ppascalsstuff

[ppascalsstuff]

Snores

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Content: Joel's loud snoring kept you up at night. Joel felt guilty for it and tries to make up for it. Fluff!

A/N: You can't convince me that Joel doesn't snore. Anyways, my break ended which means i'm going to be busier than ever before but here i am writing at 1am so you best bet that i will still try my best to write often. Plus!! I'm trying to gain ideas for hug me pt 2 so that would be my main wip for now. Enjoy this drabble before i disappear for god knows how long

  You were so close to strangling your dear husband who was sleeping peacefully next to you. While he was in deep slumber, you lay beside him frustrated as you listened to his snores that never ended. The red numbers on the clock on the nightstand beside Joel, reminding you just how many hours of sleep you were missing out on and how the sun was going to come up soon. You let out a frustrated groan while you used your pillow to cover your ears, hoping that it would at least muffle the sounds of his snores. 

  You propped yourself up with one arm, turning to Joel’s side to stare at him. His mouth was slightly ajar as he snored loudly. You simply stared at him, planning some sort of way for him to shut up. Your body screamed for rest but the loud snores beside you kept you awake. It almost seems like Joel could sense your stare on him, he snorted before turning to his side to avoid your glare. You fell back onto the bed in relief, you finally had peace. You tucked yourself back into bed, nuzzling your nose into the pillow, excited to finally get the rest you needed. 

   At this point, you thought Joel was doing this to spite you. The moment you felt yourself drifting away, his snores came back, louder than ever before. Putting your relaxed body back in an alert state. The scowl came back onto your face while you glared at Joel again. His clock beside him let out two beeps, signaling that yet another hour has passed. You now officially had 3 hours to fall asleep before you had to wake up again. 

   It was true how they say love blinds all. In this situation, the obvious solution was to wake Joel up. However, whenever you looked at him, you just couldn’t bear to wake him up knowing that he needed to get up for patrol also plus, he already had a long day and deserved the rest. But you were oh so close to just cutting off his air supply by putting the pillow you had wrapped around your head onto his nose. Sound can’t travel through a vacuum right? Your fingers drummed against the surface of the mattress angrily, love is complicated. 

======================

   “What are you doing here?’ You were about to kill the person who had woken you up again. You mumbled a bunch of curse words at Joel, kicking your feet at him to ask him to leave you alone. Joel crossed his arms, your figure was curled up on the couch.“Feisty.” Joel commented, staring at how you buried your face back into the pillow. “Go to bed and sleep darling. You’re gonna get sore if you sleep here.” He nagged to your already unconscious form. You were exhausted. Joel smiled softly, his strong arms easily lifting you up. You stirred awake in his arms, inhaling his scent. The moment your body came into contact with the comfortable mattress of your bed, you had fallen back into your slumber. 

   “Darling, I put off waking you up for as long as possible already but we need to go out for patrol.” Joel’s thumb was caressing your side. You groaned, turning away from him. “Come on, I made coffee already. Tommy will be on our ass soon. Or worse, Maria.” Joel dragged you up. You simply fell into his arms, the man has zero idea what torture he had put you through last night. 

   For the entirety of the morning, you remained silent. Joel slowly trudged beside you on his horse, giving you worried glances every once in a while. Did he do something wrong? But he knew this wasn’t you giving him the silent treatment but more of you running out of social battery already. Something was definitely bothering you, but he didn’t know what. The constant scowl and furrowed eyebrows were also a sign. Joel gripped the reins a little tighter, he had tried his best to start conversations with you but all he got were half-hearted replies and grunts. 

   When the both of you finally managed to reach the safe house. You collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied grunt. The feeling of being able to lie down and rest your already aching muscles was like heaven on earth. Joel put down his bag, checking the both of you in like usual. His eyes fell onto your figure again, your arm was covering your eyes while you lay down. 

  “Darling,” Joel called out as he towered over your figure. You stifled a yawn while you removed the arm that was covering your face, humming in response to him. Joel’s heart dropped, your eyes were swollen and the dark eye circles around your eyes were a darker shade than usual. “Why do you look so tired?” He questioned. Your eyes widened and you sat up, you even took a calming breath. Joel stiffened, he had hit a nerve. “Why am I so tired?” You repeated in a mocking tone as you met his eye. “Hmm, maybe because I had one of the worst sleep in my life yesterday? And I am also running on-” You checked the watch on your wrist, “2 hours plus of sleep?” You finished. “Nightmare?” Joel guessed. You punched him lightly in his ribs, “The nightmare was the fucking snoring from you yesterday.” You scolded, lying back on your back. “I don’t snore.” Joel defended, he always did that when you told him he snored in his sleep. You shook your head at him, “You being in denial used to be funny but now it is getting on my nerves.” You warned. Joel sat down beside you, putting your legs on his lap. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad…” You chuckled at him, “Yeah, I was awake till like four in the morning Joel. You would stir awake and I would get a few moments of peace before it starts again. What were you doing? Trying to set a new record for the loudest snore?” You ranted to him. Joel swallowed, guilt making his heart clench. “Was that why you were on the couch?” 

   “No shit Joel.” You deadpanned, “And then you woke me up when I finally got to sleep. Joel, I was this close-” You lifted your index finger and thumb like you were pinching something in mid-air. “To just murder you in cold blood.” Joel laughed, massaging your legs that were in his lap. “I’m sorry darling, you should have just woke me up.” He suggested. You remained silent, knowing that you would never be able to bring yourself to wake him up. 

   “I’m sorry” Joel muttered again as he kissed you, a simple kiss that expressed all the guilt and apologies he felt for keeping you awake. A light tint of red coloring his cheeks, Joel was embarrassed by his snoring habits. The last time someone had complained was probably Sarah, he only snored when he was having a good sleep. The nights of sleep he had for the past decades in the apocalypse were plagued with nightmares and even when he was asleep, his mind was alert enough to react even to the softest of sounds. Tommy had always joked about how Joel’s snores would have gotten him killed. 

========

   After that day, Joel would play his guitar out on the porch until 12. You were puzzled at first, even offering to stay up with him. Joel was a morning bird and you were a night owl. He always slept at 10pm without fail and you would sleep earliest at 11pm, However, Joel was insistent that you go to sleep before him. 

   He also started bringing back flowers that he got from the greenhouse, claiming that they had extra. Joel also traded his precious coffee beans for the tea that you preferred. When you questioned him about it, he brushed it off as a craving for tea. You narrowed your eyes at him, knowing that Joel never had a single cup of the tea he had sacrificed his coffee beans for. 

   Later you would find out that Joel had pulled favors with the people who were in charge of the greenhouse for the flowers. The gardeners who were curious about the sudden appearance of Joel Miller coming for flowers had questioned you about it. “Was it your anniversary?” was among the many guesses they made. You simply shrugged, telling them that Joel had claimed that it was extra. You lied awake on the bed, staring at the ceiling. You were thinking about Joel. trying to figure out the reason for his unnatural behavior these days. 

   The door creaked open, you closed your eyes, pretending you were asleep. Joel stared at your form from the door, trying to determine if you were asleep. When he finally concluded that you were asleep, he carefully crawled into bed. He laid there facing you, admiring you for a while. 

  “Sorry for interrupting your beauty sleep.” He mumbled into your forehead before pressing a kiss there. You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your lips. The pieces of the puzzle finally connecting in your head. 

  Those actions, the weird behaviour. It was Joel Miller’s way of apologising. It was his way of ensuring that he doesn’t bother you again with his snores and making up for the hours that you had lost due to his snores. Your heart warmed, Joel had broke and changed his routine just for you and everyone who knew him knew he was a creature of habit. 

   “I love you.” You mumbled, pulling him closer to you while you buried your face in his chest. He stiffened slightly, surprised that you were awake. Joel put his arms around you, tangling his legs with yours. 

  “I love you too.” 

[ppascalsstuff]

three…two…one… - dieter bravo x fem!reader

❄️’tis the season❄️

summary: you and dieter throw a new year’s party.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, smut, fluff, unprotected p-in-v, dieter’s dirty mouth, mentions of drinking/drugs/classic dieter things, this is SUPER SELF-INDULGENT AND I DON’T CARE BUT I LOVE THESE TWO SO MUCH AND JUST WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY OKAY THAT’S IT THAT’S ALL

a/n: the beginning of this fic genuinely made me laugh out loud when I wrote it. thank you all for the love and support always (I’ll make a sappy new years post separately) and I know I’m a day late, but enjoy! (also special props to @mandoblowmybackout for giving me the pizza idea 😏)

“I wanna throw a party.”

Well, that’s definitely not what you were expecting.

“What did you just say?”

Dieter pauses, head snapping up, eyes flicking from where they’d been trained on your bare tits up to your face. His eyes are bloodshot, pupils blown wide, and his cheeks are rosy, a slick of sweat at his temple. “Huh?”

He’s stoned. You both are, truthfully. The last few weeks have been a blur of cardboard, tinsel, and red wine, flitting from one house to the next. You were Dieter’s plus one to a slew of holiday parties (which went much better than your Halloween escapades had, mainly because it was time spent with Dieter’s actual friends, people he trusted, not a bunch of strangers trying to get on his good side) and, in a not-so-shocking twist, a Christmas party thrown by your closest pals. 

They had been more than shocked when you announced you were bringing Dieter fucking Bravo along with you, doubly shocked when you told them you were moving in together. It was something to get used to, the talking about him, the calling him your…boyfriend? Partner? Something like that. But up until now, you’ve been so used to keeping it hush hush, reducing your relationship to what it had been, not what it’s turning into. And your closest friend had a keen eye on Dieter, knowing exactly what had gone down at Halloween.

“You’re sure moving in with him is the right thing?”

“There’s nothing I’m more sure of, trust me.”

She’d tilted her head to the side, stared at you a long moment. “You seem happy. Almost too happy.”

“I am,” you said, barking a laugh. “I’m really fucking happy.”

Parties, friends, a quick appearance by your parents — which Dieter had handled with such composure you had to restrain yourself from sticking your tongue down his throat in front of your mother — and the end of the era that was your apartment. You were officially moved out as of Boxing Day, the 27th of December was spent at a work party, and now…you’re officially living together.

The end of a long few weeks, both of you dead on your feet and desperate for a little reprieve, Dieter had declared it a night for celebrating. A healthy-sized joint had been shared on the balcony, reminiscent of the first time you’d set foot in his condo, and you’d swapped smoke, shotgunning between heavy giggles and tired smiles.

“I’m really happy you’re here, baby.”

“Me, too.”

Realizing this would be the first official meal in your now shared space, you spent nearly half an hour trying to decide what to order. Dieter had pouted at that, telling you he wanted to cook you something, but he’d nearly tripped over his own feet coming in from the balcony and almost ripped the curtains down in the process, and the last thing you want to do your first official night is have to call the fire department or an ambulance.

You settled on a giant meat lover’s pizza with extra cheese, bottles of root beer, garlic sticks, the works. You ate sprawled on the rug in front of his fireplace, licking grease from your fingers, watching old episodes of Family Guy, and Dieter’s Stewie impression made you laugh so hard you nearly spewed root beer out of your nose.

It was perfect.

After the pizza had been demolished, things took a turn. It had started innocent enough, the pair of you cuddled up on the couch, your head tucked under Dieter’s chin, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. Something else came on tv, but you were barely paying attention at that point, Dieter having tipped your chin in his direction, hungry kisses that tasted vaguely of pizza pressed to your mouth.

One thing led to another, and before you knew it, you were sprawled on the chaise end of the sofa, stripped of all your clothes. He’d started with your knees hooked over his shoulders, face buried between your legs. He’d pumped you full of three fingers, lips sealed around your clit, mumbling into you the whole while.

“Pussy tastes so fucking good, baby,” he rasped, curling his knuckles, making you keen. “God, you’re so good for me, aren’t you? Taste like a fucking dream.”

You’d cum so hard you saw stars the first time, your head thrown back on the couch, hands buried in his wayward curls. He’d worked you through it, lapping around where his fingers were splitting you open, pulling them out only to replace them with his tongue.

Dieter growled when you yanked at his shoulders, clawing at his t-shirt until he scrambled up the couch, shoving his lounge shorts down over his ass, pulling the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He dropped onto his elbows a second later, covering your mouth with his as he slid into you, both of you stark naked, thrusting so hard the couch slid across the hardwood. You were lost in it, chasing Dieter’s mouth, arms hooked around his shoulders, keeping him close to you.

And then—

“I wanna throw a party.”

He starts laughing, clearly realizing that he said the words out loud, but his pace doesn’t falter. He grins broadly, leaning up on his knees slightly, letting his hands skim along your shoulders and down over his chest, squeezing at your breasts, thumbs swiping your nipples.

“A party, baby,” he continues, glassy eyes raking down your body, trained on the spot where you’re joined together. “New Year’s, yeah? Wanna celebrate this.” He punctuates the word with the drop of his thumb, a slow drag over your clit. 

You make a choked sound, back arching slightly. “My pussy?”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Something this good should be celebrated,” he says, swiping at your clit again. “God, you feel amazing, you know that? Fuck, I love you.”

“Dieter.”

“The New Year, baby,” he says, eyes flicking back up to yours. “Your friends, my friends, the people we actually give a shit about. Let’s celebrate it. This. Us.” He runs his other hand up your side, curls his fingers around your ribs, rubs a harder circle around your nerves. “Get all dressed up, drink champagne, the whole thing.”

You laugh despite it all, sliding your hand up his arm, squeezing at his bicep. “I’m used to New Years in my sweatpants.”

“Wear whatever you want, baby girl,” he purrs, leaning down and nipping at your lips. “I’m just gonna peel it off you at midnight anyway.”

+

You think he’ll forget, that you’ll wake up the next morning and his sudden desperate need to throw a party would have subsided, but you instead wake up to an empty bed. At eleven in the morning. Supremely uncharacteristic of Dieter, who usually lays in bed until the last possible moment, trying to keep you hostage every single morning.

Snagging one of his t-shirts off the bed, you pad out of the bedroom to find him perched at one of the barstools. He’s got his laptop open in front of him, a giant mug of coffee in his hand, and his phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, hi, do you guys do those little fuckin’ pigs-in-a-blanket things?”

You just burst out laughing.

Two days later, and the condo is full of friendly faces. It’s by far your favourite party you’ve been to with Dieter, made all the more special that you’re throwing it together, in the home you both live in. You make the rounds, play hostess, resist the urge to go hide in the bathroom. You love the holidays, really, but the constant stream of people, the small talk and the drinking and the late nights, it’s weighing on you.

But when you saw the spark in Dieter’s eye as he called caterers and made drink menus and decided on a guest list, you couldn’t say no.

You still haven’t had time to unpack, and all of your boxes are shoved in the guest room, but even that doesn’t stop it from feeling crowded and overwhelming. You’re stopped by a few friends, remnants of your old life mixing with your new one, and you’re grateful, having a quick conversation before someone else is calling your name, pulling you away.

It’s quarter to midnight when you know you need a moment, and you excuse yourself from the people you’d been talking to and head straight for the bedroom. Your dress feels too tight, the necklace you’d worn with it making you want to claw your head off. Heaving a breath, you toss it onto the chest of drawers, reaching for the zipper on your dress as you head into the closet.

Toeing off your shoes, you reach for one Dieter’s t-shirts, the fluffy jacket you’d thrifted for him, a pair of leggings. You’re halfway into the leggings when you glance over and see the Mandalorian armour he’d worn on Halloween. It’s piled on the floor, the jumpsuit wrinkled and pieces of metal scattered. 

The helmet is now sitting beside his Oscar in the living room; your idea.

You already know the closet is going to be a project, a complete reorganization if you are gonna fit anything besides your underwear in with Dieter’s things (something you doubt he would mind). Pulling the leggings on all the way, you reach for the armour, gathering the pieces of metal first, stacking them on the shelves beside a pair of custom Crocs you know you’ve seen Dieter wearing around the apartment. 

The jumpsuit is next, and as you pull the fabric up off the floor, something tumbles out of it. Your eyes track it as it falls to the carpet. A little black box, perfectly square and shiny on top. You cock your head, putting the jump suit to the side as you sink down and reach for it. It must be a watch or something, but you realize as your fingers close around the box that it’s too small to be a watch, that it’s the perfect size for—

“Holy shit.”

Your breath stalls in your throat and for a moment, you pause. 

Should you open it? There’s a chance that it’s not at all what you think it is, but there’s also a chance that it is one thousand fucking percent exactly what you think it is.

What if he has a plan? Wait…then why was it in the Mando suit? Was he planning to ask at Halloween, before everything went down the way that it did? When had he bought the damn thing?

Your mind is a flurry of questions, a tiny voice screaming at you to just open the damn box! until you hear Dieter’s voice, snapping you out of your reverie so hard you have to shake your head.

“Baby? What are you doing back here?”

You nearly drop the box, shrieking as he steps into the closet before you have a chance to drop the box, hide it, put it back in the jumpsuit, anything. “Fuck, D, you scared me!”

He stares at you a long moment, eyes jumping between your face and the box over and over and over again. “Whatcha got there?”

You’re caught red-handed; there’s no getting out of this one. “I was putting your Mando costume away.”

Dieter chuckles, takes a half-step towards you, the closet door swinging shut behind him. “I can see that.”

“I was just putting it away,” you say again, and he takes another step towards you, until he’s close enough to put a hand on your hip, “and this fell out.”

“Oh, it fell,” he repeats, and his free hand moves to cup yours, the box held aloft in your palm. “It’s been there for a while now.”

“Did you forget you had it?” you ask, and there’s a crack in your voice you’re not expecting, a new sort of desperation crawling up the back of your throat. Is this actually fucking happening?

Slowly, Dieter shakes his head. You bottom lip trembles as he leans in and kisses you softly, squeezing his fingers around yours, around the box. “Not for a second.”

Realization sweeps through you, and you wince. “Oh god, you were gonna propose at midnight, weren’t you?” When he doesn’t answer, you take it as a yes, groaning. “Oh fuck, I fucked it all up, didn’t I? Fuck, Dieter, I’m sorry, baby, I’m—”

He kisses you again, cutting off your words as he pulls you against him. He plucks the box from your hands, snapping it open, and all your breath shoots from your lungs in a gush, knees nearly giving out underneath you. It’s beautiful, salt-and-pepper diamond winking back at you. Rose gold, flanked by two tinier diamonds on either side, an interesting octagonal cut that catches the light from every direction.

“Oh my god.”

“After the Halloween party,” he says, his voice dropping low, “I was gonna get McDonald’s on the way home. I was gonna get you a strawberry milkshake and put the ring on the straw, and then I was gonna write my question on a napkin and give it to you.” He gives a little chuckle, and his hand is at the small of your back now, holding you close. “Obviously, that didn’t work out how I planned it.”

