

There isn’t.

A thing you ensure sits at the forefront, a silent plea for him to believe you. You suppose he must do when his mouth slides back over yours. Tongue pressing at your lower lip, seeking entry that you happily allow.

You lose yourself in it, him. How good it feels to have his lips on yours again. To have the added feel of purposeful and intentional fingers taking their sweet time to slide your outfit from you.

Because his hands trail over as much as they can. Doing so as though he’s busy carving a memory of you in his mind, making you real. A thing you won’t admit you’re doing too, too busy committing the way he feels, as you run your hands across his shoulders. Feel the expanse of them, the width, wondering—as his tongue swirls a shape on your neck—if yoga will really help you fit his broadness between your thighs.

Frankie must notice you’re drifting, thinking, because his mouth finds yours. A thing which cements you to the moment. Kissing you slowly, deliberately—a hint of mint amongst the drink he’d provided and you smirk, smiling against him.

Because he’s eaten a TicTac.

It mixes, fighting to refresh as though you hadn’t eaten and consumed the same fast food. But the act, the way his lips slide against yours, makes that joke melt as quickly as it appeared, because he’s completing his mission: the one to leave you breathless.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you choose to pull him closer, deepening the kiss. Tongue sliding back behind his teeth as a soft moan escapes him; swallowed by your own as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. The feel of him, hard and ready against you sends a thrill of anticipation darting through you.

It’s easy, simple, to allow the rhythm of your bodies to become a language all of its own. A two-way conversation being sketched out and written in sighs and moans, punctuated by the occasional gasp. A symphony of desire.

And then you make things shift. Change the tempo when your hand descends between the two of you. Feeling him, grasping his cock, taking note of the way he inhales at the feel of your fingers. For a moment, his mouth hovers over yours—both open, just breathing. His palms flat to your side—as you hold him, feel his cock twitch in your hand. Moving, slowly—almost torturously, but it’s actually with precision.

He’s so hard, thick. Your fingers tighten their hold, wrist moving more, palm sliding up and down as you taste the way he says fuck.

“Bed,” he groans, almost through gritted teeth.

Smirking, you bite his lower lip. Light. Not piercing or enough to leave an indent. “In a minute.”

And it leaves his tongue again. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, baby.

All you can think about is how good he sounds, looks—feels. His head tipped back, neck elongated—lips parting as each expletive lasts longer than the four letters that make it up. It’s cliché to say it’s never been like this, but a truth that personal isn’t always easy to confess.

“Not waited to do this right with you to come before you have, Rainy.”

His fingers, those calloused ones attached to those hard-working hands, wrap around your wrist. Light, but determined.

“Oh, Butterscotch,” you tease, mouth close to his. “You been thinking about this?”

He smirks, just as he clasps his other hand to your side—tugging, yanking you flush. Feeling him, all of him, as you’re guided, moved, backs of your legs meeting the well-made bed you’re about to mess up and ruin.

“Since the moment I heard you laugh.”

Your body falls back, the sheets cool, smooth, pressing against your bare spine, before his body comes up—caging you. Nudging your thighs apart with his knee.

“Just kept thinking, bet you make other pretty noises too.”

Lips parting, you knot your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, letting his lips slide into his cheek. That dimple appearing. The one which tries to hide under wiry hair and shyness, but is deeper than ever now, nothing held back or hidden.

And you can’t help but watch, completely transfixed by the light from the lamp he'd flicked on. The one lighting up his face, making him appear golden, ethereal. Able to discern each of the shades that make up his eyes, the flecks within them, the different browns that make a colour you dream and think of constantly, but you’re not sure has any other name than Frankie.

“Can I touch you, baby?”

You find you can only nod.

Words failing, falling, simply replaced by a gasp as he slides them between your partly spread thighs—feeling it, how wet you are. How slick and desperate you are to have him. A mess, all for him, by him. It likely ruined the underwear you’d left on his floor and dampened the sheets under you.

“This all for me?”

The rasp of his voice only makes you ache more for him. Hips desperate to shift so his fingers do more than trace and tease, but plunge and curl.

“Yes,” you moan.

It's like he knows you. A thought that bubbles and bursts when your fingers grasp at his sheets, his two fingers feel so much different than your own; Than the toys you own that are shoved in protective bags inside your sock drawer. His seek, aiming to find that spot inside you, stretches you, making your toes curl and your knuckles ache from how tight they hold the sheets.

And he’s talking. A sea of things that you half-catch and miss the rest. That you look good, feel good, that he wants to watch you come apart before he even thinks about giving you his cock.

Words almost leave your mouth, but you’re barely present.

More electric than person; more liquid than solid. So fucking close already you can feel the tremors in your thighs from not rutting yourself against his hand when the base of his palm presses flat to your swollen nerves.

“Fuck, Frankie—”

You’re arching. Barely clinging to the present as your feet flatten to root you, to grip to reality as your ears ring and pleasure does more thrum, but builds and builds—all compressing, hot, closer to liquid fire.

“—look at me, baby.”

And you do.

Lids flipping open as you’re met with nothing but desire, lust and need. It pushes you, suddenly freefalling. Your throat aching, scratched with the syllables of his name as you dig fingers into his curls and curl your body as much against him as possible as he works you through it. Him coaxing, mouth on your collarbone as he licks and lathes as you moan, and pant.

It’s then you look at him again.

Bathed in a sandy glow, sweat peppered on his chest, glinting and glittering as you find his eyes on you, taking you in as you catch your breath.

He’s so handsome, beautiful. In a way that ruined you before, that made you think of nothing but him, which now devastates you—in a way you only want him to do over and over.

It’s easier to kiss him than say it.

To trace the words over his mouth as he hums, as the vibration tickles across your lips before you’re manoeuvring him. Only paused in doing so as he dragged his lips down your neck, the sound of a drawer opening, closing, hearing a wrapper crinkle.

It’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment when your hand snatches it from him, placing it between your teeth, trying as they do so easily in movies to lightly rip it over with your teeth. You struggle. Suddenly nervous about piercing it, mind in overdrive because what—

"Easy, baby. I've got it," he growls into your ear, taking it from you, opening it more with ease than you'd managed.

And it makes you crash your mouth back to his. Etching more things to his mouth, smudging them over his tongue. How much you want this, want him.

It’s why you’re grateful that Frankie moves with ease until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. A hand finds a home on your back, once the empty wrapper is discarded, fingers spreading out, flowing warmth into your bones. Then the other begins aiding, lining himself up as the head presses against your opening.

When you take as much of him as you can, fingers soothing your hip at the stretch, the hiss drawn from your lips at the light sting, before your forehead meets his. It's a moment before you move again. His words are there, guiding, before the room is flooded with a moan that's unearthed from your soul. One that is almost smothered in his own, a groan that makes heat flood your ears and a smile grace your mouth.

“So good for me, feel so good—“

“Can take more,” you interrupt, breathless. Slowly moving again, lifting up before sliding back down his cock—walls welcoming him, stretching, taking him to the hilt. “Y’feel good, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you roll your hips slowly, torturously if anything. Still sensitive. Little gasps escape as you begin to find a rhythm, one that makes his teeth bite down on his lip.

Taking his hand, pulling it to your breast, wrapping around it as he cups it—as his groan stains the air between the two of you—you draw an O with your hips, feel that heat in your stomach.

“I like your hands, Frankie.”

A line appears, deep between his two brows. A look of shock, surprise—awe—spreads over his face like a sunny day suddenly appearing in a storm. Before, it’s slipping away, hiding, wriggling away to some depth of him you wish to call back.

“I like your voice, your smile—fuck, oh my god—and-and I like your thighs, and your…”

You continue, babbling, rambling as his hands find your hips, steadying, moving you, thrusting up into you as little spots appear in your vision, as your own voice becomes distant and easily forgettable.

But the look on his face is anything but the latter.

He’s spellbound, utterly captivated—appearing as though if his mind was a camera, he’d have filled up several memory cards with what he was trying to capture.

And it feels good.

A wanting so bad that it almost makes you snap there and then, more so as the head of his cock kisses that part of you once again, a whine coated in both a gasp and a moan—

“Put your hands on the headboard, baby.”

And you do, assisted by him moving you with him sheathed inside of you before palm after palm is placed. The fabric underneath is soft, almost like velvet—leaving marks of your touch behind in its wake as you feel his mouth on the underside of your breast.

