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yourlocaljonghoe · 4 months

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Best Friend!Ateez and you sharing a bed - Scenario. || OT8.

Summary: Unexpectedly, you're forced to share a bed with your best friend. What will happen when you realize there's so much more than friendship between you?

Pairing: OT8!Ateez (individually) x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Suggestive (18+, mdni!!)

Wordcount: 7.1k

Warnings: Dirty thoughts, kissing, alcohol consumption, allusion to sex (yet nothing too explicitly), grinding against each other, mentions of erections and feeling horny

A/N: Hello, I'm back with my first ot8 post! This was requested by @foxinnie8, I really hope you like this <33 I struggled a lot finding a scenario for each of our boys, but it ultimately was a good challenge for me and I enjoyed writing it a lot! Big thank you to my little assistant and bestie @yunho-mp3 for helping me and constantly listening to my rambling, ily!! Please like, comment and reblog and if you want more scenarios go ahead and request! Divider credits to @firefly-graphics!

Taglist: @yunho-mp3, @kyukyustar, @hwapetals, @foxinnie8, @preciouswoozi

Park Seonghwa

With a scream caught in your throat and sweat on your brow,you bolted upright in the bed after another terrifying nightmare. As your heart raced and your breathing quickened, you tried to shake off the remnants of the haunting images that seemed to grip your mind. With trembling hands, you reached for the glass of water on the bedside table and took a long sip, willing yourself to calm down. The dim glow of the moonlight filtering through your curtains illuminated the familiar surroundings of your room, providing some small comfort in the midst of unease. Gradually, as the adrenaline began to dissipate and your body started to relax once more, you determinedly pushed away thoughts of those nightmares.

Hwa, your heart earned.

Let him sleep, your mind screamed instead.

“Fuck it”, you muttered. You needed your best friend, and you needed him now.

With a deep breath, you reluctantly swung your legs over the edge of the bed and padded quietly across the cool floorboards to the door. As you reached for the doorknob, your hand hesitated for a moment before you swallowed your pride and turned it slowly. Stepping into the dimly lit hallway, you made your way to your best friend's room, barely making a sound as you navigated through the darkness. When you reached his door, you paused for a moment, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly in an attempt to steady your nerves. Then, with a gentle knock on the door, you whispered his name, still somewhat unwilling to disturb his peaceful slumber but needing his reassuring presence more than anything else at that moment.

And there he laid, the most beautiful man you called your best friend, bare chest barely covered with a blanket, his soft body screaming both comfort and sexiness. As you stood there, unable to think clearly, completely entranced and suddenly very, very aware of how attractive Park Seonghwa really was - not that you didn't know, but goddamn - the man was pulled from his slumber, and he slowly opened his eyes, a mixture of confusion and concern appeared right on his handsome face. As he registered your presence and caught sight of your disheveled appearance, understanding dawned, and he immediately pushed aside the blanket to make room for you.

“Come here, angel”, he softly whispered, his smile reaching his tired eyes.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and all of a sudden, it was too much. Taking a step back, your back hit the door with a harsh thud, and Seonghwa looked more confused than ever.

“I-i can't. I'm sorry, I don't know why I came here, I-I should go-”

Seonghwa sat up quickly, his expression turning from confusion to concern. "No, wait," he insisted gently, reaching out a hand towards you. "You don't have to go. It's okay, I'm here for you." The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache.

How could you tell him that you weren't ashamed of sharing your emotions with him, but scared of what you wanted to do to him right now, while he stood before you, bare chest on full display, in a dark room, just the two of you alone…

Just minutes ago, you were shaken up by a terrible, frightening nightmare, and now, all you wanted was to get your brains blown out by your shy, pretty roommate.

“H-hwa”, you whispered, yet it sounded more like a desperate whimper, a plea for him to take care of you, to take your mind off those terrible scenes from your dream.

And he understood, his cheeks blushing, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he searched your eyes for any sort of doubt, but you knew he'd found none.

“Y/N, we should-”

“-talk, I know, Hwa. Let's talk tomorrow, please. I need you, and I need you now. T-tomorrow we can talk, sort it all out, but now I just… please take care of me, Seonghwa.”

Just seconds later, you laid on his bed, his figure hovering above you. Both of you were breathing heavily, nervous, yet ready for each other, as far as you could tell from his ominous erection pressing against you.

His fingers flirted with the hem of your sweater. “C-can I touch you?”

His voice was hoarse and nervous, and you felt the same way too, so you took his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly. You really, really wanted this.

“Yes, Hwa. Anywhere.”

He moved closer, licking the rim of your ear. “Anywhere? Really?"

“Really.”

Twisting your neck, you pulled his mouth to you for a brief, wet kiss, sucking his tongue until his vision turned white around the edges.

You let out a choked sound, and he paused. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Your hips tipped, pressing yourself tighter against his hand. “Please.”

He lifted his head for a moment, raising himself up on his arms enough to make eye contact, and you groaned at the sudden absence of that incredibly talented tongue.

“Everything okay?” His mouth was wet from your kiss, his pupils wide and dark. “If I do something you don’t like, just tell me. Or if you want me to stop-”

“Don't stop, Park Seonghwa”, you moaned, pulling him close to you again,”don't you dare stop tonight. Or ever again.”

Kim Hongjoong

“So… seems like we'll have to share a bed.”

“Well, looks like we don't have much of a choice, huh?” Hongjoong said with a friendly smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I promise I won't hog the blankets. We can just put some pillows between us, I guess. It's just for one night, it'll be fine.”

You tried to play it cool, tried to appear as calm as he was right now, but the idea of sharing a bed with your friend made your cheeks turn a little pink. "Yeah, no worries," you replied, hoping to sound casual. After all, you two were just friends, right?

If only your stupid heart knew that as well.

Today, the two of you went to an art exhibition in another city, a trip you've been excited for awhile now. Hongjoong loved art and fashion and asked you specifically to accompany him and you, of course, did happily without hesitation, deeply enjoying the beautiful art displayed there and his cute rambling about his favorite pieces. It was a delightful evening you two spent together, with lots of banter and laughter.

Well, and then the two of you forgot the time and ended up in the only motel that had a room available. So here you were now, both in your fancy clothes from the exhibition, contemplating the awkward situation of having to share a single bed. It's not exactly the most ideal circumstance, but whatever, you had to live with it now.

You both quickly set up a makeshift barrier with the pillows and after that, you quickly excused yourself to freshen up and headed to the bathroom. As you turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower, your heart raced uncontrollably. You desperately tried to focus on the warmth of the water and the smell of the shampoo the motel put there to use, anything to distract you from the fact that you were about to share a bed with Hongjoong.

Once you were done, you dried off and changed into your underwear, taking a few deep breaths to calm your racing heart. It's just for one night, you reminded yourself. Sighing, you gathered your courage and made your way back to the room, where the man of your literal dreams awaited you - half naked, just like you were now.

When you entered the room, you knew it was over for you.

There, right before your very own eyes sat the most gorgeous, attractive man you've ever seen, and the sight made you weak in your knees. His hair was a little disheveled, his muscles were beautifully defined and his face - god, these pretty features, those plump lips you've been dreaming about so often and those dark, brown eyes… that were now staring right back at you, catching you drooling over him; the man you called your best friend.

Shit.

As you sat down onto the bed, time seemed to slow down. Every detail of his appearance was etched into your mind as if to be remembered forever. The quickened pace of your heart was evident, and you fumbled for words. Your best friend's presence had transformed into something entirely new, awakening emotions you never knew existed. Caught in a moment of utter disbelief, you grappled with the realization that your feelings for him had veered far from mere friendship. You didn't know when and how, but it was an undeniable fact.

“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, grappling with the tumultuous thoughts racing through your mind.

“What's bothering you?”

Hongjoong's voice pulled you out of your thoughts, and you quickly shook your head, trying to act nonchalant. "Nothing, just tired," you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. It was now or never. You had to push these feelings aside and get through the night without revealing your turmoil. Yet, as you both lay down on the bed, the physical closeness of your bodies only intensified the emotional storm brewing inside of you. The sound of Hongjoong's breathing in the quiet room seemed deafeningly loud, echoing each heartbeat that betrayed the depth of your feelings for him. As much as you wanted sleep to overcome you, it stayed frustratingly out of reach - taunting you with dreams that could never be realized.

And then, Hongjoong shifted closer, so close in fact you could feel his warm breath on your neck and- oh…

Something hard was poking your ass.

You quickly put a hand over your mouth to suppress the moan that almost slipped out, but it was too late.

Hongjoong already knew the effect he had on you.

Slowly, his hands grabbed onto your hips, harshly squeezing the flesh he was finally able to touch, pushing his closed erection even more onto your barely clothed ass, and it made you almost lose your mind.

“J-joongie”, you whimpered, desperate for more, your legs rubbing against each other for some sweet release.

“When you wore that dress today”, your best friend started talking with that sweet, raspy voice of his, his lips biting and kissing your neck up and down, “I thought I was going crazy. Wanted to pull it off you the entire fucking day. And now you're laying here, half naked, fuck, it made me so hard just looking at you.”

His fingers wandered south, hovering over your clothed and wet pussy. You could feel his lips curl into a devilish smirk.

“I know you're wet too, baby. The way you looked at me earlier was all I needed to know, but I still wanna hear you say it, Y/N. Say you want this. Say you want me.”

“P-please, Joongie”, was all you could utter.

He only hummed, and then his fingers introduced you to places best friends should not explore together.

Jeong Yunho

“And remember kids: don't do the naughty here, the walls aren't exactly thin”, your mom teased, laughing as she saw your reddened cheeks and widened eyes. You've never felt more embarrassed and all you wanted at that moment was for the ground to open up and swallow you.

It was your family's yearly skiing trip, something you were not quite fond of - not because you didn't love your family, you did so very much, but because they wouldn't stop their relentless teasing, no matter what. And to be honest, you were sick and tired of it.

When will our Y/N finally get a boyfriend?

Over the years, you started to resent this question more and more. You knew they meant no harm, yet they also wouldn't respect your boundaries and you simply had enough.

So for this year you had a plan: bringing your best friend Jeong Yunho with you, but pretending he was your boyfriend.

At first, it seemed like a great idea. Now… you weren't so sure anymore.

Behind your embarrassed figure, Yunho only laughed as you closed the door and put your head against it, sighing, glad that inappropriate comments like this were finally over - for now, at least.

Yunho, sensing your discomfort, walked over and gave you a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder. “Hey, don't worry about it”, he said with a gentle smile. “We knew this might happen, right? Remember our plan?” You nodded, recalling the pact you both had made before embarking on this trip: to support each other through the teasing and to act as convincingly as possible in your fake relationship. Taking a deep breath, you tried to shake off the embarrassment and focus on enjoying the vacation with your family and Yunho by your side.

Tomorrow, you could deal with their comments again, as embarrassing as they were. What worried you now was how the hell you'd survive this night with your alleged boyfriend in a bed together.

“Let's go to bed now. After all, we gotta get up early tomorrow right, my girlfriend?”

For the first time that day, your cheeks did not redden out of embarrassment.

As you settled into bed after your nightly skincare routine, you couldn't help but feel the awkwardness in the air. Yunho, ever the gentleman, had given you plenty of space – even suggesting that he could sleep on the floor if it made you more comfortable. However, you insisted that it wasn't necessary, as the whole point of this charade was to make your family believe that you were in a relationship. The two of you lay there in silence for a while, finding solace in the darkness of the room. Eventually, soft laughter from Yunho broke the silence.

“What's so funny?”, you whispered, a pout forming on your face as you turned around, now face to face with your fake boyfriend.

“You just- you just look so stiff”, he chuckled quietly. “I won't bite Y/N. It's just me, remember?”

Yeah, that's the problem you big, idiotic, sweet, attractive man.

Gathering the courage, you slowly breathed in and out, finally relaxing and turned around to face Yunho, letting out a small laugh as well. “I know, I'm sorry. It's just... weird, you know?”

Yunho nodded in understanding, his eyes meeting yours with nothing but warmth and reassurance. As the silence stretched between you two, your heart raced slightly at this newfound closeness in the dimly lit room. So close that you could feel each other's breaths. Mustering up your courage once again, you let out a quiet question that had been lingering in your mind for a while now. “Hey Yunho, do you think our plan is working? Do they actually believe we're together?”

He thought for a moment before giving a small nod. “I think so, and if not, we'll put on a more convincing show tomorrow.” You smiled at his determination and felt your heart swell with gratitude for having such an amazing best friend by your side. Slowly but surely, the awkwardness dissipated as the two of you fell into a gentle conversation laced with laughter and comfort. You talked and talked, like best friends always do, and then after another round of laughter, you felt it for the first time.

The air around you had changed.

Yunho was close, you realized, too close for a man you only considered a friend. And you… didn't mind at all.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you noticed the way his eyes lingered on your lips before returning to meet your gaze. A sudden surge of emotions flooded through you, making it difficult to think straight or remember the original plan. As if reading your mind, Yunho hesitated for a moment before gently taking one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers. His touch sent a shiver down to your spine, and the anticipation of what could happen next hung heavily in the air. It was then that you realized that maybe, just maybe, this fake relationship wasn't so fake for either of you anymore.

You couldn't deny the chemistry and sparks that seemed to grow with each passing day, and now as you laid there - breathless and close - it became evident that whatever was happening between the two of you was true and real. With a deep breath, Yunho broke the silence once more, murmuring softly, “Y/N… can we talk about this?”

It wasn't just a question; it was an invitation to confront what had been lurking beneath the surface all along - feelings both exciting and terrifying that threatened to topple the carefully built charade neither of you could maintain any longer. And as you swallowed hard, preparing yourself for what may lie ahead, you knew one thing for certain: things between you and Yunho would never be quite the same again.

And that's exactly what you wanted; you wanted Jeong Yunho, now.

“What would you do when I said that I really, really need you right now Yuyu?”, you whispered, your hands finding their way into his soft looks.

Yunho’s eyes widened, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, yet he found his composure rather quickly, a smirk now adorning his features.

“I'd say we'd have to be very, very quiet, baby girl.”

Kang Yeosang

There was a reason you've never gone camping before, and it was a very simple one: you were utterly scared, no, terrified of every sound coming from outside your tent.

You promised Yeosang to be a big girl and survive a night alone in order for him to be comfortable - he apparently wasn't a big fan of sharing tents with anyone, at least his friend Wooyoung said so - but now, after a few hours of laying wide awake and hyper aware of everything happening outside you were not so sure anymore. You were a scared cat, and you should've admitted that sooner.

