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ugh-yoongi · 10 months

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you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly.

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway). When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and… “Kissing,” she says finally. “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.” He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines. “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?” Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion.

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt. “Yeah—want you, Joon.” “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.” “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her. Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does. She hates that he’s right. Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides. It’s perfect. Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy. “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster. “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing. When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, and reblogs/shares are always welcome! I appreciate you very much~ ♡

#namjoon x reader #namjoon smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts x reader #namjoon fanfic #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jewel writes

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chronically-ghosted · 7 months

Text

i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine

rating: teen

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.

tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy

a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!

one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day.

🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist

Frankie Morales has a problem.

Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams.

So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . . he can’t classify this as a bad problem.

In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.

And right now, it’s wearing a dress.

Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden.

Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.

He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –

He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.

There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –

Wait.

That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass.

That’s –

“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”

You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh.

“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”

He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle.

“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”

“The fuck outta you is excused.”

You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own.

Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem.

His real fucking problem is Nick.

Your boyfriend.

Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair.

“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”

He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is.

But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.

“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.”

Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.

See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really.

Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.

So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.

The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.

And he’s your friend.

Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.

Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care.

So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .

And you deserve the world.

You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.

That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.

Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line.

Never a good idea with Benny Miller.

I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.

“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road.

“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”

“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks.

You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight.

“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.”

“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”

Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie.

Don’t, man, just don’t.

Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out.

Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers.

“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”

Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction.

As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you.

“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back.

“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”

Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier.

Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet.

Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.

“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.

Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.

“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”

Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.

He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.

You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet.

The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.

“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”

He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest.

“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.”

That was a mistake.

This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now.

Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,

“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”

But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world.

C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this

C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.

C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.

Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.

His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all.

When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.

Frankie only ever asked for one.

He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart.

The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar.

“Six tequila shots, please.”

You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.

Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night.

The sooner, the better, you mother fucker.

You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system.

The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you?

And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.

You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch.

22%

Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.

But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.

He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning.

One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u

You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.

Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail.

Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play.

First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.

But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami.

But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language.

“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”

There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.

“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”

“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”

“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”

In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall.

“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”

You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding.

There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.

“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”

His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion.

“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”

And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:

“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”

“Benny, fuck off!”

And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.

Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?

The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy.

You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on.

This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.

Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart.

Fuck. Fuck!

You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.

The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.

“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”

You stare at the phone on your floor.

Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?

Not this time.

You open the door and either way, everything changes.

“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”

You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”

You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.

“So you listened to it already?”

“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”

He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”

“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”

“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on.

You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.

“We need to talk.”

He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.

His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off.

Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.

Do you want coffee?

Do you want some cereal?

Do you want to–

“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –

He called you baby.

You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags.

“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.”

With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail?

“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”

“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time.

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“We broke up.”

“When? Why?”

“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”

Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees.

“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.

“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”

His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another.

You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.

“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”

“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.”

You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle.

Grateful.

He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude.

“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”

This is the right time, he supposes.

Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.

Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover.

“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.

You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.

“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”

He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”

“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”

Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold.

“How do you feel about conchas?”

Translations:

Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.

¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?

Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.

#SpaceSistersSecretValentine #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #frankie morales x you #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales #pedro pascal characters

679 notes · View notes

wardenparker · 2 months

Text

The Stars Re-Align, part 1

Frankie Morales x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: M for Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.1k Warnings: Reader is given an age and a grown daughter. Starts out as Santiago x reader. Cursing, food/alcohol, meddlesome friends, mentions of military service (obviously), glancing mention of Tom's death, past drug use, off-page abusive relationship, panic attacks, complicated relationships, family drama. Summary: When your daughter and your boyfriend talk you into having a birthday party, you are not prepared for all of the surprises that come your way. Notes: A little love triangle and 'one that got away' vibe for your Feral Frankie Friday!

“Rachel!” Calling from the kitchen is an old, unbreakable habit by now, but dinner is almost ready and you know your daughter is in the living room studying. She has plans with her boyfriend tonight which means she’s getting her reading out of the way, and you’re proud of her for having such good habits and steady resolve. It’s not at all what you were like at her age, and you’ve worked hard to make sure that she has opportunities that you never could have. Being a young single mom was rough, but every second you have with your little-girl-turned-young-woman is worth it. “Supper’s ready, honey. Find your bookmark!”

“Sure thing!” There’s no point in reminding you that her book is a digital copy, no bookmark needed, but she dutifully saves the spot and closes her laptop. “It smells good.” She compliments, walking into the kitchen and over to the fridge to bust out the bottle of wine that had become a habit with dinner since high school. Nothing fancy, just a cheap sangria, but it was a ritual that both mom and daughter enjoyed. “Are you going out with Santiago tonight?” She asks as she gets down the glasses to pour.

“He might come over to watch a movie since you’re going out.” Your two-month-old relationship isn’t deeply committed or deeply anything yet, really, but you like him. He’s attentive, handsome, and funny, and deeply — okay there’s one deeply — good in bed. “Do you want the good parmesan, or the shaker can? We have both.” Spaghetti with onions, peppers, and sausage isn’t necessarily gourmet, but it’s a family staple. Something your dad used to make you when you were growing up in New York City and you have made for your daughter her whole life afterwards.

“Good parmesan.” She hums. “Let’s be fancy tonight.” Bringing the glasses over to the small kitchen table, she moves on to set out the silverware. A chore when she was younger, it’s now just become habit when you eat together. ‘Working together as a team’ is how you always phrased it and it’s something she loves about her relationship with you now. You’re a team. “I’m going to stay at Ben’s tonight, so you and Santiago can have wild sex.”

“Be safe.” She’s twenty-four, so you’re not going to quibble about her sleeping over with her boyfriend, but you do give her a meaningful look when you set down the plates on the table. “Don’t make me a grandmother and I won’t make you a sister.”

Rachel laughs, it’s the same statement you have been using since she was first dating boys after puberty. “But Mom!” She pouts playfully. “I really want a baby sister!”

“Think I’m getting a little too old for that option, honey,” you huff, but laugh anyway. “Ask Santa for one at Christmas.”

She grins at you, bringing over the basket of breadsticks that are an Olive Garden copycat. Plain frozen ones that you brush with butter and garlic salt. So many of the meals you have together are mocks of the restaurant meals she had wanted when she was younger and you couldn’t afford. As an adult, it’s humbling to see the lengths you went to in order to make her happy.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, though, right?” Though you typically aren’t one to make a big deal out of such things, Santiago had offhandedly mentioned to your daughter a few weeks ago that it was a shame you weren’t doing anything for your birthday and Rachel had jumped on board with talking you into a party. The backyard barbecue will be small, but a chance to meet your boyfriend’s friends and have a few of your own friends from work come over. “It was half your idea, after all.”