There are tears in your eyes, thick and crawling up the back of your throat. Happy tears, the happiest you think you’ve ever felt. “No, it didn’t,” is all you can manage to mumble out.

“Then, I was gonna do it that day when you gave back the keys to your apartment, but you were so sad, and it didn’t feel like the right time. And then you agreed to this stupid fucking party, even though I knew you didn’t want to, and I thought now, but this—” He plucks the ring out of the box, reaches for your left hand. “—this is better.”

Vaguely, you can hear the sounds of the party, people yelling that the ball is about to drop, that it’s almost midnight, that the New Year is almost here.

Dieter smiles, and it’s a smile that’s now familiar to you. It’s love and it’s light and the man is beaming. “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, baby. And I know we’re not easy, or conventional, and maybe people are gonna say this is way too fucking fast, I don’t know. But I know that I love you, and I wanna have a life with you.”

People are counting down now, shouting the numbers as they tick by. Your heartbeat is in your ears, thumping loudly with every second that passes.

10…9…8…7…

“Y’know, I’m supposed to get down on one knee for this,” Dieter murmurs, but you’ve got a death grip on his shoulder, refusing to let him move.

6…5…4…

“Ask me.”

He grins.

“Will you marry me, baby?”

3…2…1…

“Yes.”

Happy New Year!

Dimly, you hear the celebrations in your living room, the whooping and cheering of your friends. Your heartbeat is still thundering, and your hand is shaking as he slides the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fucking fit.

As soon as it hits your knuckle, your arms are around his neck, mouth seeking his, knotting your fingers in his hair. You can feel his smile, a broad grin against your lips as he crushes you to his chest. It’s tight enough to lift you off your feet, your legs automatically lifting around his hips as you kiss him.

His tongue tastes like champagne, and you’re drunk off the feeling of him, the taste of him, the new foreign weight of the ring on your finger. Holy fucking shit. The kiss is just as sweet as it always is, but there’s something about it that feels different now, something more intense, new territory for the two of you to suss out together.

Dieter carries you out of the closet, and it’s only then that you realize you’re only half-dressed, in the leggings you’d thrown on and your bra. He’s got one arm around your waist, other hand pressed between your shoulders, and your lips don’t break as he walks towards the bed and lays you out on the mattress.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he says against your lips, still smiling, and so are you. You’re on Cloud 9, champagne high, over the moon, walking on air, every fucking cliché you’ve ever heard in your life.

You clasp your hands behind his neck, fingers automatically seeking out the ring on your left hand, rubbing you thumb over the diamond. “Happy New Year, Dieter.”

He gives you one last lingering kiss, your whole body tingling with it before he pulls away.

“You wanna go tell your friends?”

You shake your head no. “Not yet. I want us to celebrate it first.”

He nods, an understanding look in his eye. “Wait here,” he whispers, grabbing your left hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, kissing your ring. “I’m gonna go kick all these fucking people out, and then I’m gonna make love to my fiancée, you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

That beaming smile is back, and it sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you.”

As soon as the door clicks shut, you can’t hold back anymore. It’s that little girl moment, the kicking feet and the squealing and blushing so hard you think your cheeks are on fire. You can’t stop staring at your ring, and you just hope Dieter moves fast out.

—————

if you’re curious what the ring actually looks like, my inspo is HERE.

[ppascalsstuff]

4 Days West

Summary: Sheriff Marcus Moreno, lost since the passing of his wife, hears word of a town in need.

Pairing: None in this installment. Eventual Marcus Moreno x OFC (named, no physical descriptors)

Warnings: 18+ Death, gun violence, mentions of a death during labor and stillborn baby, drinking, cursing.

WC: 2K

Author's notes at the end.

Main Masterlist II Series Masterlist

The town of Sol is small. Too small a town for a name so big. The sun looms large above it, blazing down onto the desert strip, a stray patch of cloud not even enough to protect it from the burn. There were days that very sun took up every inch of sky, unforgiving heat carving out its stake in the land and leaving the ground parched in unrelenting thirst. 

It was a trading outpost, one single street off the main trail, meant for those passing through to rest their feet and fill their bellies. A sign broken and forgotten amongst mounds of dirty rocks and the palest patch of grass, left to guide any foolish visitors in its direction. There was a school that doubled as the church on Sundays, the single room filled with chairs that could easily be mistaken as pews. A saloon, the only one for miles, broken windows and crooked floorboards adding to its messy charm. A row of dusty homes, half-filled with folks either too stubborn or too poor to move on, shutters pulled closed, doors locked as tight as they could manage. 

The little town should be thriving, its borders growing wider with each merchant that passed through, but circumstance was cruel and life was unforgiving, and Sol was left to pay these taxes just like so many towns that had come before it.

Blood coated the streets, dried rust staining the tumble weeds that floated through, the ghosts of what was and still is. Desolate. Overrun and overturned time and time again – bandits and thieves ravaging the streets, taking what wasn’t theirs and leaving nothing but anger and caution behind. 

Sheriff Marcus Moreno was no stranger to the pain of living.

He had heard tales of the bloodshed three full moons after the passing of his wife. She had been taken from him much too soon, the ugly realities of bringing a second child into the world bleeding her dry in his arms, the babe gone before he could even take his first breath. It left Marcus with a heavy heart and a daughter to raise, his bed empty and eyes tired. He and Missy had hit the trails shortly after, his badge handed off to his deputy, leaving only his gun on his hip and his kid at his side. 

It was hard at first. Years in a well-kept home with a good woman to help raise his daughter and warm his bed had made the lawman softer than he cared to admit. He had grown used to fires stoked on cold nights, hot meals on the kitchen table, and her quiet strength to help guide his conscience. Marcus had learned long ago that even a good man needed help finding his way from time to time.

Long days in the saddle and nights beneath a cold sky were buried in his past, his body crumbling beneath the rock bed of a life lost and a broken heart. Odd jobs were traded for money, food, and sometimes board, when the hand offering seemed a trustworthy kind. Missy had shouldered it all with him, her hat snug on her head and her skirt pinned to her waist. Never once did she complain, and Marcus loved her all the more for it.

He could feel the realities of this life creeping closer with each turn of the sun and he couldn’t help but wonder how long they could keep pace with time so scattered? Was this the life he wanted for his daughter, her gaze already caught between shades of dark and light. There had been close calls, glimpses of the ugly truth catching them both unaware, his fast hands never quite fast enough to cover her eyes. 

It was an old acquaintance, a bounty hunter with steady hands and mournful eyes, that brought him word of the town beneath the sun, murmured over the rim of his pint, something like longing coloring his words.

Marcus listened to the man, the rasp of his voice from months on the trail, his own son, much younger than Missy, sitting at the bar beside his dad, kicking his boots and reading from a primer. It was a strange sort of painted glass, looking at the two of them, a version of his family twisted by circumstance and making the best of a cruel world. Marcus had wanted to ask what the man’s plan was– for himself, for his son– but it felt too much of prying. 

So instead he asked, “How far west?”

“Four days' ride. Ask for Lou.”

The road into town was empty, but Marcus could feel eyes on them, pearly white shadows peeking out from behind creaking shutters and swinging doors. Each hoof beat felt heavier than the next, until finally his horse stalled, the dig of his boot not even enough to encourage the animal forward. One hand glued to the handle of his six shooter, the other flung out to stop Missy in her tracks. A glance to his left, and another to his right, brown eyes landing on a saloon, the sunlight catching along the open door, the golden glint offsetting the shadows creeping along the weathered steps. 

“Pa?”

Missy’s voice is gentle, softness bleeding out of her hesitancy, and without even looking Marcus can see the way her eyes shift across the same path as his own. 

“Let’s head in.” 

He makes it one step in before the muzzle of a shotgun meets him right between the eyes. It’s instinct that keeps him standing, the cool metal of his own gun in his hand before the door squeaks shut, the barrel pressed into his assailant’s ribs, a breathy grunt pulled from their lips. 

“Fast hands. Not so sure I like that in a man.”

Marcus takes in the person standing in front of him, a different sight than any other hidden behind the threat of death he’s happened upon before. Bright eyes and dark lashes, a curve of a painted lip and the smooth slope of a shoulder, a silk bodice tied tight and a skirt pulled back, just enough to tease his eye line away from her steady aim and strong stance. 

She takes advantage of her devilish distraction, stepping into him, biting back another grunt of pain when his pistol digs that much deeper, slipping gently along the silk boning holding her ribs in and her chest up. The barrel of her shotgun is warm, a breath of heat catching his forehead, trapped beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him a floorboard creaks and for the first time panic swells, the sound of Missy’s own gun cocking in her small hands reaching his ears. 

Time stops short, only their breathing, matched in angry, humid puffs, tracks the passing of the seconds until finally the woman in front of him steps back, eyes dropping briefly to his daughter then back to Marcus, her cheek still resting on the grip of the shotgun, delicate fingers wrapped sweet and snug around the trigger. 

"Well I guess an outlaw with a kid wouldn't be the strangest thing I've ever seen, but I reckon that's not the case here."

“A fair assessment,” Marcus agrees, voice steady, aim true. 

She takes another step back with a jerk of her chin towards the bar. 

“Saddle up.”

She doesn’t wait to see if he plans on accepting her invitation, instead making herself busy behind the counter. 

“I was told to ask for Lou.”

His mention of the man falls flat on the ground beneath his boots, drowned out by the click of the barmaid’s heels. His reluctant hostess sets her gun down on the bar, a final tap to its chamber before she leaves it behind. She turns gracelessly and starts digging through crates, caring little at how the dust flying through the air sticks to her skirt and the peak of leg hidden just beneath, not a stitch of stocking to protect the bare skin. Marcus does his best to not care much for it either. 

“—know I ordered some…been so long…a kid’s been around…ah ha!” 

There’s a pop and a hiss just before a bottle is slid across the bar, not in his direction, but Missy’s.

“They call it pop. I ordered it back when the town was a bit more lively. Something for the young bucks to drink while their parents talked and tied an extra one or two one. Thought it would be good for business. Now these crates just make a nice spot to rest my legs.”  

Missy accepts the bottle with a hesitant glance of her fingers, but doesn’t raise it to her lips, instead looking in Marcus’s direction. He’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing the glass bottle, lukewarm and pale in color, before slipping back to the woman across from him. Her gaze is soft, a smile cheating at her lips as she watches his daughter. 

It almost feels of fondness. 

Finally he nods at Missy, and she wastes zero time in taking her first sip, a smile chasing a bubble of laughter. 

The woman doesn’t turn back towards him after, instead busying herself again, this time with an unmarked bottle, amber liquid sloshing as she tips it into an empty glass. Careful eyes gauge her deliberate movements, stray beams of sunlight filtering through the dirty windows and catching along the cream color of her bodice, yellowed from age and what must be years spent behind this very bar. She doesn’t speak, but the air is heavy with all that she won’t say aloud, her lips tight around the rim of the glass as she kicks back the whiskey in one swift swallow. 

She pours one more, eyes shifting to Marcus and back, those same steady fingertips pulling out a second glass, this one filled to the brim and slid towards him. 

“You look like a good man.”

The words are dry, desert sand coating her tongue as she looks at him just the same as she had over the barrel of her shotgun, and Marcus feels at her mercy the worse for it all. 

“I–” “Hey!”

He grins, Missy’s stubborn shout ringing up into the rafters, disturbing the cobwebs clinging to the darkened corners.

“We came to help this town, my daughter and me.”

Silence sits thick between them again, the tick of an eyebrow and the tight grip around the neck of a bottle the only sign she heard him. A peek of pink slips between her teeth, licking away any stray taste of the spirit, her lips slipping down in time with her next statement.

“This town is haunted by good men, each one claiming louder than the next of their intentions to save us. What makes you any different than those who came before?”

Marcus tips his head, the brim of his hat hiding the sharp cut of her eyes framed by the soft pin of her curls, her shotgun still resting on the weathered bar top separating them. The pad of his thumb is heavy and gracious on the rim of his glass, the whiskey poured earlier still untouched. His tongue flicks up over the clean cut of his mustache, the wiry hairs catching the salty tang of his sweat.

“The difference, ma’am,” he starts, letting his voice dip slow, a burn of molasses dripping off each one, “is that I don’t believe in ghost stories. Now why don’t we start again. I’m looking for Lou.”

This time she does smile, a flash of teeth and tongue like a cat with a canary in its sights. Her elbows fold in as she leans towards him, the tight lace of her bodice somehow holding her curves in, only the smallest swell of her breast left to steal his attention away. She’s close, just enough for him to taste the whiskey she huffs out with the cut of her laugh, and Marcus suddenly wishes he had taken a sip of his own before now. 

“Well cowboy, you found her.” 

Dedications

I want to give the biggest, most heartfelt thank you to @frannyzooey for graciously reading snippets of this when it was just a silly little daydream and for immediately encouraging me to write this story. She also allowed me to reference her own cowboy and I am eternally grateful I am able to pay homage to TMTC in this small way. Thank you, Kelli for being wonderfully kind and supportive and a light in this fandom. It means more than I am able to say.

A huge thank you to @the-ginger-hedge-witch who is a true friend and encouraged me immediately to jump on the cowboy train. Thank you for double checking the vibes of this silly story and thank you for your support.

Big shout out to @astroboots and @write-and-buried for listening patiently as I screeched incoherent gibberish at them about cowboys and sheriffs and yeehaw honky tonk.

And to my dearest @jazzelsaur for beta reading, for encouraging me always, and for supporting my writing no matter how big or small. Your continued support and friendship continues to be one of the best things that has come out of this hellsite, and I count every day that I know you as better and better. Thank you! For all of it. Whore.

[ppascalsstuff]

Season 1: A Shadows Short: The American Flag

[ppascalsstuff]

Going Back

Summary: Dieter finds himself in his Agent's office after a successful six month long rehab, when he gets a phone call that puts things into perspective. He goes back home to say goodbye... and meets you.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x fem. Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Rating: T

Warnings: angst, mentions of drugs, cancer treatment, character death, grief, fluff, implied pregnancy

A/N: Never really wrote for Bravo except for the Calls, but wrote this in like 2 hours last sunday. Hope you like it

Los Angeles, California 

He did not remember going back into the office of his manager after he ended the phone call with his brother. There were several people whose names he couldn’t even remember in the room who were talking about him, as if he wasn’t even in the room. Or interested. 

Then again for the last years he probably wasn’t very interested. 

Where these meetings always this boring? No wonder he was on drugs most of the time. 

They were talking about him, as if he wasn’t a person but a…. Thing they have to fix. Something to keep their pockets filled.

Okay… Honestly, he did some really really fucked up stuff in the past. The girls, the drugs, the….. 72 hour marriage to a girl named Candy he met in Las Vegas. 

But the overdose while shooting Cliff Beasts was a… very unpleasant but loud wake up call. He had never thought about his life as… as something so precious. And he had lived his life. He had a job he loved and people who loved him.

At least he thought they did. 

“Dieter are you listening?” Dieter pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, raising his head to look at John, his manager of nine years. He was a shark. He and his publicist had pulled Dieter out of so many fucked up shit the last years. Made him a big star who didn’t have to live from paycheck to paycheck while playing in shitty theatre pieces and made him famous. 

He was the Dieter Bravo, almost EGOT (the Emmy was still missing), face of Ray Ban (at least until earlier this year).

“What?” Dieter snapped, wanting nothing more than to call up his old dealer to get… something. 

“We’re sending you to another rehab. We know you’re clean… But the public… We need you to work with us, so we can go back to finding you some new roles. To build you back up.”

Dieter breathed in deeply as a woman started talking he had never met before. Or… he did not remember ever seeing before. The last few years were a little foggy. 

And… he was thankful for the work these people did for him. But… this, his career, these people…. They were not important. 

Nothing was important. 

The last thing he felt like doing was to go to another rehab just to have some paps conveniently snapping some pics of him towards the end with a woman his manager would hire that he would end up fake dating just to… get him back out there. 

“Simon will pick you up in the morning,” John said. 

“No,” was all Dieter said and the room fell silent almost immediately. 

“Dieter, we talked about this. Your last fall out was… too much. We need to…”

“We don’t need to do anything. I need to do what you tell me, so I can keep being your golden goose to pay your mortgages.”

“Dieter…”, John said sternly. 

“No. If I’m not mistaken your contract as my manager runs out at the end of next month, am I right?”

Dieter saw John’s jaw work before he nodded. 

“Good. Then consider this the last time we see each other,” Dieter got up from the uncomfortable chair he was sitting in. 

“You’re all fired,” he said, before he grabbed his phone and left the room. 

Santa Teresa, New Mexico

You were sitting in your usual place on the old armchair next to Carla. 

It was a good day today and you fought against the thought that this could be her last. It had been hard to make the phone call yesterday after the doctor had been here. The medication wasn’t helping her anymore so it would only be days before…

Carla Ramos did deserve better. 

She was the funniest woman you had ever had the pleasure of caring for. Since the day you moved into her house almost seven years ago you had felt like part of the family. 

Her son, the famous one who you only met once, was the one who paid for you but it was Ramon, his other brother who you were in contact with. 

Yes, the woman named one of her sons Ramon Ramos and when you first learned this information you had giggled like a schoolgirl while said son only rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile on his lips. 

Carla had been diagnosed with a rare form of kidney cancer and you had been with her through all of it. Every single doctor visit. Every chemo appointment. You had been with her every single day and last night you had allowed yourself to cry after the learning the news that she only had days left. 

When Carla learned the news she had only smiled softly and turned her head towards you, telling you that she now has to hurry up finding you a husband. 

You had held back the tears until you were in the security of your own room, already grieving the woman sleeping just down the hall who had become like a mother to you. 

She was currently sleeping and you were reading in your book when there was a knock on the door. You frowned, not expecting any visitors until the next day when Ramon and his family were supposed to come. 

Closing your book you took a look at Carla before you tiptoed out of the room and towards the door where you could already see a man standing. You narrowed your eyes, trying to make out who it was when he turned and you caught a look on his face. 

You took a deep breath.

You hadn’t expected him to come. His brother must have called him. 

Of course you knew who Dieter Bravo was. You had to have been living under a rock to not know him. You had read your fair share of gossip about him in the last years, but it was the awe with which his mother talked about him that made you feel like you knew him. 

She was his biggest fan. 

Which was one of the big reasons you grew to despite him in the last years. He had visited once since her diagnosis. Yes, he paid for everything, including you, but…. What kind of person does not take care or visit of his sick mother?

You glanced over to the old piano that had never been played since you got here, catching sight of his Oscar he had brought home the one time he had visited. 

He had wanted his mother to have it.