As you laid there, trembling at every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs, you started questioning your decision to accompany Yeosang on this camping trip. You knew how important it was for him to explore nature together with you and his other friends, a group of young men you met for the first time today, and reconnect with the great outdoors; he constantly raved about the serenity and peacefulness that came with it. Desperate to impress him and strengthen your bond, you reluctantly agreed to face your fears head-on. Now, staring into the darkness that enveloped your cramped tent, you regretted not voicing your concerns earlier. As the night wore on, each eerie noise amplified your fear and apprehension.

Unable to bear the mounting solitude any longer, you took a deep breath and mustered the courage to unzip your tent. Peering outside cautiously in search of Yeosang's tent, you decided that maybe braving the night with someone wasn't such a bad idea after all.

With your heart pounding in your chest, you cautiously stepped out of your tent, the cold night air sending a shiver down your spine. The moonlight filtered through the dense tree canopy, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor. As you tiptoed across the campsite, clutching your flashlight for dear life, you strained your ears to listen for any sign that the others were awake. Approaching Yeosang's tent, you hesitated for a moment, your fear battling against your desire not to seem clingy or needy. Finally, unable to withstand the terror gnawing at you any longer, you quickly unzipped the tent and got inside.

“Yeosang?”, you whispered quietly into the darkness.

To your immense relief, Yeosang was still awake and immediately sensed your fear. He whispered back: “Hey, what's wrong?”

His voice was calm and comforting, making you feel somewhat protected.

“Okay so I am not the tough girl you think I am, I am absolutely terrified and I will die if I stay alone in my tent any longer so please let me stay with you I promise to be quiet and not pull your hair and-”

“Okay okay”, Yeosang softly laughed, his deep voice calming you down in an instant as he stopped your incoherent rambling. “Stay here. It's fine, I don't mind if it's you.”

I don't mind if it's you.

How dare he just casually drop that and expect you to be totally normal about it.

As you settled down next to him, your heart rate finally began to slow, and the earlier terror started to subside. The warmth of his presence and the sound of his gentle breathing lulled you into a sense of safety. You glanced over at his sleeping bag, noticing how he had arranged his things meticulously around him - a stark contrast to the chaotic mess you had left in your own tent.

Yeosang's steady presence beside you now seemed to make everything feel more manageable, and you couldn't help but feel a little grateful for those terrified moments that led you here.

“Besides”, he began, a somewhat teasing undertone laying in his voice, “what did you think I'm hitting the gym for? To protect you from those terrible monsters outside, of co- h-hey, what are you doing?”

“Well, I have to see for myself if you're really capable of protecting me”, you teased.

And goddamn, those muscles were no joke. As you squeezed his arms, Yeosang suddenly became very quiet and tense, but you were too busy comparing the size of his biceps to the size of your head - terrifying, if you may say so.

When did your best friend become so strong? When did his handsome, sweet self get such fucking muscles?

“Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“If you keep doing this, I won't be able to contain myself any longer.”

You froze, suddenly very aware of the intimate situation you had put yourselves in. Releasing his arm, you sheepishly glanced at Yeosang, who was looking at you with a mix of amusement and lust in his eyes. The air between you two had thickened, heavy with unspoken emotions and tension.

“W-what do you mean”, you asked, your cheeks a deep shade of red you were sure he could see even in this utter darkness.

Yeosang hesitated for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let's just say”, he began, his voice barely a whisper, “your touch has a powerful effect on me.”

Your heart raced as the truth of his words began to sink in. The feelings you had been trying to suppress for so long now suddenly seemed to be mirrored in his intense gaze. Swallowing hard, you decided to take a leap of faith and reached out for Yeosang's hand, intertwining your fingers with his and slowly leading them to where you needed him the most, a deep moan leaving your lips once his fingers found your most vulnerable spot.

“You have this effect on me too, Yeo.”

“I can tell”, he hummed, “and I'm about to intensify it so much more, pretty girl.”

Choi San

“Why the hell did I agree to this”, you grumbled, unable to even move an inch since Choi San was squeezing hugging the living shit out of you.

“You love me, that's why.”

You wanted to wipe that smirk off his face so bad, but he was right; you could never say no to him.

And so, since San impulsively stated he'd spend the night at yours today, you had no other choice but to also agree to a rather odd sleeping habit of his: the need to hug something or else he wouldn't fall asleep. Like a baby.

Of course this man forgot to actually bring something he could hug, so, he decided to use you. Simple - for him, because for you, it was a whole other story.

The two of you spent nights together often, it wasn't bothering you that he slept in one bed with you. What bothered you was how fucking close he was, how nice he smelled and how good he smelled.

You felt your face heat up as you tried to calm your racing heart. Just focus on something else, you told yourself, attempting to concentrate on the gentle sound of his breathing and the soft rhythm of his chest rising and falling when he finally fell asleep. But it was a futile effort, and you only found yourself becoming more aware of the physical closeness between the two of you. How can he sleep so soundly like this? you thought, frustrated by how easily San seemed to have drifted off into dreamland while you lay awake, trapped in a turmoil of emotions.

As the hours crawled by, fatigue finally started to win out against your embarrassment and discomfort. Your eyelids grew heavy, and eventually, you couldn't help but succumb to the pull of sleep even in San's tight embrace.

It was a dreamless sleep, and a short one as well, because just hours later, you were pulled out of it rather quickly. At first, you were too sleepy to understand what was happening, but after pulling yourself together and getting more and more aware of your near surroundings, it dawned on you.

Choi San was humping you in his sleep, all while letting out moans and whimpers that immediately awoke you within a mere second.

And as embarrassing as it was, it made you feel things you never felt before.

Panic and curiosity fought within you as you debated whether to wake him up or not. This was clearly a dream of his, and you couldn't just let it go on, especially considering the awkward position it put you in. But at the same time, you couldn't help but feel an unfamiliar warmth spreading through your body; a forbidden desire that you had kept hidden for so long was slowly awakening. With a nervous breath, you made your decision. Gently, but firmly, you shook San awake.

“S-san, you gotta wake up- oh”, an unexpected moan slipped out of you as you felt his hard erection pressing against your stomach, his whimpers becoming even louder and more desperate.

His eyes fluttered open, confusion dancing across his features as he tried to understand the situation. When realization finally dawned on him, San's face turned beet red with embarrassment. He quickly pulled away from you, stammering out an apology, his voice barely audible and shaky. “I-I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to... I don't know what came over me.” You could see the genuine remorse in his eyes, almost making you feel bad for waking him up.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. Your voice was gentle, yet firm as you responded: “It's okay, San. It was just a dream. But maybe... maybe we should try sleeping separately for the rest of the night?”

The concern in his eyes as he nodded in agreement made it clear that he didn't want anything like this to happen again. For whatever foolish reason, his quick agreement hurt. As you settled into your respective sides of the bed, the distance between you felt like both a relief and a loss. Now more awake than ever, you were left alone with your thoughts.

And then, you asked a question you maybe shouldn't have asked.

“What did you dream about?”

“W-what?”

“You heard me, Choi San”, you only responded calmly.

San's eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden question. He hesitated, glancing away nervously and fiddling with his hands before finally finding the courage to answer. “I... I dreamt about you”, he confessed, his voice low and hesitant. “That red dress you wore at my birthday party… you had it on while you-”

His gaze met yours for a brief moment before he quickly looked away again, unable to withstand the intensity of your stare, “while you straddled me and then- then you took my hand and let me touch you wherever I wanted and-”

You listened carefully, feeling your face grow warm as San recounted his dream in a hushed tone. The forbidden desire you had been trying to suppress flared up with each new detail he shared. There was no denying the fact that you weren't just merely curious about his dream; you were genuinely interested in it, and the thought of it ignited something within you. You swallowed hard, trying to decide what your next move should be. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest as you made a bold decision.

“I want you to show me exactly what I did in your dream, Sannie.”

“Yeah I know I'm gross- wait, what?!”

You giggled, slowly getting closer to his figure once again and put your hands on his strong, muscular chest.

“Right, my bad; will you please show me all the naughty things we did together in your fantasy, Sannie?”

And oh, he made sure he showed you every. single. dirty. detail.

Song Mingi

In the middle of a terrible snowstorm, you were laying in your bed wide awake while slowly but surely freezing to death - maybe you were a bit over dramatic, but it sure as hell felt like that. Because the electricity wasn't working, you had no other choice but to only warm yourself with as much clothing as one could wear and your soft blanket, and it still wasn't enough.

And yet you still didn't want to accept Mingi’s offer of sharing a bed just this once to stay warm together.

As the night wore on, the temperature in your room continued to decrease. You could see your breath in the air and started to worry about how long you could endure this frigid weather. The comforting thought of a warmer room, even if it meant temporarily swallowing your pride and accepting Mingi's offer, began to grow more and more appealing. After another hour of shivering under your ill-equipped blanket, you finally decided that enough was enough. You cautiously got out of your icy bed and made the trek down the hall to Mingi's room, hoping for a much-needed reprieve from the relentless cold. As you entered his surprisingly warm room, you silently acknowledged that this was indeed the better option for surviving the night.

You hated the heat, but for the first time you envied Mingi of his much warmer, comfortable room.

“Yo, are you awake?”, you whispered into the darkness, quietly closing the door behind you.

Mingi, who had been tossing and turning under his own blankets, startled at the sound of your voice but quickly realized it was you. “Yeah, I'm awake”, he replied, his voice barely audible above the howling wind outside. He sat up and shifted over in the bed, making room for you.

“C'mon”, he said, patting the empty spot next to him. Hesitantly, you made your way over and crawled under the warm covers, allowing yourself to finally relax as the heat from Mingi's body began to seep into your shivering limbs. You both lay there for a few moments in silence, simply enjoying the warmth and each other's company.

Until Mingi had to ruin this peaceful moment.

“I thought you were fine on your own, Miss stubborn?”

Despite your initial reaction to roll your eyes at his comment, you knew that Mingi had every right to tease you. After all, admitting defeat was never something that came easy to you. “Alright, alright”, you muttered, burying your face into the cozy pillow to hide your embarrassment. “I guess I should've just accepted your offer in the beginning.”

“I don't understand why you didn't just do it.”

At that, you grew quiet for a moment. Because there was a reason, but one you just couldn't admit; your attraction for your best friend.

As you laid there, contemplating whether or not to reveal your true feelings to Mingi, the room seemed to grow warmer with the intensity of your thoughts. You had been friends for years - could this single moment change everything between you? But, as your body grew comfortable within the warm embrace of the bed and Mingi's calming presence beside you, you couldn't help but feel a sense of reassurance wash over you.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage and whispered softly, “Mingi, there's something I have to tell you.”

He turned his head towards you, waiting for your confession. Your heart raced as you said, “The real reason I didn't want to share a bed was... because I've been developing feelings for you.” With bated breath, you waited for his response.

But as he didn't answer, you were immediately alarmed. Sitting up in a haze, you looked down at his tall figure beside you, only to discover your best friend being as red as a rife tomato.

“Y-you- I mean, you l-like-”, he began stuttering, his eyes wide open and filled with utter confusion.

Seeing him laying there, a shy, stuttering mess did something unexplainable to you; all of a sudden, you felt a rush of power and arousal rush through you.

All you wanted at that moment was to ruin him.

So, with an unexpected burst of confidence, you decided to take control of the situation. You began to straddle the still dumbfounded man, slowly letting your hands explore his upper torso, feeling him harden underneath you almost immediately.

“I can just show you, princess”, you said seductively, and Mingi, being the obedient good man he was, agreed in an instant.

That night, the cold could not bother you even a little again.

Jung Wooyoung

Your eyelids fluttered open, and the soft glow of the moon bathed your cozy apartment in a gentle wash of silver light. Suddenly feeling thirsty after a night of extensive partying, you navigated through the dimly lit living room, trying to be as quiet as possible. Then, your gaze landed on a very ridiculous sight that yet never failed to bring a smile to your face – your best friend and roommate, Jung Wooyoung, curled up in a ridiculous position on the sofa, a half-empty bottle of soju resting precariously on the coffee table.

What a liar he was, saying he'd clean up right after all the guests went home, yet here he was, snoring loudly while the living room was still a complete mess. You sighed.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” you said, nudging him gently with your foot. “Time to move to your own bed.”

He grumbled incoherently, one arm thrown over his face. “Noooo, 'm comfy right here.”

You rolled your eyes and made your way to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water and chugging it down immediately, the cold liquid making you feel better right away. You heard shuffling coming from the living room, indicating that Wooyoung was in fact moving to his room. After storing your used glass into the sink, you made your way back into your room, tired and ready for another round of sleep, only to find your best friend sprawled across your neatly made bed, snoring softly. “Wooyoung, come on,” you urged, trying to suppress a giggle. “You can't sleep here.”

He mumbled something about how your recently made sheets smelled better and buried his face in your pillows, looking blissfully content.

Sighing, you managed to pull off his shoes and jacket before sliding under the covers. As you settled into the warmth, his body shifted closer, pressing against yours in a way that sends tendrils of heat tingling through you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck.

Your heart stuttered as you turned to face him, the air tinged with electricity and something unspoken yet undeniably present.

‘Hey,” you whispered back, feeling the weight of his eyes on you, the tension crackling between you both. You gulped, trying hard to hold eye contact, but his intense gaze made it hard to not shy away. He did not seem drunk at all, but fully aware of his surroundings. Fully aware of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, simply allowing the silence to settle as you studied each other's features, highlighted by the moon's ethereal glow. Wooyoung's eyes seemed to hold a question, something that remained unspoken but swirled in the air between you, leaving you feeling both exhilarated and vulnerable. Your breath hitched as he hesitantly reached a hand towards your face, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He smelled like wine, yet his eyes seemed clear, filled with both admiration and lust. His touch was soothing yet electric, awakening sensations you had never allowed yourself to explore before. As his face inched closer to yours, your lips nearly touching, you couldn't help but feel like this unspoken moment could change everything. And with a nervous exhale and an unexpected surge of courage, you closed the gap between you two, sealing a kiss that would mark the beginning of a new chapter in your friendship - the end of it, hopefully.

Your lips met in a slow exploration, allowing yourselves to savor every sensation and acknowledge the emotions swirling beneath the surface.

As you parted from that intense but tender embrace, you opened your eyes to find him still gazing at you with an expression of awe and wonder; it mirrored your own unspoken thoughts. It was at that moment that the two of you quietly acknowledged what had been hidden for so long - that there was indeed something more profound growing between you in this cozy apartment bathed in moonlight.

“You will remember this tomorrow, r-right?”, you stuttered.

His lips met your neck, officially marking you as his, and a whimper left you right there. You couldn't see it, but you knew he had this signature grin of his on those dangerous, kiss-worthy lips.

“Of course. I will take what's mine as soon as you open your eyes tomorrow. Probably won't even be able to wait until you're fully awake.”

Dear Lord, you could not wait what that man would do to you as soon as he was finally sober.

Choi Jongho

“N’ then he actually cheated on her, can you believe that Jongho?!”, you slurred, all while barely being able to walk as your best friend opened the door to your apartment.