“Yeah, I’m going to be there.” She promises. “Oh, is it okay if I bring Ben?” She asks. “He’s got another party to go to if not, but he said he would rather spend time with me.”

“Yes, you can bring Ben.” He’s a few years older than Rachel and has had a very different life experience, but you like Ben Miller. He’s doing his best to make an honest way in the world and he treats Rachel with love and respect. And probably in ways that you want to know absolutely nothing about. “There’s going to be plenty of food. Santiago and I are managing that end.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Of course you are cooking for your own party.” She huffs.

“Get sassy with me and I’ll send every stitch of leftovers home with other people,” you threaten, though it’s hollow and comes with laughter.

“Not like you won’t make enough to still bring home food.” She shoots back with a grin. If there was ever a party, you always made too much food. It might be pasta salad, but you and she would be eating it for a solid week after everyone had gone home.

“Nothing fancy,” you assure her even though you know she’s right. “Burgers and dogs. And veggie burgers for the few people that skip red meat. All the accoutrements. Santiago is in charge of the grill, which he’s very happy about. And I’m making that cheese dip you like along with my guac. Salsa is coming out of a jar despite protests.”

“Let Ben bring the salsa.” She volunteers immediately with a grin. “He’s got some recipe he got from friends he used to serve with.” She explains. “He was going to make it for their party but we can hijack it and bring it to yours.”

“Deal.” That’s one more thing off your checklist and you’re fine with that. “And the cake is coming from an actual bakery, not a supermarket. I do listen to your protests most of the time.”

“The buttercream is far superior.” She huffs happily and lifts her glass when you are both sitting down at the table. “To a wonderful birthday weekend.” She offers. “One you never forget.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” You tap your glass against hers and smile. “Forty-two feels like it will be a good one.”

******

“We have the cake, the burgers are all ready to throw on the grill. Fish is bringing the baked beans, Ironhead is bringing the potato salad and you said Rach’s boyfriend is going to bring the salsa?” He arches a brow in concern. “What do you know about this guy? Is it good salsa? Because I’m going to be offended if it’s Pace.”

“I was told he has a recipe from somebody he served with.” The Pace is in its jars in the cupboard where Santiago can’t be offended by it, and you slip past him to look at your checklist taped to the cupboards one more time. “Coleslaw is made, cheese dip is made, and you filled up the outside fridge last night so that’s all set. I think we’re okay. The last thing is the guac and that only makes a few minutes.”

Santiago slides behind you and wraps his arms around your stomach and hums. “So we have time to go back to the bedroom?” He asks playfully, even if he would haul you back there if you said yes.

“Only if you’re planning on disappointing me,” you tease, knowing he never has and never would. Not on purpose. Still, you twist to kiss away the pout that has certainly formed there. “People are going to be here any minute.”

“We could always tell them to go the fuck away.” He laughs as he suggests it and then the doorbell peels out right afterwards. “That’ll be Ironhead.” He predicts. “Will’s always early.”

“Is that his real name? Will?” You call back when Santiago goes to open the door. You can make guacamole with your eyes closed due to the fact that you’ve had this recipe longer than your daughter has been alive, and you go to the fridge to get the ingredients.

“Yeah!” He calls back over his shoulder before he opens the door to find his friend on the doorstep. The smiles are genuine, almost guilty considering the shit they’ve gone through for the past five months since South America. Grief and sorrow have pulled at them, but it also has finally started to let them live again. “You made it!”

“Of course I did. You didn’t think I’d miss out on seeing your ass do something domestic, did you?” Will ‘Ironhead’ Miller slaps Pope’s shoulder. “Nice place she’s got. You tried to move in yet?”

Pope chuckles quietly and shrugs. “Maybe in another month.” He jokes. “Gotta get in good with the kid first.”

“Right, the kid.” With another friendly slap, Will Miller steps inside the house. It’s well-appointed, clean, and obviously loved. “She coming today?” He thinks so, but he can’t remember. Although a barbecue and pool party seems like a kid thing. But somehow Will remembers the kid not being kid. Teenager? He can’t remember now.

“She spent the night with her boyfriend, but she’ll be here.” Pope nods. “Although she’s already said she won’t call me daddy but I can take her for ice cream.”

“Nobody ought to be calling you ‘Daddy’,” Ironhead huffs.

Santiago laughs and shrugs. “You’re right.” He admits, knowing that he’s not father material. One of the reasons you were an attractive option was that your kid was grown. He didn’t have to play daddy, although from what he’s understood, the dad was your first love and was too immature to stick around. “Benny didn’t ride with you?”

“His girlfriend’s got a family thing today.” Will shrugs slightly, but honestly he’s impressed. His kid brother is crazy about this girl. It’s six months in and he’s starting to use some very committed language — which is fucking thrilling to Will as it signals Benny finally starting to grow up where sex and relationships are concerned. “He’s gonna come by later.”

“That’s good. I want him to come and have a few beers. Fish should be here shortly.” Pope will be happy to see everyone, it’s better than just checking in and having a beer. This will be a good time to really catch up. “How’s things with Marie?” He asks Will softly, knowing that Frank has been a little closed mouth about things between him and his lady. South America hadn’t been great for their relationship, although no one really likes her, she’s the one who was dabbling in drugs and got Fish hooked on coke.

“She was throwing some fit last night about Fish being out with another woman.” Which is obviously bullshit. Frankie would never step out on the mother of his child. But living in the apartment next to Frankie and Marie means he overhears plenty of bullshit. “All he was doing was asking if she wanted to come today. So who knows what kind of mood he’ll show up in.”

“Shit.” Pope sighs and shakes his head as he escorts Will though the living room and towards the kitchen where you are. “He needs to just bite the bullet and leave her.”

“We all know that. But it’s Fish. Too loyal for his own fucking good.” Will hadn’t been expecting to see anyone standing in the kitchen, let alone you, and he clears his throat. “Um—sorry, ma’am. Soldier’s habit,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you promise him, actually laughing at the sheer display of manners. “I survived my daughter’s teenage years. You want to know who swears more than soldiers? Teenage girls.”

It’s been a long goddamn time since Will has been around teenage girls, but he just nods politely and offers his hand. “Will Miller.” He introduces himself. “Santiago has talked you up to be some kind of Wonder Woman, and it looks like he was underestimating your worth.”