“You look good like this,” he continues, mouth pressing kisses to your skin, “But then, you always do.”

Your eyes snap to his, finding nothing but hunger paddling in brown. You don't fight the heat that flares out to the last few places pleasure hasn’t touched. Where only compliments and adoration can kiss and warm.

Then he says your name.

Not baby, not Rainy, but the one you’d handed him in that paint aisle and set yourself on a course for unravelling. A thing you don’t regret, but rather wish had happened sooner.

Your name rasped in that deep way that echoes through the room long after the last letter is spoken, digging deep into your soul as it unlocks something. It makes every sound amplified; the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, the sound of skin meeting skin.

“Let me hear you, baby,” cuts through, slicing,

And you do.

Your whine shifts into a sob, almost choking on it as it snaps—as pleasure rips through you and drowns you in waves. There’s nothing but white, a much louder ringer, and the distant knowledge that you’re spraying his name across the room as your hips stutter and he thrusts up into you, twitching, fucking breathless from it.

His hands, large and holding tight, keep you rooted—slowly hearing him groaning, grunting, low hisses of your name and how good you feel tight around his cock.

His fingers dig into your skin when he follows you. When his eyes clench, and his mouth parts around your name, lighting it up, making it seem as special as he makes you feel.

You collapse fully against him, thighs still shaking, little tremors in your muscles as your fingers brush back his damp curls from his forehead. A smile easy to find, to let slide over your mouth as you kiss him.

The light from the lamp drapes over you—still sticky, a mess between your thighs as you kiss him again, bodies flush. More gentle, a light lick across his bottom lip as you feel him grin, hands roaming over your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your back

He murmurs your name, palm sliding up your cheek, tip of his nose brushing against yours. “Should clean you up.”

“Hmm…”

His thumb swipes, hearing him swallow as your eyes open and find his already on you. “Don’t go.”

"To clean up?"

"Tonight."

Biting your lip, you try to fight it—less a smile and more a grin. “Okay. I won’t.”

And his lips capture yours once more. A thing you relax into—easily. Just like you keep finding so effortless to do with him.

next chapter ->

#frankie morales #pedro pascal

359 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 2 months

Text

I just love them so SO much! Even though I loved the Frankie comeback, Ezra comeback just made me melt! He loves her with all his heart like he is so madly in love with her and the fact that he didn't want to hurt her just teared me up 💜 I love their happy ending! 😍😍

A Baker's Dozen**

Ezra part two

Ezra’s chapter finished second in the poll about who should return to the bakery, and it made me so happy. I'd never written Ezra before and he was a challenge! But the story came together well with the help of his language and personality. But it was also sadder than I planned it to be, and I really wanted to revisit him and continue the story. So please enjoy part two!

(I'm editing and posting this in slightly more unconventional circumstances, so please excuse any errors!)

With a sigh you lock the front door of the bakery and flip the ‘Closed’ sign to face outwards. It had been a long weekend, lots of customers, and not all of them very polite. And to make matters worse, your shop assistant, the high schooler who’d worked extra on weekends, had been accepted at the last minute into their first college of choice and this was your first weekend without them. You’re exhausted and looking forward to your day off tomorrow.

The knock on the back door makes you jump just as you turn off the lights in the shop. Cautiously you walk to the back room and stop by the door.

“Hello?”

“It-it’s me, Ezra,” comes a muffled voice in a stutter from the outside, “P-please…I..”

You don’t need to hear more, you rush to the door and unlock it, throwing it open and the man on the other side almost loses his balance, propped up against the door frame. His appearance makes you gasp, reaching out to steady him as he wobbles. The stark blonde patch in his hair is plastered against his forehead, stained with blood from the cut just above his eyebrow, another cut marks his cheekbone, a bruise already blooming around it. From the way he’s curled his arm around his torso, you can tell something’s hurting his chest.

“Ezra, what happened?” you wince, helping him to step through the door, his face twisting in pain as he puts weight on his left foot.

He only grunts in response to your question, inhaling sharply as you carefully try to take his weight.

“Lean on me, let’s get you to the chair, I’ll call an ambulance, it’ll be ok,” you say, making him lean on you as much as you can as he hobbles into the kitchen and sinks down on the chair with a groan.

“No, no ambulance, I am not that badly off,” he says, shaking his head as you pull over the stool on wheels and make him put his injured leg up onto it.

“What happened, Ezra?” you ask again, sinking down to get a better look at him. He’s pale under his golden complexion, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

“It’s nothing, no matter, I just need to-,” he says, but even as he says it, he closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose, his hand tightening over his chest.

“Ezra,” you implore again, putting your hand on his uninjured leg, “you’ve turned up, injured and bloody, weeks after you disappeared, and you try to tell me it’s nothing? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

With that he peels his eyes open and looks down at you, and the pain in his eyes almost makes your heart stop.

“Ezra…” you implore again, softer this time, “be honest with me, I want to help, you know that.”

“I’m…I’m ashamed…” he whispers, his eyes falling to your hand on his leg, “you know what I am. I know I left you without explanation last time, after you were so kind to me. And here I am, needing your help again, because I have no one else to turn to.”

“Just tell me what happened, please, Ezra,” you say, “let me help.”

“I…I’ve…some men…” he begins, his eyes still on your hand on his leg, “I’d fallen asleep on the bus stop bench, and some men seemed to take offense,” he looks up at you, and you’re suddenly reminded of the mask Ezra is so skilled at pulling up over his true face, it’s firmly in place now, his hesitancy gone as he picks his words.

“They decided to make me leave by shoving me off the bench, and I twisted my ankle as I fell. When I couldn’t get up they roughed me up, threw me in a dumpster when they were done. I hurt my side trying to get out of it, fell badly when my foot gave up,” he gives you a humorless laugh, “Turns out climbing out of a dumpster with only one good arm and leg is rather tricky.”

“Ezra…that’s terrible, we need to get you to the ER, they need to check your chest, you may have broken ribs,” you make to stand up but his hand comes out and grabs yours before it leaves his leg.

“No, please, no, it’s not necessary,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I just need to clean the cuts and, if you have one, a bandage for my ankle so that I can at least stand on it while I make my way home.”

“You need to get your ribs checked, Ezra,” you reply, not taking a no from him, “and you might need stitches on the cut over your eye, it looks deep. Please,” you add as you see him shake his head again.

“Sweet girl, I can’t, please just let me get cleaned up and I’ll leave, I won’t impose on you again.”

“Ezra, you’re not imposing, except with your stubbornness, I’m taking you to the ER and that’s it. I’m not letting you leave without getting looked at by a professional.” You pull your hand from his and reach for your coat and he gives a forced little chuckle, smiling without mirth, his hand coming up as if to make a dismissive gesture in the air, but you stop him. .

“And don’t try that act with me, Ezra, I spent enough time with you last time to know when you’re lying, either to protect yourself or me.”

His hand falls back down, his shoulders slumping, “Your eagerness to help does you credit, but you don’t understand,” he says as you shrug into your coat.

He’s shaking his head, staring down at his solitary hand, picking at a fleck of blood on his stained pants, and you wait for him to press out the words. His words failing him in a way that is so far from his usual unstoppable stream that it makes you stop and look down at him with even more concern as he continues to pick at the blood.

“I…I simply don’t…I don’t have the…means, I just…can’t pay it,” he stutters, clenching his fist tight, his voice defeated, “I have no insurance…I don’t even have a valid driver’s license, they will not even let me in…” He doesn’t meet your eyes as you move closer to him, but he shakes his head again, his shoulders lifting up to his ears as the tension builds in his body, “No address.”

You sink down in front of the chair, taking his hand, stilling it against his leg, unraveling his fist as he sighs again.

“I’m as homeless as an alley cat, you see, sweet girl. I’m ashamed to say I have nothing, nothing to my name.” His voice is low, eyes downcast, and he doesn’t take your hand even though you wrap your fingers around it.

“I guessed,” you say, your voice low, trying to make him meet your eyes, “But you still need help, and I can take you to the clinic down by the church. They can check you out and get you more help, free if you need it,” you give his hand a squeeze, “Please, Ezra,” you implore, “let me help.”

You sit quietly next to the chair for a few seconds while Ezra seems to fight something inside him, his jaw ticking with the tension. With a small grunt, he finally gives you a short nod, his shoulders sinking down again, “You’re too good for this world, sweet girl,” he mutters, taking your hand properly and letting you help him to his feet.