Today, you went out with Jongho and the other boys, eventually drinking a few shots too much as you all caught up with one another.

Jongho couldn't help but chuckle at your drunken antics, shaking his head in disbelief as he held onto your arm to steady you. “Alright, alright, let's get you to bed before you spill any more gossip”, he said in a teasing tone.

As you made your way down the hallway towards your room, you continued to ramble which left Jongho completely unfazed though; the poor man was trying his hardest to get you to bed safely, but in your state you didn't realize that, so after him only humming occasionally and otherwise ignoring you, you grew frustrated with him and tried to free yourself.

In an effort to regain control over your own balance, you stubbornly swatted at Jongho's arm, accidentally tripping yourself in the process. The sudden movement took him by surprise, but his reflexes kicked in and he managed to catch you just in time, preventing a collision with the floor. “Whoa there!” he exclaimed, securing his grip around your waist to keep you upright. “Let's take it easy.”

Realizing the gravity of your near-fall, your frustration gave way to embarrassment. You mumbled an apology, trying your best to stand straight on your wobbly legs. Jongho merely sighed and offered you a reassuring smile, tightening his hold as he continued guiding you toward your bedroom. As much as it annoyed you when he didn't engage with your tipsy musings, you couldn't help but be grateful for his unwavering support - even in the most inebriated of moments.

“I'm glad my best friend is sooooo strong, otherwise I might have kissed the floor right there”, you giggled, patting his strong, muscular arms.

“Oh wow”, you muttered, in awe as you squeezed his arms more and more, feeling underneath you just how strong your best friend really was.

Of course you knew that. While his personality may be teddy bear like, Jongho was notorious for being able to break apples with his bare hands, but knowing about his strength and now directly feeling it were two completely different things.

And in your very drunken state, his strength made you unbelievably horny.

Jongho, seemingly unaware of the effect his strength was having on you, just chuckled at your reaction and shook his head. “Honestly, you get more ridiculous with each drink”, he playfully teased.

As you both finally reached your bedroom, he assisted you in sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Maybe next time we should stick to non-alcoholic drinks”, he suggested jokingly, though there was a hint of sincerity in his voice. Carefully, he helped you remove your shoes and made sure you were comfortably tucked beneath the blanket. Before leaving the room, he handed you a glass of water and gently reminded you to drink it to help with a potential hangover in the morning. His nurturing nature left a warmth in your chest that made your heart swell with gratitude while also fueling your attraction.

Many thought Jongho was a particularly cold person, but when with the right people, he was nothing but funny and caring, just like right now - while all you wanted was for him to use his strength, doing whatever he wanted to you.

“Hey, you still with me Y/N?”

“Fuck me, Jongho”, you blurted out.

Jongho's eyes widened in surprise at your sudden, bold request. For a moment, he hesitated, uncertain whether to be alarmed or amused by the effect of alcohol on you. Then, he let out a soft laugh and shook his head, clearly understanding that you were not in the right state of mind for such things. “Alright, Y/N, I think it's time for you to sleep this off”, he advised gently, his voice carrying a hint of embarrassment and concern.

“No, you don't understand! I'm not joking! I've been wanting you for so, so long. Everyday I'm reminded of how sexy, strong, cute, funny and nice my best friend is, and when that woman flirted grinded onto you at the club today all I could think about was me doing this to you, and then you'd grab me and kiss me and touch me and-”

“Fucking hell”, Jongho muttered, his eyes dark and filled with lust as he looked down at you.

Taking his jacket and shoes off and slipping underneath the sheets beside you, Jongho looked not once broke eye contact, staring at you until you were squealing in frustration.

“If you'll be a good girl and go to bed I'll let you do whatever you want to me tomorrow, hm? What do you think, baby?”

Never in your life have you agreed to something this fast.

668 notes · View notes

kiwisbell · 5 months

Text

Loser [frankie morales]

Frankie Morales has always been a total fucking loser. Maybe, at least, you can teach him how a woman likes to be touched.

my masterlist!

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

word count: ~ 7k

tags/warnings: loser!frankie, frankie loving women so much he's terrified of them, inexperienced frankie, experienced reader, dry humping, premature ejaculation, subby!frankie, we’ll call him “takes directions well” frankie, pussy eating king frankie morales, overstimulation, oral sex (m and f receiving), body worship, dirty talk, frankie likes being called a good boy, begging!frankie, whimpering/whining, reader is pope’s sister, pining, lack of self-confidence, anxiety, affectionate brother-sister name-calling, birthday blowjob

read on ao3!

a/n: hi lovelies!! this has been a mini passion project of mine for a while - the phrase "loser frankie" hasn't stopped rattling around in my head since i thought of it. thank you to my besties @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for being so supportive and unhinged as always in your support of loser!frankie, and for beta'ing this silly little fic. i hope you enjoy, friends, and please tell me what you think!! xoxo

LOSER

Nobody ever decorates for a house party. Apparently, you thought it would be worth it.

A holographic Dollar Tree paper banner strung from one wall to the opposite, HAPPY BIRTHDAY blaring bright red-green-blue-yellow in the entryway to Santiago’s home. Helium balloons swaying hello on either side of the makeshift archway, equally obnoxious and slightly less ugly. Foil-wrapped paperweights tether them to the ground, but it doesn’t matter because the second Benny arrives, he’s tossing a dart from the board in the next room through a balloon and letting the lonely string flutter, flaccid, to the ground.

Fumbling their way through tone-deaf renditions of “Happy Birthday” are Will, Benny, and a handful of other friends. Beer pong tables are set up in the kitchen and the sharp crack! of pool balls echoes up the stairs. House music pounds through the shoddy Bluetooth speakers that aren't quite equipped to handle these volumes. It feels like he's back in college, dragged from frat house to frat house where his much-more-suave roommates chatted up pretty girls as he hid in the corner.

You’re so beautiful. It's rare that he can be in the same room as you and retain any moisture in his mouth. Tonight’s no different. He can hear your enchanting laughter from every corner of the house as he quietly follows you from room to room without ever getting close enough to let you notice him. Sometimes you'll bring your manicured hand up onto someone’s shoulder and honey will drip from your tongue as you ask so sweetly: Have you seen Frankie?

It’s his birthday, after all. And he’s been avoiding you all night.

Frankie sips his sweating beer as he watches you and Pope arm wrestle for the last Pilsner—or, more accurately, you're wrestling to decide who gets to not drink the last Pilsner.

“I’m not gonna arm wrestle you. I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.” This from Pope, already half in the bag, the consonant-to-vowel slide a little slurred, knocking back the remainder of his (sixth? seventh?) Bud Light.

And you, not-quite tipsy, in your tight Levis and your low-cut shirt, the picture of poise—if Frankie considers that nearly everyone else in the room is hammered apart from you. And himself. “What are you, a pussy? Put ‘er there, Santi Claus, and let me see what you've got.”

Pope sighed and placed his elbow on the table, locking his thumb around yours, as Benny slapped a “Three, two, one, fight!” on the surface of the table.

Pope is victorious, slamming your hand down on the table and whooping along with Ironhead. Benny, who’d bet on you, smacks his brother upside the head. You take your loss like a champ and crack the Pilsner open on the edge of the table, gulping it down while the guys cheer your name. Your fist chugs in tandem with their cries.

Frankie, rubbing his clammy palms along his thighs, swallows hard as he looks on from the couch. Some of the beer dribbles down your chin, pooling in the hollow of your throat, spilling over, waterfalling, between your tits. He downs the rest of his beer—not a fucking Pilsner—and flees to the front porch while patting his pockets for a cigarette. The music muffles to a distant cry.

“You mind if I bum a light?”

Frankie feels a distinct sting in the nape of his neck as he jolts in the direction of your voice. He whirls on you and sheepishly scrapes his hand through his hair. His muscles still twinge.

“Uh, I—yeah. No. Don't mind.” He fumbles around in his back pocket and gives you his lighter because he doesn't trust his trembling fingers not to drop it. You smile at him graciously and light your cigarette, turning the flame on his own.

“Thank you, Cat.” You rest your elbows on the porch railing and blow your smoke through the pinhole of your parted lips. It dissipates into the dark sky with his own. “Are you enjoying the party?”

He’s rigid, his hands white-knuckling the railing, lips suctioned around the filter. The sticky-hot flush of anticipatory humiliation lingers high on his cheeks. Your expensive perfume sticks to the inside of his nasal passages. He thinks this is what drowning feels like.

“Yeah,” he rasps, disgusted by the sound of his own voice. He clears his throat and takes another drag. “Yeah, it's great. You did a good job.”

Your lips twist in self-reproach. “You’re very sweet, Frankie, but I spent a whole of twenty bucks on the décor. You deserved better than the Dollar Tree.”

He shakes his head, scratching his beard. “Nah. Don't need much. ‘n you were away ‘til yesterday, and—”

“And my brother is an idiot who wouldn’t remember the date if a calendar gave him a colonoscopy.” Frankie snorts his agreement. He can't meet your eye. If he does, he’ll see distant lamplight gleaming in them and turn to stone. “So, if you see him around before he passes out drunk, give him a slap for me, will you?”

He dips his head in subservience to your wishes. He has no problem smacking Pope around a little. “How was your trip?”

You sidle up a little closer to him and his cheeks burn. “Cat, honey, I can't hear you.”

He clears his throat and meets your eye only to drop his gaze again. His ears are scorching. “How was your trip?” he says louder.

You hum sweetly and he feels his shoulders drop. “It was relaxing. Got a little too much sun, drank a few too many margaritas, but it was nice. Kel and Valerie told me all about their new relationships and that only made me drink some more.”

Frankie didn't know you were single. Last he heard, you'd found some asshole at the bar. Frankie had spent too many hours subject to Will and Benny’s teasing about how he didn't get in on time and would never have a piece of that ass. He’d watched the guy, Eric, drop you off at Frankie’s shop so you could get the car he’d been fixing up.

He tries to smile but it feels like pinching a nerve. “That’s good.”

“I was excited to come back and see you.”

He blinks at you. Swirling ribbons of smoke dance away on the slight breeze.

“What?”

“Imagine my disappointment”—your lower lip juts out as you prowl toward him and he isn’t sure why you’ve ever called him Cat when it’s you who stalks so silently after your prey—“when the birthday boy doesn’t even give me the time of day.”

His mouth feels like chewing cotton, and he’s grinding his teeth for another cigarette. You beam across the room at him, producing something from the back of your waistband.

His cap.

“Forgot this,” you tell him, reaching up and fitting the hat back over his head.

Fuck. You’re so fucking close. He can smell your perfume and the cloying scent of beer you haven’t yet cleaned from your chest and he’s fairly fucking sure you’d feel his erection through his jeans if you stepped any closer.

You always know how to get under his skin. And he always lets you because every first glance, first syllable, first touch, feels like the first descent of morning sunlight through the window. You've always warmed his skin a touch too hot. But he burns up in it. You smell so sweet.

“I… uh…” Frankie swallows, floundering, instinctively tucking his curls behind his ears. “Thanks. For the hat.”

Jesus fucking Christ, Morales. In your fucking forties and you still don't know how to talk to a woman.

Stop looking at her tits. Fucking hell, man.

Stop. Fucking. Looking.

“Frankie, honey.” Your soothing lilt draws his eyes back up to your mouth, and he feels bone-tired, molten, fairly sweaty. Your brows are drawn together in the middle. “Are you okay?”

He licks his lips. “Wh—what?”

You sidle up a little closer, your fingers playing along the rim of his cap. “You're quiet tonight,” you say softly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Funny. Frankie can't recall a single moment in his years of knowing you when he was able to string together a coherent sentence. Sure, he fixed up your car over the summer while you were away on a work trip and he set up your new phone after you broke the last one partying. He's happily lapped at your heels and fixed what was broken and done everything you never asked him to.

Every platonic touch met with blushing aversion, a couple days’ retreat to the garage, going dark, no-contact, fixing up more cars and bikes and choppers. Every Thank you, Frankie met with relative silence, a tight nod, a tactical drag of his cigarette.

“Is it because he’s my brother?”

Frankie’s jaw ticks.

You've always been untouchable—the goddamn Venus de Milo. Yeah, Pope would rip him a new one if he knew the things Frankie dreamed about his sister. But you’re the one touching him. You’re the one whose hand drifts slowly down his face, cupping his jaw in your hand, eyes warm and gooey, making a choice with every inch your soft hands explore.

“I like you, Frankie,” you tell him. “Do you like me, too?”

He nods frantically, his hands flexing at his sides. “Mhm,” he manages, tight-lipped, his voice breaking.

Like is such a plain word. How does one merely watch the sunrise? How does someone walk past you on the street? You’re meant for indulging, for pleasing, for theses and soapboxes and megaphones. You’re more than idle like. He nods anyway. Coward.

“Then Santi shouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “None of it should matter. I threw this party for you. I wanna know you’re having fun.”

“I am,” he says hurriedly. “Fuck, I am. It’s fun. You—you did everything right.”

You’re such a fucking moron, Morales. Tell her how you feel.

You smile, brushing the pad of your thumb under his bearded chin. “Good. Will you stay for a while afterward to help me clean up?”

Frankie nods again, and you pull him in for a tight embrace. He stiffens, his eyes instinctively shuddering closed as your body presses up against him. Your nails scratch at the nape of his neck and he feels his cock twitch, filling his boxers against your thigh. He should be panicking, scrambling to escape your grasp before you can feel the thick weight of his desire for you, but he’s frozen, immobile, his brain poisoned by the heady smell of your shampoo and perfume. His hands are pressed firm to his sides, blunt fingernails biting his palms.

“Happy birthday, Francisco.”

He barely registers that you’ve spoken, his lips absently parting in to inhale the warmth radiating from your throat as he begins to lower his head, and fuck—he’s never been touched this way. Instinct begins to snap and growl when you pull away, but you’re beaming up at him, soothing the animal, and pressing a kiss to his patchy beard.

“Thank you,” he says, the newborn deer on trembling legs. You disappear inside the house, leaving him alone on the porch, throbbing house music reverberating through his chest. Frankie staggers on his feet, bracing himself on the railing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ Christ.”

Around two o’clock in the morning, he's stuffing beer-soaked tablecloths and balloon weights and banners into a garbage bag. The faint clinking of glass echoes from the kitchen as you gather empty bottles into the recycling bin. Frankie has been sporting a hard-on all night, and he’s two minutes away from jerking himself off in Santiago’s bathroom.

Pope himself is upstairs, passed out drunk on his bed, thanks to you. Apart from him, you and Frankie are alone in the house. It's getting harder to ignore the pull of arousal in his belly, the cloudy haze in the back of his head that makes his hands lag behind on simple tasks.