"That's very kind of you, Will." You take his hand and introduce yourself easily enough, reflecting momentarily that Santiago has pretty friends. Blonde and blue-eyed isn't your type, but good looking is good looking. "Would you mind helping us get the last few things outside? And the pool is open, I hope Santiago told everyone."

“Absolutely, ma’am.” Like any good solider, Will is going to follow orders and he immediately picks up the heavier items to carry outside. “You have a beautiful home.”

"Thank you." It's something you worked hard for, and you continue to work hard for every day. Everything in your life has been to make sure your daughter is healthy, happy, and well taken care of. It was a lucky break that you got a well-paying job in your field to boot. "And you don't have to call me ma'am. Though I appreciate the manners."

“We need to give her a nickname before Taz does.” Will snorts.

"Taz?" You haven't heard that name before, and it piques your interest as Santiago helps you set things out on the table on the deck.

Will chuckles. “Youngest in our team.” He explains. “Short for Tasmanian Devil. Brother’s like a whirlwind of stirring up shit.”

"Got it." The Army nickname thing had taken you a second to get used to, but you're on board now. It's a brotherhood thing, and you like that Santiago has such a tightknit group of friends still. It's not something you've really had much of in your life, so you're glad to see when it happens for people you care about it. "Well, I told Santiago, but whenever your friends get here just let them into the backyard. The bathroom is off the living room, but everything else worth getting at is outside."

“Yes ma’am.” He smirks slightly when he says that again before disappearing out of the sliding glass doors.

"Are all your friends polite and helpful?" You glance back at the man you've been seeing for the last few months and crack a smile. "I'm glad you invited them. It's about time we started to meet each other's friends."

“Until they are assholes.” He jokes, giving you a bittersweet smile. “We lost a friend half a year ago and it seems like we’ve had a hard time getting back in the routine. Thought this might be the little jolt we needed.”

"Then we'll make sure it's a fantastic day." He hasn't confided too much about his years in the service or about where he was before moving back to Florida a few months ago, but this is probably a large part of the reason why. Either way, you slip your arms around him for a comforting hug. It's the least you can do, when he's gone through something terrible and is willing to open about it a little.

“It’s your day.” He protests, turning and kissing your lips. “It’s supposed to be good for you, not me. We will have a few drinks, have a few laughs and then…” He waggles his brows. “Well kick everyone out and I’ll make you cum until you pass out.”

The hum that forms in the back of your throat is as pleased as it is dirty, and you kiss him once more before your doorbell rings again. "I'll get it," you nudge his nose with yours and step back, albeit reluctantly. "Go hang out with your friend."

People trickle in little by little. Friends from work, mostly, and the one mom from Rachel's school days that you stayed friends with despite Rachel and her son never actually having been friends. Eventually the text comes through from your daughter that she's a few minutes away and that makes you smile brighter than just about anything else today.

Pope pulls out his phone and texts Frankie, wondering when he’s coming – or if he’s going to come at all. He is worried about him, knowing that he’s under a lot of pressure. Marie blames him for losing his license and then going down to South America for two weeks when it was only supposed to be one. He couldn’t even tell her what happened and that was causing issues.

Had to wait for the babysitter. On my way now. Says the text that comes through a few minutes later, but there is a temporary distraction from waiting for Catfish: Rachel's car pulls up and parks outside the house, expelling both your daughter and her boyfriend onto the front lawn.

“Come on, Ben.” Rachel grabs his hand and rushes him towards the door. They are running behind because of the pre-party activities he had talked her into and while she’s not regretting that in the least, she wants to get inside and wish you happy birthday.

“Sounds like everybody’s out back, baby,” he steers her toward the fence surrounding the backyard instead of the front door, but when that brings him closer to the actual driveway of his girlfriend’s house he frowns — deeply — in confusion. He shouldn’t recognize the two vehicles sitting behind Rachel’s car and her mother’s, but there they are: Pope’s slick vintage Corvette right next to Will’s jacked up picked up truck. There’s no denying the two vehicles, he’s seen them together far too often. “The hell?” Benny breathes, but Rachel doesn’t hear him. She’s too excited to see her mom and moving them through the gate before he can hang back to do a double take at the cars.

“Mom!” Pope looks up at soon as he hears a familiar happy cry but then he’s immediately frowning. Watching as Ben Miller moves through the fence gate with Rachel. “What the fuck?”

“I told you she was bringing her boyfriend, didn’t I?” Santiago’s level of confusion is confusing in its own right, but you ignore it in favor of meeting your daughter at the edge of the porch to give her a massive hug. “Hey sweet pea!”

It helps that Benny looks just as stunned as Pope does, Will stopping short when he sees his younger brother and doesn’t hesitate to call out. “You made it!” He huffs out and shaking his head at his brother’s fickleness. “Girlfriend’s family already kick you out?”

“Nooo…” Benny blinks against the sunlight, having left his sunglasses in his truck. “You’re at the wrong party, assholes.”

The ball busting smirk immediately slides off of Will’s face, due to the knowledge that there is no way they could be at the wrong party. “Benny…” He glances at a stunned Pope and sighs heavily. “We’re at the right party.”

It only takes about a second more, but by the time Benny breathes “Ohhh shit.” He’s also cackling with laughter. “Are you telling me—” The younger Miller brother looks around and drops his voice for the sake of not embarrassing the girl he adores. “Are you telling me Pope is banging my girl’s mom?”

Will snorts and shakes his head. “Looks like.” He agrees quietly. “Hell of a birthday surprise.” He hopes that it won’t change your daughter’s mind on dating him, Rachel has been fantastic for Ben.

“Fuck….” Pope snickers quietly, shaking his head at the irony. He should probably go spell this out for you so you don’t take it the wrong way. No one knew. Even after hearing about Benny’s girlfriend for months, only Will and Fish had met her so far.

Rachel pulls back and gives you a beaming smile. “Happy Birthday Mom.” She hums, winking at you. “Santiago spend the night last night since I was with Ben?” She’s not been paying attention to the guys, too focused on you.

“We fell asleep watching our second movie.” It’s mostly true — true enough that you can play it off as innocent because you did technically nod off during the second movie — but the empty bowl of popcorn and wine glasses in the living room had waited until this morning to be cleared away once you hauled each other off to bed. “Did Ben have a fight last night or did you guys just go out?”

“No fight.” She shakes her head. “Next weekend, so we just got to go out. Although he wants to know if you would like to come to the fight.” You’ve met Benny and she thinks you like him, but she wants you to get to know him better. Which is why she had suggested they go to your party today instead of his friends’.

“If you want me to.” You don’t feel too excited to watch your daughter’s boyfriend get beat up, but you do want to get to know him better. Rach is so obviously head over heels for him.