“Not at all,” you reply, getting him to put his arm over your shoulder as you help him limp to the back door again, “but you’re my friend, and you need help whether you want to accept it or not. And I can be a lot more pigheaded than you.” The last you say with a smile in your voice as you help him down the back stairs. And it gets a small chuckle out of him before he winces at the pain.

You get him to sit in the back seat, his injured leg elevated as he grumbles about getting dirt in your car. Rolling your eyes in response, you strap yourself in and reverse out. Ezra shifts in the back, trying to get comfortable, in the rear view mirror you see him gently touch the cut over his eye that’s still bleeding.

“Would you recognise the men who did it?” you ask, looking back at the road.

“Maybe, but I’m not talking to the police,” Ezra replies, guessing what you’re thinking, “They don’t care about someone like me, I’m more likely to get into trouble for bringing their attention to my lack of address.”

“I was just thinking, maybe they make a habit of it, attacking sleeping people, they should be stopped.”

“Not by me, sweet girl, I don’t have enough fight left in me for that.”

You glance back at Ezra again, he never sounded so defeated the last time you saw him, and now he’s leaning his head against the window, staring into nothing, looking utterly forlorn.

Letting the subject rest, you drive in silence the rest of the short way to the clinic.

A nurse comes over as she spots you and Ezra coming through the door and soon he’s been told to lie back on a stretcher while you hover awkwardly nearby.

“Do you want me to wait outside?” you ask him as the nurse leaves to find the doctor on call for the evening.

“Only if you wish to,” he says, dropping his head back on the pillow and staring at the ceiling, “thank you for escorting me, but it’s not necessary to wait, I can manage on my own now. You should go home.”

“Ezra,” you hiss, keeping your voice low in the open room, only curtains separating his bed from his neighbors, “quit being such a pigheaded martyr, you’re such an idiot.”

His eyes snap to yours when he hears your anger, and you continue, “If I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t have opened the door in the first place, and I certainly wouldn’t have cried for a week after you disappeared the last time.”

His eyes widen at this and he opens his mouth to say something but you don’t let him.

“I’m staying. And you’re coming home with me when we’re done here. No arguments, so you can just hold that clever tongue of yours.”

Ezra closes his mouth and opens it again, meeting your glare with astonished eyes as he fumbles for a reply. But before he has time to compose himself, the curtain around the bed is pulled to the side and the doctor appears, followed by the nurse.

Ezra doesn’t protest any more as the doctor treats him. With a small bag of over the counter painkillers in your hand, and a crutch under his one arm, he slowly follows you back to the car without a word. Luckily no fractured rib, but a sprained ankle and a few strips of surgical tape over his two cuts is the tally of the beating, and you’re grateful it’s not worse. You’re even more grateful Ezra found his way back to you for help. You’ll be damned if you’ll let him go back to the streets, even if you have to shackle him to a radiator in your house. Ezra seems to realize this, and doesn’t say anything as you stop at a supermarket on the way home, and return to the car with a toothbrush and various other supplies he might need for his stay with you.

He doesn’t speak until you’ve closed the door behind the both of you and he’s hobbled into your living room. You put the painkillers on the coffee table and turn to help him sink down on the couch.

“Thank you. Truly,” he says, as you put a cushion under his leg, propping it up on the low table.

“Don’t fight it so much next time,” you tell him, “people are nice sometimes.” Straightening up you change the subject as your stomach rumbles, the time for talking is later, “Are you hungry?”

He nods, “Very.”

“I’ve got some leftover pasta sauce and bread, I’ll heat it up for us,” you say, leaving him on the couch. But it doesn’t take long before you hear him hobble after you into the kitchen, sitting down on one of the stools by the island.

“I apologize,” he says, “I was ashamed of showing you how pitiful my life is, both when we met last time, and today. I…I find it hard to accept help, I don’t want to burden anyone with my plight, it was my own foolishness who brought me to this low point. I should carry the consequences of my actions and not burden you with them.”

“Ezra…” you say softly, trying to keep any trace of pity out of your voice, “we all make bad choices, or just have a run of bad luck. Maybe next time I’m the one who needs help, and I hope someone is willing to give it then.”

He nods, but he still looks forlorn and you ache to put your arms around him, but you think he might see it as pity, so you give him a smile, and turn back to the stove.

“You should go back to the couch, Ezra,” you say, “put your leg up again, like the doctor said. I’ll bring you your food.”

“Will you join me on the couch for dinner?” he asks and it’s your turn to nod.

“Of course, I’m starving. Get comfortable, pick something to watch and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

When you return to the living room with two plates, Ezra has propped his leg up again and readily accepts a plate from you. Some nature documentary is playing on the tv and you gratefully sink down on your end of the couch and dig in. Ezra balances his plate on his lap and from the corner of your eye you can see him struggling with twisting the spaghetti onto his fork with his left hand. His eyebrows are pulled together in frustration and the fork clinks angrily against the plate.

You set down your own fork and leave for the kitchen, returning with a tray on legs, for having breakfast in bed.

“Here,” you say, putting it down and placing his plate on it, “Ask for help, Ezra.”

He gives you an indecipherable look, but you just return to your own plate, your attention on the rainforest birds on the tv.

“Thank you,” he says after a minute, looking over at you.

“You’re welcome,” you reply, giving him a quick smile that he returns, the first smile you’ve seen from him since he arrived back at the bakery.

The rest of the evening passes in companionable silence for the most part. You want to ask Ezra about where he’s been since you last saw him, how he’s been. You know why he didn’t return to the bakery, the other shop owners on the street certainly made it known that they didn’t trust him, and didn’t want him near. And you see now, even more clearly, how little value even Ezra places on himself.

I have nothing to give to anyone.

That’s what he’d written in his note to you, the day after his first visit. And it echoes in the back of your mind as you go over the events of the evening, stealing looks at Ezra sitting in the other corner of your couch.

He came back to the bakery when he was injured, but it seems even that had been a hard task for him, to ask for help, and then very reluctantly accepting it. He’d told you he lost his arm in a mining accident, but you don’t know if that was the true story or not. But whatever the truth is, you’re starting to understand the strange dark haired man with the odd blonde patch, a little bit better. He must’ve been fiercely independent before he lost his arm, capable, his skill matching his sharp intellect. And strong, if the shape of his wide shoulders and broad back is anything to go by. You can still remember how his muscles flexed and bunched under your exploring hands when he’d kissed you in the kitchen, a strength that hadn’t diminished when he lost his arm.

To lose that independence, and then his home, to be reduced to relying on others for help, even with the simplest things, it could turn any person bitter. And yet, the Ezra you met in the bakery, as wary as you’d been of him at first, had been warm and passionate, tender and gentle even. The mask he’d let slip while you baked together, had revealed a man you could fall in love with, even with the circumstances of his life twisting the person he showed the world.

You give him another look, his strong profile lit by the tv, his chocolate hair and beard longer and scruffier than before, more streaks of gray and the bags under his eyes heavy. But underneath the layers of grime, the stress of his life, he’s still a handsome man, albeit a little bit dirty right now. But that’s a problem for tomorrow you decide.

With a yawn you stretch and get to your feet, picking up the plates.

“I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket,” you say, “I left a new toothbrush in the bathroom, and a clean towel.”

“I can’t stay,” he says, predictably, and you ignore him, going back to the kitchen to put the plates in the dishwasher, turning it on before you return to the living room. Ezra is standing by the couch, the crutch under his arm.

“You’re staying, Ezra,” you interrupt him before he can protest, “You’re injured, and quite frankly, you’re dirty. Sleep here tonight, wash up in the morning, and then we’ll see.”

“Sweet girl…I can’t let you…” he begins but you shake your head.

“Do you think so little of me? That you think I’d let anyone, let alone an injured friend, sleep rough on the streets?”

Ezra looks back at your raised eyebrows and challenging look.

“Well?” you ask, “Do you think I’m that kind of friend?”

“No,” he says eventually, a small, exasperated smile, softening his face, “I know you’re not that kind of friend.”

“Good. Toothbrush and towel in the bathroom, go clean up, I’ll make your bed,” you point your finger in the direction of the bathroom and give him a stern look, softened by a crooked smile that Ezra returns.

“Yes, boss,” he says, and hobbles away.