He thinks of all the times he locked himself in the bathroom at a bar because you wore a tight shirt or a short dress, fucking his hips into his fist until he came with a quiet shudder into his palm. He thinks of all the words he wants to give to you. He thinks of the blood-red ribbon tied taut around all the jumbled syllables and he thinks of all the men you’ll date because he can't even ask you for one.

His chest is a wick pinched between two fingers. He will never know you the way he burns to.

“All done,” you sing as you emerge, dropping the bin by the front door. “How’s it coming, Cat?”

He groans as he stands, hauling the garbage bags to the front door. Brushing past you on the way outside, he feels your body heat course through him.

Frankie stumbles for only a moment as the fog settles lower. You're waiting for him in the foyer.

“Come on, Frankie,” you purr, winking as you pass him, your hips swaying as you make your way into the kitchen. He follows you eagerly into the next room, tail wagging.

You’re rummaging in the refrigerator for the leftover birthday cake and sliding a piece each onto some plates. Handing Frankie his share, you gently collide your plate with his to emit the echoic clink of china. “To getting older.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. Your perfume lingers in his hindbrain. “To getting older.”

“I remember when Santi introduced me to you,” you tell him, “the week you all came back for good.”

“Bad first impression?” guesses Frankie.

You tut. “The opposite, honey. Thought you were sweet. I mean, there are very few guys out there willing to fix my stupid fucking car without expecting even a flash of tit in return.”

He scoffs. “You get that a lot?”

You level him with a playful glare before you lift a sliver of cake to your mouth. “Any of those pretty girls ever ask you to flash your dick?”

Frankie ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Can’t say they have.”

“You get a lot of pretty girls in your shop?” You pout, tracing the prongs of the fork around the circumference of your plate. “I’d be real jealous.”

“You're fucking with me.” He doesn’t meet your eye, his chin practically tucked into his neck as he continues to prod around his piece of cake. The dread of your imminent rejection burns in his lower belly.

He sees your hand on his arm before he feels it. “Francisco, look at me.”

He reluctantly raises his gaze to you. You gently brush your knuckles under his chin. “I wouldn’t tell you how to fly a helicopter. Why should you tell me who I choose to go after?”

Frankie’s throat constricts. “Is—is that what you're doing?” he chokes. “Going after me?”

You shrug coyly, your fingertips dancing over his forearm. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Would that make you uncomfortable?”

Vehemently, he shakes his head before you finish your sentence. “No. No. Just… I just didn't think you were interested.”

You take a jolting step backward. “Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head again. Not quite as aggressively.

You begin to laugh, and this is more like the reaction he's used to from women.

“Fuck, Cat, I’ve been trying to get in your pants for two goddamn years.”

Frankie’s lips part. He’s fairly certain a minute squeak meanders out of his mouth.

“Wh… But—but you…”

You nibble on your thumbnail as your pupils expand, your eyes darkening to something wicked, indulgent, catlike. “What did you think I meant when I told you I like you, honey?”

“I—”

Another bubbling laugh slips from your mouth. Frankie wants to drown in the sound of it. Jesus, he wants you to humiliate him every day for the rest of his laugh if gets to hear that.

“Do you think I’m pretty, Francisco?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”

“Say it.”

The command is coaxing, guiding, and it presses up against the pool of his belly, tension winding tight in his core.

“You're pretty,” he says dumbly. “You're really pretty.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and he’s shuddering, his cock uncomfortably trapped under layers of cotton and denim, fingers twitching at his sides.

“Come with me, Frankie,” you say, stretching out your hand, palm-up, like a peace offering to a stampeding animal.

“What are you…”

“Do you trust me?”

He scans your body—the curve of your throat, your collarbones, your breasts, thighs, hips—and swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he rasps. “‘Course I do.”

“I have something I need help with,” you tell him, coaxing him gently toward you with the promise of doing a good deed.

Of course, he goes easily after that.

You lead him to the living room, now in the relative state it was before the party, and gently urge him to sit on the couch. “Frankie,” you say, lowering yourself next to him, “do you have a girl to keep you company?”

His head jerks up from where it was bent in a demure aversion to meeting your eye. “What? What—no.”

“Do you want a girl to keep you company?”

A strangled, high-pitched cry lurches halfway up his throat before he suppresses it all. “You… you want to…?”

You’re already nodding your head, winding your arms around his neck, sliding into his lap, sitting on his hard cock like you were fucking meant to—

Oh, God. Oh my God. Holy fucking, shitting, screaming Christ.

There’s plenty of layers between your body and his. It could hardly be called sexy at all, what with both of you stuck inside thick denim and surrounded by the aftertaste and aftersmell of beer. But it is. Fuck, it is. He can see all of you from here, looking up at you, hair haloed by the sickly yellow pot light behind your head. The cut of your jaw shifts as you take him in. Your chest heaves and he lets himself imagine for a moment that you’re really here, the jaundiced light shifting over the planes of your chest and shoulders.

“I’m going to kiss you, Frankie.”

He swallows hard, the electric jolt of your core lowering onto his length causing his fingers to flex instinctively, uselessly, against the cushions. “O—kay.”

You bite your lip when you smile, leaning in with a hand on his jaw and slanting your mouth over his.

He can't believe this is fucking happening. Frankie sighs into your mouth, his hands shooting up, hovering over your hips, not quite touching. He moves his mouth with yours, letting you part his lips and slide your tongue along his. He groans softly, hands trembling over the divot of your waist and hips, accidentally brushing gently over the velvety fabric of your top. Frankie flushes with shame and drops his hands. He shouldn't be touching. You're giving him a gift. If he makes one wrong move, you’ll take it back.

You laugh into his mouth, breaking away to drop your forehead to his. “You can touch me, Frankie, baby, it’s okay,” you tell him, gently raking your fingers through his hair. “It’ll make me feel good if you touch me.”

Frankie nods, lifting his hands to your waist and settling them apprehensively on your body. It feels like a switch flicks, a closed circuit, heat irradiating the tremor in his fingers. The planes of his palms explore your body, slow, the intricate care he takes in marking your topography melting you in warm shivers against him. He's making you feel good.

Some of his deep-seated pride gurgles up his chest. He's fucking touching you.

“Your hands are so big, Frank,” you whisper, gently rolling your hips. He makes a strangled noise, gripping your waist to stop you or encourage you. “You’re so fucking pretty. So handsome.”

He preens, blushing, dropping his head between your tits and nuzzling his cheek into your sternum. “M’not.”

“Yeah, you are.” Another slow grind against his cock and he’s baring his teeth, panting from the effort not to come so quick. Fuck, you'll never touch him again if he comes in his jeans. “You should be told every day. So gorgeous, Frankie. My Frankie.”

He's addicted now that he's got a hit. His hands won't leave you, curling around your waist until they're splayed against your spine, fitting you tighter to him, dipping tentatively toward your ass. And you're guiding his chin up, kissing him again, moaning softly into his mouth, and he's so fucking giddy he could weep.

His hips buck up against you and he feels your thighs tighten around his hips as his erection nudges your puffy clit. You like that, he notes. It feels good for you when he does that. You gasp into the kiss, your fingers tightening near-painfully in his hair, and Frankie does it again just to feel that prickling ache.

Give and take. He feels himself learning as you do, carving one another’s tells into your ribs. He needs this, yes, but he's beginning to realise that you do, too.

You're grinding on him a little more desperately now, hands feverish, selfishly seeking that rough pressure on your clit. And Frankie wants you to have it. Fuck, he needs it so badly. He aches to learn what you look like when you come.

But his dick is fucking throbbing, and you aren't relenting, and it's been so goddamn long that he’s already close.

He breathes through his teeth as you begin to lace warm kisses up and down the veins on his throat. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

You hum, and the vibrations travel from his neck to his cock. He's so close. He’s…

“Talk to me, Frankie. Tell me how it feels,” you coo, licking a stripe up the side of his throat.

You want him to speak? Christ, he isn't sure he remembers words. “Muy bien… No puedo… F-feels good. Feels reall—fuck, really good.”

He feels your smile against his neck and whines when you nibble his earlobe. “Yeah?” you whisper. His entire body cavitates with a shudder, and you nip him again. “Like it when I do this?”

He groans, squeezing your hips in erratic pulses. “Mhm. Mhm.”

You roll your hips slow and hard against the length of him. You're panting, too, your pupils nearly engulfing your irises. “Use your words, baby,” you say breathlessly. “Let me hear you, Frankie, honey.”

Frankie chokes on his own tongue. “G—fuck. Goddamn, I… Please, please—”

“Please is a good start.” You suck on the spot below his ear and he sees fucking white.

“Please, I can’t… mierda, no puedo… please, I’m gonna—”

He comes with an embarrassed shout, muffled in your temple, his hand shooting up to rest at the crown of your head and fist your hair. Pleasure skitters up and down his spine as he spills into his own jeans and warms your cunt with the wet spot that blossoms on the denim.

You stop rolling your hips, still tucked safely in his arms. He can't meet your eyes. He's buried in your throat now, breathing hard, while your nails scratch at the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, bucking helplessly as the last of his orgasm depletes his body. “I’m sorry.”

You're clicking your tongue, smoothing his sweat-matted curls away from his forehead. “Hey, hey. Frankie, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Soothing him with your kind hands, you guide him to look at you. He's flushed high on his cheeks. “Give me a kiss.”

He obeys, unable to deny you, his lips naturally parting to let you in. “Didn’t mean to—”

You press a kiss to his Cupid’s bow, the corner of his mouth, and one of the patches in his beard. “Nobody’s angry with you, Frank.”

The shame toils hot, churning up his guts. “Wanted to—to come inside you.”

You make a close-mouthed noise of understanding. “I know. You wanted to make me feel good, hmm?”

He nods, eyes dipping.

“You did, Frankie,” you tell him.

“You didn't come.”

“I don't always have to come to feel good.” You're still smiling, a still-aroused, heavy-lidded smile, and Frankie shakes his head.

“Wanna make you come. Tell me what to do.”

You sit back gently in his lap. “Are you sure, Frankie?”

“Sí, I’m fucking sure.” He won't leave it like this. He needs to watch you fall to pieces. If it takes all fucking night, it takes all night. It's his birthday, for Christ’s sake.

You lick your lips and drop your voice to a whisper. “Take off my clothes.”

He scrambles, lifting the hem of your shirt up over your head and fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Both items fall haphazardly to the floor elsewhere, and you stand briefly to give Frankie a good view of your body.

You're so fucking beautiful.

Lurching forward, he wraps his arms around your naked waist, pressing his palms to your slick spine and putting his lips to your belly. He kisses his way up your chest until he finds one of your stiff nipples and clumsily latches his mouth around it. “Oh, Frankie,” you gasp, petting at his hair, enjoying the tremors of arousal that pool in your core. He sucks and bites at your nipples until they're raw, and by the time he gets your jeans down your legs, you've soaked your panties through.

“Fuck,” he mutters, staring unabashedly at your aching core.

“I’m going to sit, Frank. Get on your knees.” And he goes, settling on the floor in front of your spot on the couch. Face-to-face with your dripping pussy, he wets his lips. He's never wanted to taste something so terribly as he does now.

“Take off the rest.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your lacy panties and drags them down your legs, a jolt of arousal twitching in his pants as he sees your glistening cunt for the first time.

“Girls like to be touched,” you tell him. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Fuck,” he says, his voice pitching high. “Fuck, yes. Let me, please.”

“Some of us like to be teased. I’m sensitive here”—your hands trail gently along your upper thighs—“and here.” Your fingers rise to your sternum, splitting to play idly with your nipples. “You can use your mouth, too. Okay, Frankie?”

He nods, testing his fingertips upon the divots of your knees. You’re soft here, and you offer no resistance as he slowly spreads you wide open, fitting himself between your legs. Frankie’s heart soars out of his chest at your first shudder. He slowly trails his fingers along the soft planes of your inner thighs, learning you, delighting in the play of his rough hands on your skin. He squeezes your thigh and lifts it up onto his shoulder so he can crush his mouth into your flesh, smattering you with wet, open-mouthed kisses that have you squirming in his grasp. His name leaves your mouth like a discrete, whispered ballad. Your muscles twitch and flex under his touch as Frankie loses himself in the soft, sweet taste of you.

“That’s so good, baby,” you sigh, reaching for the brim of his cap and knocking it off his head. He grunts, able to bury himself deeper this way, head spinning, his brain folding you neatly inside. His hand migrates up your belly and blindly squeezes your breast, kneading your flesh in his palm, flicking his thumb over your nipple. “Yeah, Frankie, yeah. That feels good.”

Your words of affirmation go right to his not-quite soft dick. He kisses and gropes and licks until he reaches the apex of your thighs, peeling back to meet your eyes as he greedily squeezes your thighs in his hands.

“Do you know where my clit is, Frankie?”

He nods. He's watched porn. He's taken anatomy classes. They’re practically the same fucking thing.

“Show me.”

He lifts his hand to put his fingers to your clit, but you shake your head and he stops instantly.

“Not like that,” you say, your naked chest heaving with anticipatory energy. “With your tongue.”

Holy fucking shit.

He'd be goddamn delighted. Frankie lowers his head between your legs and, hit with the heavy, cloying scent of your hormones and arousal, feels his brain begin to lag behind. He parts your folds with his thumbs and guides the flat of his tongue over your little pearl.

You sigh happily, your head falling back against the cushions. “That's it,” you gasp as Frankie flicks his tongue against your clit. “Oh, Frankie, that's it.”

The praise settles proudly in his chest. He wraps his arms around your thighs to keep them spread wide for him as he shoulders his way between your legs. Your tang lingers on his taste buds and prickles his adenoids. He needs more.

You watch him blink up at you and curl your fingers in his hair. “Lick my pussy, Frankie.”

He groans when he gets his first real taste, his eyes fluttering as he licks through your slit. His nose crushed to your clit, Frankie greedily teases his tongue around your tight, wet hole, and the answering twitch of your thighs pleases him.

“Mmmyes.” Your eyes shutter, but Frankie does not close his. He isn't yet certain he's awake, and he refuses to miss a moment of the idle grinding of your hips, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you suck in breaths through your parted lips.

Frankie growls as you tug on his hair, spitting on your clit and spreading his own saliva around with his tongue. You cry out, back arching, and he absently humps the air like a goddamn dog as he begins to stiffen in his jeans.

He's… good. He listens, fine-tuned, to your gasps and moans, learning what you like best. Forsaking any desire for air, he suffocates himself between your thighs, possessed by your smell and taste and the honeyed moans that leave your mouth. He’s always been overeager to help assuage your worries, to fix what was broken. This is different altogether.

“Fuck!” you gasp, the backs of your thighs on his shoulders, ankles locking around one another, your fist in Frankie’s hair keeping him tethered to you. “That’s fucking it, baby, yesyesyes… Just like that, Frankie, fuck!”