“It’s up to you.” She smiles and looks back at Ben, curious to find Will here. “Um— what’s his brother doing here?”

“Whose brother?” Turning to follow her eyes, your head tilts slightly in interest. Santiago and Will are deep in conversation with Benny already. “That’s one of Santiago’s friends. Will.”

“Mom…” Rachel’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s Will Miller…Benny’s older brother.”

“That…” You swallow, slowly registering the situation as you watch the men interact. “That makes things interesting…” You’re dating a man who served with your daughter’s boyfriend…this is going to get complicated…

“Oh god.” Rachel bites her lip as Benny and Pope quickly break away and come over to the two of you. “So…”

“So, this is interesting.” You repeat the phrase almost disbelieving.

“Kind of a funny coincidence, huh?” Benny wraps his arms around Rachel and plants a kiss in her hair.

“I didn’t know.” Rachel promises you with a small shake of her head. “Shit, Ben. I can’t believe I didn’t know it.”

“I think I know why.” You observe, clearing your throat and accepting the comfort of Santiago’s arm around your waist as you look up (and up) at Ben. “I’m going to guess that your nickname while you were serving together was Taz?”

“Yeah.” Benny nods and looks back between all the other men. “Oh fuck, we’ve been just using our nicknames and they didn’t know.” He groans. "I'm sorry baby." He turns to Rachel with an apologetic look. "Pope was talking about his new girl and spending as much time as possible with her, so he missed the last fight you were at."

“It’s a little unconventional,” you admit, wondering what Santiago thinks of all this. “But not terrible, right?” As close in age as you and Rachel are, it wouldn’t be the first time you have had mutual friends. Just the first time you were ever dating mutual friends.

"He's a good guy." Pope assures you, like it's the first time you've met Benny. "And we can kick his ass if needed."

Benny snorts and rolls his eyes. "You wish, old man."

“Rach?” Your fingers run through her loose curls gently and you give her a questioning look. While this isn’t the day you want to have — after all, you do like Santiago — it’s ultimately up to her. Everything is and always has been in your life, and you made that decision for a reason.

"I don't think that you need to stop seeing Santiago just because he knows Ben." She rationalizes. "I think it's fine, what do you think?"

“Just as long as you’re comfortable with it.” That goes for the men involved, too. But they don’t seem to mind beyond being apologetic.

Rachel snorts and shrugs. "Just as long as they don't share sex stories." She giggles and shoots Santiago a smirk. "And we won't either."

“I was not planning on it, sweet pea.” You might be close, but that’s a step too far even for you. “Never ever.”

Agreeing completely, she walks up to Pope and gives him a hug. "So if you make my mom cry, I'll have my boyfriend beat you up." She teases.

“Got it.” She’s a grown woman, but he can’t resist the urge to mess with her thick hair, watching her face wrinkle in disapproval before she moves back to Benny, who smooths the familiar curls with care. “Now we just need Catfish to get here and we’ll have everybody.”

"I'm here!" A hand appears over the fence before he opens it, hat pulled low, and he grunts when he picks up the cooler full of ice and beer that he had stopped and picked up on the way. "Sorry I'm late."

“Fish!” Benny kisses the side of Rachel’s head before peeling off to grab the cooler from him and take it to the porch so his friend can catch his breath. He doesn’t see the tick in the tilt of your head or the way your eyes widen just a second later.

'Fish', or Francisco Morales, looks up and smirks at Benny when he grabs the cooler. Thankful, although he wouldn't make too much of a fuss about it. Getting older sucked and he's still feeling the effects of that workout he helped the other man do just two days ago when his normal sparring partner was sick. "'Bout time you made yourself useful." He huffs playfully and looking towards Pope to wave. Freezing with his arm halfway up in greeting when he sees someone that he had never expected to see before – you.

The way you shrink into yourself immediately is instinct. As much shock as anything else. But within seconds you’re stepping forward to block Rachel from view and shakily a demand an explanation. “What the shit is going on?” You hiss, though you’re not exactly sure who you’re talking to, you just don’t want to make a scene in front of your coworkers. They consider you to be such a calm, collected woman.

Frowning, Pope turns towards you, reaching out to touch your arm and stepping closer to you. "Babe— what's wrong? What are you talking about?" He follows your gaze back to Fish and he grunts in confusion. "Fish? He's another teammate. One of my best friends."

“Fuck.” Deflating on the spot, you feel like you could just collapse where you stand but that wouldn’t help the situation any. “We—we, um—know each other,” you explain quietly. “But it’s been a long time.”

Feeling like he's been kicked in the chest by one of those fucking mules, Frankie stumbles forward and murmurs your name softly. "I— what are you doing here?" He asks, frowning slightly.

“This is my house.” You wonder if Santiago even explained where he was inviting him, or if you have a nickname to their group just like they all do to each other. “I wouldn’t expect you to still remember my birthday.”

All the blood drains from his face and it falls into a wounded look. Realizing that you have to be Pope's girl. "I— remembered." He murmurs quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Seven billion people in the world. Figured someone else would have the same day too." It's almost a kick in the teeth, that comment of yours. Considering he had a fight with Marie because he had said your name this morning when he was talking to himself after waking up. You were the reason he had fought, again, with the mother of his child and she had pitched a fit and left. Making him wait on a babysitter so he could come to this party. To find out that it was for you. He's so fucking lucky that Marie isn't here. He clears his throat roughly and bites his lip. "Happy birthday, gatita." He uses the nickname from a million years ago and steps back. "I should go."

A press of overwhelming guilt and the instinct to stop him makes you reach out, grabbing his arm before you can stop yourself. “No. You shouldn’t.” You admit, even though it hurts.

"No," He shakes his head and gives you a wry smile. "I should." He sighs softly and looks over at Pope. "This is your girl, huh?" He asks, confusing the other man even more. "Keep her and take care of her." He tells him. "You'll regret it if you don't." He reaches for your hand and pries it off his arm gently, squeezing it before letting it go.

“Where’s Fish going?” Benny returns from the deck just a second too late, but just in time to watch Frankie leave again and see the bewildered looks on his friends’ faces.

"I don't fucking know." The entire day has been one big bag of surprises and Pope doesn't particularly like surprises. He turns towards you for some kind of explanation, although the nickname gatita sounds familiar, like Fish has mentioned it before. "You know Frank?"

“We grew up together.” It’s the best you can hiccup out before you take off like a shot, following Frankie through the gate. “Frankie!” He’s already down at the street, but he pauses when you call his name and it gives you time to catch up.