Ezra beds down on the couch and you make sure his leg is propped up by a couple of extra cushions before you retreat to your own bed. You can hear him shifting on the couch, the old thing creaking under his weight, before you drift into sleep.

A loud crash startles you from your dreams hours later, early morning light coming through your curtains, and you shoot up in bed.

“Ezra?” you call out, scrambling out of bed, wrapping your gown around you as you hurry out of your bedroom. You find him by the open front door, cursing silently as he struggles to pick up the crutch from the floor.

“You’re sneaking out,” you state, stopping as you see him straightening up, the crutch still on the floor, his hand on the wall for balance.

“I’m afraid I have to depart, a pressing matter requires my swift attention this morning,” he replies, and oh, the mask is so clearly in place, the polite, apologetic smile, hiding the real man.

“What kind of pressing matter?” you ask, “Let me get dressed and I’ll drive you,” you challenge, crossing your arms and challenging him to just fucking dare to lie to you again.

“No, I can’t let you do that,” he smiles, wider now, even more apologetic, “I must converge with a most disagreeable drifter, a small matter of business I have with him that needs to be settled, I truly do not wish you to meet him. Such a rough, uncouth-”

“Ezra…” you say, your voice a warning, as you bend to pick up the crutch, holding out of his reach. It’s a dirty trick but he won’t get far without it.

“I assure you, sweet girl, I really need to depart, it would not be fortunate for you, or your excellent business, to be seen around town with myself, or this disagreeable man. I can’t bring this misfortune down on you after you’ve treated me with such kindness,” Ezra tilts his head, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes, the ringmaster at work, using his words to bend the audience to follow his ques, to believe his illusion.

You shake your head, and lean the crutch in a corner, away from him.

“You forget, Ezra, that you’ve bared more than you maybe intended to me, and I see what you’re trying to do,” you say, moving around him and closing the front door. “Your smooth lies don’t work on me anymore, I can see that mask you pull up whenever you try to bend me to your will.”

You stop in front of him, and he wavers, the smile, almost a leer, slips from his face. Carefully, as if he’s an animal you don’t want to spook, you bring your hand to his cheek, your thumb brushing across his scruffy beard.

“Ezra…you don’t need to fight so hard. Not with me.”

The mask is gone again, his determination to oppose your will melting away faster this time, and Ezra’s eyes fill with regret as he leans his face into your hand. You seek out his, hanging limp by his side and lace your fingers together, squeezing it lightly as you let him hold on to you for balance.

“I left you a note,” he whispers, “I’m truly grateful, I didn’t want to leave again without explanation.”

“What does it say?”

He sighs, closing his eyes briefly, “Same as I said last night, I don’t want to bring you more trouble, I have nothing to give, I don’t want to be a burden. And I know what you’ll say,” he looks up at you as he hears you inhale to berate him, “You don’t think I’m a burden, that I won’t bring you trouble. But I have not lived life honestly, and the people in this community know me as a trickster who cons them. It can only bring you trouble if they see you with me.”

“Have you stolen from them?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not from them, no. But I have stolen in the past, and not only what I needed of food and clothes. And I conned them, used their good hearts against them, they will not pardon me and see me as favorably as you do, sweet girl.”

You caress his cheek again, “Maybe it wasn’t honest, but it’s not like you forced them to give you things, just like you didn’t force me to make you a soufflé. Even though I realize I was probably just a con to you too.”

Ezra drops his eyes from yours at that, looking away as he gives you a small nod.

“It was a con, at first, I have to admit it. I was hoping for a loaf or two of bread, maybe something sweet, but…the soufflé, it wasn’t a con, I promise.” He looks up at you again, your hand has slipped from his cheek, down to his shoulder, he’s so close you can smell the toothpaste and his unwashed clothes, the antiseptic from the bandage on his cheek and forehead. You remain silent to let him continue, to see if his mask comes up again, or if he tells the truth this time.

“I told you that you captivated me, and that’s the truth, I was watching you the first day I came into the shop, you were decorating a cake, your concentration palpable, you were clearly very skilled. And knew if I conned you, I couldn’t come back, so I bought a croissant…and I left.” Ezra gives you a small smile at the memory, “You wouldn’t even know, but that croissant…it bound me to you, it was that perfect. I couldn’t help but keep going back, to watch you work, to taste more of what you’d made. And then you noticed me, and I should’ve left, but it was too late, I had already made a plan to trick you, another kind of trick.”

“What kind of trick, Ezra?” you ask and he gives you the smallest of chuckles.

“The kind that let me spend more time with you, to let me be seen as something else than the sad, homeless drifter my life has turned me into.”

He sighs, letting go of your hand to drag his rough palm over his face, rubbing at his eyes, “I’ve thought since that perhaps it was the worst of ideas, that I tricked myself more than you. I let myself step into a bubble of what could’ve been, if I had been a very different man, build a fantasy in my head where you…never mind,” he cuts himself off, leaning on the wall for balance as you seek out his hand again, “I never conned you, and I wish things were very different.”

“Ezra, I missed you when you left, and I was hurt and confused by your note and what other people said about you,” you say, taking his hand in both of yours, “but I trust you, even if you don’t believe me, I trust you. And I want you to stay, at least until you’re better, please stay this time.”

“But your neighbors, your shop…” he begins and you step forward, pressing your lips to his, silencing him. He holds himself rigid for a beat, before you feel his lips part with a soft hum.

“Fuck ‘em,” you whisper against him, “Please, Ezra, just be selfish with me.”

You don’t let him answer, but you feel his arm move, circle around your waist and you take it as a capitulation as he pulls you a little bit closer.

The kiss doesn’t last long, just a mark to pick up where you left off the last time in the bakery. Instead you pull back from him after a little while, retrieve the crutch and lead him back to the living room. The note, Ezra’s lopsided, left handed scribble on it, sits on the coffee table next to his makeshift bed.

“Do I need to read it?” you ask and he shakes his head, taking the paper and crumpling it.

“No, I’ll stay, at least until you bid me to leave.”

“Not while you limp, you’re stuck with me for a while, con man.” The last part you say with a wink, teasing him, and you’re rewarded by the dimple appearing on his cheek as he smiles, his face transforming.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be stuck, sweet girl,” he winks back.

The morning passes easily, now that he’s decided not to leave as soon as you give him a chance. You make breakfast, stacking the bacon high on his plate, an extra fried egg with the bread and mushrooms, three sausages on the side and a large glass of orange juice.

“Sweet girl, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you stopped me from leaving just to give me a heart attack instead,” Ezra says, eyes bulging as you set the plates down on the coffee table in front of him.

“No offense, but you look like you haven’t been eating that well. Let me spoil you while I can,” you reply, sitting down in front of your own, smaller, serving.

"You’re not mistaken, and no offense taken, it has been a few arduous months,” he says while cutting into the food, humming in satisfaction as the yolk smears the bread. It’s the last you hear from him for a while, the food takes all his attention as he works his way the whole plate, even the extra mushrooms and bacon you slide over. Eventually he leans back, balancing a fresh mug of coffee on his belly, letting out a deep sigh.

“I fear I may burst if I eat another bite,” he huffs, his little tummy expanding as he takes a deep breath, “As usual, you’re too good to me, cream puff.”

“I told you, enough with the baking related pet names,” you laugh, leaning back with your own coffee. “I think we agreed on ‘honey’ last time, but I like ‘sweet girl’ too.”

“Sweet as honey,” Ezra smiles, “such a delectable name for the most captivating of women, for someone with such compassion for the most miserable, unfortunate man. Although…” he tilts his head so that he can look over at where you’re curled up on the couch, “perhaps I’m not so unfortunate, I count myself the luckiest man to have wandered into your particular bakery and then even to be allowed to call you ‘friend’.” His smile is soft, “How did a wretch like me stumble into such fortune?”

“There is that charmer that stole my heart,” you smile back at him, “I’ve missed you, Ezra.”

“I did not want to leave you last time, but you understand now why I told you the illusion had to break?” He puts his mug on the table and takes your hand across the couch as you scooch closer to him.

“I understand, but I hope you know now, that you don’t have to leave, and I don’t want you too… however…” you trail off, as the smell of his unwashed clothes reaches your nose again, “you need to shower, and change…”

Ezra looks down at his clothes and frowns, “I have nothing to change into, but I do agree that these old breeches are somewhat on the smelly side. The rogues that roughed me up made off with my bag and the clothes within.”