The encouragement makes him lightheaded. Drunk on the taste of you, Frankie moans, licking your clit relentlessly, your thighs twitching at the warm flat of his tongue. He refuses to let your legs close, fingers dimpling your flesh, lips latching around your clit and sucking.

“Ah! F—Frank! That feels so fucking good, baby. Fuck, lick my pussy just like that. My good boy.”

Frankie whines, alternating between pulling gently on your clit and licking through your pussy until he's making out with you, his cock filling out his damp jeans once more. He doesn't want to stop. He never wants to leave, tucked in your thighs, engulfed by your warmth. Your clit begins to pulse under his tongue and he suckles wetly, greedily, sloppily. Fixed to your cunt, he groans as your hips begin to buck up into him, your fingers curling painfully in his locks.

“I’m gonna come, Frankie. Fuckfuckfuck, baby, I’m—ah!”

Head thrown back, hips grinding relentlessly against his nose, you reach your climax under Frankie’s tongue. You cry out, muscles locking, thighs trapping his head between your legs. Happily, Frankie continues to lap at you, dipping his tongue into your pulsing hole to taste what he’s drawn from your body.

He groans into you, eyes fluttering shut now that he’s watched you ride out your orgasm, fingers squeezing your thighs and dipping to your ass. He uses this leverage to fit you flush to him, pressing himself firmer to your pussy. You gasp his name, the muscles of your inner thighs twitching as you begin to tense once more.

He’s still going. He’s still fucking going, pussy-drunk and licking up your release which mingles with his own saliva.

“Frankieeeee, fuck!” You can't hold your head up anymore, lolling against the cushion, as Frankie maintains a vise around your thighs and slides his tongue over your sensitive clit and it's too much, it’s—

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, that's so good, Frankie, yes! Oh my God, ohmyGodohmy—”

Frankie can't seem to open his eyes anymore, lost in the winding path of pleasuring you, unable to pull himself away from the thicket. Your scent, desire and musk and perfume, is all he cares to know. He slowly flicks his tongue up and down your clit until it’s fucking unbearable, and your only choice is to come again, your stomach tightening and a weak, gooey cry gurgling up your throat.

“I… g—God, Frankie, I’m com—coming—!”

And you do. The rhythmic contractions of your clit roll over his tongue and your hole soaks him in your release, wetting his beard. He’s absently bucking his hips into the couch, his cock straining against his zipper, so fucking desperate for release that he’ll happily come in his jeans again.

Frankie drinks you down, moaning into your pussy, provoking aftermath vibrations that infuse your muscles with electrical stimulation. You slump backward, your hand releasing his hair, thumb stroking his patchy jaw. “Mmm, my sweet Frankie,” you mumble, thighs still hooked over his shoulders. “S’good, baby.”

He litters your inner thighs with kisses. “I did good?”

“Really fucking good.” You tilt his chin up and force him to meet your eyes. He's less afraid to look at you now, his pupils blown wide and his gaze faintly faraway. Your smile glows, satiated and proud. “You did so good for me. Gonna make some of those pretty girls very happy, baby.”

Frankie shifts slightly to lift his mouth to your belly, trailing his lips upward until he can rest his cheek on your chest. His fingers fit into the grooves between your ribs. “You taste so good,” he says softly. “Wanna do that all the fuckin’ time.”

You laugh, feeling his erection prod your bare thigh as he moves. “You're hard again, Frankie.”

He wraps his arms tight around your waist and pulls you on top of him as he lies sideways on the sofa. “‘m okay,” he says, back to hiding himself in your throat. You feel the warm weight of his hand on the back of your head and his other on your back, slick with sweat. “That was good. Really good.”

Smirking, you begin to travel down his body, nuzzling your cheek against his belly, still covered in a now-damp T-shirt. Frankie chokes on air when you squeeze him over his pants, blinking hard to clear the film from his eyes.

“I think such a good boy deserves a reward for all his hard work,” you purr, letting the zipper catch on every groove as you drag it slowly down, slipping the button through its slit. Frankie’s chest heaves, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.

“Y—you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You hook your fingers in his waistband. “Do you want me to, Frankie?”

A faint whine leaves his mouth, and he presses his lips together with a tight nod. He doesn't trust himself to say more.

“Then I’m happy to,” you say, pulling down his jeans and boxers just enough to free his hard cock, sitting heavy against his belly and already slick with his own cum. Fuck—he’s big. His length, ridged with veins on the underside, is thick and warm in your hand as you hold him around the base.

“Such a pretty cock,” you muse, giving him a slow tug. Frankie gasps, precum pooling at the tip of his dick. “Such a shame to let this go to waste.”

You lick your lips and let a glob of saliva land on the head, and the answering twitch of his cock leaves you pleased. His fingers are fisting the cushions. “Just relax, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you.” You nuzzle your cheek against the length of him and he groans, his throat bared. “I’ll make it feel so good for you, Frankie. Do you trust me? Look at me, sweet boy.”

He lowers his chin so he can meet your eye down the length of his body, his pupils engulfing his warm irises. “I—fuck—I trust you. Not gonna… last.”

“You close again?” He nods frantically as you spread your spit and his precum around the tip. “That's okay, honey. I’ll give you somewhere to put it this time.”

His whimper makes you smile. You guide your tongue along the underside of his length, spreading your spit with your hand as you begin to pump him. You swear he stops breathing when you play with his balls in your other hand, licking at them like a fucking kitten.

Frankie shudders at the sight of your tongue on his cock. This is a fucking dream. If he doesn't wake up, then at least he's died happy. This isn't fucking real.

“Please, please, por favor—”

You lick a long stripe from the base to the tip of his cock. “Yes, Frankie? Use your words. Tell me what you like.”

He would be mortified if he weren't so fucking desperate to come. “Por favor… tu boca… Please, please put your mouth on me, please.”

You smile, jerking him a bit faster. His thighs twitch. “You want me to suck your dick, Frank?”

“Mmhmm,” he manages, grinding his teeth so hard they might chip.

Pulling back his foreskin, your lips seal around the head of his cock, tongue swirling, and he's whining your name, pleading for more, losing some of the filter his sober mind tries to maintain when you're around.

The slick noises of you taking him deeper down your throat make his head spin. Your eyes still fixed on his, you gently reach for his hand and guide it to the crown of your head. He understands your message: Use me to make yourself feel good.

Frankie just curls his fingers in your hair and lets you work him the way you like.

You seem pleased with his lack of desire for control, hollowing your cheeks and closing in the hot, wet walls of your mouth around his cock. “Oh, fuck,” he chokes. “Mier—fuuuuck.”

You hum around his length and he bucks his hips instinctively, making you choke on him. He tries to help you pull away, but you're dimpling your fingers in his thighs, eyes watery and bleeding mascara, and he realises you like it.

You keep sucking, your hand softly squeezing his balls and the other his thigh, grounding yourself, him, who-the-fuck-ever. Frankie can hardly see. He feels his orgasm pull up his balls in your palm, his stomach tightening with the telltale sign that he won't be able to hold back much longer.

You continue to bob your head up and down, the sloppy squelching sounds of saliva deafening. He keeps your hair pulled back from your face so he can see you, crying around his dick. Pride has no place here anymore. He's firmly lodged himself in the realm of disbelief once more.

He's begging: leg bending at the knee, chest heaving, body with nowhere to go but melt into your palms, pleading with you to Please let me come, oh fuck, please, I’ll be good, please! And because you've always been so sweet, you’re letting him without a word.

“I—” He cuts himself off with a squeak as you swallow hard around him, and his thighs begin to tremble. “Ffffffuck. I’m… I’m—nnngh, c-coming—”

Your warbling moan is so fucking greedy. His cock pulsates as he spills down your throat, coating your tongue in his cum. Frankie whimpers, his body tensing, deflating, putty in your hands. He watches you take all of his briny cum until a bead pools at the corner of your mouth and you pull off his softening cock, swiping up the pearly liquid with your thumb and cleaning yourself up. His throat emits a strangled groan.

You beam up at him, kissing your way back up his body and in the crook of his neck. “Such a good boy for me, Frankie.”

It makes him hold you tighter, pulling your naked body flush to his. He pants against your temple, leaving messy kisses to your skin. “Fuck,” he says.

“Yeah,” you whisper, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck, “fuck.”

He practically purrs with you against him. “When can we do that again?”

You laugh, nipping his earlobe. “Not many guys can come twice in one sitting, Frank. You gotta let yourself rest. You gotta let me rest.”

“Sí,” he mumbles, nose sliding against your temple as he nods, “okay. Okay.”

“Better hope we didn't wake my brother up,” you tease, “or he’s going to kick your ass.”

“Don't care,” he grumbles. “I can take him.”

You rear back and lift a brow, your finger tracing a heart over his chest. “You need a coffee to sober up, baby. Who are you and what have you done with Francisco?”

He finally got what he wanted, thinks Frankie. He reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Thank you,” he says softly.

You playfully drum your fingers along the flush on his cheekbones. “Thank you, Frankie. Girls love a good listener.”

He feels himself warm a deeper red. “Would you…” He swallows, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Would you wanna, maybe, do this again? I dunno, sometime?”

You give him a sickly-sweet smile and kiss him on the nose. “Yeah, baby, I would. But I need you to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” he says.

A soothing hand rakes through his sweaty locks. “Go out and find a pretty girl you like. Ask her on a date. Maybe have a nice night with her. Make her happy. I know you don't think you're capable of it, and you don't think you're the handsome guy I see when I look at you. But I’m telling you that you are. And there are so many girls out there who need to see that a guy like you exists.”

A fist squeezes his heart and doesn't let go. “You really think so?”

“I don't say anything I don't mean, Francisco.” You pin him with a serious stare. “And if you still decide, after all those pretty girls throw themselves at your feet, that you still want me, then I’ll be here. Okay?”

He frowns, examining the dips and contours and inlets of your face. The prettiest girl in the world is on top of him, telling him he’s handsome, that he's gorgeous, that he's capable, and he’s uncertain that he'll ever be able to shake you. For now, he’ll hinge his door on the possibility that you don't want him to.

But he nods and he fixes his hand around the back of your neck. “Give me a kiss,” he says firmly, and you happily slant your mouth over his.

(np) tagging some lovely moots who were interested in my last wip!!: @swiftispunk @mrsmando @amanitacowboy @party-hearses @joelscurls (thank you so much my loves as always) 🫶

#kiwisbell's fics #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfic

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the-kr8tor · 1 month

Note

Horror/slasher movie actor hobie x actor reader whose the protagonist of the story 💳💳💳💥💥💥

Silly actors that meet for the first time and falls in love on a silly horror movie set

ACTOR AU!!! LET'S GOOOO!!!! (Thank you for requesting ly bestie ❤️❤️❤️)

Pairing: Actor! Hobie Brown x Actress! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, fem! Reader, no specific physical description of the reader, R is mentioned wearing make-up, Actor AU, Fame AU, CW food mentions, Pretend blood, pretend violence, Pretend death, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You run on the soft soil, sweat dripping off your brows. Your trainers sink under the earth with every step. The wet squelch behind you tells you to run faster, but your curiosity gets the best of you. With a quick look behind your shoulder, you instantly regret it as the tall masked man has gotten closer to you with his long strides.

He walks the same path you've taken like he's on a stroll in the park. His leather punk jacket and clown mask is drenched in warm blood— the blood of your fellow camp counselors, the blood of your dearly departed friends. Even with his casual movements, his entire demeanor sends a shiver down your spine. Heavy footfalls and a bloodied knife makes you run faster than your own feet could take you.

With the moonlight as your guide, the fog blanketing the dense woods, lungs burning, you trip on nothing.

“Fuck!” You shield your chin with your hand to avoid the hard impact. Hands braced, eyes closed, your face meets the moist forest floor. Dirt in your fingernails, grass in your hair, a warm hand flips you around by your shoulder and you scream loudly. The sound echoes around the dark woods, eyes wide, the killer raises his sharp knife to plunge it in your heart.

Your eyes meet the killer's eyes behind the mesh of the mask, gorgeous mismatched eyes greets your own. To your surprise, he winks and your terrified scream falters in your throat. Eyebrows knitted, hands on the villain's broad shoulders, he stabs you in between your ribcage.

“No!” Cold blood splatters out as you try to wrench away the mask from your murderer's face. With your last breath, tears in your fear filled eyes, his name falls out of your lips without a second thought. “Hobie?”

Hobie tilts his head with a playful smile, sticky blood smeared on his chiseled cheek, blue and hazel eyes staring at you fondly.

“Cut!” The director yells, and you audibly groan at your mistake. A bell rings, spotlights suddenly click open, the lights almost make you blind. The crew murmurs around as the director puts his hands on his hips. “The character’s name, darling! Not his real name,” he kneads at his temples. “Everyone take ten!” With one last frustrated groan, he walks away, entering his tent with a stomp and grumbling about changing the villain's name.

“I fucked up, didn't I?” You ask, still under your favourite co-star. “I'm sorry.” Frowning, you ready yourself for a berating.

Instead of a glare and a passive aggressive comment, Hobie wipes your cheek free of muck with his warm thumb. Eyes staring softly, his touch lingers.

“There, I just did the makeup department a favour. Not like you need it anyway.” He flashes his signature smirk, the same smirk that has people falling over themselves just to get a glimpse.

Your heart pounds loudly as he gets back on his feet, leather squeaking, he reaches down to help you up. Taking his hand, he lifts you up effortlessly, not even breaking a sweat or straining his muscles.

“Thank you.” You say fondly. The numerous spotlights above make your heart-shaped eyes sparkle.

“No problem. And you didn't fuck up, it happens to the best of us, yeah?” He pats your shoulder, and you think all the friendly late night talks in your trailer are just that, friendly. “You were doin' good, the best fuckin' scream ever. Thought my eardrums were about to burst.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop sayin’ thanks, I was just statin’ a fact, love.”

You hide your flustered face with a nod, cheeks hot. You make your way towards the wardrobe tent to get changed for the next scene where your character resurrects to help the remaining survivors. You've seen better scripts but money is money.

“Thank—” you correct yourself, chuckling as he follows you. Walking side by side, his hand brushes over your own. Hobie smiles, eyes trained where you're walking in case you unintentionally decide to method act and fall flat on your face. “You did great too, you were really scary.”

He snorts, the sound that fills you with endearment. “With this face?” Pointing at his chin, you laugh.

“I guess that's why they made you wear that god awful mask, no one would run away from you.” You push him playfully with your shoulder. “They'd run towards you instead.”

Hobie ignores all the crew scrambling around on set and the numerous cameras pointed at your back. He imagines that you're strolling at a park after a nice dinner where he bravely held your hand underneath the table.

Maybe it shouldn't remain in his mind, maybe he should just ask you, and maybe you'll say yes.