You took another deep breath, knowing that this was not the time to let your anger towards his behaviour get the best of you, before you opened the door.

Dieter had forgotten just how many things there were that he had paid other people to do for him. 

Packing his suitcase.

Booking a private jet and then deciding against it and buying a commercial flight ticket.

Renting a car at the airport.

Driving a car by himself.

Yet once he sat in the driver's seat of his rented Toyota it was like no time had passed since he packed his bags and went to chase his dream of becoming an actor. He made his way through his hometown until he parked his car in front of the flower places he had always bought his mama’s favourite flowers. Sun flowers. 

Dieter felt like shit.

Not because of how he behaved in the public eye but… how he treated his family in the past. His family who always put up with him no matter what he did. 

The therapist at his last rehab, the one he really committed to and got clean (16 weeks and counting) had talked with him about his family. And… thinking back he could admit to himself that shit had started to get really fucking complicated for him drugwise when he had learned of his mothers cancer diagnosis. 

Dieter was a mama’s boy. His father left the family when he and his brother were still in kindergarten and his mother became his biggest hero.

Even more so when he was grown up and noticed just how much she had worked to provide for him and his brother. 

So the first thing he did from his first big paycheck was buy her a house and get her everything she ever dreamed of.

But all the money and fame in the world meant nothing, when his mother was dying. 

It had been a hard reality check, the phone call from Ramon only yesterday. So many things had changed since yesterday. Of course Dieter knew that his mother was sick. He saw the bills and signed the paycheck for the live-in nurse he had hired. 

But… he had always pushed it far away in his mind. The drugs had been a great distraction from it. And the women. And men. 

He couldn’t cope with the thought of living in a world where his mother wasn’t a phone call away, so when Ramon called and told him that it was time to say goodbye, Dieter had gotten the reality check he had needed. 

Now here he was, a big arrangement of sunflowers in his arms, standing in front of the house he had bought for his mother. 

Since yesterday he had fired his manager and publicist and hired a lawyer (not the one from his divorce) to handle all of his affairs. Including selling his house in the Hollywood Hills.

He never wanted to go back. He didn’t even know if he wanted to work as an actor anymore. He just wanted to… live. And be Dario Ramos again. 

The door opened after he knocked and he put his sunglasses up on top of his head looking at you. 

“Mr. Bravo?” you asked.

“Dieter,” he tried to smile, completely caught off guard. He knew that he had hired you. He remembered that he met you once, a very foggy memory much like everything in the last years. How could he have not noticed how… young and beautiful you were?

You were wearing leggings and a too big shirt with a faded Star Wars print on it.

“Would you like to come in?” you asked and he nodded. You stepped to the side to let him in and he walked into the house, feeling like a complete stranger, yet noticing how much had changed since the last time he had visited. 

He looked… Different than in the last pictures Carla had shown you. 

Healthier. 

“Uhm….” he turned around, picking a single sunflower and handing it to you. You tilted your head before you took it, your fingers brushing over his. 

“This is for you. I… As a thank you. Which is…. Ridiculous thinking back now. I…” he took a deep breath.

You were touched that he even remembered you. 

“Your mother is asleep. She is having a good day. She will be thrilled you’re here,” you said as you turned away from him to walk towards the kitchen. You heard him follow you. Laying the sunflower down on the counter you reached over the sink to get two vases. A small one for the single one and a bigger one for the other flowers. You groaned, getting on your tiptoes when you couldn’t reach them. 

“Let me…” you felt his hand on your shoulder and you looked up at him as you took a step to the side and let him pull two vases from the cabinet. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly, confused by him. So confused.

You were expecting the cocky drug addict Oscar winner Dieter Bravo, not… this version of him. 

He nodded once at you before he walked back and you began to fill the vases with water.  You smiled to yourself when you put the single flower for you into the small vase and tried to remember the last time someone had gotten you flowers. 

“I’m sorry you know?” he said.

“I… did a lot of fucked up stuff these last years but not being here? Fucking pathetic…”

You turned around. 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. You’re…”

“You were here. Every day. While I was getting shitfaced and fucking myself through half of the country.”

You pressed your lips into a hard line to keep yourself from reacting. 

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this…” he shook his head looking down at his hands.

“Dieter…” you said.

“Don’t call me that,” he sighed and your eyes softened.

“Dario,” you said and he looked up at you. 

“Would you like some of your mothers homemade iced tea?”

You didn’t mean to listen in, but you had heard Clara laugh and you stopped on your way back to your room as you listened to Dieter… Dario telling her about the time he had almost peed himself on set. 

“You’re a good man, Dario,” you heard Clara say. He sighed.

“I should have been here.”

“You’re here now. You can’t change what happened in the past. Just… promise me to think about it…”

“Mom, no…” 

You made yourself walk back to your room, not wanting to listen in in the first place. 

Clara had been over the moon when she saw her son and you had kept yourself busy to give them both time together. 

It gave you time to think.

Of course the last few years had given you time to form an opinion about your employer. But actually spending some time with him made you rethink some of your foreformed opinions.

There was the picture inside of your mind you had formed. Of the playboy cocky asshole who could have everyone and everything he wanted with a snap of his fingers. Who didn’t care about anyone but himself and where to get his next fix.

You grew to despise this picture of him.

But then there was this other side. The man who facetimes his mother every sunday to have breakfast with her in bed. 

You sighed to yourself, sitting in your window seat as you sipped on your glass of wine. 

It was always easier to hate someone than to try to understand them. It didn’t give them the opportunity to explain themselves.

Not that he had anything to explain to you. 

You were just the help. The woman who took care of his sick mother. 

You didn’t know how long you sat there looking at the stars when you heard the soft tunes of a piano down the hall. You set your wine glass down and quietly walked out, checking in on Clara who was soundly sleeping on your way before you walked into the living room.

His sponsor did not pick up the phone. 

Dieter wanted nothing more than to get some pills that made him forget just how much of a fucking failure he was. Instead he took a shower and sat down at the old piano that his mother still owned. 

He had learned to play on this very piano when he was little. The tunes came to him like an old friend as he closed his eyes and let his fingers fly over the keys. When he opened his eyes he looked straight at the Academy Award with his name on that was displayed next to his Grammy and Tony. 

What did all these awards mean anyway?

He closed his eyes, continuing to play to stop the voice inside his head that wanted him to get out of here and get some coke… or pills… or something to make all these feelings inside of him go away. 

He ended the song and just sat there in the darkness, his eyes closed. 

“That was beautiful,” he heard a whisper and his eyes snapped open to find you standing in the doorway. 

“I haven’t played in years,” he shrugged.

“Maybe you should. You looked peaceful while you played.”

He gave you a small smile, one that reached his eyes. 

“I put clean sheets on in the guest bedroom next to mine. Ramon and his wife always stay in the room next to your mother’s. I hope that’s okay.”

“Thank you,” he said and you gave him a small smile.

“You know what would make you play the piano even better?” you asked him and he shook his head.

“If you had some clothes on,” you winked at him and he looked down at his body, only then noticing that he was completely naked. 

He was about to answer you when he looked up but you were already gone. 

He sighed with a little chuckle, smiling to himself before he made his way to his assigned bedroom and fell asleep the moment his head hit the soft pillow.

Clara died in the early evening on the next day. 

She fell asleep peacefully, surrounded by all her loved ones. 

You gave the family some time, slipping out of the room, before you called the doctor to let him know. He assured you he would make the calls needed and you gave him a watery thank you before you ended the call and walked out to the patio. The sun was setting behind the hill and with it you let the tears fall. You hugged yourself as you tried to keep your sobs quiet. 

The door opened behind you and you didn’t turn around, trying to calm your breath as you looked over the wide countryside in front of you. 

“All my life I wanted to get away from here,” Dieter began and you closed your eyes. 

“When I was a teenager I hated living here. But my mom…. She loves this place. Until now I didn’t understand why, but I think I do now,” he continued and you sucked your bottom lip in to keep yourself from falling apart. 

“I’m really really thankful for you being here while I wasn’t. You were… She loved you like her daughter.”

You sobbed, shaking your head. 

Slowly, arms wrapped around your shoulders and you let your head fall down, your forehead falling against his chest. You opened your arms to hug him back, as Dieter’s chin rested on your head. 

Your finger grasped at the soft fabric of his shirt as he held you while you cried. 

One of his hands ran soothing circles on your back and you tried to get even closer to him, breathing him in. 

“I should be the one holding you right now,” you mumbled after a while. 

“It’s okay. We both just lost someone we loved.”

“I’m so sorry D…” you said, pulling your cheek against his chest. You felt him kiss your hair and you released a shuddering breath. 

You didn’t know how long you stood there holding each other, but when he let go as the doctor came, you felt a little lighter.

It was the day after the funeral that you found yourself sitting in the living room of Clara’s house. Dieter was sitting on the sofa next to you, his brother and wife across from you as you looked at Mr. Miller, the family lawyer who was about to read the last will of one Clara Ramos. 

You didn’t know why you were here. This was a family affair. Then again… you had nowhere to go. 

When you heard your name you looked up. 

“You, my best friend, the daughter I never had, to you I will leave this house. This house that you made so much brighter in these last years with your heart, your humour and smile. I know you will disagree with this decision, but sweetheart this is my thank you to you. Make this place a home for you and your future family. And if I die before we find you a husband, please…” the lawyer stuttered and you swore you could see him blush “at least find a man to rock your world. God knows you did not get any action while you stayed here with me.”

You shook your head to yourself with a smile, feeling overwhelmed. You felt Dieter take your hand, squeezing it once before he wanted to let go, but you didn’t let him. 

“So… when are you kicking me out?” he asked later that evening. You were both sitting on the porch, you with a beer and he with some iced tea. His brother and wife had left earlier, leaving you and Dieter alone at the house. Your house. 

“I still can’t believe that she would just give me this house. It should have…”

“Stop. She loved you. She wanted you to have it and you know better than to argue with her. Even now,” he smiled as he looked up towards the sky, cheering his glass towards it. 

“But still…”

You sat there in silence for some time. 

“You can stay as long as you want Dieter,” you said after a while and he looked at you from his side. 

“Are you sure? People say I can be very fucking annoying.”

You smiled. 

“I think these people only know Dieter Bravo. I know Dario Ramos. He’s… He’s pretty okay.”

He huffed a laugh.

“Pretty okay?”

“I don’t know him very well,” you teased. 

“Would you like to?”

“What?”

“Get to know him?”

You frowned. 

“Dieter can be a real asshole but… I think I would like you to meet me. The real me. If you… If you want to,” he added. He was nervous you could tell.

You shuffled closer to him and he looked at you with those warm brown eyes that held so many secrets. 

“I would like that,” you whispered and smiled up at him. He smiled back, his arm coming around your back to pull you against his side as you lay your head against his shoulder. 

Five years later

“Mr. Bravo! So good to see you back on the red carpet. You look great. You are nominated for three Academy Awards tonight. Congratulations on the success of “Going back”. What inspired you to write this story?”

Dieter smiled at the camera, before he looked down at the silver ring on his left ring finger. He always wore rings, no one thought much of it. But this one was special. You had put it on his finger. 

“Life,” he said, thinking of you waiting for him back home. How you were watching him, probably laying in bed because your pregnant belly was killing your back. You couldn’t travel anymore and he didn’t want to come either tonight but you insisted.

No award would ever compare to spending time with you.

“It was inspired by life.”

[ppascalsstuff]

My Brother's Keeper

Frankie "Catfish" Morales x Santiago "Pope" Garcia's sister f!reader

Part I - Caught Dead in a Salad Bar

Summary: After a bad breakup, you're forced to bunk up with your older brother, Santi, and his friend, Frankie. Tension between you and Frankie grows heavier by the day, but Pope would never approve of Fish laying a hand on his baby sister. So he better not find out...

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

Word Count: 9.3k (too fucking many)

Content: NSFW, secret relationship, getting together, pining, yearning, angst, fluff, heavy alcohol consumption, recovering drug addiction, PTSD, smut (masturbation, unintentional voyeurism, it's still worth it without more), no Y/N

He’d already recklessly familiarized himself with your curves from seeing you getting your coffee every morning in your little sleep shorts and tank tops; every morning starting on both the highest and lowest notes because of it. It was an inadvertent taunt on your part, the curve between your neck and shoulder calling out to him to graze his teeth over, the hollow behind your ear waiting to be laden with his lips. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d thought about you in the most forbidden of ways. He’d been keeping a lid on it, but the more he got to know you, the harder it was.

Masterlist>>Part II

This was humiliating. Your older brother, Santiago, had yet again come to your rescue in a situation that could have been avoided if you’d just had some common sense. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Currently, he was screaming at the man you’d thought you were going to marry one day, cursing him out as he fought for the final bag of your belongings. Despite the pouring rain ricocheting off the truck’s weathered surface, you could still hear word for word what they were saying. “Cheating piece of shit,” “trashy hooker,” “asshole,” and “useless bitch” were all being thrown around quite liberally, and as much as you wanted to roll down the window and beg Santi to get back in the truck, sitting curled into a ball in the passenger seat was preferred.

You’d found Liam cheating. Again. It should have come as no surprise, he’d done it numerous times before. Yet, you’d stayed. You’d prayed he’d change, hoped he’d see how hard you were trying to be everything he needed, that he wanted, but it was no use. You’d never been enough. And now Santi was fighting your battle as you sat abject and nerveless from a distance, just as you had your entire life.

When your dad passed when you were 5, Santi had become the man of the house. He’d only been 11, but it was a responsibility that he had to bear, and he did it with pride. Your memories of your father had faded over time, no matter how much your brother had tried to help you remember, so Santi was all you knew. He’d packed your school lunches, helped you with homework, and drove you around wherever you needed to go well before he had gotten his license. When he’d left to join the military, your world shattered, and in an attempt to help put it back together you’d started making a lot of poor choices. You yearned for that safety, that dependability, but found nothing but heartbreak and betrayal.

College had been distracting enough, some casual flings and piles of homework kept you busy, but once those caps flew and the diploma was framed, you came to realize how unprepared for the world you really were. At one point, you’d resented Santiago. For leaving you ill-equipped to handle a world so cold, for abandoning you to fight for a country that had never loved either of you back, for finding a new family while leaving the one that depended on him behind. You knew them all by name, Tom “Redfly'' Davis, Will “Ironhead” Miller, his brother, Benny Miller, and Frankie “Catfish” Morales. 

After his enlistment was up, Santiago went back to the fight. And you’d found what you thought was solace in the arms of Liam, who was still shouting obscenities and holding the final bag of your things as his hostage. You could see Santi’s patience waning, his extended period of resorting to violence had made adjusting to life at home difficult since he returned from his final mission six months ago. That mission had broken something in him, something he refused to speak about.

You knew Tom had been lost, but Santi kept the other details of that mission under strict lock and key, never to see the light of day again. You suspected it contributed to his amplified trigger finger, and you knew it was to blame for the amount of whiskey bottles heading out in the bins every week. Upon return, Santi had bought himself a modest house in a decent neighborhood not far from where you grew up. Right as soon as he’d settled in, Frankie had moved in as well, occupying the second of three bedrooms while he ‘got back on his feet’ according to Santiago. You’d avoided the place since. 

Reconciliation with your brother had been easy, letting go of the grudge you’d carried for his departure easing a tension in your chest you’d become so accustomed to it had shocked you when it had freed you from its confines. It had taken some effort to rebuild what had been long shattered, but you both had come out of it better, stronger, with a deeper understanding of one another that never could have been learned in childhood. 

“Hijo de puta!” Santi seethed as he slammed the truck door shut, startling you from your disassociation, tossing the final bag of your belongings into the backseat, “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

You apologized profusely on the way home, and Santi had assured you none of this was your fault. You got yourself into a bad situation and he was glad he was there to help, end of story. You knew his blood was still boiling, the muscle of his jaw ticking, fingers tapping against the wheel as if he hoped the soft plucking noise would push the fire from his chest the longer it went on. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Santiago had changed. He was more reserved, quiet, angry. There was a certain heaviness to him now as he carried things he had yet to forgive himself for. 

“Frankie’s home,” Santi finally sounded as you pulled into the driveway after a long drive in too heavy of silence, “I’m sure he’ll be downstairs watching some old Western. Guy’s already acting like he’s in the retirement home.”

You nodded, goosebumps rising on your skin in the Florida humidity as your nerves whirred to life, fueled by your waning adrenaline and anxious-ridden state. Santi had always warned you that you were too soft, too gentle, too trusting. “This world is going to chew you up and spit you out one day, hermanita,” he’d said as you saw him off before boot camp, and of course he was right. It had been gnawing at you ever since as if you were a 25-cent gumball it was determined to disintegrate. 

“What’s he like?” you asked gingerly, your mind already racing to try to piece together a first impression. You imagined him as hard, severe, his mouth set in a thin line as he sat tensely in an armchair, a beer nestled in his hand. Would he even look your way? Acknowledge you? Did he already consider you a burden, someone impeding on his personal space? You were going to be sick.

“Fish? He won’t bother you. He’s…going through a rough patch right now,” Santi replied in a low tone as if the man in question could hear you, “He’s a good guy. Wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t trust him, hermanita.”

You don’t need it. You don’t need it. You don’t need it…

He repeated the mantra to himself as he counted the seconds of each inhale and exhale. His chest was twisting, lungs serpentining, blocking the air he was trying to force through constricted pipes. Gunfire sounded from the TV he was only half paying attention to, but the sound was enough to transport him to another time and place. He covered his ears, groaning, he could feel his hands trembling against his skull. 

“Fuck!” he bellowed, grateful for the empty house he found himself in.

When the shaking and cold sweats had ceased, he hobbled over to the makeshift bar, pouring himself a whiskey and downing it in one go, the familiar burn singeing down his throat and grounding him back in reality. It had been three days. Three days since his last…episode. A new record. He knew he should be proud of that, but the way his heart still hammered against his sternum was a reminder enough of the truth. He was fucked up.

Like, really fucked up. Had to bunk up with his friend because his bank account was as broken as his fucking psyche fucked up. All he had was his truck and a wardrobe that could fit in an overnight bag to his name, along with a cemetery of skeletons in his closet. He groaned as he put back another glass in a single toss, the burn subsiding as the preferred numbness began to sink in. One day he’d have to process everything that happened six months ago. But it didn’t have to be today.

“Get your shit together, Morales,” he chided under his breath, teeth clenched together as he sought the tension of his jaw to focus his attention on, at least that was real. 

The third glass of whiskey went down like water, the fourth he barely felt, and as he went to grab a fifth–one he would absolutely regret–the front door clicked open. 

“Fish!” Santiago called from in front of you, your eyes taking in the simple abode. 