“Ezra, you should’ve said, we could’ve bought you something yesterday,” you say, pushing off the couch and going to the hallway closet that holds your winter jackets, “I’ve got an old oversized sweatshirt, a relic from an ex, if you don’t mind?” You hold up the sweater and Ezra shrugs.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, if it fits, I will gladly wear it.”

“I’ll put your clothes in the wash,” you dig deeper in the closet, “these will probably fit, my brother’s old shorts, they’ve got paint stains from when we painted the bedroom, but they’re clean, I promise.”

Ezra accepts the clothes and retreats to the bathroom as you clear up the breakfast. You hear him run a bath, and even the satisfied groan as he sinks into it, making you smile as you load the dishwasher. But the disgruntled growl doesn’t sound good a few minutes later so you gently tap on the closed door.

“You ok, Ezra?” you ask and a grumble floats through the door as something clatters to the floor.

“I find that washing my hair, which it is in dire need of, is impossible with the way this bruise seems determined to burn a hole in my side. I can’t lift my arm high enough. And I only have one of those, as you know.”

“Can I help? Are you decent?”

“Sweet girl, I have no concerns about being decent in front of you,” he huffs, “You’ve already been privy to my very lowest state. Besides, your bubble bath really is very efficient.”

The last thing he says with a chuckle and you open the door. You’re met with Ezra laying back, no, Ezra laying back in resplendence, in your bathtub, all but covered by bubbles and a satisfied grin on his face.

“This bathtub really is a most colossal feature, I feel like I could go for a swim,” he smiles up at you as you bend to pick up the shampoo bottle from the floor.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, it’s half the reason I bought the house,” you say, sinking down behind him, “Can’t believe you got me washing your hair too, Ezra,” you mutter, but there’s no venom and Ezra hears the smile in your voice.

“I’ll repay the favor tenfold once I’m all healed up again, honey,” he says and scoots forward, giving you free access to his dark curls.

He’s like a cat, all but purring as you scrub his hair, letting your nails drag across scalp, rinsing it out once and giving it another wash. As you massage his head he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, you’re certain he’ll start snoring any second, and you gently tap his shoulder for him to sit up for a second rinse.

“Conditioner, sir?” you ask him with a teasing tone, as he moans.

Ezra opens one eye and looks up at you, “Are you mocking me, baker girl?”

“Only your obvious attraction to the skill of my hands, your moans are loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”

“Oh, I’ve always been attracted to the skill of your hands, in more ways than one, and I’m sure I can think of other uses for them too,” he winks and closes his eye again, leaving you with burning cheeks as his double entendre makes heat rise in your body.

As you rinse the conditioner from his hair you brush it back from his forehead, running your fingers through the blonde patch, stark white now that it’s properly clean. On impulse you bend down and place a kiss to it as you move to get up.

“All done, sir, enjoy the rest of your bath now.”

His hand comes up and grabs your wrist, surprisingly fast for someone right handed using their left, and he pulls you back down.

“Thank you,” he says in a low voice, bringing you close enough for him to reach up and return your kiss, warm lips pressed against yours for a moment.

“Anytime, Ezra,” you reply when he pulls back a little, your voice barely a whisper. You lock eyes for a few seconds, Ezra’s chocolate brown darkening as he rubs his thumb over the thin skin of your wrist.

“Anytime, sweet girl,” he whispers back and lets you go.

You feel unsteady as you leave the bathroom, slowly letting out a long exhale as you go back to the living room, aimlessly tidying, moving three books from one end of the room and back again twice before you realize what you’re doing and give up. Slumping down on the couch you turn back to the nature documentary from last night and try to zone out, but it’s no use. As you hear Ezra come out of the bathroom you shoot up from the couch and head to the kitchen, doing what you always do to calm your mind; bake.

The rest of the day passes without any more heated moments between the two of you. Ezra rests his ankle and you feed him, he complains that he can’t help you in any way, but you shush him and prop an extra cushion under his leg. From the corner of your eye, you see the soft smile he gives you as you turn back to the kitchen.

When it’s time for dinner you join him on the couch for the Great British Bake Off, a show Ezra is well familiar with but he’s missed most of the past seasons so the evening ends with you going back through the seasons and starting over. Before you know it, you’re lying down, your toes tucked in under Ezra’s warm leg while he absentmindedly strokes small circles on your calf. The whole scene is so domestic, he looks calm, more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. His whole face transforms as he laughs at the tv, looking over at you to see if you’re laughing too. And you are, but mostly because it feels good to see Ezra so comfortable and content.

When it’s time for bed, you scoot over and kiss his scruffy cheek, smelling your shampoo on him.

“Sleep tight, Ezra,” you mumble, relishing the soft touch of his beard against your lips.

“Sweet dreams, sweet girl,” he mumbles back, giving your leg an extra squeeze, “Do you want me to leave in the morning?”

“Not even a little bit, stay.”

“Then I won’t attempt to slip out unnoticed again,” he says, a crooked little smile at you as you straighten up.

“Please don’t, waking up when something goes bang in the night is not my favorite way of waking up,” you say, “Night, Ezra.”

He does stay, the next day and the next and the one after that. You go back to the bakery on the second day, leaving Ezra sleeping on the couch and come back to find him making dinner, wobbling one foot, chopping a stubborn onion with his left hand. The next day he’s done all the dishes and made your kitchen spotless. You berate him for not resting his ankle but he just shrugs and smiles, his soft southern lilt becoming more pronounced as he tries to charm you into believing that his foot is all better now. When you scold him, he gives you the most insincere puppy eyes, mischief lurking just under the surface until you crack and smack his arm and laugh at him. You almost kiss him, his infectious chuckle, the way his dimple appears as his eyes crinkle. The evenings end like the ones before, tucked in on the couch with The Great British Bake Off, but on the third evening you yawn widely and he pulls you in, his strength no match for yours.

“Rest your weary head on my leg, sweet girl,” he says, putting a cushion propped up against his thigh, “don’t stay so far away.”

You do as he says, and he pulls the quilt down over you and rests his hand on your arm. His slow movements, calloused fingers softly gliding up and down over the quilt, lulls you to sleep and it’s not until Ezra gently shakes you, that you blink awake to the end of the episode, and you stumble to bed after kissing his cheek.

The next day you come home to find Ezra packed up, what little he has, in a plastic bag by the door.

“I reckon I’ve imposed on you long enough, sweet girl,” he says as you question him, “I still limp, but I can walk now.”

“You’re not imposing, Ez, you know that,” you reply, putting down your shopping and stopping in front of him on the couch as he gets to his feet, “I want you to stay for as long as you want.”

He is moving a lot better, you can’t deny that, but the cuts and the bruises are still visible on his cheek and forehead. The bigger bruise on his torso has faded into yellows and greens and doesn’t seem to pain him anymore.

“And besides, where would you go?” you ask. You don’t want to be unkind, but pointing out the obvious flaw in his plan of just leaving seems logical. “Stay here at least until you have a place of your own, you know I won’t let you leave just to sleep in a shelter or in a car.”

“Sweet girl, how long would that endeavor not take me? I have no employment, no money to my name, and without it, I have no choice but to find improvised shelter. And finding a job without an address is not easy, finding a job for a one-armed man? Impossible.” He shakes his head and moves around you, “No, I’d rather leave now, and leave you missing my company than stay and have you tire of my disagreeable old face.”

As he limps towards the front door you feel the slow gears of your brain working until it clicks into place.

“Ezra! I have a job for you!”

He turns and looks back at you, a pitiful smile as he shakes his head.

“Do not make up a job for me. Your kind heart does you credit but I won’t accept any more charity from you, sweet girl.”

“It’s not a made up job, Ezra, I need help at the bakery,” you say, “The high school student who worked extra left for college last week, this weekend was my first without them and I hardly got any baking done. I can’t manage the bakery and the shop at the same time, especially not since I'm going into peak season with weddings and graduations. I need someone to work in the shop and you could do that, even one handed I’m sure.”

“I fear it would not do your business any good to have me at the front of your shop, or do you forget how I conned my way around the last time?” Ezra shakes his head again, turning towards the door to pick up his sad bag of belongings.

“And if there’s anyone who can charm his way back into their good books, it’s you!” you protest, yanking the bag out of his hand. “I need someone who can start tomorrow, someone who understands baking and the things I make, and who is as passionate about it as I am. You’re the perfect fit, Ezra!”