Waiting for you as you rush towards him, Frankie takes off his Standard Oil hat and scratches his hair. Struck by how nostalgic the moment is, waiting for you to catch up to him so many times once upon a lifetime ago. “Look, I’m sorry.” He sighs when you are closer. “I didn’t know, okay? I’m going.”

“I think you should stay.” Not as fit as you once were, you puff a little and put your arms around your waist. “We, uh—for Santiago, if nothing else. You’re his friend and I—I’m somebody you used to know.” And there is so, so much to tell him…

The idea that you might want him there makes him pause and he frowns slightly as he stares at you for a moment. “Only if you’re sure.” He still hesitates. “It’s your birthday after all.”

“It is.” And you’re not sure. You’re really not. But since he’s reappearing in your life almost twenty-five years later, the lump in your throat is winning over logic.

“Last time I saw you was on your birthday.” Frankie frowns, wondering how he could have been such a shit head back then. “Seems like the circle is complete.”

“Eighteen was a long time ago.” It was right before he left for boot camp, and you’d been pushing him to commit to you before he left. A stupid thing to do at such a young age. You know that now. But you were so stupid in love with him back then and there was so much going on.

“Yes it was.” He can admit that, biting his lip and shuffling slightly. “And I was an asshole.” He had broken his own damn heart, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” Squeezing your eyes shut makes you feel like your heart is going to burst, but the universe has decided that it’s time to finally time to come clean. “I was scared. And I’m sorry.”

“I was stupid.” Frankie has so many regrets from that time of his life, just compounded over the years and he almost steps closer to you, but he doesn’t. He can’t, he doesn’t have that right anymore. “I proved you right. I didn’t come back.” The argument is still confusing in his memory, just as much as it had confused him then. You had pushed to get married before he left and he had wanted to wait. It had become a sticking point and in his stubbornness, he had broken up with you.

“You didn’t come back and you didn’t have a cell phone…and then your parents moved.” With their only child moved on, Frankie’s father had accepted a transfer upstate from the Standard Heating & Oil Co that both of your fathers worked for. “I had—I had no way to talk to you. To—to tell you—” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, surprising you since you thought you had cried every last tear you had over Frankie Morales.

“Tell me?” Frankie frowns and he does step closer, hating to see tears in your eyes again on a birthday. Especially because they seem to be because of him again. “Tell me what, gatita?”

“Fair warning.” Wiping at the corners of your eyes, you can’t quite look him in his even when you straighten out again. “You’ll hate me. And you probably should, at this point.”

“I don’t think I could hate you.” Frankie admits quietly, unable to even imagine a world where he would.

“You might.” Wiping your hands down your face and breathing out a deep, frustrated groan, you look up again to see the eyes of the boy who was your first everything looking back at you, and you crumble. “I didn’t have any way to contact you,” you repeat again, knowing you could and should have tried harder anyway. “And I was scared of losing you because — because I was pregnant.”

The way his brows pull down is instantaneous and he immediately puts his hands on his hips and twists around as he absorbs your news. “You— you were pregnant?” He chokes out, looking back at you with a wounded expression. “I— what? No? What— pregnant?”

“That’s…that’s why I was pushing you so hard to propose.” You admit, eyes cast down at the ground.

“You didn’t say a word.” Frankie shakes his head. “Why— why didn’t you tell me? If I had known—”

“I thought if I told you that you’d only run away from me faster.” Which, at eighteen years old, had seemed like pretty sound logic to you. “By the time I was scared enough to just want you there regardless, it was too late. You were…you were gone.”

“By the time—” he shakes his head, eyes wide and he swallows harshly. “What happened? Don’t— I— what are you saying?”

"I'm saying that you have a daughter." A fact which sticks in your throat now like you had tried to swallow a pinecone. "Who is smart, and kind, and headstrong, and stubborn as hell. But she's doing so well for herself that a lot of that stubbornness just slides right by."

Frankie blanks out for a minute, staring at you before he turns away. Grappling with his emotions as he bends over and tries to take a breath, groaning slightly in disbelief. “No.” He shakes his head, turning back to you. “No! Don’t tell me that!”

"I'm sorry." It isn't worth much, as apologies go, but you kneel down beside him on the grass and wonder if he'll be mad enough to strike out if you put a hand on his back. "I really am. You should have known a long time ago."

“Twenty-four,” he chokes out. “You are telling me I have a twenty-four year old daughter?” His face screws up in the regret and tears. “Please tell me you’re fucking joking.”

"I had no way to tell you." It's a lame excuse, or at least it feels lame, and you do rest your hand on his back but it's so gentle you don't even know if he can feel it.

“Oh fuck….fuck, fuck, fuck…..” Frankie moans, closing his eyes and his fists bunch against his thighs. “I-I-I— don’t— I can’t –”

"Frankie?" His breathing sounds panicked, and you soothe one hand in circles around his back. "Breathe, okay? Just breathe. Everything's okay. She—she's grown. She's raised. No one is asking you to do anything."

“I—I missed it.” He manages. “I missed everything.” Closing his eyes as he realizes that his trajectory of his life would have been vastly different if he had known.

Oh. It's the opposite. The exact opposite. He's not panicked that you're going to expect him to stay, like you thought he was. He's upset that he missed Rachel's childhood. "There's...there's still the whole rest of her life ahead."

“I— I should have been there.” He drops his head down even more. “Fuck— you must hate me. She must hate me.”

"It's my fault you didn't know. Why would I hate you?" As much as it has ever hurt to lose him, you've never actually hated him. Just missed him. Which isn't the same although they can be confused for each other. "And Rachel— Frankie, she knows the truth. That we were young and lost touch."

“Rachel.” He shakes his head, focusing on her name and it’s so goddamn familiar. “Her name is Rachel?”

"My aunt Rachel died right before she was born," you explain, wondering if he even remembers meeting your mother's sister a million and a half times at different family functions while you were together. He was always invited for every holiday.

“God.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, hating that he had been such a fucking idiot back then. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers.

"I am, too." More sorry than you can possibly say, but what else can you do at this point but try to move forward?

“So I managed to ruin another birthday of yours.” He pushes aside the grief and sorrow that is threatening to overwhelm him and locks it down. Compartmentalize, shutting down, it’s what he knows best. He can freak out about this later when he’s left.

"It's not ruined." It's awkward, and it's uncomfortable, and you're not really sure what to do now. But it's not ruined. "It's—it's not—I don't know what today is, but it's..." you sigh heavily and stand up again. "I don't know, Frankie. If you want to leave that's up to you. But our lives cross now, and I know...I know Rachel would want to meet you."

“Oh god. Is she— is she there? Here?” He asks, shaking his head. “Can I meet her?”