It was very clear this house was occupied by two bachelors. Decor was nonexistent, piles of boots and hats occupied the foyer, empty beer boxes waiting to be taken out lined the walls alongside some pizza boxes, the mismatched collection of thrift store furniture rounding out the manifestation of your assumptions about just how Santiago’s place would look. Clearly, you had your work cut out for you to earn your keep. 

“Oh, I meant to take those out…” a soft, warm voice announced as it approached, snapping your attention to its owner, “Sorry.”

He was tall, with a fairly slender build leading up to broad shoulders that had his t-shirt straining against his frame as he bent to collect the trash to your left. He was nothing like the man you’d pictured in your head. Stray curls splayed out from beneath a worn baseball cap, the fabric on the bill fraying from overuse, the warmest brown gaze meeting with yours as he stood. His face was gentle and inviting, and so handsome. Plush, malleable lips sat nestled beneath a thin, dark mustache, his jaw spattered with whatever sparse hair would grow along its sharp outline, two prominent patches on each cheek graying the mocha hue somehow softening his appearance even further. But his eyes…they didn’t look like eyes that had just seen war, they looked like they’d been scarred by it. 

“Hi,” he greeted softly, his velvety tone washing over you like a gentle wave, “uh…Frankie.”

Balancing his collection of recycling on his hip, he awkwardly held out his hand for you to shake, a lopsided grin lighting up his face. You told him your name, accepting his handshake as you tried to focus on anything that wasn’t just his intentional gaze. The way he looked at you made you feel like the only person in the room, so heady and focused not even a direct call of his name could get him to veer away. 

His eyebrow ticked up in a silent parting gesture before he finally relinquished you from his hypnotic grasp, the snap back to reality almost jarring. You followed Santi still in a daze to the downstairs bedroom, his words about where he’d found you some furniture and where the linens were being muffled by the bustle of your racing thoughts replaying three words in your head over and over. “Hi, uh…Frankie.” 

A rhythm was easily set between the three of you and neither of them seemed to mind in the slightest you’d intruded on their lives and space. In fact, they both appeared to like it. They ate your food, appreciated your tidying, and even let you throw a few candles up, never complaining when you lit one up on the weekends during whatever sports game they were watching. But they also made sure to repay your favors, whether it was making you a container of leftovers to take to work the next day, beating you to the sink for nightly dishes, or swapping over your laundry you’d forgotten in the washer to the dryer; you never felt like you were being taken advantage of. It was a welcome change.

“Fish!” Santi bellowed out one morning, almost a month after you’d moved in, startling the unaware man eating his breakfast in the kitchen.

“Jesus…what?” Frankie snapped back, clearing the droplets of spilled coffee off his t-shirt with his hands only to find himself in a new predicament, opting to clean them on his loose house shorts instead of getting up for a napkin.

“Need a favor, buddy. Can you take my sister to find a car? You’re better with that shit than me.”

“Yeah, sure. Today?”

One hour later you were sliding into the bench seat of his truck, your eyes so wide with excitement and pure uninhibited wonder for the world around you, even at this small task, he wondered how on Earth you’d maintained it for so long. You were always so happy, so free, so fucking untainted he was afraid to even stand too close to you, worried some of his dirt and grime would sully your benevolence, his shadow eclipsing your pure, unfiltered light. But that didn’t mean he didn’t marvel from afar. He was surprised you hadn’t caught him yet, or even Pope for that matter, he didn’t feel he was exactly being subtle about it (not for lack of trying.) His eyes locked onto you like a bee on honey whenever you walked into the room, it didn’t matter if you were freshly awake stumbling for coffee or dressed to the nines. It was like a reflex at this point. And he appreciated each and every version of you.

He’d mapped out a few different spots to check out following the minimal vehicle specifications you had and he took you to all of them, nothing catching your eye until the final stop. He laughed when you pointed it out; he should have known. Bright blue, environmentally friendly, too many buttons and touch screens and fancy amenities, but you loved it. So he haggled. 

“All right, we’ll take it if you can get down to 18,” he agreed, standing tall with his face set into a firm expression, “if not, we’re going back down the road for the newer model at a better price. Up to you.”

You shot him a disapproving look, brow furrowed. At that moment he knew you’d never be able to tell a lie to save your life and it made his heart swell in his chest. He responded with a look of his own, shaking his head slightly as his eyes widened as the salesman turned to head back for negotiations.

“They’re going to know you’re lying!” you scolded quietly through clenched teeth, making him breathe out a small laugh.

“Only if you tell them,” he replied back with a coy smirk, crossing his arms over his chest.

The little perturbed huff that blew from your nose had his smirk growing up one side of his face as your stance mirrored his, your hip jutting out just enough to make him do a double-take. Beyond the fact he was almost certain your heart was woven out of gold, you were also just gorgeous. He’d already recklessly familiarized himself with your curves from seeing you getting your coffee every morning in your little sleep shorts and tank tops; every morning starting on both the highest and lowest notes because of it. It was an inadvertent taunt on your part, the curve between your neck and shoulder calling out to him to graze his teeth over, the hollow behind your ear waiting to be laden with his lips. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he’d thought about you in the most forbidden of ways. He’d been keeping a lid on it, but the more he got to know you, the harder it was.

You were by far the most off-limits of a crush he could establish. His best friend’s baby sister? The best friend who had saved his life not only in battle but also once they got home. That was the ultimate betrayal, a low blow, a transgression never to be forgiven. Pope had brought you to the house with too much trust in Frankie than he deserved, clearly, because as the faint sweet, floral scent of your perfume wafted past him when a breeze blew through the open doors of the show floor, he almost threw every single ounce of decency he maintained to be blustered out in the current.

“We can do 18,500, best and final,” the very disgruntled salesman finally conceded, and much to your delight, Frankie agreed.

He sat patiently as you finished the paperwork, his finger flicking over his phone screen as he played whatever new arcade game app Benny had gotten him hooked on, muttering little curse words out he hoped weren’t being heard. He was terrible at these fucking games, but he was also addicted to them.

“All right, just give us an hour to detail and it’s all yours,” he heard the salesman congratulate, seeing you rise from the chair beside him in his peripheral. 

“Do you want lunch while we wait?” you asked, voice sweeter than sugar, pulling his attention immediately. 

“Lead the way,” he instructed as the corner of his lips tugged up towards his eyes again, his long legs attempting shorter strides to keep your pace as he followed you back to his truck.

Letting you lead the way was a decision he immediately regretted, the only saving grace being the sparkle in your eyes when you looked back at him as he entered whatever the hell this place was. It was too green, not the faintest whiff of frying oil in the air, the constant whirring noise of the blenders going off threatening to whisk him away from reality and into a living nightmare.

“Hey,” he sounded, stopping where he stood when you turned to face him, “Can you just…you pick for me. I’m gonna go grab that table outside.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, your hand reaching out to rest on his forearm and he almost jumped out of his skin, the jolt causing you to retract your hand quickly, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah…I’m good.”

He could feel your concerned gaze boring into the back of his head until he was free of the building, his heart pounding in his ears as guilt swirled with his typical debilitating anxiety. The kettle was threatening to boil over, the turmoil burning in his stomach beginning to calm as he focused on the breeze as it hit his face and the image of the happy smile you’d given just to him when he agreed to come to this place. He knew for a fact Pope wouldn’t be caught dead in a salad bar, and he snorted to himself slightly, the kettle settling enough to allow the hole in his chest to close back up. 

“I really didn’t know what to get you…” you announced as you reached the table, his eyes moving from the pavement to your welcoming face, your voice so frantic from such a minor dilemma, “so I just got you what I get. If you hate it-”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he soothed, the familiar lift of one side of his lips breaking through his hardened mask. Only you brought that out.

Still obviously stressing about him possibly despising whatever green concoction you created for him you took the seat across from him, setting both places with their applicable meal. He eyed you teasingly before looking skeptical as he peered at his container. Surprisingly, it was not a salad, but some form of tortilla-wrapped…chicken? It actually didn’t look half bad.

“You hate it!” you yelped, your hands flopping exasperatedly onto the rough wooden table.

“I don’t,” he laughed, bringing that familiar soft gaze back to yours, “Just teasing.” You swore his smile had twinged at his eyes, begging to stretch into the lines faintly etched into the corners. 

Conversation was light as you ate, but there was so much Frankie wanted to know outside of the prying ears of Pope. There was no way to mask his interest if he was taking an active interest in every working facet of your life, and that was something he couldn’t risk. But here, you were free to interrogate. He asked about your job at the pottery studio, and you told him you didn’t think you’d be able to stay much longer–it didn’t provide enough to pay all the bills. He watched your face fall momentarily, his brow furrowing as he watched sadness darken your bright features. He hated it.

“We’ll figure it out,” he consoled, his tone nonchalant and calming. He always had that effect. 

Unlike you, Frankie was a relatively closed book. It was understandable, you taught kids how to do pottery, he was a special ops veteran, but you had to give him credit for never simply brushing off your questions. Were the answers completely honest? No, but they were at least part of the truth, even if that truth was that he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Are you coming home or taking little blue out for a test drive?” he asked as you got back to his truck, rhythmically jabbing the tip of his key he was holding into his opposite palm, “I’ll let Pope know if you’re staying out.”

“Oh,” you sputtered, you hadn’t given it much thought, “Yeah, I guess a little drive would be nice.”

A simple nod was all you got before he rounded the large, old truck he loved so dearly. The ride back to the dealership was silent, but comfortable with classic rock playing on the radio. He was comfortable to be around, you’d known him for a month and yet he treated you like an old friend. Hell, some people you’d known for years wouldn’t waste an entire day shopping for a car with you, but he had. You peered over at him, marveling at his prominent side profile. His nose was strong, hooking at the bridge, the gray and bare patches in his beard on full display. He wore his trusty baseball cap, his messy hair still poking out in all directions from beneath the dark mesh, a denim button-down shirt over a plain gray tee, one hand on the wheel, the other perched on his lips. He really was effortlessly lovely. 

“All right, have fun. Be safe. All that,” he bade as he pulled you up next to your brand new sedan, removing his hat briefly to adjust the full head of dark curls hidden beneath. It took your breath away for a moment, his questioning expression snapping you back to reality as you fumbled a quick bashful goodbye and thank you.

You were glad you’d opted to take the joy ride, needing a little while to clear your head before facing that man again. It had taken until this moment to realize just how deep you’d fallen into his snare. Sure, he’d been attractive the moment you saw him, but there was so much more to it that took time away from supervisory eyes to really see. The way he intently listened, actually listened, was something so foreign you didn’t even know how to process it. He asked questions, nodded, smiled, and that intense gaze that drowned out every other shape and color swallowed you whole, made you feel so fucking important it could give you a complex. His quick retreat from inside the restaurant still had your stomach twisting, he’d looked so…afraid. You knew it was something he carried, something maybe you’d never understand. 

It was dark when you arrived back home, the lights in the house already off as both men had retreated to their bedrooms early to do whatever it was they did up there. You were exhausted but elated to have a piece of your freedom back, no longer needing to rely on Santiago to bring you where you needed to go. One step back in the right direction. Your bed swallowed you whole as you collapsed onto it, reaching into your bedside table drawer to find the final thing you needed to relax completely.

Your trusty silicone vibrator whirred to life, the sound already helping ease the tension that lingered in your muscles. As exhausted as you were, you took your time working yourself up, starting over the thin cotton of your panties until you were panting, a small pool forming on the fabric. Whimpers started to escape after you’d shed that final barrier, your slick easing the tip of the wand through your folds until you could handle your own teasing no longer. You pressed it firmly to your clit, biting your tongue to prevent the name that sat on the edge of it flirting with your lips, a wanton moan breaking free instead.

Then, you heard glass shatter.

Oh fuck. Oh, he was so fucked. He heard the gentle buzzing turn off and he dropped to the floor, being careful to not land palm first on any of the ceramic shards now surrounding his feet. He’d come down for a fucking mug of whatever that tea was you swore by, chamomile, and he’d stumbled upon the sweetest little whines his ears had ever heard. He had no intention of listening, prying, disregarding your privacy or disrespecting you, but fuck…those sounds. His hands had begun to shake as he tried to turn from the sink to the microwave, opting to boil it there versus the louder and slower kettle method, but when you’d cried out his mind went blank, all the blood in his body shooting to his cock, and down fell the mug. It was his favorite one, too.

“Frankie?” he heard you snap, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“Oh,” he greeted, his mouth drier than the deserts he’d been stuck in for years as he tried to mask his overwhelming discomposure, “I didn’t realize you were back yet.”

Not that he thought it would work, but the look on your face told him it definitely didn’t as you crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts up in a way that had him flushing all over again. From where he was on the floor, he got too good of a look at the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth dropping in awe at the sight. It only magnified how badly he wanted to bury his face between them…taste whatever had accumulated by your own efforts and finish you off himself.

“I just…wanted some tea…I can’t sleep,” he defended, his voice higher than normal, ashamed, “I didn’t, um…I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to slice your hand open,” you scolded, voice and face softening as you took in his clear remorse, “move.”

Despite your instruction, he didn’t move, nor did you shy away from beginning to pick up the larger pieces. He was stunned, enraptured, held hostage by the constellations of freckles that danced across your cheeks and nose, so light and faint he had to be this close to see them. His lips trembled as he fought back the fantasy of pressing them across your soft features, his hands gripping into your hips as he pressed you tightly against him. 

“I can do this,” he offered, placing his hand over yours as it went to grab another shard, your eyes shooting up to meet his as his skin made contact, “I got it. Go to bed.”

“Maybe I want tea, too,” you retorted, harsher than you intended, but it got the point across as he nodded, allowing you to continue cleaning up the mess he’d made.

You both worked in tandem, an awkward silence settling as he burned up from the inside out of embarrassment and you fought the urge to tackle him on the kitchen floor, feel his hands as they ran up your skin, his lips on your own. His flustered response had you wondering if any part of him felt the same, or if he really was just embarrassed by the intrusion on your privacy, not that he’d done anything more than walk into the kitchen. When his eyes locked with yours, you were once again trapped, and little did you know so was he. 

His mouth twitched, toying with words that had no right leaving his inner monologue. Caught in the tractor beam of your wide, curious gaze, he wondered what your lips tasted like, how soft your kisses were, and if he’d become addicted to them like he did every other thing that made him feel something. He wanted to feel you. 

“Broom…” you finally sputtered out, snapping you both from your trances, and he nodded, hopping up too quickly as if he was trying to escape something.

With trembling fingers you prepped a kettle, trying to keep your breathing steady as you heard him re-enter the room. You kept your hands busy, trying to avoid the sight of him in his loose shorts and plain white t-shirt behind you, his messy hair uncovered and unkempt, begging for your fingers to muss it up further. What was it about him? Was it a rebound effect? An attractive man giving you some attention after years of the opposite? Or was it just him?

He thanked you quietly when you handed him one of the two mugs you’d prepped, his voice so delicate it was as if at the first hint of tension he would break. He was so fragile here in the late hours of the night, as if he was waiting for his walls to crumble, not wondering if they would, but when. Maybe he was just tired.

You bade him goodnight with a squeeze to his bicep, a gesture intended to say we’ll forget this ever happened. But forgetting would have been too easy.

On Saturday, you decided it was finally time to meet the other two members of Santi’s close-knit group, Will and Benny Miller. The guys had a beach day already in the books, and none opposed a fifth tagging along, so you piled into the backseat of Santi’s truck between Frankie and Benny, your stomach in knots and your fingers wringing together in your lap. 

Frankie sat beside you equally as nervous, but for entirely different reasons. He was under no illusions, next to the Miller boys he looked like an absolute joke. Benny was a fighter, with the physique to prove it, and Will had never let himself get out of spec-ops shape, but he sure had. Not that he’d ever been a wonder to behold, he was just a pilot after all, but the past years hadn’t been kind to him, the last six months even less so. He knew he was soft around the middle, his beard didn’t fill in properly, and when it came to bulk? Well, he didn’t have any. 

He was well aware he had no rights to you. None at all. But he still wasn’t sure if he was prepared to watch his other two closest friends fawning over you all afternoon, and you likely returning their affections. In fact, it took Benny no time at all before he’d captured you in conversation, making little jokes and telling embarrassing stories about the other three men. Frankie was less than thrilled when Benny told you about the time he’d thought he was lost in the jungle, calling out for his team frantic and afraid, all to be ambushed by the pranking quartet. He remembered that day in vivid detail and he found no part of it funny.

“That seems cruel,” you replied, a twitch ticking the corner of Frankie’s mouth up, “I’d be terrified, too.”

That shut him up. Benny had tried to defend the joke, but you weren’t having it, standing your ground about the tastelessness of it all, the gold thread that was woven through your very veins making you shine in the sunlight to Frankie’s eyes.

Will was next to give it a go, rushing in front of Frankie to help you out of the truck, passing you a beer as he gave you a look Frankie had seen him use many times. There were few occasions where it didn’t work, he assumed this would be one of them. He had you laughing. Of course he did, as Frankie unloaded the back of the truck with venom in his gaze. He reminded himself yet again he had no right to you, but somehow it made it worse. 

“Hey,” Santi barked as he closed the bed of the truck, “no fucking bullshit. That’s my sister. She deserves better than all of you lowlifes.”

Ouch. Will and Benny both raised their hands in mock surrender, Will passing you another glance before grabbing the cooler at his feet. Frankie noted that you didn’t protest Santi shooing the rabid dogs, so was he included? He was actually. He was included. Whatever this infatuation was had to end. Santi had said it himself, you deserved better. And every fiber of his darkened soul believed that.

Prepping the area was easy with all four men, the umbrellas and chairs being set up with ease, coolers dropped and towels laid out. Frankie couldn’t help his eyes flitting over to you sitting a few feet away, your bright blue sundress blending in with the ocean stretching out in front of you as if it belonged to you. His feet carried him subconsciously towards you, and before he knew it he was joining you in the sand.

“You know I had a dream last night,” he began, grabbing your attention, “that the ocean was filled with orange soda.”

You peered over at him, his eyes still focused in front of him.

“It was a Fanta sea…” he finished, trying to suppress his pride in his own terrible joke.

“Ahh,” you exhaled, your smile sparkling across your entire face. 

A sincere laugh finally forced him to look over at your unhindered amusement. As it settled into his chest, he couldn’t help but mimic your expression, his smile finally stretching up to his eyes, muscles that hadn’t been used in a very long time coming out of hibernation. It was foreign, but freeing.

“Why do seagulls fly over the sea?” you retorted, your face settling into as serious an expression as it could as the punchline lingered on your tongue.

With overacted consideration he bit his lower lip, eyes turning upwards as if he was deep in thought, “I don’t know.”