You take a step closer to him, putting your hand on his cheek. You haven’t touched since the kiss in the bathroom, it’s just been a comfortable closeness on the couch. He seems to have been holding back, not wanting to impose another layer of complications to the situation of a homeless man sleeping on your couch. You, on your hand, have been squashing your feelings and urges to touch him, not sure what he feels, if he even wants you close, he seemed so intent on leaving as soon as he could. But now you touch him, stepping over the thin line you’d both drawn, needing him to understand how much you want him to stay, not just for the bakery or out of pity for him.

And Ezra leans his head into your hand as you gently caress his cheek, the scruffy beard soft under your fingers, as he looks down at you, something shifting in him too as you come so close to him he can smell the cinnamon from the bakery in your hair.

“I want you to stay, Ezra. I missed you when you were gone, and I need you, not just in the bakery, but I need you in my life too, if you could let yourself believe that.”

“I’m a selfish man,” he mumbles, his hand coming up to rest on your waist, “I’ve been telling myself to not complicate your life, but if you offer it to me, I’ll take it.”

“Please, take it then, Ezra, I’m tired of trying to convince you that you’re worth something more, just take it, you-”

He cuts you off, his hand coming up to your cheek as his lips find yours, pushing you back against the wall with his body as your brain catches up, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers finding purchase in his hair and kissing him back.

You sigh into his mouth when he makes you part your lips, claiming your tongue the same way you remember from the bakery, the feeling you’ve been dreaming about since he left. He groans softly, his hand slipping down from your neck and curling behind your back to hold you even closer.

“Tell me again, I want to hear you say it again, that you want me to stay,” he whispers, pulling back just a little and looking at you with his dark brown eyes, filled with need, darkening with lust as you press your mouth to his lips.

“Pigheaded fool,” you smile, “How many times do I have to say it? I want you to stay.”

His responding groan, his mouth opening to let you taste him, sends a sharp jolt of desire through your body. Turning off all rational parts of your mind, you reach behind you and take his hand, pulling him with you through the house. When lead him into your bedroom he falters, an uncharacteristic shyness, or maybe uncertainty, flashing across his face.

“Sweet girl…” he whispers as you pull him onto the bed, making him tumble over you as he loses his balance, “it’s…been so long.”

“Do you want to, Ezra?” you ask, as he holds himself over you on his one arm.

“Yes, very much, I have dreamed so many nights of taking you to bed,” he breathes, his voice low, laced with both trepidation and lust, “I just never surmised you would ever want me like this, and I’m not sure these old broken bones could ever give you the pleasure you deserve.”

“How about we try out your old broken bones and let me judge how much pleasure they give?” you tease him, running your hands down his back, still as broad and muscular as you remember. He chuckles at that, some of the tension slipping from his face as you continue to stroke his soft shirt, tangling your fingers in the curls at the back of his neck, and then back down to his waist again. He puts his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and you can feel his warm breath over your lips, a slow exhale as he relaxes under your palms.

When you slip your hands under the edge of his shirt and pull it off he hesitates, the stump of his arm has always been hidden by his clothes or the bubbles in the bathtub that one time, now you sense his unease again.

“Do you want to keep your shirt on?” you ask, letting go of the hem and resuming your path up and down his back.

“No, no I want to feel your skin against mine,” he mutters, “I’m just afraid…you might find it…repulsive.”

With gentle hands you take hold of his shirt again and push it up his torso, making him roll over onto his back as you pull it over his head, freeing both his arm and the scarred stump. Ezra watches you with dark eyes, apprehensive in a way you’ve never seen him before, watching your reaction as you lean down and place a soft kiss on the scar tissue that covers the end of his arm.

“I’m sorry you lost it, Ez, but I’m glad you’re still here,” you whisper, placing another kiss on the rough texture before his large, remaining, hand cups the back of your head and guides you up to his mouth, his hot tongue seeking yours.

Now it’s his turn to tug at your shirt and you slip it off, tossing it over the side of the bed, letting your bra go the same way. As you sit up, straddling his narrow hips, the apex of your thighs rubs over the growing hardness in his pants, he growls and grabs your hip, rolling his own up into you. You gasp and Ezra pulls himself upright, his eyes now fully dark, lust blown and all trace of hesitancy gone as he pulls your core down over his cock.

“Sweet girl, I’m determined to make you cry my name until your voice is hoarse,” he says, his voice rough and low with a layer of intensity you’ve never heard from him before, “I really have craved you so many nights, dreamt of having you unfold underneath me, make you moan so prettily in my ear again, like you did when I kissed you before.”

He cups your sex with his hand, bringing the heel down over your sensitive nerves, making you ride it through the denim of your jeans, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. His mouth leaves heated, wet marks on your skin when he sucks bruises into your collar bone. Hand moving over the buttons, he peels down the zipper and you feel him slide down inside your pants, fingers meeting flesh as he ignores your underwear.

“What if I can make you cry ‘Ezra’ in that delicious moan, make you pant for me, with just my fingers buried in your cunt?” he growls, hot breath on your skin, “Will that prove me worthy of your devotion?”

“You-you…already a-are…” you gasp, his fingers slipping further down, thumb finding your swollen bundle of nerves, two of his thick fingers sliding deep inside and curling back. You feel him chuckle against your throat when you buck your hips, demanding more.

“Fuck, Ezra…” you moan, head tipping back, his beard scraping over your throat as he sucks another mark into the thin skin of your neck.

“Let me feel you fall, sweet girl,” he mutters, pulling back, his dark eyes finding yours half closed, blissed out, “So beautiful, captivating, my sweet girl.” He looks hungry, greedy, and he surges forward, seeking out your skin again. You feel his teeth nipping on the curve of your jaw as he curves his fingers deep inside you, finding a spot that sends stars through your veins. Your fingers dig into his broad shoulders, leaving fresh marks on his flesh as he brings you closer to the peak.

“My sweet girl,” he purrs, close to your ear, his thumb rubbing tight circles, “come for me, honey, I’ve got you.”

It topples you over, his dark voice tickling your mind into submission, your back arching, pushing down on his fingers as he brings you through it. You cry out his name, pant it into the dim room, and he licks his tongue over your sweat salt skin.

“Ezra…” you croak, dropping your head onto his shoulder as he slowly caresses your slick folds and pulls out, his sticky hand curving around your waist and landing on your back. It takes a few minutes for you to catch your breath, Ezra mumbles into your ear, his words wrapping around your brain, trapping them in the haze of your orgasm. When you turn your head and scrape your teeth over the thin skin of his neck, your tongue licking the edge of his ear, his breath hitches, interrupting his torrent of sweet nothings. Against your core you can feel his cock twitch, ignored and aching.

“Take your pants off,” he says, the command soft in his voice, “And take mine off too.”

It doesn’t take long for you to rid the both of you of the rest of your clothes. Ezra hisses as you pull his cock free, letting your hand stroke it, catching the weeping head with the pad of your thumb before you stand up.

“How do you want me, Ezra?” you ask, returning from the bathroom with a condom in your hand. He’s flat on his back, his hand slowly moving up and down his cock as he watches you walk naked across the room.

“On my lap, my symmetry is sorely lacking in balance, I fear I might give you a bloody nose if I was on top,” he smirks, moving himself to sit against the headboard, giving his thighs an invitational pat.

“Just admit it, you’re lazy,” you wink at him, “just want me to do all the work.”

He grabs your hip and pulls you down, his hard length pushed up against the soft swell of your belly, “Oh, sweet girl, if I had both my hands I’d trap you beneath me and not let you leave until you were a quivering mess, begging me to let you come,” he smirks, kissing you hard when you bend your head down to him.

He rolls his hips, giving friction to his cock pressed between you, and you feel him hiss into your mouth, groaning deep in his chest.

You push back and unwrap the condom, slipping it on while he watches your hands with dark eyes. When you rise up on your knees, his fingers dig into your hip, his teeth capturing his bottom lip, biting down hard with a groan as you position yourself. With one hand wrapped around his twitching length, the other on his shoulder for balance, you stroke the head through your slick folds, watching Ezra let go of his lip, an almost animal snarl escaping him.

“My sweet girl, honey…” he pants, opening his mouth to continue, but you sink down over him, squeezing his length, and he groans, a low rumbling pressed up through gritted teeth, head tipped back, eyes closed. You feel him buck his hips, his hand guiding your hip, as he tries to fuck up into you and you hold on to his shoulders with both hands, stroking down over his arms, caressing both his good side and the edge of what remains on the other.