It's long overdue anyway, after two horror movies together and one comedy special, he thinks it's time to try to star in a romcom. Preferably with you.

Stopping in front of the tent, you look at him. “This is me, unless you need to change too—?” Hobie gingerly reaches for your cool hand, index finger lacing around your pinky carefully like he's able to snap it in half. “Y-yes?” You can hear your pulse quickening, you fear that your hand is sweaty and that his finger would slip away from the moist.

“Have dinner with me? A proper one where we don't eat take out in your trailer.” Hobie fakes a cough that's Oscar worthy to hide his nerves. “If you're not busy.” If you want to, he wanted to add, but he wants to remain suave in front of you. He'll save all his hidden awkwardness during the date. If you graciously accept anyway.

Your smile is brighter than the spotlights above. “I have to wear my best disguise then. Y’know, so we don't end up in a gossip mag in the morning.” Pinky lacing around his finger, you stand closer to him, toe to toe, smiles mirroring each other.

“Let me guess, it's a baseball cap with sunglasses innit?”

You giggle, “yep.”

“Leave it at home, you're not gonna need it.” His heart skips a beat at the realization of your closeness. Hobie now knows why you're the lead in most projects you're in.

Eyebrows knitted together, you tilt your head, eyelashes fluttering in the breeze. “Why?”

“The paps don't know where I live.”

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ddejavvu · 7 months

Note

Hi mei <3 I was terrified on the plane for no reason and it just made me think of how funny rooster would think a nervous flier is 😭😭 can I request what flying commercially with rooster would be like? thank u bestie

"Babe," Bradley's familiar voice comes from beside your ear, and you don't grant him the privilege of your gaze. Instead you keep your eyes screwed shut, and you feel him try to pry your hands off of the armrest between you.

"Come on," He laughs, not out of judgement, but absurdity, "You've gone up with me a hundred times!"

"This is different," You grit out, your teeth clenched hard enough to shatter the enamel, "You've been training for decades, you're the best of the best, and you fly a two-seater. There's two hundred people on this plane, and I saw the pilot flipping through a users' manual of the cockpit controls when we boarded."

"Well then he'll know exactly what to do," Bradley drawls, infuriatingly calm about the angry rumbling of the plane's engines as you speed down the runway. When the plane gains its first feet of air you groan, digging your nails hard enough into the armrest to puncture the plastic covering.

"Okay, you-" Bradley pinches your finger, not hard enough to hurt you, but hard enough to shock you into dropping your grip. You do so with a venomous look shot his way, but he scoops your hand into his own and kisses it undisturbed.

"You're gonna be fine." He promises, the fibers of his mustache tickling your knuckles, "Okay? I swear I won't let you die."

"What if this plane crashes, Bradley?" You keep your voice low, not wanting to worry any other nervous passengers.

He rolls his eyes fondly, "Then we'll take a nosedive into the sea. And I have extensive water survival training, which I will use to get us safely back to shore. Hell, I'll have us airlifted out, babe. Don't worry."

"I will stop worrying once my feet are on the ground again," You huff, but Bradley takes it as a good sign that you don't drop his hand. He pokes and prods at the screen in front of your face, strapped to the back of the chair in front of you.

"There, baby, Footloose. You like that one, yeah?"

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek as you contemplate his offer, the escape of a movie tantalizing in the face of your nerves. When he digs headphones out of his pocket and offers them to you with raised brows, you finally concede, taking them from him and jamming the connecter into its jack.

"Fine." You grumble, stuffing the earbuds into your ears, "But I swear to god, Bradley, if shit hits the fan, you'd better save me."

"I will." He vows, grinning as he steals the earbud from the ear furthest away from him, and replaces it in his own left ear to watch the movie with you, "I'll beat a bunch of old people out of the way to the lifeboat for you, honey."

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intheorangebedroom · 6 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, prologue

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

This is the beginning of what you wished had no end.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 See series masterlist for extensive a/n blurb and especially for trigger warnings. Tread carefully. Ily 🧡 Please be gentle, I'm terrified 🫣

Word count: 5.1k

[series masterlist] * [next]

Prologue: In The Beginning

He comes to you every Friday.

He gets in after dark. He is gone before dawn.

In this shady motel on the outskirts of town, where no one will recognise your car. The curtains are yellow, and the carpet is brown. There’s a dollar store painting of the Appalachian above the bed, and the tap runs either trickling and scalding or high pressure and cold.

You hated that in particular, in the beginning. Now you don’t care. You don’t wash him off your skin anymore. Not until you’ve got no other choice.

Because he can’t mark you, you’d been firm on that point, he likes to come on your skin.

When he’d finally spoke, that very first time, he’d told you he was Frankie, but you assume it’s not his real name. Which is fine, you didn’t give him your real name either.

“Frankie” had been far subtler than you, regretful, perhaps, you like to entertain the delusion, when he’d hinted that you couldn’t leave any trace on his body.

And, in the beginning, you couldn’t imagine that it would ever matter.

You were wrong.

You were wrong about a lot of things, in the beginning.

—

Friday night. Again.

The swinging door creaks on its hinges to let in the regulars at random intervals. Mostly men, mostly middle-aged, mostly unshaven. Mostly clad in the working-class uniform of jeans, boots and t-shirt. Few of them sit around the round wooden tables. The bar isn’t large, there’s only four of those.

When they come in small parties, the men favour the two pools on the right. They’re lined with blue felt. The casing is made of plywood. No one ever plays darts, no one ever feeds the jukebox. Its electric cord lays unplugged on the floor, coiled like a sad sagging tail.

If they walk in alone, they tend to sit at the bar. Head turned toward the giant television screen hung on the wall to their left, where younger men in more colourful uniforms fight, run, kick or throw balls in all shapes and sizes. Its noise is at the forefront, the middle-aged men’s conversations a low humming sound that falls into the background.

The long and angled bar itself takes up most of the rectangular room’s space. The counter is stripped-down to the bare minimum. Stainless steel, easy to clean, practical. Four beer taps and a gambling machine and beyond the counter, a large mirror with three rows of dusty liquor bottles.

Food is served, occasionally, as evidenced by the paper napkins dispensers and the two yellow and red plastic condiment bottles on each table.

The barman runs the place on his own. You drink here every Friday evening, and you’ve never seen more than six customers at once, you included. Admittedly, you might not be very observant.

Being observant requires endurance, far more than you possess and are willing to deploy and direct towards others. You’re not selfish, not in the least. But you’re tired. You’ve been tired for years. There’s no rational explanation for your exhaustion. No honourable, awe-inspiring, valid ground. You don’t even know what wears you out. It might be sadness, disappointment, or boredom. Or all three in equal parts. All you know is that, come Friday night, your head needs the support of the gray wall behind you.

The creaking noise on your left signals the arrival of another customer, stomping in with a sure gait. Your eyes stay shut. You don’t come to the very aptly named Hole in The Wall seeking the company of other people, whoever they may be.

You come here to hide for a few hours, between the styrofoam ceiling and the dusty carpeted floor. To drink your week away in peace, but not in nerve-racking silence. Alcohol, you found out at a young age, has interesting properties: it blurs out the sharp edges of your dark thoughts in just the right amount.

Back in spring, when you stepped in here for the very first time, you looked comically out of place in your corporate attire, and you did raise quite a few eyebrows from the other patrons. Five months later, they must have learned to see past the charade of your overpriced clothes, because none of them pays you any mind anymore. It’s better than anonymity: it’s casual indifference.

You loosen your grip around your tall cocktail glass and let the condensation drip down onto the cardboard coaster. Reluctantly, you lift your weary eyelids to locate the square napkin lying somewhere on the table and dry your fingertips on it.

That’s when you see him taking a seat at the counter, directly across from your small table.

Years from now, you will still remember the precise circumstances of your first, brief encounter, even though you’re not fully paying attention yet. Nothing indicates tonight will be any different. Nothing suggests you are about to live through a pivotal moment in your existence.

Details will stand out, however. Mostly visual, surprisingly, given the dim lighting of the place. The back of his trucker hat, midnight blue plastic mesh, flattening the dark curls on his nape. The washed out denim of his shirt, worked-in, greenish in the diffuse artificial light, pulled taut across his back, as he sits facing away from you.

The square shape of his shoulders is backlit against the bar’s mirror. Your empty gaze finds the solid slope of his broad silhouette, and you let it rest there, lazily following his movements whenever he picks up his glass. It’s the same comfort you find when you rest your empty head against the hard wall. It’s aimless, inconsequential.

Later, on different kinds of Friday nights, the sight of his muscles bunching as he tugs off his shirt will bring you back to this very moment. The thought will reshape into a sharp, wistful ache deep inside your heart. What would have happened, to you, to him, if he had chosen to stop for a drink at another bar, somewhere further down the road? What if you had done the same, back in April?

For now, your mind is blessedly blank.

Does he catch your reflection in the mirror? Does he feel your gaze on the back of his head?

After a while, how long, you cannot tell, he pivots slowly on his stool, grounded and dense. Slowly, like a mountain would if a mountain came to life and decided to walk into the ocean. He doesn’t turn around completely, just enough to look at you, one of his arms still propped on top of the counter.

The right side of his face is darkened by the shadow from the brim of his hat, but you can make out the pronounced crease in his brow. His eyes are black, and unfathomable, like the ocean at night, but alight with a bright glimmer. They find yours instantly.

Something shifts inside your rib cage, something close to the heart, close to pain.

You feel exposed, entirely bare. Your breathing subsides, you cannot move, trapped in a nightmare-like stretch of time as he glares down at you, immobile, impressive, gigantic. Dark eyes boring into yours. You’re drowning in them.

You don’t want it to end.

Inevitably, he breaks eye-contact, and swivels back toward the mirror. He sits still for a few seconds, before grabbing his glass to finish his beer in long gulps.

You watch him lift his hat and brush his hair to the side with a large hand, and he’s out the door less than a minute later, without so much as a glance in your direction, a conscious choice, given the minute proportions of the place.

He leaves you sitting there, with your brow pinched and your empty drink, struggling to understand the rippling effects of his massive presence on your body and your brain.

You bring your fingers to your chest and rub them over your sternum, where the shifting sensation continues to prickle.

Neither a second drink nor a third helps dull the feeling, but a fourth one is not an option if you want to get home without a DUI.

It follows you into the darkness of the deserted parking lot, on the drive home and into the glass prison of your clinically clean apartment. It’s there when you get into bed, when you lie wide awake at 3am next to your sleeping fiancé, and it’s still there when you wake up, hungover and sore, four hours later.

Nestled between your lungs. The memory of his cold hard stare. Of his soft sad eyes.

It bypasses your most foolproof diversions of painful pleasure and pleasurable pain. Your attempts at hard work and your compulsive distractions. It robs you of your appetite, of your lucidity, of your ability to rest. It corners you in the first floor toilet of your office building on a Thursday morning, on the verge of a panic attack, until you consider calling your sister for help.

Ava would figure it out. She’d get you out of that loop in which you’ve locked yourself up, she’d know what to say. With her crude words and her unforgiving formulations, she’d admonish your silly overreaction and dismissively rebuke your daydreams over a mundane interaction, probably throwing in something about your heteronormative fantasies.

Dude, you’re all worked up because of a staring contest with a rando in a dive bar? she’d say. She’d toss the rhetorical question at your face, you can hear her as if you’ve already sweated through the conversation.

She’s often harsh but she’s always right.

And normally, you’d be seeking that out. For your little sister to bully some good sense back into your nebulous brain.

But something has shifted.

Dark curls, thick fingers, flexing shoulders. Solid arms. Cold, hard stare.

He abraded something on the surface of your skin, and you don’t think you’re capable of withstanding Ava’s sarcasm in your current state.

By the following Friday, you feel so vulnerable you consider going to another place, or not going out at all.

Only, the alternative is worse.

You walk into The Hole in The Wall convinced that your unsteady gait is betraying your apprehension, squinting to adjust to the dim light of the place. The bar is nearly empty, as always, save for a couple of bearded graying men you vaguely recall having seen here before. They all look the same to you, anyway. Another thing you hate about yourself.

The barman tells you to sit while he prepares your drink. The gesture is kind but uncustomary, and it only serves to increase your uneasy feeling.

Within an hour of waiting, because that's what you've been doing, you register with an icy trickle of shame dripping down your sides, you realise he won’t be coming.

That man’s presence here last week is the very definition of sheer happenstance. Nothing more. Nothing else. If anything, you’ve been a nuisance to him, ogling him while he was simply trying to unwind with an afterwork drink.

You’ll never see him again.

And it’s fine. You’ll move on, drift back into drifting, avoiding at all costs to process what happened to you when you met his gaze. The tree hiding the forest.

When you walk up to the counter to order your second drink, the question slips away from you.

“Can I have the same thing the man in the trucker hat had last Friday, please?”

The barman looks up at you from the tray of clean dishes he's pulling out of the dishwasher and he huffs. He’s handsome, by most standards, you notice for the very first time. Very tall, and broad, green-eyed with a three-day stubble. He’s probably a couple of years above forty. His head is shaved bald. He’s manly in a burly, albeit fatherly way.

“Oh sweetheart, d’you know how many guys with a trucker hat I see here every day?”

It’s not meant to make you feel small, his tone is gentle. It’s a straightforward, factual answer.

“What do you wanna drink?” he asks when you don’t answer. “Tired of that G&T yet? Cos I got good beer. This is a beer place, you know? Wanna try a light blonde, to start? Something stronger? An IPA?”

What do you want. You’ve been drinking gin all your life because that’s what your mother always has. Starting at 5pm in the afternoon. Would you, indeed, like to try a light blonde? Something stronger? An IPA, to start?

It’s a brand-new world unfurling in front of you, a yellow brick road paved with what-do-you-wants.

“Sure,” you nod, “I can try an IPA.”

—

The barman goes by the name of Mark. He’s also the owner of The Hole in The Wall, you learn. Bought the place two years ago, after a painful divorce. A cliché, he adds, with a charming, self-deprecating smile.

The interaction’s short and altogether not unpleasant, and the beer, to your surprise, is fresh and enjoyable. It’s much tastier, in fact, than the cheap, tepid gin you’ve been sipping so far. It gets you drunk just as fast, but this time when you leave the bar, your mind is quiet, if not at ease.

The following week, a heatwave hits the Tampa Bay. The melting asphalt sticks to your leather soles, like your sweaty clothes to your clammy skin, like your brooding mood to your dampened dreams. In a couple of days eventually, August will draw to an end, but the summer won’t end with it. It never truly does. It taunts you all year round, a sweltering reminder of how much you hate living here.

And if it wasn’t for the humidity, you’d be jogging the short distance between your car and the cool haven of the air-conditioned bar.