“Because if they flew over the bay they’d be bagels…” There was that smile again, brighter than the very sun.

“Oh,” he drew out theatrically, “Okay, okay. I have competition.”

“That’s right, I hope you’re ready.”

“I’ll put up a good fight.”

“Hey, you two!” Pope called, “Ven aquí!” (Come here.)

When you pulled that little sundress over your head once you’d rejoined the group, Frankie did all he could not to let his eyes roll into the back of his head in flustered bliss. He thought he’d mapped the ways your body dipped and arched, but he realized his predictions had been grossly miscalculated. Your hips flared out from your waist, all soft and plush, ready for his fingertips to mold and teeth to gently sink into, your soft stomach settled over brightly colored and barely-there swimsuit bottoms enough to send him spiraling. He’d seen your thighs earlier that week, displayed so lavishly in the dead of night, but the way they led to the rest of you was a road he wanted to memorize. 

“Fish,” Pope’s voice snapped him from his lewd fantasies, his stomach sinking as he waited for his scolding, “Can you get her the sunblock? I think it’s in your pack.”

All he could do was nod, fumbling through his bag to find the bottle and pass it to you.

“Actually, do you mind?” you asked, turning and pulling your hair over your shoulder, the expanse of your back only disrupted by a thin strip of fabric beneath your shoulder blades tied in a delicate little knot.

His cheeks flushed pink, somehow growing hotter even beneath the sweltering sun, a lump forming in his throat when you peered over at him, waiting for his response. How could he say no? You gave him a pleased little smile when he agreed, turning back and tipping your chin down to give him space to work. With a shaky breath, he began, putting on his best performance yet as a man who wasn’t completely losing control.

Fuck you were soft, your sunkissed skin blazing beneath his calloused hands. He watched intently as the white soaked into your golden skin, the dewy sheen left behind causing you to shimmer in the high sun. You were perfectly still, the steady rise and fall of your ribs washing over him in tune with the ocean’s waves, but while your mask was cool and calm, your skin betrayed you. He could read the truth on your skin as it pebbled under his fingers, tiny goosebumps forming despite the heat. He had to move quickly when he got to your lower back, the suppleness of your sides giving way to his fingers at the slightest of pressure, it made him crave more. Too much more.

“All right,” he announced as his hand pulled away, voice deep and gravelly, “all set.”

Before he could react, you plucked the bottle from him with your much smaller fingers, your free hand brushing along his side causing him to gasp.

“Your turn,” you sang, like it was nothing, like this was normal, like you’d done it a hundred times before. You said it like it wasn’t going to set him ablaze.

He was a weak man, this he already knew, but as you began to slowly explore his shoulders and back, he had to physically bite his tongue to prevent the pathetic little whimpers that threatened to escape as his touch-starved skin responded to you eagerly. His brain was short-circuiting, a shiver threatening to run up his spine that he had to repress in fear of you pulling your hands away again as you had at that stupid green restaurant you’d taken him to. Heat pooled in his belly, just another thing he had to fight, pulling his attention away from the way your featherlight touch threatened to send him to his knees. 

“There,” you beamed, taking a moment to marvel at your work as the absence of your fingers already settled into his tense shoulders, and all he could offer in response was a nervous chuckle. 

You thanked sweetly, leaving him to debate waiting a few minutes off on his own to let the evidence of your effects subside on its own or jump into the ocean and hope it was cold enough to send the blood back to the other parts of him that needed it. His brain was on overdrive, so the water it was.

“Frankie is starting without us,” Pope chided as he watched him dive into the ocean as soon as he’d gotten deep enough, “ready to play?”

Santi had brought a football along, the other two men eagerly agreeing to partake in what you assumed was a mainstay activity on their Saturdays on the shore. You refused their invitation but opted to sit by the water’s edge to watch them, if not only for your own selfish reasons. Frankie was already receding from his quick swim as the other men approached, his hair flattened around his face, the ends fighting against the water’s resistance to curl up slightly still. Despite your thoughts demanding you not to, you followed the droplet that traveled down his chest to the sparse trail of dark hair beneath his navel, his shorts now clinging to every conceivable surface they covered, leaving less to the imagination than you would have liked in this situation. 

“Let’s go Fish, back in the water where you belong,” Will teased with a smile, wrapping his arm around Frankie’s shoulders to drag him back in.

“Yeah, just a second,” Frankie panted in response as you offered him a towel, which he accepted with a scowl, “What are you doing?” he asked, his brow furrowing further, “Go have fun, fuck me and these idiots.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your eyes averting from those gentle doe eyes you’d become infatuated with, “It’s fine.”

Shaking his hair free of its water weight, the droplets cold against your cheeks causing you to shriek, he marched back up to the camp, returning with the book you’d packed.

“At least pretend,” he requested, walking off to join the other three after you’d pulled the novel from his fingers. 

Your eyes flitted from the small black text to the way Frankie’s damp, salt tousled hair framed his face, the book and sunglasses you wore providing the perfect cover for your wandering eyes. The muscles of his long torso stretched and pulled as he reached for the football flying through the air, splashing into the water at times when it was overthrown. You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen him doing anything that resembled fun before, he was even laughing. It was a welcome sight. 

“Excuse me?” a voice sounded from beside you, and you plastered your best-attempted smile as you turned to greet the blonde man at your side.

That was enough welcome for him, unfortunately, and he took a seat at your side and proceeded to begin a conversation–a rather one-sided one. He’d read the book you were currently using as a prop, and you were thankful you’d already finished it once before because if not there’d have been no need to continue as he gave away every twist and turn the plot had to offer. You engaged him in polite conversation, a flaw that had gotten you into so many predicaments in the past, your ability to say no was always squashed by your need to people-please. 

“And then, I could not believe when-Ow!” a football colliding with the side of this man’s head quickly stopped him mid-sentence, a football you’d seen many times that day.

“Sorry!” you heard Frankie yelling as he sloshed out of the water, “Hey, sorry man, bad aim.”

Biting your lip to stop the smile that threatened to light up your face, you looked up at Frankie in all of his soaking wet glory. His suit still clung to him in all the right places, the hand on his hip splaying his thick fingers over his side. While his face may have been pulled up into a friendly grin, his eyes were hard staring at the stranger by your side and something flared in your belly that sent the air whooshing from your lungs.

“Lunch?” he asked as he turned to you, gaze softening immediately, and you nodded, getting up to walk with him back to your area.

“Thank you,” you said gratefully, nudging his arm with your shoulder.

“For what?” he retorted, looking down at you playing confused.

“He didn’t have one good joke to tell.”

He stopped as you continued on, his mouth falling open at the mischievous glint in your eyes when you turned back to smirk at him. Oh, this was a game he wasn’t brave enough to play. Pope’s hand on his back smacked him back to reality, an astute reminder of why these cards were strictly off the table. But the swell of your ass against those tiny little swim bottoms had him contemplating it. You were his deadliest foe yet.

The rest of the afternoon went off without a hitch, you’d even joined them in their second round of catch in the water, Frankie ensuring his tosses were light enough for you to easily nab, Will’s always perceptive gaze catching on.

“Come on, Fish,” he urged, splashing water at his face, “She can take it. Throw it.”

“I am!” he lied, “Plus, I don’t want this idiot on my ass if I break her.”

Oh, the way that statement held so many different fucking meanings. Pope nodded, agreeing with Frankie’s sentiment.

“As if you could throw anything hard enough,” Benny taunted, and the game continued.

As you all piled back in Santi’s truck, you felt exhaustion taking you over. It had been so long since you’d had a day so active, the sun and sea air always taking the most out of you in the best of ways. The hum of the engine and the dimming sun had your eyelids heavy and not long after you’d hit the highway, you passed off into dreamland.

Frankie’s heart damn near jumped out of his chest when your head leaned onto his shoulder, a quick peek down proving you were fast asleep. He had to suppress the happy little grin tugging at him, opting to stare out the window to look as unfazed as possible, he knew Pope had already taken a peek back. He was sure he’d get an apology from the man later, Pope always trying to keep the two separate, and he knew he thought he was doing it for Frankie’s benefit. Time and time again Frankie had assured him it was no trouble–well it was, but not the trouble Pope was assuming it was.

When Benny and Will cleared out, Pope offered to wake you up so Frankie could move to the front seat, but Frankie refused with a silent shake of his head to not disturb you. He wasn’t going to miss this. He could smell the beach in your hair, a mix of sea air and sunscreen, your tanned skin still clutching to the sun’s warmth. This was easy, it was peaceful, he felt good. Fuck. He felt good.

Work kept you occupied throughout the week, leaving Frankie enough time to let the bonfire the beach trip had lit simmer back to a faded ember. He’d found himself reaching for less whiskey, however, his usually chaotic mind filled with images of you basking in the sun, laughing at his jokes, and splashing in the ocean. Pope had gotten the group a gig with the new security firm he was starting up, and Frankie was thankful to have the money coming in and for the break from seeing you every morning getting your coffee–two splashes of vanilla creamer and a spoonful of sugar.

Pope broke the news to you at dinner that night, also mentioning there would be a party at the place on Friday night to commemorate their first real job, welcoming you to invite any friends to join in.

All three of you spent all day preparing, Frankie grilling food, Santi setting out chairs, and you tidying the house, particularly the half bathroom downstairs you’d claimed as your own. Frankie and Santi had a good buzz going by the time Will and Benny arrived, fifteen minutes before the planned arrival time, as always. They helped finish prepping, and the remainder of your guests all arrived right on time bearing beer and side dishes. Clearly, their parties had garnered a good reputation in the neighborhood as people you’d seen walking dogs and taking their bins out began to file in alongside your own little group.

You’d invited the girls from work and your best friend from childhood that Santi greeted like an old friend. The night kept you largely away from your brother and…roommate, but you’d caught a few glimpses of him from across the yard. He nursed a beer at all times, chatting with everyone who approached him but never approaching anyone himself. It seemed he liked the quiet periods in between, needing that time to prep for his next interaction. You understood, this was utterly exhausting.

By the time the sun had set, you’d lost the girls from work and instead chatted aimlessly with your tried and true ride or die, but on one of your routine sweeps for the mop of messy curls spilling from beneath a baseball cap, you felt your face go hot. One of your co-workers had cornered him, that intense gaze of his focused on her and it set the world ablaze in a green hue. That look was for you. You stormed off, leaving your friend mid-sentence–you could explain later–approaching the pair at a rage-induced pace.

“Hi,” you greeted too loudly, you needed to get better at lying, “Molly. There is something I want to show you. Inside.”

So this was how it was going to be. He could feel the steaming envy radiating off of you, not that he’d been in the least bit interested in whatever story this girl was telling him, but fuck if this little possessive streak didn’t get his pants pressing tighter at the zipper. You shot him a look over your shoulder and God it felt like you owned him. He sipped his beer, making sure to hold your gaze as he licked the remnants off his lips, the alcohol tossing too many of his inhibitions aside. Oh, he wanted to watch you do that again, see that fire in your eyes that burned for him. 

When he went in to grab another bottle from the fridge–where he kept his personal and much better stash–you were at the counter prepping some fruity thing for yourself, your flirty friend nowhere in sight. He wondered if you sent her home. He hoped you did. Keep everyone away and be selfish with him, he didn’t mind.

“Having fun?” he asked, hearing the angry huff blow out of your nose. 

“Not really,” you replied, catching yourself in your error and closing your eyes, shaking your head to help put you back into the mindset you needed to be in, “it’s fine.”

“It’s a party. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Leaning against the counter casually beside you, his head was too foggy to remember the rules. Your perfume mingled with the smell of sweat from standing in the wet Florida heat, it made him fucking feral. His tongue tingled as he considered what you tasted like, your lips would be fruity after a night of margaritas, but his mind wandered to what the rest of you might compare to.

“Your friend,” he prodded, he needed to get to the bottom of this, “she seems nice.”

“She’s messy. You don’t want that,” you snapped back, pouring yourself a straight shot of tequila that had his eyes widened in wonder.

“Oh no? Then what do I want?”

He watched your cheeks flush into the most delicious rosy hue. It had been so long since he’d made a woman blush, since he’d even wanted to.

“I don’t know, Frankie. You tell me.”

His heart pounded and he really had no idea how because every ounce of blood in his body was rushing south. He knew exactly what he wanted. But this was Pope’s baby sister. He’d practically raised her. But as the booze swirled in his veins and your sultry eyes swept up and down his frame, what happened next was completely out of his control.

“What I can’t have,” he growled, voice deep and raspy.

“And why can’t you have it?” you purred in response, turning to face him completely now. He hadn’t noticed how low-cut your shirt was until this moment.

“She’s just out of reach.”

“Is she?”

When your middle finger brushed down the cool metal of the dog tags he was rarely without, he inhaled sharply, pulling a satisfied smile from your lips. His head was spinning, his cheeks and ears burning, his body fucking vibrated with the need to be pressing against every conceivable inch of you.

“Close enough to touch, no?” you continued, the way you were peering at him through your lashes was sinful as you curled your fingers around the cool metal, brushing up against his bare chest.

“Tentadora (temptress),” he hissed, his pointer finger instinctively drifting to beneath your chin, lifting your face up towards him with the side of it.

You bit your lower lip, slowly dragging it between your teeth as your eyes stayed locked on him and he leaped forward, grabbing your hips roughly and pinning you between the counter and his much-taller body, sending a surge of thrill and arousal buzzing all the way to your limbs.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he cooed, brushing his nose against yours, causing you to inhale sharply at his proximity, “What could you want with someone like me?”

“A kiss to start,” you whimpered, your confidence quickly dissipating under his hungry gaze, your hands fisting into the chest of his printed button-down shirt.

“I won’t condemn you to hell.”

“I bit the apple of my own accord…”

Could he do this to you? Could he do this to Pope? While your brother had been kicked to the back of his mind thanks to the way your knuckles had brushed against parts of him long untouched, he couldn’t forget. And you, you had no idea what you were trying to sign yourself up for. 

“I would ruin you,” he confessed, your lips so close he could feel your panting, nervous breaths mingling with his own between you.

“I could use a few jagged edges,” you replied meekly, and his heart broke.

“No no, dulzura (sweet thing). I won’t let this world break you.”

But maybe he would. He was a selfish man willing to risk it all for a taste of contentment. That he’d already established. His thumbs began rubbing small circles against your hips, just as soft and pliable as he remembered, and he craved more. You were frozen beneath him, but not from fear or regret, just anticipation, your eyes begging him to do what he desperately wanted to. You’d asked him to do it. You’d asked him to kiss you. Now was his chance…

A door slamming open had you both leaping apart, you turning back towards the counter and pouring another shot of tequila to burn away the earthy, clean scent of Frankie from all of your senses. You’d tasted the beer and weed on his breath, smelled the faintness of his cheap bar soap and the detergent you’d insisted they buy on his printed shirt that you’d told him looked nice once before. Maybe he’d worn it for you.

“What are you two doing?” Santi asked from the doorway, “Let’s go, we started the fire. Grab the marshmallows Fish, the girls want some.”

You heard Frankie move immediately, clearly as shaken up as you were at nearly getting caught. He left without a word, a pit forming in your stomach over it. There was no coming back from this, not for you. He’d told you he wanted you, not that you needed words after reading his face when you’d started your disastrous little ploy. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole like he'd been dreaming of this as much as you had. Your cunt clenched around the phantom of him when you considered the thought.

Any more of a delay and you’d have questions to answer, more than you already did, and when you finally emerged into the yard, the first thing you saw was Frankie, staring at you guiltily. Did he already regret it? Or did he regret not making the move before Santi had interrupted? Your friend asked where you’d run off to, and you promised to tell her later, but could you even tell her the truth? Saying it out loud might make it real, unable to retract. Perhaps this was something you had to suffer with alone. 

Meeting his eyes again, you saw that familiar softness that was so distinctly Frankie it made you remember why you’d just risked it all in the kitchen for him. Something haunted him, something beyond the realm of your understanding. He thought it tainted him. I won’t condemn you to hell…

Pope’s raucous laughter only sobered you further, you wanted this night to end as much as you wanted to rewind time and relive those few minutes in the kitchen. You’d been too nervous to memorize the shape of his lips or count the freckles on his neck and chest, but you could still feel the slinky fabric of his shirt between your fingers and his breath on your lips. Maybe you’d never forget it. And you knew you never wanted to.

A/N: Here it is! I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know, I thrive on comments. I don't know how many parts this will be yet, aiming for 10-12? We'll see... Also, I'm going to be using some Spanish throughout, and my Spanish is poor. So, please nicely correct me if I need to be, anything more than nice and I'll simply crumble.

Tags: @hnt-escape @moralesthots @xxxroxsxxx @fiscinthirst

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[ppascalsstuff]

Paint Me a Song

This was a pm'd ask from @alindeluce

I would request a story where reader and Marcus meet in a karaoke bar. First the reader is very shy but then comes their song and they just smash it? I always imagine "Addicted to you" but thats maybe a little bit cheesy. :D Take the song you think is perfect ;) Thank you sooooo much! I'm open for everything but when it's a little bit more fluff I'm not mad. Maybe a little make out Session afterwards with a promise for more. :)

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 1700+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: The song used is “Addicted to You” by Avicii. I’ll link it here. 

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Marcus Pike Masterlist

Main Masterlist

—----

All you had wanted was a drink after a long week at work, but you’d completely forgotten that you avoided this particular bar on this particular day. Why? Because it was “Random Stranger Duet” Night. Everyone who walked in gets a number written on the back of their hand in sharpie and a computer randomly picks 2 numbers and a song. Those people then have to karaoke duet that song. While most people thought this was fun and a great way to meet new people, it’s not the best if you just want a drink. 

Taking a sip from the glass set in front of you, staring at the number 42 on the back of your hand, you desperately hope they’ll run out of time or you’ll finish your drinks before your number is called. As you take the last sip, the song ends and half the bar claps absentmindedly. 

“Alright time for the next number draw,” a waitress hops on stage and hits a button on a laptop. 

“19 and….42!”

Did she just say 42? Fuck.

You groan, turning in your barstool to stand and tell the waitress to draw another number (although that never works out for anyone who does), when your eyes find the man that has quietly approached the little half stage, presumably number 19. He’s handsome, clean shaven, dark hair and eyes, with a distinct nose, chisled jawline, and broad fucking shoulders that taper down to a slim hip line. He has a confidence to him but it’s obviously not for karaoke because he also looks nervous as hell as he talks to the waitress. 

Great - now I have to look like an idiot in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen?

You turn and ask for another shot, quickly slamming it back as the waitress calls “Number 42? Come on up!”

Making your way through the crowd, you arrive at the stage and show the back of your hand to the waitress. “42.”