"If I wasn't going to let you meet her, I would have just kept my mouth shut about the whole thing," you needle him gently. Just wishing he could or would do as much as crack a smile. It seems desperately needed.

The huff, the quarter of a smile is almost involuntary. Almost in disbelief and he looks over at you with a heavy stare. “I want to meet her.” He tells you quietly. “If I had known, things would have been so different for us, gatita.”

"No use crying over spilled milk, I think." Twenty-four years of regret is a lot to process, but you nod in acknowledgement. Just a small motion of thanks that he is at least saying out loud what you suspected.

“Fuck.” He huffs again and uncurls his hands to wipe them on his jeans. “I’m nervous.”

"Telling you not to be seems cruel," you huff, though you're not sure what else to say. "No one planned this. No one saw this coming. It will be as much of a shock to her as it is to you. As—as it was to me to see you."

“Forty-two.” He shakes his head and looks back over at you in awe. “You don’t look a day over fucking eighteen.” It might be a small embellishment, but you look amazing and so much like the girl he has loved for so long.

"You're not so bad yourself." Santiago may be on the other side of that fence, but a part of your heart has always and will always belong to scrawny Frankie Morales from Brooklyn. Even if he isn't scrawny anymore – which is a thing you can't help but notice.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, centering himself before he nods. “We should go back.” He murmurs.

"I promise she's not scary." Although you'll understand when it is a complete shock to her. And to the others. "Just...let me tell her first? I ran after you so fast that I didn't explain to anyone else yet."

Both of you stand up and he scrubs his hands on his jeans again. “Sure, sure.” He agrees, knowing that it could be sort of a shock, even if she’s known about him her whole life.

"Remember to breathe," you advise him with a wry chuckle, even though it's good advice for you too.

“When I remember how.” Frankie snorts, slightly pacing in place as he glances towards the back yard gate.

"Come on." Nodding toward the yard, you take a step in that direction to see if it will spur him on. The urge to offer him your hand is misplaced, and you have to quell it by putting your hands in your jeans pockets. "We've kept them waiting long enough."

Frankie exhales roughly and trails along behind you, wanting you to take the lead. He has to tell you about Luna at some point, but he will do that after he meets the daughter he never knew he had.

“Sorry about that.” Once you’re on the other side of the gate again, you see Rachel standing in the midst of Santiago, Benny, and Will all looking concerned. “That was…unexpected? Shall we say?”

“Mom?” Rachel moves closer to you and frowns as her eyes slide back to where Frankie is hanging back. “Why are you upset with Fish?” She asks softly, looking back at the other three men and then back at you. “You said you knew him? When? I don’t remember you dating him.” Your dates had been few and far between, even rarer that she had met them, but she would have remembered someone called Catfish.

“I’m not upset, sweet pea. I’m just surprised.” It’s a lie, but a prudent one. You are upset, and it’s because your little slice of peace has been disturbed. But no one did that on purpose, so you’ll just have to live with it. “Why don’t we—we should talk about this inside.”

“No. Here. Now.” She has inherited her stubbornness both you and Frankie. And she’s eyeing the man she had met a few months ago and hung out with suspiciously. He looks like he’s about to be sick and she’s not above taking a baseball bat to his knees if needed, whether or not she had liked him before.

“Rach, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” you murmur, looking around the backyard. Most people are milling about and a few are in the pool, but they obviously all know something is up.

Rachel stares at you for a minute and then she shoots Frankie a glare because you look so upset before she turns around and marches towards the house.

“You guys, too,” you decide, figuring it’s probably best to get all of this over with. Santiago is dating you, Benny is dating Rachel, and Will is bound to find everything out soon enough.

There’s not a lot of hope for him with the glare shot his way, so Frankie hangs back for a moment. Reconciling the fact that Rachel is the girl that Benny has been dating. His daughter is dating his friend. His friend who has been bragging about his girl to him. And their sex life. He’s going to throw up or punch Ben in the mouth.

Once everyone is inside, you check to make sure the bathroom is empty and close the sliding doors tightly. Everyone outside can wait. This is far more important. “Everything is okay,” you start, making sure that right off the bat Rachel knows you aren’t mad and Santiago understands you don’t hate his best friend. His best friend. Fuck. “It was just—as surprising as it was to find out Santiago and Ben are friends…this is an even bigger surprise.”

Frankie leans on the side of the wall, staring at the tip of his boot as he tries to wait for you to tell Rachel. He can’t blurt it out, she’s your kid. Not his— not really. He hasn’t done a goddamn thing to help raise her, but he has to admire the job you’ve done.

"The thing is, Rach." Blowing out a breath, you reach out for your daughter's hand and just pray she won't hate you. "You wouldn't remember when I dated Frankie. Because it was before you were born."

“Hermano.” Pope’s eyes widen and the nickname clicks. He knew he had heard it before. “Gatita? This is—” he whistles quietly. “Mierda.”

When Rachel still looks confused, you breathe deeply and try your best not to shake. Or to chicken out. "There are a lot of blanks to fill in along the way, but...sweet pea...Frankie is—" Oh god, you're going to throw up. You're absolutely going to throw up. "He's your father."

You could hear a pin drop, or a mouse fart, the room is so quiet. Every head snapping towards Frankie in judgement and he doesn’t pay them any attention, focusing on the one person right now that matters. His daughter.

"I don't understand." Rachel stands bog still, clutching your hand with eyes as wide as saucers as she looks frantically between you and Frankie. She had liked this man. He is a good friend to Ben. But now she doesn't know what to think.

“Your mom and I were high school sweethearts.” Frankie isn’t sure what you might have told her, but he’s going to tell her what he knows to be true. “More like middle school, but you know?” He shrugs. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.” He promises. “I swear I didn’t know.”

Will sighs from the other side of the room. “Oh shit.”

"Everything I ever told you about him was the truth." You had worked hard to always be fair to Frankie when you were raising Rachel, even if it led to never telling her very much about him unless she asked. "He didn't know, and I had no way of telling him. It's been...it's been twenty-five years since we even spoke to each other. So you can understand why I was surprised to see him walk in today."

“And he’s friends with your boyfriend and mine.” There’s a note of disbelief in her voice that Frankie doesn’t blame her for.

“We were on the same team for years.” Frankie explains. “I was their pilot.”

“That’s why we lost touch,” you remind your daughter gently. “He left for boot camp.” Considering Ben isn’t the first Army boy that Rachel has dated, you have always sort of had a suspicion that she was subconsciously searching for her dad in these men. It just never occurred to you that it would actually work.

She looks at him, almost accusatory in her gaze. “Why did you never come back?” She demands. “If you loved her, why did you just walk away?”