Ezra curls his arm around your waist and pulls you down, bucking up again with another groan. He sits deep inside you, making sparks run through your veins, the feel of him giving you as much pleasure as his graveled groans and panting breath. .

“I’m not going to last,” he mumbles, biting his lip again, “I’m…you feel…f-feel so good.”

You roll your hips over him, your clit rubbing against the dark curls at the base, moaning as he bucks up, rubbing over something electric deep inside. The sight of his face tilted back, eyes half closed in bliss, as his arm sits like a vice around your waist, it brings you to the edge of your own climax much faster than anticipated. Your thighs are protesting, sweat drips down your back, and Ezra claims your mouth again, while you work yourself up and down over his slick cock.

He’s rambling, mumbling into your mouth between licks of his tongue, he’s getting messy, kissing the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, burying his face into the crook of your neck while he grinds against you. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he cries out, his body going rigid underneath you, a hoarse shout against your skin and your own climax explodes. You know you’re leaving marks on his skin, but you can’t let go, Ezra is rolling his hips up, pumping himself into you as best he can, pulling you down onto him.

As your muscles relax you feel him loosen his grip on you too, and you drop your head down on his shoulder, caressing his back, his arms, pressing slow kisses into his sweat damp skin.

“My sweet girl,” he mutters, kissing the mark he left on your shoulder, “my sweet, sweet girl,” heavy breaths still making his chest rise and fall as he pants.

You rake your fingers through his damp curls and lift yourself off him, helping him handle the condom and toss it. Ezra stretches out and you curl into his side, sighing deeply and closing your eyes.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch anymore,” you mumble into his chest, and you hear the chuckle rumble under you between deep breaths, still recovering.

“I’m sure we’ll figure out other usages for the couch if you intend to keep this up with my broken old bones,” he says, smiling, his eyes closed as he begins to caress what he can reach of your back.

You both lie in peaceful silence for a little while, your breathing returning to normal, and your bodies cooling down. When the air raises goosebumps on your skin, you pull the covers over you both, and Ezra makes you curl closer to him.

“You really don’t find it repulsive?” he asks after a while, and tilt your head to look up at him, you know what he’s referencing. His dark eyes are turned to you with a questioning look, the smallest hint of worry clouding his forehead.

“No, I really don’t,” you say, moving your hand so that you can caress the scars at the end of his severed arm, “It’s just skin, or proof that you’ve survived something very difficult, why would I find it repulsive? I’m very happy you survived it.

Ezra places his lips on your forehead, kissing you softly while his one good arm pulls you in tighter.

“Thank you.”

“There you go, Mrs Levinson, all set for the weekend, I envy your guests, you sure do spoil your grandchildren! But I know you would spoil me just as well if turned up on your doorstep like a stray dog.”

Ezra gives the elderly lady his warmest smile and a wink, mischief twinkling in his eye as she returns the wink.

“Ezra, you scoundrel,” she giggles, “you know you’re both always very welcome for dinner any day, and I’ll make sure to spoil you rotten.”

“Never would I be so uncouth as to impose such inconvenience on you, Mrs Levinson,” he replies, a hand on his chest in mock shock, “You should come to our house, I’ll cook my famous one armed bandit stew,” he grins and Mrs Levinson giggles again.

“Oh Ezra, you really do brighten my day, you’re such a treasure to have around,” she titters, collecting her shopping bags, “And I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer.”

“You’re too kind, Mrs Levinson, enjoy the rest of your day now, you hear!” he smiles as she gives him a wave and steps out through the front door.

Ezra turns and heads back into the kitchen, where you’re preparing the final batch of millionaire’s shortbread, sprinkling chopped peanuts over the melted chocolate.

“I may have invited Mrs Levinson for dinner,” he says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist, “Said I’d make my stew.”

“I heard,” you reply, “your famous ‘one armed bandit stew’? You’re too much, Ez,” you laugh as Ezra chuckles.

“I did always have a flair for marketing,” he smirks, "maybe we should rename the bakery too, make it official.”

“Make it official that the scandalous baker and her ‘one armed bandit’ are in it for the long haul?” you ask, turning around so that you’re facing him and can see his warm smile as he looks down at you.

“Are we in it for the long haul, my sweet girl?” he replies, bending down to brush the strong curve of his nose across your check, pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Well, it’s been two years, and you haven’t tried leaving again, so I think I finally made you realize I want you around,” you mumble as he nudges your head to the side to make better rooms for his kisses.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweet girl,” he mutters, “do you regret it?”

“Not even a little,” you sigh, tangling your fingers into his soft curls and he chuckles.

The bell over the door jingles and Ezra straightens up.

“Go on, Ez, go charm another customer into buying more than they need.”

“Yes, boss,” he smirks, pressing a final quick kiss to your lips before he hurries back into the shop.

“Good afternoon, ma’am, how may I help you on this most beautiful day?”

Specifically tagging my Ezra mentor @morallyinept !

@harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

#Ezra #Pedro pascal

145 notes · View notes

thisneozonerecs · 2 months

Text

Jet!!! I am so in love with this!! Frankie owrshipping your body and making you feel beautiful is just goals 😍 and how he was focused on her pleasure it makes me melt!! 🙃🙃

Imbued - A Frankie Morales One Shot - International Women's Day

Dedicated to @undercoverpena whom is one of the most amazing, badass women ever. Happy International Women's Day, Jojobean! 🖤

I used a prompt from this list here. Prompt is marked bold in the story.

Summary: Frankie worships you and makes you feel like a Goddess. I mean, you are, aren't you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. However, Reader speaks and understands Spanish.)

Word Count: 2k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Established relationship/face riding/facesitting/multiple orgasms/some mild squirting/body worship/Frankie eats you out because he's the 🐱👑

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Happy International Women's Day! What better way to be celebrated than by Frankie worshipping you! 🫠

☝🏻Whilst we don't need men to make us feel powerful, I hope you know that you're amazing, independent and gorgeous, no matter what! The world is yours for the taking, Queen. Today is to celebrate and empower all the incredible women/trans women/bi women from all walks of life. No matter your ethnicity, your background, physical capabilities, your age - YOU matter. Be proud of who you are and know that every day, you are incredible, and you are strong. 💪🏻🌎🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Frankie is a sight to behold in the mornings.

Almost ethereal as the sun kisses those beaming streaks over his tan, warm skin and muscles that envelope you in strong, cresting arms.

Pink lips that truly steal the show, full and inviting, they curl into a dreamy, crooked smile that hints at a mischievous spark lurking just beneath the surface of a bruised man, who wakes with you in crumpled sheets with entwined limbs, clammy with sweat.

Sleepy orbs of polished obsidian regard you in the oncoming glow of the golden dawn, flooding through thin linens and filling the room with an aureate haze. Thick, rough fingers glide against your cheek as the heat from his breath settles into your eyelashes.

“Hueles tan bien,” (You smell so good) he grazes to you, nose running the arch of your shoulder. “Siempre te ves muy bien por las mañanas.” (You always look so good in the mornings.)

“Mmm,” you hum, relishing the hard prodding of him in between your cheeks.

Smiling, your arch like a feline, stretching and working out your back from hours curled into comatose, rigid shapes around him.

Deft hands felt around your waist pull you against him. You feel him subtly grind; a thickness rutting against you, separated only by flimsy cotton and worn elastic.

Twisting to face him, you lick up the side of his jaw, tasting the salt in his greying scruff; the silk of it smooth on your tongue as you make wet tracks through the forest of grizzly hairs. Exploring all the prominent contours of his rugged masculinity, as his tall and broad body slowly cages over your own and starts his own explorations.

His lips find yours, tongue delving in and groaning around the kisses he pelts you with, tempered with soft lips under a satiny scratch of his moustache.

“Dime qué quieres.” (Tell me what you want.) He always knows what you want, delivering satisfaction in abundance. But hearing you tell him that you crave him never gets tiresome.

Frankie kisses down your body slowly, dragging his lips, lingering in places he knows will rile you. Collarbone, nipples, hips… smooches with a swipe of wet tongue appeasing as your hands follow his head, twirling curls around your index and middle.