She claps her hands together once. “Perfect! Ok the song the computer chose for y’all is Addicted to You by Avicii. It’s ok if you don’t know the words because we’ll have them up on that screen there.” She points to a computer screen that’s a little lower than the 2 mics on the little stage. “Head on up and I’ll get the song queued up!” She turns to the computer and starts to work, leaving you and number 19 to get on stage.

He hops up first then turns to offer his hand to you with a small smile. You take his hand and it’s so warm as he tightens his grip to help you on stage. When you’re standing next to him, he switches his hand position to a shake. 

“Marcus.”

You tell him your name. 

“That’s a beautiful name.”

You feel heat rising to your cheeks as he continues to make a ridiculous amount of eye contact. “Th-thanks.”

“Alright! Pressing play! 42 - you start!” The waitress calls to you both and you blink, the spell he had on you broken as you both turn towards the monitor and the music starts. 

I don’t know just how it happened

I let down my guard

Swore I’d never fall in love again

But I fell hard

You’re quiet at first, but then your nerves leave you enough that you realize you know this song. Drowning everyone else out, you sing your part to the best of your ability, paying attention to the monitor to know when it’s Marcus’s turn.

Who turns out to be an amazing singer. 

Midnight blows in through the window

Dances ‘round the room

Got me hypnotized

I’m getting high on love with you

Your voices melt together in the chorus and as the song ends, a few people that had actually been listening clap. Marcus turns to you and smiles and you return it, unable to quite meet his gaze.

“Great job 42 and 19! Let’s see who’s next!” 

Marcus jumps off the stage and turns back, offering you his hand again. You take it, hopping down, but this time he doesn’t pull his hand back. 

“I was hoping…maybe I could buy you a drink?”

“Me?” You ask, a little taken aback that a man this handsome would even talk to you let alone ask to buy you a drink. 

He smiles warmly. “Yes, you. If that’s ok?” His eyes are big and round and look just like a puppy. You find yourself unable to deny him anything.

“Y-yeah. I’d like that.”

“Great!” Marcus leads you through the crowd and back to the bar, somehow managing to score 2 open barstools next to each other. He pulls yours out and you sit, watching him scoot in and flag the bartender down. You both place a drink order before he turns to look at you.

“I have to admit - I was terrified to go up there and sing.”

You scoff. “You? You have an amazing voice though!”

Marcus blushes, pink dusting across his clean shaven cheeks. “I don’t know about that, darling.”

“I do. I was listening. Nearly forgot I had to sing too.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know.”

You put your hand up. “Thanks Marcus, but I know my talents lie elsewhere.” 

Your drinks arrive and you both pause to take a sip, setting your cups back down on the wet bar napkins.

“So, Marcus. What do you do?”

“I’m a spy.”

You laugh, throwing your head back and missing the darkening look in Marcus’s eyes as he scans down your neck and chest, bringing them quickly back to your eyes as you bring your head back.

“I’m sorry but if you were a spy, you couldn’t tell me.”

“Says who? Wait…are you a spy?”

You laugh again, grabbing your glass to take a sip. “If I was I certainly couldn’t tell you.”

He laughs at that and takes a sip himself. 

“Actually, I work for the CIA.”

“Ok, but that’s so cool! What do you do? Or can I not ask that?”

He chuckles. “Oh you can ask anything you want but it doesn’t mean I can tell you. But I can answer your question. I work in the stolen art division. Basically when someone’s priceless art gets stolen, I lead the investigation to get it back.”

“Wait…are you Marcus Pike?”

He squints his eyes slightly. “Yes?”

“Oh my God! The Marcus Pike that made that bust that saved 10 originals, including a Picasso??”

“I…am..wait how did you know about that?”

“I’m the curator at the Benoiff Art Museum. We all talk to each other. I followed that case closely! That was impressive work.”

Marcus looks taken aback. “You’re an art curator?”

You nod excitedly. “I am! And I’m sitting here talking to the Marcus Pike. You’re a hero in our community.”

He blushes, finally breaking that intense eye contact he’s given you all night, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Oh I don’t know about hero. It’s just my job.”

“Yeah, but it was you who cracked their code and figured out how they were stealing things. I doubt anyone else would’ve solved it.” You place your hand over his on the bar and give it a squeeze. “You’re really brave to have gone after them after all the violence they’d left in their wake.”

“I don’t-”

“Marcus. Take the compliment.” 

He smiles at you as he brings his gaze to yours and nods. “Thank you.”

A couple hours goes by, Marcus asking about your job, hobbies, what each of your favorite artists and painters are, conversation flowing easy between the both of you. Suddenly your pocket vibrates and you apologize to Marcus, pulling it out and seeing your alarm blaze across the screen “GO HOME. GET SLEEP.”

“Shit is it 1am already?” You say out loud and Marcus looks at his watch.

“It is. Shit, I have to be at the office in like 5 hours to brief a team. Can I walk you to your car?”

“Sure!”

Marcus insists on paying for your drinks and places his hand just above your lower back, not touching you but helping to guide you through the crowd and outside, walking back around the building to the parking lot. You chat as he walks you towards the back to your car, turning to him as you laugh at something funny he said. 

“I really enjoyed talking with you tonight, darling. Well and singing too.” You both chuckle as you look away and back, nervously. 

“I did too Marcus.”

“Do you… can I take you out for dinner?”

A smile stretches across your face as your eyes light up. “I’d love that!”

“Great!”

A moment of silence passes between you both as you look into the other’s eyes. Marcus takes a hesitant step towards you and cups your cheek with his hand, warmth seeping out across your skin. He lowers his face towards yours but stops just short of your lips.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers. 

You nod but that’s not good enough for him.

“I need to hear you say it, darling.”

“Yes. Kiss me Mar-”

His lips cut you off mid sentence, soft, warm, and gentle as he holds your face, his tongue licking at your lips. Your lips part and he slides his tongue in, moaning as he does. Your hands wind around his neck and scratch gently through his shorter hair, tugging on it a little when you can grip it. He growls in response and you tug harder, feeling him wrap his arms around you and pull you close, your head tipping back so you don’t lose contact with him. He leans you against the car, towering over you as he deepens the kiss for a few more moments, making out with you in the parking lot like he doesn’t care who sees. He pulls back just a little, bringing your bottom lip with him and letting it go with a plop. When he speaks, it’s low and lustful.

“Can I take you to dinner tonight? That’s not too soon is it?”

“It’s not soon enough.”

He chuckles against your lips, kissing you one more time before pulling back.

“7pm ok?”

—----

“I can’t wait.”

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[ppascalsstuff]

🥰🥰🥰🥰

Weighted Blankets and a Soft Orange Glow

Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader; 1.6k

Summary: You’ve been suffering from nightmares for a long time, Frankie helps you come down. Angst but turns to fluff. 

Warnings: talking about trauma (vague, nothing specific), nightmares, heavy descriptions of panic attacks.  

A/N: Hey loves, sorry I have been MIA I completely lost inspiration during finals, and now I finally feel like a human being. I personally have suffered from horrific nightmares since I was a kid, and they have been pretty rough recently. So this is just comfort and catharsis for me. Anyway, so glad to be back making little stories. Hope you all are feeling well and doing good. Much love <3.

You’ve never been a good sleeper. Your parents always joke that you were the one kid at the family party who would fight sleep till your very last breath, running in circles until sleep took you suddenly. There’s several pictures of you knocked out on random surfaces, seemingly frozen in time. 

As you got older it got worse. Working on school assignments or extra projects or books until your body gave out. But it wasn’t until college when you started having the nightmares. 

That one nightmare… actually. 

It hadn’t happened in a few years, but you knew deep down that you were due to revisit the nightmare. Whenever your anxiety got particularly bad, you  would revisit that nightmare almost daily. The same nightmare. The same shadows and the same ending. Each time you woke up in a cold sweat, grasping at your chest, willing yourself to get oxygen in your lungs. Usually you were able to quietly wake up, barely disturbing Frankie beyond a raspy ‘honey?’. 

But tonight it was different. You had been struggling recently. The projects were piling up at work. You had to cancel an appointment with your counselor. And with the shop getting more popular, Frankie was having to spend more time at work, meaning you were having dinner by yourself most nights. You were on edge. And the nightmare that had been plaguing you for the past few weeks morphed into something from hell. You could not escape. You tried to call out for Frankie, but when you opened up your mouth you couldn’t speak. You felt your chest contracting, with no breath being able to come in. The shadows drowned your eyes in darkness, and suddenly the room your dreams always took you to was spinning

And spinning

And spinning

“Baby! Baby wake up please! Come on baby it’s just a dream it’s just a dream!”

Frankie knew about your dreams, you had avoided sleeping with him for over a year because of them. But he had assured you that he more than understood what it was like. Usually, Frankie and you could work yourself down from these nightmares and panic attacks. Using all the tools you both had learned in counseling, it had been a slow but steady improvement.

But it hadn’t been this bad in such a long time.

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[ppascalsstuff]

Locked Down Part 17: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Word Count: 9,100

Rating: M. Language, talking about sex, frustration, invasion of privacy. 

Summary: Adjusting to being apart from Dieter - even though you’re both in the same country - is going to take some getting used to. As he settles into his routine shooing Valley of Shadow and you return to your show for the first time in almost a year, there will be some tests … can both of you withstand them? 

Author’s note:

I really like this chapter, and hope you do, too. I do not like keeping them apart… but it’s necessary for them to grow. 

Catch up on the other parts here: Locked Down Masterlist

Unlike so much of your trip to London, the journey home went off without a hitch. You had no problems getting from Clifton to the SoHo, your COVID test location was simple to find and came back negative in plenty of time for you to catch your flight, and you had amazing weather for the day and a half that you got to spend wandering the streets of the city.

It was the first time you’d had actual downtime in months, and despite the fact that you were alone - and a lot of the places that you would have liked to visit were still operating on restricted hours - you enjoyed London. I’d enjoy it more if I was here with someone else, though.

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[ppascalsstuff]

Better

Marcus Pike x f!reader.

Smut from the get go. Fluff. Angst. Pregnancy.

Marcus gave you his cock as a maddening pace. Slow, steady, sure. A quick thrust in, aided by your wetness and his precome. Then a long drag out. The warm, bare skin of his length grazing the velvet softeness of your walls had you both panting into each other's mouths. When he was fully sheathed inside, his body flush to yours, his breath combining with yours, his moans and the sound of his skin slapping against yours, you felt comletely connected. Whole. The sex was as close to perfection as you had even dreamed. Except it was all so wrong. The thoughts pushed through the haze of alcohol and sex. Too soon. Risking too much. He should be wearing a condom.

Chasing the thoughts away, you kissed him deeply. It sparked something in Marcus, his hips picked up speed. His thrusts were harder, deeper. Long fingers met your clit, drawing you closer to orgasm. A well placed thrust had you tumbling into a climax. The tension in your body all snapped back to where you were joined, gripping Marcus's cock, milking every drop of his seed from him. It was so much you could feel it washing over his softening length, trying to escape you. It was still warm at the top of your thighs when Marcus pulled on his jeans and grabbed the rest of his clothes. With a rueful smile, he left your bedroom and your apartment.

Neither of you spoke about that night again until the digital readout on your test said '2-3 weeks pregnant'.

#########

Birthday parties at the office were a standard affair. Everyone knew they would get one but had to go through the charade of being 'surprised'. Walking into the break room after Marcus you did your best mock shocked face at the set up. Balloons and banners decorated the walls. Trays of food were dotted around the tables. Soft drinks were on the counter along with a cake, a rich looking chocolate one inscribed with Happy Birthday in purple icing. Thankfully, it didn't say your age. That was something that was weighing on you at the moment. Truth be told, a birthday party was the last thing you wanted right now. For the next couple of hours you managed to keep your face schooled. Laughing and joking with your co-workers. It was only ever perceptive Marcus that noticed you were off. He was good enough not to call you on it until you were leaving. His long legs made short work of the distance as he jogged up behind you. He caught you just as you reached your car. "Hey."

"Hey, everything OK?" You wondered why he followed you out here. His car was on the other side of the building.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"Everything's fine. Why do you ask?"

"Because I've known you for twenty years. I know when something's up."

"Great detective skills. You should be a cop of some kind."

Your name accompanied his puppy dog head tilt as he touched your hand, now resting on your car door. His eyes full of sympathy and patience. He knew you well enough to know how to break you.

"I'm just feeling my age. There's a few things I wanted to do by now that I haven't."

"Like what?" His thumb stroked the back of your hand. Soothing you, urging you to continue. He knew you so well. There was a temptation to open up to him completely there and then. Tell him everything you wanted. It was too great a risk for you to take so you withdrew your hand. "Another time Marcus."

He respected that, let you get in your car with nothing more than a final wish of happy birthday.

The drive home felt lonely after being surrounded with people. You should have just got an early night. You should have just switched off your brain with some comfort TV. Instead, you tortured yourself by pulling all your paper work out. The report for the doctor. The price lists. The list of donors you had spent another couple of hours pouring over. Speaking of pouring a glass of wine couldn't hurt right now. A beep from your phone caught you attention. Your aunt, the time difference meant it was dinner time for her, late for you. After answering her, another message popped up. It was Marcus. "You're still up. Do you need to talk?"

Your fingers moved of their own accord as they typed out "Yes."

"Be over in ten?"

"Thank you."

In the ten minutes, you gathered all your paperwork and shoved it in the coffee table draw. After he buzzed up you moved to open the door for him. Fourth glass of wine in hand. Marcus stood in the hallway, hair slightly damp, dripping onto his leather jacket, you had no idea when the rain had started. In his hand he held a brown paper bag. Stepping back you let him in. The scent of his shampoo, stirred up by the rain and his familiar leather jacket, wrapped around you as he passed.

"I figured you could use this." He pulled out a bottle of wine. He pulled out a second, almost empty bottle. "I needed this."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Hey, that's my line."

Something about the ease of the banter between you, that familiar back and forth, broke you. Tears burst from you.

"Hey, hey, hey." Marcus's arms were around you in seconds. Drawing you close to his strong, board chest. His lips pressed kisses to the top of your head. "It's okay Sweetheart. Let it out." For a moment you followed his words. Your tears chased the rain drops down the front of his jacket. Once the worst was over, you pulled away to look at him. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, none of that. That's what best friends are for. I've cried on your shoulder enough." That was true. You had been there for him a lot over the years. "You want to tell me what all this is about?"

Not trusting your voice, you grabbed a pamphlet from the coffee table draw, handing it to him. His eyebrows shot up as he read the title. "Artificial Insemination." He dropped down onto the sofa. Like a magnet, you followed. "You want a baby? You want a baby like this?"

The way he said this got your back up. "No, Marcus. I don't want a baby like this but I don't have another option." He winced, realising how he sounded, his mouth opened to fix it but you cut him off. "I know it's selfish but I want to carry a child so adoption is plan B. More like plan C actually. This is plan B. Plan A, to get married and do things the old fashion way is right out the window."

"Why?"

"I'm 38. I have no romantic prospects. Time is ticking away."

A look crossed his face that you couldn't place. A tension rose between you. It was a solid as a cliff face with you teetering on the edge of it. His tongue darted out between his lips as if he was about to speak. His eyes shifted back to the paper in his hand, cracked the cliff and had you falling, flailing out for a conversation foothold. He spoke instead. "So how does this work?"

Good, Practical Marcus. That's who you needed right now. Edging closed you opened the pamphlet to show him. The warmth of him pressed to your side soothed your nerves. "...I've had all the test. I just need to pick a donor and set a budget for myself." You concluded.

"A budget?" He blinked.

"Yeah. It isn't cheap. The sperm alone is $700-$1000 a vial. Insurance won't cover it all. I have decide how much am willing to spend before I give up if it doesn't work." Feeling more in control now you were talking about something practical, you relaxed back and took a sip of your fifth glass of wine. A sip you prompted choked on as Marcus said "How much would you save if I gave you the sperm?"

When you could breath again, he continued. "Sorry. I just thought...well...I have some spare. You need it."

"Yeah. I suppose."

He took another healthy glug from his glass. "It'd be kinda cool to see what a kid with my DNA would be like too."

Your heart clenched. You knew Marcus had always wanted kids. He would make a fantastic father. You weren't a fool, you knew raising a child alone was going to be hard. Marcus had helped you in every other aspect of you life. College assignments, moving home, break ups, work. It stood to reason he would help you with your baby. You were practically inseparable anyway. If he was the father he could be as involved as he liked. You would have peace of mind of knowing the donor's full history. Your child could know their father.

"Yes." You finally uttered startling Marcus.

"Yes, like you want my sperm?"

"Do you have to put it like that?"

A boyish grin set on his lips.

"Yes, I would like you to help me make a baby. We can call the clinic tomorrow. They'll talk you through it all. I don't want you rushing into anything."

"Talk me through it? It's not as simple as a date with a cup?" He teased.

"More the emotional side of it. Creating a life is kind of a big deal."

"I know but people do it all the time with people they know a lot less than I know you and it works for them. This way, if you want, I could be there for you. Help you out. Be a dad when you need me to. We make a good team." His words felt bittersweet. He thought of you as a team, a good one but still. He lifted his glass in a toast. Clinking yours to his you settled in to your regular, cosy routine. Drinking the rest of the wine, you decide to watch TV. Demolition Man had just started. A favourite of both yours and Marcus's. It was just like old times until the sex scene. As Sandra Bullock ranted about the exchange of bodily fluids, Marcus turned his head to look at you. His cheeks were slightly red from the alcohol, his hair had dropped over his forehead from the rain early, his top shirt buttons were undone, he looked pleasantly dishevelled. "What?" You smiled at him.

"I was just thinking. What if we made a baby the old fashion way?"

Your cheeks burned from more than alcohol. It wasn't like you hadn't slept together before. There was a mind blowing night in college, he was the first man to ever make you come with tongue. The first to care about your pleasure and give you multiple orgasms. If you were honest, no-one lived up to him since.

A drunken night after both of your marriages had fallen apart within months of each other, had been just as good. No one had ever taken you with such passion. It was as if he took all the stress and frustration he felt out on your body. Transferring the tension in you until it coiled, morphed, until it became something new, pleasurable.

Since he didn't get a answer straight away he clarified. "I was just thinking it would save money. It would be a lot nicer beginning to a pregnancy too."