You push the swinging door forward, eyes shut in anticipation of the blinding darkness and you stand in the entrance for a few seconds. The familiar and comforting smell of moldy dust mixed with beer yeast greets your senses as you take in the chill air grazing your naked arms.

And then you reopen your eyes.

He’s here.

Trucker hat, blue jeans, gray T-shirt. Different clothes, same silhouette. He’s sitting at your table, his position a magnified echo of yours two weeks ago, hand loosely wrapped around his pint, seemingly asleep with his head propped against the wall.

Mark looks at you and tilts his head in his direction, wiggling an eyebrow with a silent question of “Is this the guy you were asking about?”

Your breathing’s so loud you think everyone must hear it over the droning television. Mark’s brow furrows with incomprehension at the alarm widening your eyes, and you anchor yourself to his face, walking toward him in slow motion, climbing on the first high stool you reach.

“Hey. You ok?”

You stretch your lips in a wince of a smile.

“So? What will it be today? Wanna try a Free Dive? It’s local.”

You nod in silence, but then he grabs a large glass, and you ask tentatively, “Can I have only half a pint?”

Fuck, your mouth is so dry.

Behind you, to your right, you feel more than you hear the man shift in his chair.

Mark sighs, his left hand paused on the tap handle.

“I don’t have beer glasses this small, sweetheart. Get a pint, the first one’s on me, okay?”

You reiterate your silent nod. He places the beer in front of you, and you swallow the first swigs too quickly. The back of your throat throbs with the fast flowing intake of the cold liquid, or perhaps it’s because of the frantic beating of your heart.

He’s getting up now, you can tell by the friction sound of the chair dragging on the carpeted floor, and your frightened expression turns downright pleading as you hear him close the distance between you.

He’s at your back, sliding his thick naked arm past yours to return his empty glass to the counter. His movements are slow, deliberate. You get a whiff of his scent, a masculine musk, with a faint smell of laundry detergent, it’s wholesome, safety, comfort. You turn your head. He’s looking at you. Looking at you with intent.

He’s so tall you have to lift your chin to hold his gaze. Hard cold stare, soft sad eyes, it’s swirling violently inside your exhausted chest and he’s leaving again already, walking toward the door like nothing just happened.

He pulls it inward and you watch him exit the bar into the dusk light.

Did he come back for you? Are you going insane?

Sixty-seven seconds. Sixty-seven seconds is the time it takes you to decide your next move. The one that’s going to forever change your life. The one that could be everything or turn out meaningless.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Mark, sliding your handbag on the counter and you stand up to follow him outside.

The sunset sky is a pink shade of orange. Shadows are stretching long onto the asphalt, drawing a distorted world upside-down.

He’s not here anymore, you waited too fucking long. You quickly scan the parked vehicles on the other side of the road to your right, and the parking lot in front of you, but it’s empty, save for your anthracite sedan, a black truck and what you assume must be Mark’s old SUV, because you see it every week.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, pressing your fingers to your sternum.

You look to your left, where the parking ends. There’s a white utility vehicle advertising a plumbing service and a dark blue city car. Beyond them, the lot extends into a narrow stretch of gravel behind the small rectangular building. There’s a pile of junk, and the tailgate of a red truck.

Your hand drops to your side and you start walking toward it, going around the white van.

He’s there. He’s waiting for you by the front of the red truck, behind the building. His hands propped on his waist, head down, hidden under his cap.

You keep walking toward him, the sound of your shoes on the dirty ground grating your ears, but you stop short when he raises his head, fuck he looks even taller at this distance, with his elbows spread.

It’s like he senses your apprehension, or perhaps he shares it, because he folds his arms over his chest, hugging himself.

For the very first time, you can fully make out his face. Strong features, a strong curvy nose, a patchy beard peppering a sharp jaw, and plush lips. Your gaze follows the solid column of his neck down to his suprasternal point peeking above the V-collar of his worn-out t-shirt, before it’s drawn back to his eyes.

He stands there perfectly still for you to detail.

Above you, the sky has turned a rusty blue. The humidity is stifling. It’s Friday the 30th, 2019, 8.17pm.

“What do you want?”

His voice is deep, and low, barely louder than a murmur yet intense, his words full and round.

The question, however legitimate, hits you square in the solar plexus, right under your aching sternum. You fear that if you don’t speak fast enough, he’ll leave you again, alone with the memory of his soft sad eyes and his hard cold stare.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, and god, if it’s true, what are you doing here?

He huffs, and it’s the very sound of disillusion. His eyes grow dimmer, you think you’re not the one darkening them. Unfolding his arms, he removes his hat and takes a step closer, then another. You could touch him, if you reached out with your arm stretched.

He looks at you like he’s already seen how your story ends.

You could back away. You don’t.

He moves slowly, thick body thrumming with undiluted strength and unreleased tension, eyes searching yours, giving you the time to leave, should leaving be what you choose, should you turn around and run before the hanging threat breaks like dark stormy clouds and drench you soaked.

He slowly moves forward until he’s towering over you, until his chest touches your breasts, until the pilled cotton of his t-shirt catches at the satin material of your blouse. His scent floods your senses, he leans down into the curve of your neck and inhales you there, long, deep, unhurried. You hold your breath, still, in turn, for his exploration, nails digging into your palms, heart tripping.

And then, he touches you. With his lips, a feather-like caress over the soft skin under your ear. Your eyes flutter shut, your thoughts are suspended.

“This what you want?” he murmurs.

His words sink under your skin, they harden your nipples, raise goosebumps on your nape in the muggy evening heat.

“Yes.”

The cap falls onto the gravel. His hands go to your hips. Clutching you there with a rough grip and he’s tugging you closer, flush to his chest. He licks up a broad stripe along the line of your throat, pivots with you in his arms and backs you into the side of the truck, you have to grab his forearms to keep your balance.

A guttural sound catches in his throat, like a grunt he tries to hold back, for your touch, for the taste of your skin, for your pliant docility.

Your head rolls back, you’ve gone weeks without a skin on skin contact, and now this man is hunched over you, his body swallowing yours, this stranger who’s infected your dreams with his cold hard stare and his soft sad eyes, his mouth roaming the expanse of your throat, short beard prickling your skin, and the shifting sensation inside your chest drops to your core where it catches fire.

His kisses are lips, teeth and tongue, rough and scraping at you raw in all the right ways, they trail up along your neck, under your jaw, and when they find your lips, he presses you harder into him. He tastes like beer, unfamiliar, you want to get used to it.

The seams of your blouse strain when he pulls it out of your skirt with an impatient tug. His hands slither under the hem and find the naked skin of your back. His palms are strong, rugged and scalding and his fingertips calloused, they make your skin sizzle underneath their pressing, crackle like snapping wood, like fireworks at a summer county fair, like sweet candy wrapping.

You're leaking hot and sticky between your hips, responding with your entire body, opening up for him, letting his tongue in past your lips with pathetic grateful little moans, winding your arms around his shoulders, over the cording muscles of his back, musky sweat dampening his t-shirt. The thick, solid shape of him, that got etched behind your eyelids.

You’re a want and a need and an empty flutter, entangled with him, whoever he may be, his tongue swirling inside your mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, his splayed hands covering your back, his knee spreading your legs open.

He’s voracious, harsh in his own need, snatching from you what you’re already willing to give, angling your head with a sharp pull on your hair to deepen his kiss, grunting his approval when you moan at the sting.

Arousal keeps dripping down your fold where his thigh prods firm and brawny against the black material of your skirt that hinders the pressure.

He growls, frustration rumbling low and menacing inside his throat. He grabs your ass and squeezes, thick middle finger pushing against the fabric of your clothes into the cleft between your cheeks and you jolt, leaping forward further into him. His belt buckle bites into the soft flesh of your belly, right where you're burning empty and wanting and shameless for him. You feel him hot and hard against your hip, and he tightens his hold, cages you within him.

He’s big all over, larger than life proportions, you surrender to the fact with your lust-drunk mind, from the height of his frame to the girth of his sex, from his grip on your senses to the sorrow in his eyes.

It blooms inside you like pain, blossoms of mahogany red spreading along your limbs in relentless waves, the power he already wields over you and you don’t even know his name.

You buck between his arms, a first and very last attempt at freeing yourself, unconvincing with the scrap of your fingernails along the pebbled skin of his neck, and you press back into him again, squirming against his throbbing length, offering him some friction.

He pulls out all of sudden, breaking the kiss, and you're left panting, ankles swaying, you’d drop to the gravel without the support of the truck, still sun-warm in the early evening, yet colder than his feverish body.

He shakes his head with a silent no, his shoulders heaving, a wordless warning hissed through his clenched bared teeth. The simmering anger under the surface only makes you want him more, the unyielding restraint shining dark in his eyes.

But it’s over. You know it. He gave you this, and took it back. With shaky hands, you smooth down the wrinkles of your blouse where he’s bunched it in his fists. You lick his taste off your trembling lip. You will not cry.

He shakes his head again, you watch him through welling tears, confused, eyes flickering between his.

Behind him, the city car’s engine revs up to a start, aggressive headlights backlighting him. His throat bobs up and down in chiaroscuro as he swallows hard. You know what you must look like in the crude white light. Supplicant, dependent, awaiting. Disheveled by his hand. Tires grate on the gravel as the car reverses away from you into the night, and with it the headlights, leaving you standing in the brown city night, urban semi darkness, and you see him shut his eyes.

He smiles, a puzzling, sorrowful lift of his plush lips, and a new sort of ache washes over you. You raise forward on your tiptoes to peck a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth. His entire frame quivers for you. A muscle clenches in his jaw, the deepening crease in his brow redefines his traits in shadows.

He leans into you, like he wants you but he doesn’t want to want you, like he’s giving in but not entirely, because giving in would be the end of him, of you.

The flat of his palm to the swell of your breast, and he kneads your soft flesh, slowly at first, growing urgent. The back of your head hits the truck’s window when he pinches your nipple, hard, with two fingers, and you bite down a moan.

He’s engulfing you again, lips latched around your other nipple, tongue swirling and licking through your blouse and your thin bra and you hold on to him, you cling to his frame when he bunches up your skirt around your waist, leather boot nudging your foot to the side, cock throbbing on your hip, slick dripping down your walls.

“Stop me,” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear. It’s not a dare, it’s not a plea, it’s your last chance to back down before the free fall.

Your pulse stutters, you arch into him without hesitation, but he pins you back against the truck with his chest, cupping you through your underwear and he curses into your neck at the sticky leaking mess he finds there.

Your naked leg hitches up rigid and tense against his leg, curled fingers, curled toes, and he hooks his index into the cotton of your panties.

A brief stroke of his knuckles into the soft, smooth dip between your sex and your inner thigh, unexpectedly tender, before he parts your soaked lips with his two middle fingers, coating them in your sticky slick desire, and he sinks them inside your empty cunt.

You crumble around the intrusion, forehead hitting his collarbone, slack-mouthed, a short exhale of a silent “oh.” He brings his left hand to the crown of your head and cradles you there, while his fingers pump in and out of your heat fast and rough. His thumb glides through your folds and starts rubbing at your clit, deft and precise, and you shudder between his arms, you slump into his hold.

He keeps stroking your hair, gentle soothing sounds murmured into your ear as he fucks you raw with his hand, attuned to your moans and your every reaction, gauging what you can take before his fingers curl deeper inside your cunt, merciless, thumb pressing tight circles on your bud at an increasing pace.

Your breathing comes in ragged and short while his intensifies. It’s pouring into your ear hot and overwhelming and you’re dissolving. Sweat beading at your temples, heat raising from his exerted muscles.

You focus on the sensation of his flexing muscles under your clawing hands to stave off your building orgasm, it’s growing bright and blinding, searing and violent but it’s inevitable, and soon, too soon, your release flows hot and sticky into his hand. Your whines resound inside his chest but he keeps going, low husks of shhh, come on now, that’s it, until your trapped body trashes with the overstimulation.

It’s like he can’t let go, pressing his nose heavily to the side of your face, and you struggle to resurface, blood thrumming in your veins, his angry cock pulsating against your hip.

You let out a dry sob when he slides out of you and the rubber band of your panties slaps your sensitive skin. You don’t miss the flat drag of his tongue licking your taste off his palm, you furrow your fingers deeper into his arm with a short clench of your eyes.

“Fuck,” your hear him quietly groan, and his fingers disappear into his mouth.

You want to stay tucked up against him, curled up into his hold. You could live the rest of your life there, you think, between his hands and his scent, between his chest and his truck.

You lock your ankles and your knees, hoping they will not fail you and you stand, pushing away from him and into the side of the truck. You readjust your skirt, slide it down, palm it smooth. Brush the damp hair from your forehead with the back of your trembling hand.

In your peripheral, he’s leaning down, picking up his hat from the ground and combing his fingers through his hair before he sets the cap back on his head.

You look up dazed and heavy-lidded and you brace yourself before meeting his gaze, cold hard stare, soft sad eyes, and he says,

“I’m Frankie.”

****

Bonus (having déjà vu? that's normal 😝 Gonna use this gif at the end of every first chapter I manage to yank out of my crazy in love brain):

Taglist (thank you 🧡 if you don't wish to be tagged anymore, just drop me a DM 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @nicolethered @littleone65 @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @mylostloversbookmarks @its-nebuleuse @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @all-the-way-down-here

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sapphicmsmarvel · 1 month

Text

Azriel: worlds collide

Like everyone else, I have seen the BikeTok and BookTok simp city and im eating it up. (except some of the comments, some are insane and cringey but!)

So naturally I thought of Az on a bike then passed out. Then thought of him with a bookish girlfriend, and passed out again.

Let's go!!

(also this fic exposes how much TikTok I watch and!! I don’t want to hear it!!)

Regular headcanons:

-You two met because of Feyre and Nesta (and technically Elain since her and Azriel were besties). But Nesta got you to agree to a blind date with Azriel, you didn’t even know what he looked like. Elain and her husband assured you that Azriel was hot.

-They didn’t let you down.

-You and Azriel had been texting a bit but agreed to no photos of yourselves so you could get to know each other without the pressure of looks.

-He was also nervous about his hands, he didn’t want you to think of him as a gross creature.

-You sent him an array of outfits to pick from. He picked a blue sweater, you picked out a black button up for him. So you two knew what you’d be wearing on the date.

-When he walked into the restaurant, you thought you’d died and gone to heaven. He was sex on legs. Gorgeous tanned skin, hands that you wanted wrapped around your throat. You knew he would talk someone through an orgasm.

-When he saw you, he almost fell to the ground and thanked whatever god put you in front of him. You were beautiful. Your eyes were twinkling. He saw your luscious curves, he wanted to sink his teeth into your plump ass. He wanted your thighs wrapped around his neck.

-Then your smile, your laugh and just you enchanted him.

-You were no better, you were infatuated with him.

-After three dates he officially asked to be his girlfriend.