That makes Frankie wince, and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. “Have you ever done something dumb and been too goddamn proud to admit you were wrong?” He asks quietly, and Pope, despite his own feelings about the entire situation, won’t let Frankie’s daughter twist in the wind.

“He used to talk about his gatita.” He interjects. “Regretting not making up with her and wishing he could get in contact with her.”

“It was harder back then, honey.” The gentle reminder is important, because Rachel might not have grown up in a world of luxury but she’s definitely never known a world without cell phones or social media. “When I told your grandparents that you were coming, we moved. It was just a little further outside the city, but the place was bigger and the neighborhood was safer. Your grandma found a better job and— and with neither of our families still in Brooklyn, we couldn’t have found each other. Even if your dad had come back looking for me, or tried to call our old apartment? We wouldn’t have been there.” At least she hasn’t ripped her hand out of yours yet. You’re considering that a good thing “We were kids, and we made mistakes. Very big ones. But you know he didn’t leave because he didn’t love you.”

“I would have never.” He promises, his voice thick with emotions. He shakes his head and frowns slightly. He doesn’t know why he didn’t realize who she was to him now that he knows. She looks just like a perfect combination of you and him, with your nose, thank God. But her ears curl just like his.

“Oh god…” In trying to process everything, Rachel glances up and looks at Frankie’s hat again, groaning to herself and wiping one hand at the bottom of her neck just like he does — but neither of them ever noticed the simile gesture. “I always just thought the hat was a funny coincidence,” she admits with a huff.

“My hat?” He takes it off and scrubs his hair quickly before putting it back on his head. “Had it since I was a kid.”

The Miller brothers look confused, and you offer them a wilted smile with your explanation. "Both of our fathers, Rach's grandfathers...they both worked for Standard for forever. That's how Frankie and I met."

“Oh shit.” Benny frowns slightly and moves over to Rachel’s side, squeezing her hip supportively.

"I know this is a lot." It's a lot for everyone, but you're mostly just talking to Rachel. Your whole adult life has been lived for your baby girl and now emotions are unraveling at light speed. "But nothing has to change. You're a grown woman, sweet pea. And whatever relationship you want with your Dad is up to you."

“I’ve spent time with him.” She admits quietly. “After a fight of Benny’s.” She looks back at Frankie and bites her lip. “But I’d like to get to know him as my dad.”

"I know this just got sprung on everybody," you murmur again. The fact is that right now you have a yard full of people and all you want to do is disappear under your comforter and pretend it isn't happening. "But...life throws you curveballs, right?"

“Yeah.” Frankie huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling like his entire world has turned on its head. Wishing like hell he could snort a line but he promised himself he wouldn’t touch that shit again.

"We should give you guys some privacy." When Will finally speaks up, it's to motion to his brother and to Pope that maybe they should step outside. There are a lot of emotions creating tension in this room and they're not going to be made easier by having an audience.

Pope shuffles slightly, wanting to stay, but he also needs to think about this entire thing. The situation is blowing up and he doesn’t want to make things worse.

"Maybe you could throw the burgers on the grill? And we'll be out in a few minutes?" He had offered to be in charge of the grill today but that was before everything had gone to hell and now you have no idea what he's thinking. "And I promise we'll talk through everything, too."

“Of course.” He nods and doesn’t lean in to kiss you like he might have just a few minutes before walking in this house. Feeling almost guilty for the entire situation right now.

That missing kiss is enough to tell you that everything has changed. Santiago has never shied away from affection or from public displays, and this is exactly the time that a partner might have offered that kind of comfort. Whatever you end up talking to him about later, you're now prepared for him to end things. But you can't fault him for that. You had a baby with his best friend – even if you didn't know each other then.

“Baby?” Benny looks at Rachel, checking with her before he leaves.

"It's okay," she promises him, going up on her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. "I'll find you when we come back out." And she's going to find a White Claw or six in the garage fridge, too. Fuck.

“Okay.” He shoots Frankie a worried look, not liking the despair on his friend’s face and shuffles to the door.

"I figured it might be easiest to just tell them the facts up front and then let all of us talk," you tell them both, now wondering if that was the right move at all.

“Yeah.” Frankie nods, understanding why you did it, but he looks over at Rachel with regret and waits for her to say something.

"Do you, actually...do you mind if I talk to Frankie—" Rachel hums awkwardly over it, before reconsidering. "If I talk to my father alone for a few minutes?" She sort of feels like they're ganging up on him, and while she has questions and she's sure that you do, too...hers are going to be very different from yours.

“I don’t mind.” Frankie glances back over at you for approval.

"I should go make the rounds outside." As much as you don't want to, it is your party and they are your guests out there. Most of whom noticed that something odd has happened even if they don't know what. Still, you nod and lean over to hug your daughter. "Come back out when you’re ready. Ben looked like he'll worry until you do."

“I will.” She promises and Frankie catches your eye as you glance over at him.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, thanking you for the opportunity to talk to Rachel. He knows you could have been very different with this entire thing. Blowing out a breath when you walk out and shut the door, he looks back at his grown daughter. “So hit me with it.” He tells her.

For a second Rachel is dumbfounded. She just stands and stares at him, but then her shoulders slump and she shrugs and she blows out a long sigh. “I guess I know the real reason my middle name is Francine,” she poses, shaking her head. “Mom said it was because The Nanny is her favourite show and I completely fucking believe that because she worships Fran Drescher, but I’m willing to bet that’s one of only like six lies she’s ever told me in my whole life and it’s actually because of you.”

“Francisco Alberto Morales.” He introduces himself to her quietly, nodding and trying not to be humbled by the fact that you gave your daughter a version of his name. Something to connect the two of you.

“And you guys were…you were together for a long time?” She knows the story. She’s heard it from you over and over again. But something in her feels like she needs to hear it confirmed from him.

“Seventh grade until her 18th birthday.” He frowns at the way that makes him sound, how callous it could be construed. He has just walked away after so long.

“And she wanted to get married.” Rachel prompts, needing these landmarks of the story confirmed for her.

“We had a plan.” He shuffles slightly and looks around the neat and well decorated home. You’ve done well for yourself and it shows. “I was going to get through boot camp and my ‘A’ school while she started college and then when I got to my first duty station, she would transfer to a school nearby.” His shoulders round when he remembers that last fight, the missing piece now clicked into place and with maturity, he can see that you had been terrified, not overbearing. “Her birthday, she blind-sided me with getting married.”

“She wanted to skip forward and get married first, and you didn’t agree.” She can see it from both sides, now. As an adult it makes sense why an eighteen-year-old planning his life would think his girlfriend was just trying to trap him — or even that she wanted the wedding more than she wanted him. “But…you never got married at all? Even after Mom?”