He wasn't wrong there. The thought of you and Marcus making a baby together was a lot, you weren't sure you could take it. A one nighter every decade, you could push down into the recesses of your mind. Chose to forget how his skin felt on yours. How your name sounded rolling off his tongue at the height of his climax. How it felt like the last piece of your relationship has fallen into place. What you didn't want to think about was how much you loved Marcus. In every sense. You love him. You were in love with him. He was everything to you. Absence had just made the heart grow fonder. Now that he was back, with another failed relationship under his belt to boot, all the little moments that you could usually push away were magnified. The times when he would laugh causing his eyes to crinkle. You longed to hold him, to feel the laughter rumble out of his chest. When the sun filtered through his hair, you longed to run your fingers through it. When his shoulders were tight with tension, you longed to rub the stress away. The only thing stopping you was the thought of losing him. Relationships were complicated, messy. If things went wrong, you'd lose him forever. No, better to have him like this. You can compartmentalise. Keep those longings locked up. If you were having sex on a regular basis though, it would be so much harder.

With this is mind you chose your words carefully. "We could give it a try, leave it up to the fates and if it doesn't work, we go the clinic next month."

Marcus held out his hand for you to shake. "Deal."

Using the hand he held gently, he pulled you in for a kiss. It was slow and gentle. Seductive even.

"Wait, one more thing. When it's done, once we've, well once you've...er..."

"Donated?"

"Yeah, I guess. I want you to leave. I think it'd be a little weird if you stayed."

Marcus accepted your terms with a soft smile. "Sure."

True to his word, as always, he left right after. When the door to your apartment clicked shut, you curled into a ball were you lay before crying yourself to sleep.

######

Marcus was at your door less than an hour after you called in sick to work. "Is everything OK? You didn't tell me you were sick. Do you need anything?"

"I'm not sick Marcus. I just needed a day."

"Oh? Are you alright?"

"I did three pregnancy tests. They were all positive."

The smile on Marcus's face was beautiful, one of pure joy.

"You're pregnant?! Just from that one time?!"

"It only takes one little swimmer to get through."

"I know but it's still crazy to think just from that one time."

"I suppose it is."

"What do we do now?" The 'we' twisted a knife in your heart.

"I've made an appointment with my doctor to get checked out."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No, it's fine. It's just a general check up."

As much as you wanted to put some distance between you and Marcus, the way his face fell for a moment was too much for you to bare. "You can come to the scans and stuff, of course."

His smile returned full force.

All was well for the next couple of weeks, until the morning sickness hit. Well, morning, noon and night sickness. Everything made you feel like throwing up. The only things you could stomach were buttered toast, plain noodles and cinnamon buns from your favourite bakery. Despite your best efforts to hide all this from Marcus, he was there when a particularly nasty bout hit you. Running to the bathroom you barely closed the door behind you before dropping to your knees to hug the toilet bowl.

A soft knock on the door followed. "Honey? Do you need anything?"

"No. I'm fine." The tears evident in your voice.

"You don't sound fine. I'm coming in."

He pushed the door slowly giving you time to stop him. "Oh, sweetheart."

He took you in, eyes wet from crying or exertion, skin flushed, your mouth downturned in a small frown. He dropped to his knees beside you, pulling you into a tight hug. The comfort he brought only lasted for a moment until the urge to throw up rose again. Marcus softly rubbed your back as you did.

"Is there anything I can get you?" He brushed the hair back for your face as he asked.

The action was so tender it took a moment for your brain to process. "I need you to leave." You hadn't meant to put it like that but to be fair that was probably the best thing for you. Morning sickness plus keeping your feelings in check was exhausting. "Your aftershave. That's what's making me sick."

"Sorry." He jumped up. Stripping off his shirt he threw it into the tub before washing himself in the sink. Drops of water ran down his broad chest, carved a path to his belt. Heat bloomed between your legs, another new side effect of your current condition apparently. Your sex drive was going crazy.

"Am just gonna grab a hoodie." As he left to got to your room you wracked your brains to remember if you had put your vibrator away properly after you cleaned in this morning. If you hadn't he didn't mention it when he returned.

"Better?" He asked stretching out his long neck for you to sniff.

Tags @kirsteng42 @babydarkstar @prolix-yuy @thegreenkid @hquinzelle @fangirl-316 @gracie7209 @jedifarmerr @doommommy @scorpio-marionette @sturkillerbase

"Better." You gave a small nod. Cuddling into him you realised that nothing was better at all.

Part 2

[ppascalsstuff]

As We Go

AN | Here she is, finally! I really liked writing this, so I hope you all enjoy ❤️

Summary | A love story as old as time told in three parts: beginning, present, and resolution.

Pairing | Javier x Fem!Reader 

Warnings | Language, mentions of sex, pregnancy/childbirth

Word Count | 8.8k

Masterlist | Main, Javier

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Your marriage to him had been impulsive, you were well aware of that. You would have been the first person, besides him, to admit that. But that didn’t mean you regretted a moment of it. Your time with him had been fun, wild, and he made you feel like no one else ever had before. You’d been deeply, madly, crazily in love with him and you still harbored a lot of love for him now. He’d given you so much, including the single best thing in your life - Diego. The son you shared with him and you both loved more than anything else in the world. If he was anything, he was an amazing father and while the two of you were no longer together, you wouldn’t have picked anyone else to have a child with. 

But just because you were divorced didn’t mean those old feelings were all gone…

Seguir leyendo

[ppascalsstuff]

A Frankie Morales x F! Reader birthday drabble.

Can be read as a standalone one-shot or part of the Build Me Up Buttercup series.

Warnings: P in V sex, oral (both M&F receiving), dirty talk, fingering, public sex, birthday sex, shower sex, a lot of sex, some fluff and swearing. 18+!

Word count: 6.5k+

Summary: It’s Frankie’s birthday and you spend the day together.

Seguir leyendo

[ppascalsstuff]

As a far girl I would absolutely love a smutty part two to that Benny story ! Literally almost teared up reading it because I literally grew up as the Duff or the fat funny friend. The one who never gets the guy or that people hang out with just so they look better.

Also, if you’re up for it could you do one where say, Frankie chooses the chubby girl over her smokin hot friend ? And I don’t want any animosity between em, I want the smoking hot friend to be like “you go girl” or something ? I used to be able to write but I haven’t written in years ! Also can be smutty of course.

How I See You

Pairing: Frankie Morales x plus size f!reader

Word Count: 2600+ (I thought this was going to be short MY BAD)

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Part 2 of I’m Really Into You is COMING! I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It’s not fair on anyone and I hope you find/have found your Benny! 

Thanks to @vanemando15 for being a beta and telling me I’m not losing it 🙃

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

Main Masterlist

Frankie Morales Masterlist

—----

“There! I found a clear table!” Your friend Olivia points to the far corner of the semi-crowded bar, grabbing your hand and pulling you behind her through the crowd, getting a few wolf-whistles as she did. She smirks, knowing how hot she is and and you can’t blame her - if you felt half as hot as her, you’d smirk too.

2 tall barstools are on either side of a small high table. Olivia settles into one while you take the other, setting the drinks you had ordered at the bar down on the table. The night had just started so the bar wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was still busy enough for you. 

“I can’t believe I finally managed to rip you away from work!” Olive chuckles at you as she takes a sip of her drink.

“I had to celebrate that project ending. I feel like I haven’t come up for air in months.” 

“I’ll drink to that!” Olivia raises her glass and you clink yours against hers, the sound of the glasses being absorbed by the sounds of the bar.

Chatting idly for a bit, you start to go into a mini rant about how much crap that work project had dumped on you, when Olivia interrupts.

“We need to get you laid, Pip.”

“Yeah if only. Going to be hard to find someone who wants this-” You gesture towards yourself “-when you-” you gesture towards Olivia “-are sitting within my vicinity.”

“Oh whatever. You’re hot!”

“Yeah that’s why I get asked out all the time.” When was the last time you had gotten laid, let alone gone on an actual date?

Olivia fixes you with a look. “I wish you would see yourself through my eyes, Pip. You’re a great person, hot, smart. You have a lot to offer.”

You nod absentmindedly, glancing towards the table in the corner where 5 men erupt into raucous, loud laughter. Heat rises to your cheeks and you look away quickly when the man in the hat glances over at you as if he felt you looking at him, tears running down his face as laughter continues to pour out of him. 

“Anyway, Pip. I’m glad to at least get you out of the house. I would’ve gone nuts sitting at my computer all day. I don’t know how you did it.”

You shrug. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah that’s true. Still, it’s amazing that you-”

“Excuse me?” The man in the hat that you had locked eyes with a few minutes ago is standing at your table, glancing between you both as if asking for your permission to interrupt your conversation. He’s more handsome up close: a dark blue hat sits on his head, a logo for an oil company embroidered in, dark curls flip out from the bottom of the hat and around his ears, curling up and away from his neck. His eyes are a deep chocolate color, his nose is romanesque and beautiful, with a mustache under it, darker patchy facial hair across his cheeks and jaw. He’s broad, his shoulders look massive in the light denim shirt he wears and you can see that the shirt is stretching at the seams as he shifts under it. He tapers down to a thinner waist and hips, the slight swell of a tummy poking from behind his shirt. This man is hot and there’s no way he’s here for you.

“My name is Frankie and I was wondering-”

You put a hand up. “Say no more, Frankie? I’ll just go sit at the bar.”

“No Pip. Stay.” Your friend looks at you from across the small table.

“It’s alright, Olivia. I’ll just be-”

“Actually-” Frankie inerrupts, blushing slightly when you both turn to look at him, his large hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, an obvious nervous habit “-I was wondering if I could buy you a drink.”

Oh shit, is he looking at me?

“You mean Olivia?” You point to your friend across the table, ignoring the grin that’s spreading across her face as she looks between you and Frankie.

“No. I mean you.” His voice drops an octave on the last word and you can feel a heat growing inside you. 

“M-me?”

He lets out a chuckle, looking down and back up at you as if he was nervous. “Yeah. But only if you w-want to? Have a drink? W-with me?”

“I-” You’re not used to this attention. Olivia is the one who draws people in, not you. You look to her for advice and see, to your horror, that she’s already gathering up her drink. She mouths at you “You go girl!”, gives you a wink, and then speaks.

“I’ll just go sit at the bar.” She shuffles from her seat and makes her way across the room, sitting at a barstool, tossing one more giant smile over at you, silently pointing to Frankie and making lewd gestures.

You feel the heat rising to your cheeks so you look away, finding that Frankie is already looking at you. 

“I- I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m just not used to…this.” You gesture between you both.

Frankie looks shocked. “I find that hard to believe.”

You laugh and Frankie melts. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date-” You visibly wince at your confession, Frankie smiling at you. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“No, you’re fine. To be honest- may I?” He gestures to Olivia’s empty stool. You nod and gesture to her seat and Frankie sits, resuming his statement. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date too.”

“Really? Someone as handsome as you?”

He blushes, a light pink color dusting across his cheeks. “I don’t know about that but yeah. It’s true…hey did your friend call you Pip?”

You nod, looking down in embarrassment before finding his eyes again. “Yeah it’s short for Pip Squeak. To be honest, I’m not even sure why. We met in kindergarten and she called me that. I think she couldn’t remember my real name so she made it up and it stuck.”

“What’s your real name?”

You tell him and he smiles. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink as Frankie groans. “I’m sorry. Was that too cheesy? It’s been so long I don’t even know how to do this. Has it changed?”

“Don’t ask me, Frankie. I’m definitely not an expert.” You smile at him.

“Would…would you like to find out together?”

“Are…are you asking me on a date?”

“I’m trying to be slick about it.”

You chuckle. “That was so slick it’s oil..shit that was lame.” Frankie tilts his head back and laughs, gifting you a view of his neck. 

“No that was perfect! But is that a yes?”

“I..yes. I’d love to.”

You chat for a bit longer, Frankie walking over to the bar to order a couple more drinks and a basket of fries for you both to share. He’s easy to talk to, has a ton of stories, fucking flies helicopters, and listens to every word you say. The fries arrive and you both grab some, taking a bite and then making faces as you chew. Frankie grabs the napkin from under his beer and spits into it.

“Ok, are those the worst fries ever?”

“They might possibly be.”

He looks up at you. “You…you wanna go on that date now? I know a great diner a few blocks away.”

You cock your head to the side studying his face. “Let’s go.”

Frankie heads back to his friends to tell them he’s leaving while you do the same with Olivia, who is now talking to one of the men from Frankie’s table, who introduces himself as Santi. Fuck does this guy have all handsome friends? Olivia smiles and hugs you, whispering in your ear to be safe as she covertly slides a condom in your pocket. You slap her arm and she laughs, watching you walk away. You meet up with Frankie and he offers you his arm and escorts you out of the now crowded bar. 

“You wanna follow me over? They have a lot in the back.”

“Sure. See you in a few.”

You follow Frankie’s truck out of the parking lot and several blocks down the road, parking in the empty, dark parking lot behind the diner. Frankie escorts you in here as well, the one server inside telling you to sit anywhere as it’s empty. You sit in a booth facing each other, the old leather creaking under each of you as you slide in.

“I’m sorry I don’t have flowers for you. But I can offer you better fries?”

“That works for me!”

You spend a few minutes chatting while looking at the menu, placing your order with the server. When she walks away, Frankie asks you about your job and you tell him about it, and about the project that caused you such a headache over the last 2 months, which led you to come out drinking tonight. The server sets your food in front of you and leaves you be.

“I’m sorry the project sucked but I’m glad it did.” He winks and you smile, dropping your eyes down to the table for a moment.

“But uh, Pip. There’s something I need to tell you before we go further.”

You pause, ketchup plopping onto your plate from the glass bottle you had been banging on. “You’re married.”

“What? No. Not uh..not anymore. I’m divorced.”

“Oh. That’s not anything bad.”

“And I have a kid. A daughter.”

Oh.

“Oh? How old is she?”

Frankie watches you for a moment. “She’s 5. Love of my life.”

“My ex and I split about a year after she was born. I know kids aren’t for everyone, and if you never want to talk to me again after tonight I get it. I’ll still pay for din-”

“As she should be.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you?”

He swallows hard. “Because I’m a dad.”

“That’s fine with me. I bet you’re a great dad.”

His brown eyes go wide, looking exactly like a puppy. “It really doesn’t bother you?”

“Not me. I don’t mind.”

“It means I have to talk to my ex still.”

“I figured. Joint custody?”

He nods. “50/50.”

“Is it weird if I ask about her? Your daughter. I would never pry into your ex.”

“Yeah! Yeah no it’s not weird. My ex and I split because…well she was fucking her boss so.” He shrugs, pulling out his phone and thumbing through it to find his gallery.

“I’m sorry, Frankie.”

“It is what it is. It brought me here with you…where the fuck are my photos?” His thumb swipes across the screen, his eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper with each swipe.

“Want some help?”

He looks up at you, sighing in defeat. “Yeah. I’m not so good with the tech shit.”

“You fly helicopters.”

“That’s different. It’s not this shit.” He goes to hand you his phone, already trusting you. But you put your hand up, sliding out of the booth and scooting in next to him. He blushes, scooting down a little more to make room for you.

“This way you can control what you show me. And also it may help your muscle memory.”

“R-right. Ok.”

You start to direct him, very much aware that your thigh is flush against his, feeling heat pass between you as you lean in closer. He smells like french fries, but also like pine with a hint of mint. He finds his gallery and thanks you, flipping to an album marked “Marisol”. He flips through the album, showing you pictures and telling you all about her. His entire body lights up as he gushes about his daughter, wearing the proud dad badge on his chest. 

Before you know it, he pays and you’re scooting out of the booth, Frankie escorting you back around to the poorly-lit, deserted parking lot. You walk up to his truck, admiring it. He had explained to you how it was his grandfathers and that his dad and now him had been keeping it up over the years, replacing the engine and taking care of “her”. She had seen a lot of life and love and it was clear how well she had been taken care of. You turn to face Frankie and tell him just that, and how he should be proud of it. Maybe one day Marisol can help-

And then suddenly he’s in front of you, pushing your back gently into the side of his truck, his lips dusting across yours in a gentle kiss. He pulls back just as quick as he started, taking a step back.

“I’m so sorry, Pip. I should’ve asked. You’re just so-”

You grip his shirt and pull him towards you, completely surprising him and yourself. Your lips find his, kissing him deeply. He licks at your bottom lip and you part them with a sigh, Frankie taking advantage and sliding his tongue in your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands. Your hands come up around his neck, winding into the curls sticking out from under the hat and tugging on them. He moans into your mouth and you do it again, feeling him grip you tighter as he pulls back.

“Pip, if you keep that up, I don’t know if I’ll be able to contain myself.”

Fuck.

“What if I don’t care?” He’s so close that you can feel him through his pants.

“I-Idon’t want you to think that that’s why I asked you out.” He kisses you again, his hips slightly grinding against your leg that he was straddling.

“You could’ve hand anyone in there. Even my friend wanted to fuck you. But you chose me. Why? Why did you choose me?”

He pulls back, tracing the side of your face with his finger. “At first, because I thought you were hot as fuck. But then? Your eyes. They’re…kind. And I could use some kind in my life.” 

He dips down and kisses you again and this time you moan into his mouth, your own hips starting to roll against his thigh, a burning fire rising up inside you. His hands roam down your body and you freeze as he reaches your sides. You know you’re not in shape and you’re ok with it but sometimes it makes you feel really insecure. Frankie feels you tense and he breaks the kiss.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“I..no. No you didn’t hurt me. I just..” You try to push his hands away from your sides, but he looks down, watching you struggle and then back up, comprehension dawning on him.

“Pip, you don’t have to be worried about anything. Am I making you feel uncomfortable?” He removes his hands but stays close to you.

Tears start to well up in your eyes. “I- no. You aren’t, I just…I just…”

He pushes your chin up with his finger, his bright eyes meeting yours. “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

You chuckle, but he doesn’t let you look away. “I mean it, Pip. You’re an amazing woman and I’ve wanted to touch you all night. But if you don’t want me to, I can wait. It’s completely up to you.”

“I just… I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Do I look disappointed?”

You blink away the tears, feeling his thumbs wipe them off your cheeks. When you meet his eyes you finally see it - his eyes nearly black with lust, his impossibly hard cock smashed against your thigh. Even the guys who pretended to want you just for their buddies to get with Olivia didn’t look like this. No one has ever looked at you with such want, such desire, such desperate need. And it lights you up, begging you to be with him.

“No one has ever looked at me like this before.” 

He leans forward, his lips gently kissing that spot under your ear. When he speaks it’s low, raspy, and lustful. 

“Then let me show you how I see you.”

—----

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All One Shots/Writing Prompts/Ficlets:

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[ppascalsstuff]

Frankie honeymoon drabble

I first saw photo here.