-You were terrified to ride the bike the first time. He made sure you were safe obviously but you were nervous. And now? You’re obsessed.

-He always got the door for you, pulled out your chair, he was always bringing you flowers.

-Obviously he was a god in bed, perfect even. Even when you two weren’t doing intense kinky shit you had a safe word just in case. Even after assuring him that you were fine, he felt better when you had a safe word. He made your first time together special too.

-You gave him a handjob on the bike in the comfort of your garage.

-He’s fingered you and eaten you out on the bike. You have no idea how he did so well balancing the bike to ensure you didn’t fall.

-He held your books for you as you shopped. And at bookish events he always took pictures for you and encouraged your followers to go up and meet you.

-After a year you two moved in together. A 3 bedroom townhouse. He got an office, you got a library room and then the bedroom for you two.

-The Archeron Sisters took full credit for you two being together. His brothers adored you even before the relationship and now that you’re “officially” a little sister (because Az isn’t letting you go) they love you even more.

When your relationship was shown online:

-Azriel was one of the most popular BikeTokers and you were one of the most popular BookTokers

-You two had been dating for a few years when both your respective areas of the internet merged.

-He was just like “everyones finally catching up on how hot reading is huh” like it’s been his life. Reenacting famous sex scenes was one of his favorite things. Zade Meadows scenes with consent discussed beforehand??? (cough funhouse scene cough) (However he is not a fan of Zade meadows)

-You just couldn’t stop laughing at the guys being like “these girls are freaks!” and Azriel always commenting “you guys are just finding this out?”

-Which then leads to gossip pages talking about him and who his potential partner is.

-You were used to your man getting steamy comments and DMs, he’s tried to get people to stop but they won’t so he stopped opening them and didn’t respond.

-Then you started getting comments and DMS from bikers asking for a date. And then Az began pouting, which you ruthlessly teased him about.

-”Can I post you on my page?” Az asked one night in bed. “Something without your face, but something?”

“Are you gonna send it to these guys and demand they take out their dicks for a measuring contest?” You asked dryly.

He grumbled, and you turned off your kindle. You were done reading for the night. You had a big baby to comfort. “You do know, I’ve been dealing with his shit on your page since we began dating right?”

“But…there’s no chance of me leaving you.” Your blood turned to ice. “Do you think so little of me that I’d leave you for some random person on the internet?”

His eyes widened when he saw how pissed off you were. “No I just…” He sighed, “I worry because I don’t see me as anything.”

“Let me put it this way: You are everything to me. No, you’re not anything, because you are everything to me. And I am the only girl that’s gonna ride your dick, and your bike. You a’re the only guy that gets to fuck me.” You said bluntly. “Capiche?”

He blinked at you, then smiled, “I love you.” “I love you too, you’re on thin ice for even suggesting that bullshit.” You huffed even as your head hit his chest to go to bed.

He kissed your forehead. And held you even tighter.

-So he asked if you guys could film a video, just his hands would be in it, so some mystery was still there.

You had wanted to redecorate your kindle and film it. So just your hands would be in it. You sighed and let the fool join.

“Hey everyone, so join me today with a very special guest. My boyfriend!” You said happily into the mic but also sounded annoyed, “the fool wanted to join because of all the comments and DMs I get hitting on me.”

He waved gleefully in the camera. Once again, only his hands were visible against your dining room table. His nails were painted black, and frankly well taken care of (because of you). He had a singular ring on his ring finger, one with your initial. You had one on yours as well, his initial.

“Alright, baby. What’re we doing today?” You asked.

“Redecorating your kindle.” It was easy to hear the adoration in his voice.

“I went to a few local bookstores and picked these up.” You showed them to the camera. Your nails were painted the color of Azriel’s tip, but nobody knew that but you two. You hoped.

“Alright let’s start.”

Azriel picked up the biggest sticker and placed it in the middle, “how about here?” It was a sticker that was a tarot card style with a girl reading in it that said “the reader”.

“Nah my popsocket is gonna block it, and that’s too pretty to be hidden.” You placed it up on the top corner.

Then he picked up a candy heart style sticker that said “smut slut”. The camera couldn’t see his grin. “Shut up.” You said. “Nah, I love when you’re a smut…” He hesitated and looked sheepish.

“Can you not say the word?” You laughed.

“I don’t like the idea of calling you a slut.” “Nothngs wrong with being a slut.” You said.

“Yeah but, I’m trying to be a gentleman!”

“Baby, nothing you did last night was-” “Aye!” He laughed lightly.

Throughout the video, you two teased each other, and all around had a good time. You smacked his hands away when he tried to take your sticker-fictional boyfriend away from you. He smacked your hands away when he tried to put a motorcycle sticker on it. But you let him put it there in the end, and happily kept it there.

Tons of comments rolled in. All of them were talking about how cute you guys were.

He posted a video later and he got a comment that talked about how nice his hands were. Naturally, others began agreeing. So he posted a video labeled, “I hope you guys realize that the reason my hands look so nice is because of my girlfriend.”

And the video involved you being his backpack. And then you were tagged in the video as well. So your followers increased drastically, then when you posted a few pictures of you two from when you went to your cousin's wedding, even more followers and comments rolled in.

You were wearing a cobalt blue dress that hugged your curves, he was in a black button up with nice dress pants and shoes. You had strappy silver heels on, even with the heels you came up to that mans chin. The first one was you two just looking at each other and smiling, clearly you both were laughing. Then the other one was a smiling one, but he wasn’t looking at the camera, he was looking at you.

Some other videos he’s in are bookshopping vlogs or random tiktoks he makes appearances in.

You also got the comments of “does he have siblings” and “are you looking for a sister-in-law” to which you responded, “I already have two <3 but wish you the best!!”

You didn’t play about your sister-in-laws relationships either. Girl code, man. Also, you genuinely loved Azriels brothers and their girlfriends.

Even Nesta and Feyre joined in on the BookTok craze. Talking about books the three of you liked. Book recs for Feyre because she was just getting into reading. Feyre’s reaction to Haunting Adeline.

On the video where your sister-in-laws were in, you got a few comments that were golden.

“Idk who im more in love with azriel or y/n”

“Do any of you need a third in your relationship? I can cook”

Of course there were still assholes who didn’t respect your relationship. The block button was a blessing. But for the most part, everyone was kind.

The internet could be a bad place, but sometimes, sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #azriel x reader fluff #azriel x you #azriel spymaster #acotar #acofas #acomaf #acowar

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iamasaddie · 9 months

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Congratulations, bestie! 💕 This is only the beginning. You are SO talented, one of my fave people on tumblr. I would like to request. . .

Joel Miller vaginally double-penetrating you with a dildo and degrading you for it 😇

Thank you! Love you so much! 🖤🖤🥹🥹

My love, my dark queen, thank you so much! You have no idea what an inspiration you are to me! Your creativity astonishes me every fucking day, and I'm here for it!

Now, I said I was gonna do 500-words drabbles. I know I did. But I'm a clown, and something happened with my brain. I hope you find this little thing enjoyable. Because I sure as fuck had a lot of fun writing it!

he hurt me but it felt like true love

paring: dark-ish!Joel x f!afab!Reader rating: explicit (18+ minors DNI) word count: 1,5k~ warnings: ER; PWP (for real, no plot at all); erotic humiliation; double vaginal penetration; sex toy; emotionally estranged Joel; kinda toxic Joel?; explicit sexual content; degradation/praise; unsafe PinV; pussy slapping (barely); dirty talk; anal scare; no use of y/n. let me know if I missed anything. dedicated to @toxicanonymity MY MASTERLIST (I will eventually create a separate link for all the celebration fics!)

"You didn't actually think I won’t find it, did ya?"

You've been wet for at least an hour now. When Joel came up to you in the kitchen with his unusual, deceivingly sweet nothings, rubbing your lower back and whispering how much he missed you, you were stupid enough to stay clueless. Joel was not the soft kind. Joel was not the "kiss you out of nowhere" type. And he definitely wasn't the "I missed you today type". He was the "missed this fuckin' pussy' while lightly slapping your quickly dampening crotch" type, and you were okay with that. So why his sudden softness didn't raise alarms inside you right away you didn't know. Now, as he is standing between your parted thighs, buried to the hilt inside your ever-so-welcoming heat, and swaying the rubber dick you've kept hidden in your bedside table, everything clicks. Judging by the look on his face you know you're fucked. Big times.

"I guess, if my cock's not enough for a slut like you, I might just use it. Maybe then you’ll stop bitching so much."

Without as much as waiting for you to come up with some kind of response, he continues pounding into you, his thrust harder than ever. His hand tightens around the black rubber of the fake dick and for a second you're mesmerized by how easily his large hand fully envelops the sizable girth. You're quickly brought to reality when Joel presses the head of the dildo into your asshole. You start sweating, and at the moment it is not at all from excitement. You know Joel, you remember him whispering how much he wanted to fuck your other hole, but it never came to that. The thought terrified you more than thrilled, and today wasn't the exception. But Joel looked angry, he looked like he might just…

"No, no, please, Joel, not my ass," you trashed your head from side to side, trying to push him off you but he held you down too hard.

"What?"

Admittedly, 'no' wasn't a word that sounded in your bedroom often. You were ready to give all of yourself to him, however he wanted. Your response to his desires was almost Pavlovian: whatever he wants - he gets, and you thank him for that. So when the syllable slips from your lips, you don't know if he's more angry or dumbfounded.

"Please," you continue to beg, knowing full well that was his Achilles' heel. Joel loved seeing you ruined, and begging for release, for a break, didn't matter. Your voice is shaking and the tears streaming down your cheeks are not an act you can put on sometimes to give Joel what the demon inside him craves. "Not my ass."

His pounding is relentless, you know you'll have bruises on the inside of your thighs from his hip bones hitting your skin so roughly. When he slaps your thigh and bares his teeth, you kind of already know that you've won.

"Do you fucking think you call the shots here, doll?"

"No-oo," your voice trembles, but this time not from fear, because he's already easing the pressure of the fake dick from your tight ring of muscles but not removing it completely. "I don't, I," you whisper, shaking your head, "I beg… just… please."

Joel is smiling, and no matter how maniacal it looks, your insides flutter. He is the most handsome man you've ever seen.

"Think your cunt is greedy enough to take two cocks?"

And the fear's back tenfold. You can't even fathom the idea of having two cocks inside you if they were regular-sized, and Joel... Well, he was huge, to say the least. It took you a week of abstinence after you first fucked him - or, rather, he fucked the shit out of you - to not feel like you'd been torn apart. You grew accustomed to him with time, the feeling of him on top of you, or pounding into you from behind, weighed out the discomfort that you grew to love. But what he suggests now, you don't think it'll work.

"What?" By the look on his face, you already know there's no way he's gonna fall for you begging again.

"If I'm not putting it in your ass, you better beg me prettily to put it in your cunt. Or," the unsaid rest of the sentence speaks for itself when he pushes into the tight entrance of your ass but it doesn't give because of how hard you clench it. Your choices are quite slim when you weigh the options.

"Please, please, Sir, put it in my pussy. I want it so bad. I want you to fuck me with your cock and the toy, please."

He huffs a laugh at the stream of pleadings leaving your breathless body, finally bringing the toy away from your asshole and inspecting it.

"I guess both of those cocks are mine now."

You play along, because you know, the more obedient you are, the less he'll want to hurt you. "Please, stuff me full of your cocks, I need them in my pussy."

His sigh is heavy like he's tired of you, but by now you know him too well to see through the bullshit. He's excited, more than he's been in a while.

"What a greedy fucking cunt, can’t believe you ask for two cocks in your hole when you could barely take mine alone."

You nod fervently and spread your legs further when he all but throws the dick in your face. "Suck on this for a while, I'm tired of your whinin’."

With trembling hands that you barely unclasped from the sheets you'd been grabbing too long and too tight, you bring the toy to your mouth and get to work. He doesn't even look at you as you slurp and spit on the rubber, the obscene sounds are just background noise.

He brings one of his fingers to your entrance that's already stretched on his dick and pushes in with methodical movements, after a few pumps he hums in approval and squeezes a second one into your pussy.

You squeeze around him and bite down the rubber dick in your mouth, because you're overwhelmed with gratitude for him actually taking time to stretch you out, but at the same time because you feel like you might snap any second.

Joel slaps your clit with the palm of his free hand and stares into your eyes, a warning in his voice. "Fucking relax that cunt. You wanna be a greedy bitch, you gotta act accordingly."

For a fleeting second, he circles his thumb over your clit, and even if your brain couldn't make you, the sting of pleasure forces your body to relax, that’s when he pushes his third finger in and starts thrusting with abandon.

"That’s it, little slut, now we're talking."

The sheer pressure, the amount of him inside you is hard to comprehend. You feel like you have a fever, you sweat profusely and you don't know if you want to cry, scream and push him away with zero strength that was left in your body, or beg for him to continue. You don't have the time to figure it out, your body taking over your mind when a string inside snaps and you cum all over him. Your pussy spasms at first, and you know it's painful for him because he hisses and takes his fingers out, but you don't own your body anymore. You can't do anything about it. You don't even exist. After the twitching of your cunt around his still very hard cock subsides, you feel euphoria. Like you're a puddle, not even a liquid state, but a gas. The cock falls out of your mouth, and it's coated in saliva, bite marks visible on the silicone head.

Joel stretches as far as he can without separating from you and snickers. "Fuckin' glad that wasn't my cock in your mouth."

You're delirious when he lines up the dildo to your stuffed, drenched hole. As he slowly pushes in, the scream rips from your chest, and you tear the side of your lip with its intensity. You're overstimulated and trembling, you feel your legs start to shake and get numb. The fullness inside you is soul-stirring, it almost feels like you're being torn apart and put together into a better version of yourself. Stronger, more desirable. It's a heady feeling, you're afraid of it. Afraid of never feeling it again.

"Good job, looking like a proper fucking slut, baby." His praise is sick and foul, and it makes you feel like you're worthy of fucking Gods. "Fucks sake, you're so stretched, my cock'd fall right out of ya whore pussy if I took that toy out, wouldn't it?" He tries to push the cock in at the same time as the dildo, so the emptiness when he leaves changes to the dizzying feeling of fullness when he pushes back in. The tell-tale feeling of tightness enslaves your body and once again you can't help it when your body is constricting without your volition, warning you about the upcoming burst.

The tears run down your face and you taste their saltiness on your tongue, you almost drown in it.

"Don't fucking cry." Joel's enraptured by your body, by your strength, but he'll never tell you that. "You asked for it yourself, now be a good slut and cum on my dicks, come on."

When your release gushes out of you, you fail to tell Joel that for the first time with him, you actually cried tears of divine happiness.

#i am not a saddie #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel x reader #iamasaddie fic #dark smut #dark!joel smut

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