Parting your legs, he kisses down your thigh, up the other one, eyes darting to yours. Soft, muddy irises, pupils already blown wide as he smirks at you.

“Bésame.” (Kiss me) You say, as he stretches up to find your lips again.

You shake your head, pushing on his shoulders. “Bésame ahí,” (Kiss me there) you iterate, guiding him by the chin down to your centre.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he groans, almost pained in its tincture.

Frankie smiles immediately as he licks up the centre of your crotch over your panties. A wicked glint in his eye as you gasp and grin down at him.

He then slides off your cotton underwear, patched damp, without hesitation.

“Sé lo que quieres.” (I know what you want.) Frankie husks with a grin that will scorch the sun.

Already swollen in anticipation, he licks around the outer lips of your cunt, tingles travelling deep into the layers of skin as you shudder; warm breath creating cool tracks as he goes.

He nestles, aquiline nose curved perfectly to brush against you, nuzzling gently over the protruding bump of your clit as it throbs almost painfully. Ghostly mouthing, you can barely feel it as he coats you in tepid breaths; teases and prolongs the agony until you tug on the curls behind his ears sharply with a pout.

“Then give it to me,” you demand softly. And he can never resist.

He starts his complete annihilation of you with slow precision. Skilled tongue curling out, the tip brushing over your clit faintly. Watches you keenly with those soulful eyes sitting under thick, expressive eyebrows, perfectly arched to accentuate the intensity of his gaze, as that singular stroke engulfs your body with a jolt as you moan, ragged and wanting.

He does it again. Flick.

And again. Flick. Flick. Flick.

Tongue flicking faster, rumbling back and forth with speed, your thighs jerk, ripples of skin humming.

Settles into a soft rhythm of his tongue lapping and padding delicately over the tip of your clit. An explorative make out session with your pussy as he slides his tongue around the most sensitive parts, waking them up with gentle prods and flickers.

Circling around and around, looping figure eights, spelling out his name, before his lips sink further into your folds, and he suctions around that bud, sucking on it with a deep pull.

He works you up; your fingers gnarling in his hair, fisting in the sheets, pulling around your nipples as the frenzy begins to unfurl from a deep slumber.

Frankie licks down, tongue trailing the length of your slit, finding the indent of your hole that’s pooling for him. Scoops up the clear, dripping honey with the curve of his tongue and deposits it around the hilt of your clit as he sucks on it again.

Orchestrating the delicate interplay of pleasure and longing. With each passing moment, the music swells, growing in intensity and depth, like the rising tide of an ocean before a storm.

He feels you raking in his hair; dark and tousled from sleep, framing his face in a halo of unruly waves that are only tamed into submission by his cap. Fingers exploring and gripping tighter around the back of his skull, wanting more, craving the pleasure he’s conducting within your core.

You’ll crash all over him.

“I want you to come, come for me, hermosa. Déjame probarte a ti.” (Let me taste you.)

His serpentine tongue squelches through your lips quicker, drenched with his saliva, foaming with your bubbly secretions. Sticky chin, silvery hairs darker with the wet coating around his lips and cheeks, as he buries his face fully into the shrine of your cunt.

He’s done teasing, he needs you to come. Needs to taste you flooding his mouth.

“Oh fuck, oh my god, yes baby…” you drone, you babble, you speak in tongues. Your voice rasps as you tense and shudder.

With each passing moment, with each practised flick of his tongue, you feel yourself drawing deeper into that whirlpool of pleasure, your senses heightening to a fever pitch. Feeling the tension coiling within you, a tightened spring ready to snap at the slightest touch, cinching and pulsing.

A white noise getting louder in your ears.

Sticky, inflamed lips rolling back, Frankie spreads you open with his blunt, stubbed thumbs; exalting in the exquisite taste of your most intimate flesh beneath his nose.

He hums in appraisal, eyes sinking back into his sockets as he closes them in rapture at his morning feast spread before him. Tonguing your hole, contracting around nothing, desiring to be filled with him, but denial is the path to imminent release.

“Damn, you look so amazing right now,” he breathes with a husk. “Eres tan malditamente hermosa.” (You’re so damn beautiful.)

You tug at his hair more, sleep-billowed curls tightly wound around your fingers as you grind against his face chasing your oncoming release. Thighs threaten to suffocate him as he puffs out of his nose and looks up at you with molten browns.

Your back arches, a perfect curve off the mattress as you dive head first into the sun, burning up as you explode.

He’s all speed and eagerness as he has you positioned above him, quicker than you can comprehend, and begs you to sit on his face.

Pulling on his hair you smother him and he groans like a dying man; fingers pressing bruises into your ass as he rocks you onto his awaiting mouth. You flex and grind, moving against him as you feel it build all over again.

“F-Frankie!” You judder, your voice a lump in your throat you can’t swallow as you gasp for breath around it.

He rolls out his tongue; a thick, wet muscle for you to fuck and use. You rock against it, feeling it slide through your folds as you scrape back his hair, fists stuffed into the pillow.

You take from him, seek your own pleasure and finish without his cock, without his fingers. Just worshipping you with his tongue. A simple man, flat on his broad back, his queen throning on his face.

He imbues you with strength, the confidence to discard shame and revel in your sensuality as he watches you arch and let your hips do all the work. He encourages it, feeds it to you impassioned with fascination, desire and a keen sense of empowering your womanhood to bloom and blossom.

This is his happy place, an exquisite drowning in you that he conveys through sleepy, subdued eyes and satisfied, wanting groans that haunt your blood.

He could die like this, your cunt leaking into his mouth as you fuck it, unabashed and free.

Strong, deft hands pull you forward, down fully onto his face until he can no longer breathe. Snuffles of misty breath fan against your mound, as he lets his tongue swim inside you, lips suctioned around you.

He knows that even without him, you're solid granite. A force to be reckoned with. Impenetrable steel holding yourself up with the power you command from within. He’s only proud that you allow him to bask in your light, your love. The divine femininity that you let him drink mouthfuls from.

Frankie knows you don’t need his love, you choose to have it and that’s what makes him love and worship you even more.

Rocking your hips back and forth faster, your clit brushing against his nose, the hairs on his face are felt everywhere with a pleasant scratch and tingle.

You feel his digits pulling on your nipples, rolling them between his finger and thumb as you start to let go again. Start to feel the vestiges of your orgasm seep out of the lush garden of your ribs.

You feel it building, crushing against your abdomen as you let go. As you give him what he covets from you.

You give him respite, the chance to breathe as you lift yourself up for a few seconds before he pulls you back down on him with a growl, greedy for more.

He doesn’t need to breathe - he just needs you coming all over his face.

You squirm, convulsing as you come; his arms pin you onto his face not letting you escape.

“Frankie! Fuck!” You wail as your body shakes itself of its own volition.

You lean back, supporting your hands on his chest as you ride his face through it. The head of his cock is poking out the top of his waistband, flush and leaking onto his stomach as you reach for it. He gently taps your hand away.

His face is soaked, the pillow drenched as beads of your slick gush down his cheeks and into his hairline and ears.

Drowning in you, pulled under that wave, succumbing.

No, this is about your pleasure only. Your undoing.

You, you, you…

His head shakes back and forth with abandon as you grunt and shatter above him - Frankie grunts hungrily. Giant hands splay you open so he can get to every part, drink you all down.

He whines and groans as your hand slides back down his stomach, grabbing handfuls of his pudgy hips and waist with greed.

Your fingers delve into a wet, sticky puddle of his own release spurted over his soft paunch.

Your body, like wibbly jelly, collapses onto your back into the creases of the damp sheets, the sun in your eyes like a gold strobe.

You smirk as the waves roll off of you, bite your lip at how a man as strong as he is, is reduced to nothing but a wet, softening mess beneath you, ejaculating on his stomach at the mere taste of you.

Desperate for you, whining, keening and clawing for more of you against his mouth.

“Más?” (More?) Frankie grins into your face as you pant, his fingers slipping into your greased folds and teasing at your sensitive clit.

He sucks on a nipple, tonguing it stiff as you groan, watching as he looks up at you with those beguiling eyes. Melted chocolate chips that you long to taste, cloying and sweet.

“Siempre más,” (Always more) you chime, as he trails that skilled tongue back down your body, pulls your thighs over his shoulders and takes you apart with his mouth, over and over again.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this story. Happy International Women's Day! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MASTERLIST

#Frankie morales #Pedro pascal

412 notes · View notes