A little Frankie x wife!reader drabble based on this pic. Cuteness, some language. Sexy times talk. Just wrote this one the road and tossing it to tumble. <3

~~~~

There’s a bright light blinding you and before you’re fully awake, and you feel the scratch of a beard against your skin as you get attacked with kisses. 

“Frankie, do you ever sleep in? It’s our honeymoon. We’re supposed to be on vacation,” you moan as the weight of your husband settles on top of you. You reflexively wrap your arms around him. 

He kisses your cheek, wetly and loudly because he knows it makes you laugh. “We’re supposed to be fucking like bunnies,” he jokes. 

You crack open one eye to glare at him. “I’m pretty sure we have been, I’ve got the aches to prove it.” The good ache, you think to yourself.

He rolls off of you, cuddling up to your side instead. “Oh shit, did I hurt you that bad? You didn’t tell me, baby.” He looks concerned as he lets his warm hand graze over you as though he can soothe your pain.

Fully awake now, you turn your head to him and let your fingers twirl in his mess of hair. “You didn’t hurt me, just made me remember with every step how lucky I am that I married you,” you promise, kissing his strong nose that you adore so much. He sighs, a tacit acceptance of your assurances.

You both lie there for a bit, just casually touching each other while the tropic breeze dances through your little rented bungalow. You let the battle between you and your heavy eyelids go on for a bit before finally giving in, letting your eyes flutter closed.

It takes Frankie a minute to notice. “Nope, no more sleeping! I wanna go on that hike today and then you’re going to the spa and getting a massage.” He pulls your groaning form up and out of bed and over to the chest of drawers.

While Frankie rifles through your clothes asking what you’d like to wear, since you clearly are not about to dress yourself. You lean over and put the floral lei from the check-in desk around his neck.

He glares at you from where he’s bent over your shirt drawer. “Should I make a joke about getting laid?” he asks sarcastically.

You cross your arms and grin. “I can’t believe you haven’t made that joke once since we got here!” Frankie loved telling the worst dad jokes to you, something that no one else ever believed. He liked to save them all up for you, he told you once. “At least it covers up that hideous shirt that Benny gave you.”

He stands upright and makes a fake-surprised face as he looks down at the shirt in question. “We love this movie, thank you very much.”

You reach over and snag the polaroid camera where it sits on the dresser. “Alright, Mr. I-Love-This-Movie, I’m going to commemorate this moment,” you say as you line up the camera to take a photo.

“Oh, hell no!” Frankie says as he reaches out to wrap you in a bear hug. You manage to get a snap off before he envelopes you and you wave the photo around triumphantly as it develops. Frankie is admonishing you with kisses and a couple growly bad girl’s as you struggle against him, leading to a steamy makeout session.

When you both emerge for air, he snags the photo and camera from your hands. “Babe, you didn’t even get my face all the way in it,” he says with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes and flop back over on the bed. “Frankie, I’m not going on a damn hike. Can we just stay in bed all day?” you ask with a pout. You know he can’t resist.

“Not too sore?” he inquires, setting everything right with the dresser before coming back and kneeling on the foot of the bed.

You shake your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him, opening your legs so he can shuffle over and lie back down on top of you. It’s his favorite spot, and where he spends the rest of the day in paradise with you.

~~~~

Thanks to @tuskens-mando for telling me to write this! x

[ppascalsstuff]

Ummm hi 🥺 I’ve been having a real shit week and your blog always makes me smile. I went through a friend break up because they wanted me to change my personality (quiet, introverted, not much of a party goer) to fit their lifestyle and it was hurting me to be mocked/made fun of�� It’s just been… pretty awful, yeah and my insecurities are up by a million bc of it. If you’re in the mood to write some soft Frankie content would you write something about an person’s insecurities making them think Frankie will break up with them eventually? I think he would be so comforting and frankly a Frankie hug would be so good rn💓

AN |  Who doesn’t want a soft, sweet Frankie? I hope you all enjoy and know you’re wonderful just as you are 🥰

Pairing | Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Suggestive dialogue

Word Count | 1.2k

Masterlist | Frankie, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Frankie?” The sound of your soft voice caused him to look up from the newspaper he was reading while chowing down on some breakfast before work. He set the paper down before giving you his full attention, that soft smile you adored tugging up the corners of his mouth. You sighed lightly before deciding what you had to say wasn’t worth it, so you just shook your head and went to pour some coffee for yourself, “nothing. Never mind.”

“Baby,” he’d already stood up and sneaked behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you did your best to reassure him but you knew he wasn’t buying it. He gave you a gentle squeeze before pressing a few soft kisses to the bare skin of your shoulder. A small, contented sigh escaped your lips before turning your head to kiss him properly, “Frankie…am I boring? Do you think I’m boring and…lame?”

“What?” he turned you around so you were facing him, a confused expression on his handsome face, “what…why are you asking me that?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged your shoulders, but he put a finger under your chin and turned your face towards his, “it’s just…the others at work are always talking about how they go out and go to parties and clubs and the things they do and they just seem fun. I feel nothing like that…I feel so boring compared to them.”

“You are anything but boring, sweetheart,” he kissed you gently before you could even argue with him, letting his lips linger against yours. You couldn’t help but smile, tasting the sweetness clinging onto him from the sugary cereal he loved, “did someone say something to you?”

“No,” you promised, “it’s just…my own insecurities I guess. I just wonder and don’t laugh - but I wonder if I’m enough for you.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this but…” he took your left hand in his and laced your fingers together, kissing the finger that bore your engagement ring and wedding band, “but we happen to be married.”

“I know,” you couldn’t help but smile at him, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean-”

“You are more than enough, and you always have been,” he whispered, his voice so soft and gentle that it sent a shiver down your spine, “I happen to find you very un-boring. If anything, I’m the stick in the mud in this family.”

“I don’t think you are at all,” you laughed at him, gently swatting his chest, “maybe neither of us are that boring…or maybe we’re just boring together.”

“Tell me something, sweetheart,” he was slowly pulling you into the living room before flopping onto the couch. You laughed at his silliness before climbing on top of him, sprawling out over his broad, warm frame, “are you happy?”

“In this moment or in general?” you asked as you rested your head on his chest, using the tip of your finger to trace along the freckles scattered on his exposed skin.

“Both.”

“At this moment, I am very happy. Happy to be lying on top of my wonderful husband,” you grinned at him, “and in general I am also very happy. I have the most wonderful - and handsome - man to call mine, we live in a nice home, we have jobs we both like, we have some good, albeit weird and wild, friends, and I’m excited for our camping trip this weekend.”

“Me too,” he kissed the top of your head, trailing his fingers along your back in a gentle, soothing manner. 

“You have a wonderful and handsome husband too?”

“Very funny, cheeky girl,” he lightly smacked your ass, causing you to wiggle in his grasp as you laughed, “I have a wonderful and amazing and beautiful wife. What more could I ever ask for?”

“Well-”

“Rhetorical question, sassy pants,” he pretended to sigh dramatically before you pulled yourself up so you were straddling his waist, “leaving so soon?”

“Definitely not,” his large, warm hands found purchase on your hips as you beamed at him, “I want to stay here on top of you forever and keep you all to myself.”

“I am at your mercy, sweetheart,” he grinned as you raised an eyebrow at him, “you can do whatever you want with me.”

“I’ve got plenty of ideas for what I want,” you whispered before you leaned down and kissed him, “but I’m afraid we’ve got to go to work.”

“I think the boss will be okay with me being late…or just not going into work today,” he winked at you. Those were the perks of being your own boss you supposed, “and somehow I think your business partner would be okay with you…taking a mental health day.”

“Oh, you think so?” you raised an eyebrow at him as he eagerly nodded, “you gonna call Santi and tell him I’m not coming in today? Just what are you going to tell him, Mr. Morales?”

“Mrs. Morales is otherwise occupied,” he tugged on the hem of your baggy t-shirt (an old worn out one of his naturally) with a big, goofy grin, “she’s busy being very-not-boring with her husband.”

“Hmmm,” you leaned into his touch as his hands found their way under your shirt, skimming along your soft skin, “I think that would be pretty convincing.”

“What do you say, baby?” he whispered as your body practically hummed with need for him; both his physical touch and his presence.

“Okay,” it really didn’t take much convincing on his part for you to take a day off to spend with him, “let’s do it then.”

“Yes!” he grinned triumphantly as he leaned up to kiss you gently, “but I meant what I said, baby. You are anything but boring to me and you shouldn’t think anything otherwise. As long as you’re happy, nothing else matters - especially not the opinions of others.”

“Thank you, Francisco,” your hand found his face as you gently stroked his cheek, “for always knowing what to say, for always being there for me. I love you more than I could ever put into words.”

“I love you too,” he promised softly, nuzzling into the soft touch of your hand, “especially when you call me Francisco. It always means one of two things: either I’m in trouble or you need me.”

“I think you can figure out which one it is,” you kissed him, slowly pushing him back down on the couch, “and as soon as you call Santi and the shop, we have all day. You know what that means.”

“Mini-golf,” he beamed at you, “farmer’s market, working on the garden, going to the lake for a swim, cooking dinner together!”

“Yes,” you laughed at your dork of a husband, “I think we can squeeze all of that in, Frankie!”

“But first,” he lowered his voice as he eyed you with hungry eyes, “call me Francisco one more time.”

“Francisco,” you whispered breathily into his ear, “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

[ppascalsstuff]

A nice day for a White Wedding (Marcus Pike x soon-to-be Wife! Reader)

Summary: You and Marcus decided to spend the night before your wedding together, fuck tradition

Warnings: pure fluff, kisses, established relationship, mention of reader’s Mom

Seguir leyendo

[ppascalsstuff]

Breathe (Javier Peña)

Pairing: Javier Peña X F!Reader

Summary: After a rough night, Javier is on the edge of a breakdown and needs his wife

Warnings: mentions of violence, canonical violence of narcos, mentions of a child dying (s2), mentions of death, cursing, angst

WC: 2.1k

A/N: I'm sorry but javi peña owns my entire existence rn, and I was just recently watching that ep in s2 with the lawyers kid and I was just thinking please someone give Javi a hug cause mi niño is struggling. So heres this soft!javi kinda thing. I would love to do more Javi stuff so hopefully this doesnt flop.

A voice in Spanish played on the black and white screen that illuminated your otherwise dim living room. You weren't listening anymore, you didn't want to. You had heard enough about how many people got shot downtown, or how a bomb blew up in a crowded street. And it made it worse knowing your husband was always in the center of it. 

Javi. 

You were worried about him, more than ever, and considering what he did for a living, that was saying a lot. After Carrillo's death, Javier wanted to take down Escobar in any way he could, no matter the cost, even if that meant selling his soul to the devil. And that he did. 

You didn't know what he was willing to do or had done out there, he didn't want you to know either. But you knew he was involved with the recent creation of Los Pepes, and you could see it was killing him. What he had done, the people he was getting killed. But this was war, and he did what he had to. Or at least he tried to convince himself of that on a daily basis. 

You didn't know why you kept waiting, at this point you knew that more likely than not Javier wasn't coming home tonight, or at least not before sunrise. It wouldn't be the first time. But something in the pit of your stomach felt wrong, you had this constant feeling of unease you couldn't shake off. Something was wrong, and you just couldn't go to sleep until you saw Javier walk through that door, safe. 

You tapped the rim of your mug, the freshly brewed coffee still evaporating steam right into your face as you simply held it to your lips, occasionally taking a quick sip. You sat on the couch, your eyes were glued to the door, waiting for Javi to walk through it at some point. Or maybe not. You didn't know anymore. 

"C'mon Javi," you mumbled to yourself, preparing yourself for the steaming liquid to hit your lips again when you heard the faint sound of keys jingling on the opposite side of the door. You suddenly felt like you could breathe again. You closed your eyes for a second, taking a deep breath like you had no air in your lungs before you set the mug down on the coffee table in front of you, ready for Javier to walk through that door, in whatever state he was in. 

You heard indistinct sounds, you heard what you thought was the sound of keys hitting the ground and a sudden loud thud against a wall. You jumped, startled and a shaky breath left your lips. Now you had an idea of what state he was in. 

The door creaked open a few seconds later, and Javier's tall form appeared through the door. He didn't notice you right away, he probably wasn't expecting you to still be up. He closed the door and immediately leaned against it, his back turned to you. He pressed both palms flat against the surface and his head hung low, he was panting. 

You didn't say a word, you knew when he came home like this it was best to let him take a minute, breathe and process it before trying to get anything out of him. Otherwise he would simply shut down. So you did, you stood from the couch and quietly made your way to him, but you didn't say anything to him, and you didn't touch him. You simply let him be, let him try to catch his breath and collect himself. In those couple of minutes, you took the opportunity to take in his current state. And fuck was he a wreck. His hair was tousled and disheveled, damp with sweat, much like his shirt and he was shaking. 

Okay now let's intervene. 

You approached him with caution, reaching out your hand to touch his shoulder, but not before letting him know of your presence, "Javi?" You spoke softly, barely above a whisper and laid a hand on his back. He visibly reacted to your touch, he flinched slightly, but otherwise did not acknowledge your presence. You sighed heavily through your nose, your lips smacking softly as you tried to come up with what to say. 

You stayed silent for another minute, simply rubbing his back until the tension in his shoulders dissipated, somewhat at least, "Mi cielo," you tried again, but this time a shiver ran down his spine, and you felt it. 

"I can't—" he stuttered, but stopped, his breath picking up again. "I can't do this, I can't." He shook his head, his eyes screwed shut and his hands now balled into fists. You scrunched up your eyebrows, confused. 

You leaned down, trying to look at his face, "Javi what—" 

"I don't know what to do," he blurted out, voice shaking as he slowly lifted his head up, turning to face you, "I don't… so innocent people are dead and I don't know what to fucking do." 

You stared at him, tears instantly forming in your eyes and one fell down your face. You bit your lip, taking a deep breath but you didn't say anything. You knew it was better to just let him let it all out by himself. You didn't have to say much, the weight on his shoulders eventually got too heavy to carry and he had to tell someone. But it killed you, it killed you to see him carry so much everyday, to see him hurt because of it. 

"I'm a fucking DEA agent, my job is to fix this shit, help these people," he exhaled shakily, running a shaky hand over his jaw and he chuckled bitterly, "but I'm just getting people killed. First Carrillo, now I got a fucking kid killed." 

His breath was picking up again, it was unsteady and uneven, and he was shaking again. You wiped your eyes, having to compose yourself if you were going to help him, emotionally at least. You took a step forward, Javier now towering over you. You looked up at him and grabbed his face between your hands as gently as you could. 

"Breathe Javi, just breathe baby." You said. You looked into his eyes, they were teary and tormented, like he was on the verge of breaking down. There was so much pain behind those brown eyes you loved so much and it absolutely broke your heart to see him like this. 

Without you doing anything, he leaned down and pressed his face into your neck, breathing shakily. He did as you said, he took a few deep shaky breaths as you ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him softly. In between breaths, you could hear quiet sniffles, like he was trying his best not to cry. 

Breathe.

Javier shook his head exasperatedly, "He was just a kid, he was a fucking kid and they… they killed him because of me. Shot him in the fucking head and threw him in a trunk. I.. I—" 

"Shhh. Ya, ya.. it's okay baby." You held him closer, with one hand on the back of his head and the other on his shoulder, in return he wrapped his arms fully around you. He was cold, and he was shaking. 

"You dont understand, I fucked up and innocent people are dead. And that's on me." He finally said it and it was like it all came crashing down because then you felt tears start to soak your neck and shirt. 

God this was killing you. 

Sometimes Javier would break down, so much that he would cry, cry until he got tired, you had seen it a few times. But it still killed you to see him blame himself and hurt so much because of it because there was nothing you could do to make his pain go away. And honestly there was nothing in this world that you wanted more than to make everything okay for your husband. But then again you knew damn well when you married him that would be impossible with his job, and that you would have to learn how to help him through it.

"Javi don't do that," you said quietly, your own voice shaking. "You can't blame yourself." 

He sniffled quietly and shook his head, suddenly pulling back, his gaze not meeting yours, "I'm sorry bonita.. It's late and you should sleep. And I need a shower. Just go to bed." He pressed a short and cold kiss to your forehead before he took a step back, removing his arms from you entirely and headed down the hallway before you could say anything else. 

He did that sometimes, shut you out. Shut everybody out really. He didn't want his burdens to become yours too. He didn't want the things that kept him awake at night to haunt you the same way they did him. You were too good for that. But you wished he understood that once you married him you agreed to carry his weight too. And you wanted to. 

You heard the sound of running water not long after. You didn't want to leave him like this. You hated that he wanted to deal with it alone when he had a wife that was there for him no matter what. He didn't even have to talk about what happened, he rarely ever did, but you just wanted him to know that you were there. 

You peaked the bathroom door open, steam already coming out. You invited yourself in, instantly spotting him in the shower. His back was turned to you, his head down under the pouring water, eyes screwed shut and hands braced against the tiles. Every muscle on his back and shoulders were strained with tension. 

"Javi, are you okay in there?" You called out softly, the sound of the running water drowning out your voice a bit, but he could still hear you. And if you were any closer you could hear he was panting too. 

"Yeah baby. I'm.. I'm okay." His voice was shaking and uneven, he hadn't turned to look at you either. "I told you to go to bed." 

You scoffed softly. Yeah fuck no. 

You said nothing in response as you simply stripped yourself from your clothes and opened the glass door, letting out even more steam as you stepped in. 

You now could see his chest rise and fall quickly as he panted and he shook his head, still not looking at you, "bonita…" 

"Don't Javi. Don't shut me out." You basically begged, on instinct you stepped forward and closed the small gap between you. You pressed your chest flat against his back and wrapped your arms around his torso. You sighed softly as the warm water began to your body too and you pressed the side of your face in between his shoulder blades,  "I'm your wife, mi cielo, for better or for worse, and I'm going to love you at your best, and at your worst. But you have to let me." You said softly as you took deep slow breaths, letting him feel the steady rise and fall of your chest until he slowly started to do the same. 

"Breathe Javi. I'm here."

He brought his hands to hold yours against his chest as his chest slowly started to follow the rhythm of your own, his breathing no longer audible and his hands no longer shaking. You pressed your lips against his skin once you felt his body relax and his demeanor changed, no longer tense and with his shield up. 

"I love you bonita, so much. I don't think you'll ever know how much." Javier finally spoke, his voice now a lot smoother and calmer than before, like part of that weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He squeezed your hands, bringing one of your hands to his lips. 

"I love you too, Javi, more than anything." You sighed softly into his back, only moving when he turned around to face you. 

Javier rested his hands on your hips as he looked down at you. And there you could see how much pain was behind those soft brown eyes. He was hurting, whatever he did, whatever he saw, it was eating him up, more than you could ever know. 

"Thank you." He said quietly, it was so quiet you could barely hear it under the running water.

You looked up at him with big eyes, "For what?" You asked, confused, and wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close. 

"Because you're here. And I can breathe when I'm with you." 

Breathe Javi, breathe because I'm here.