“No.” Marie isn’t married to him, he couldn’t do that even if he had been inclined to. She was still technically married to some guy in her past, or so she claimed. “But….”

“Oh god, don’t say Marie.” Rachel bursts out, talking before she can even think. “She’s awful, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. I didn’t feel like I had a right to say anything before but I totally do now and she’s abusive and terrible, and I will absolutely help you leave her if you need help. I’ll babysit Luna anytime and — oh my god Luna is my sister—”

Frankie shuffles and looks down at his feet. Marie hadn’t been at her best the first time that Rachel had come to the bar after the fight. She had been pissed off because his hearing had been postponed again and he wasn’t closer to getting his pilot’s license back.

“Look, if you’re happy, it’s whatever.” Rachel shuffles, not realizing she’s moving the same way as Frankie, and shrugs. She senses she’s hit a nerve. “I’ll still help with Luna whenever you need. I—I always wanted a baby sister…”

“She’s not bad.” Frankie had dealt with her for a long time and it seemed harder to leave than it was to stay. “That was a bad night.”

“If you say so.” She doesn’t believe him, but the very first day she meets her father isn’t the day to push too hard.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he looks around the house again. “Did you and your mom struggle?” He asks quietly.

“My grandparents helped.” The short answer is yes, but she doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. “We lived with them when I was little, then we moved down here when I was about thirteen. Mom got a job with Disney.”

Frankie nods, frowning slightly. He has his retirement and his Thrift Savings Plan from the military, which he will hopefully be able to not use once he gets his license back. He’s not in the best position to offer any kind of help, but he will. “You’re in school, right?” He asks.

“I’m getting my masters at UCF.” Rachel nods again. “I still live with Mom. Here, I mean. She didn’t make me leave or anything when I started college.”

She’s dedicated. Frankie knows that college, especially graduate programs, are expensive. “That’s good.” He bites his lip and wonders if the offer would offend her. “I have my G.I. Bill.” He mentions. “I can gift it to a spouse – which I don’t have.” He shrugs. “Or a child.”

It's a very sweet offer, but that doesn't really surprise her. She already knows Frankie is a sweet guy. "Save it for Luna," she tells him. "I have great scholarships, and that way she'll be able to look forward to school without worrying about student loans."

It’s feels like a rejection, even though he knows it’s not. He nods and clears his throat. “That’s good.” He has an odd sense of pride for her achievements, even though he had done nothing to contribute.

"What do you want to know about me?" There's probably plenty, but now Rachel feels a bit self-conscious. She's at least heard stories about him. All he knows about her is whatever Ben has told him.

“Everything.” The word tumbles out before he can stop himself and he looks embarrassed. “I— I want to know everything.”

"Everything is a lot," she laughs, but understands. She wants to know everything about him too. She's wondered about her father forever. "What if...what if we did some father/daughter stuff? I could come over and spend time with you and Luna or we could grab a drink sometimes? Just...exist together. And all the get to know you stuff will come in time?"

“Yeah.” He nods eagerly and smiles at her, his eyes crinkling and his face lighting up at the idea. “I like that. Any time. Any time at all.”

“Okay.” She’s feeling bone tired by all of this so she can only imagine how you and Frankie feel, but as Rachel moves over to the notepad on the far table to write her number down for him, she purses her lips slightly and tilts her head. Her thinking face. “Don’t…please don’t be too hard on Mom?” She asks, holding the slip of paper out to him a second later. “She doesn’t ever say it, but I know she’s missed you. And she worked so hard to raise me alone, she just…she deserves the world.”

“I’m not mad at your mother, querida.” He promises, taking the paper and looking down at it before he folds it up carefully and tucks it into his pocket. “I’m mad at myself.” He explains. “Too goddamn proud to admit I was wrong, and I apparently missed out on a hell of a life.” He looks up at her with pride. “And a hell of a daughter.”

“Well shucks, Paw,” she laughs, obviously very touched by the sentiment. “I guess we both have a bunch to catch up on. But we can do that.”

He snorts and huffs out a grin. “By the way, I’m going to punch your boyfriend in the mouth.” He warns Rachel. “So don’t go screaming at me when it happens.”

“Benny?” She makes an audible huffing sound. “What did he do?”

“You’ll find out.” He won’t say now, but he shrugs. “He deserves it, and he’ll know it.”

“Seems weird, but okay.” Men do weird things sometimes. She’s not so young that she doesn’t know that.

He chuckles and sweeps his head off his head again. “You look like your mother when you wrinkle your nose.”

“It’s funny.” She wrinkles her nose again but consciously, wondering if she really does look like you that way. “She always said I had your smile. And your ears.”

Frankie reaches out and brushes her curls back behind her ears and smiles. “You do have my ears.” He admits.

“Is it weird? She asks, stifling a laugh. “To realize that?”

“Surreal.” He admits with a sigh. “I don’t know what to think. I went from being too old to have a six-month-old, to being the dad to a grown ass woman.”

“I was teasing Mom about wanting a little sister last night,” Rachel admits with a groan at the irony. “Shows me right.”

Frankie smirks slightly and shrugs. “Isn’t life sometimes a kick in the teeth?”

******

“What a Fucking kick in the teeth.” Will pushes out a sigh in the backyard, cracking open the beer he grabbed from the cooler Fish brought.

“Yeah.” Pope frowns at the grill, pushing the perfectly aligned burgers with the spatula. “Who would have thought?”

"What are you gonna do?" It's not as though Pope has had a lot of time to think, but Will knows him long enough to know that the wheels are already spinning. They have all heard Fish talk about his gatita, and now that they know who she is? It at least warrants a reaction.

Pope glances over at Will before he looks back at the grill, his movements a little stiffer than just a moment before. “What can I do?” He asks rhetorically. “She was his first.”

"Just because she was his first doesn't mean that he has to be her last," Benny offers, not quite sure what else to say. They all know that Pope had been starting to fall for you, even if it had never been said. Now he is very obviously pulling back.

"No, but she would want him to be." He admits quietly. "She had told me about her first love. She didn't tell me his name." He says pointedly when Benny opens his mouth to ask the obvious question. "But she told me enough to know that she's still in love with him. And we know that Frankie never got over her."

"So it's not about stepping back," Will observes, sipping his beer in the hot Florida sun. "It's about letting them be together."

Closing the grill, Pope sighs, hands on his hips as he looks around the backyard and comes to his decision. "Don't you think Fish deserves to be happy?" He asks quietly.

"Of course he does." The idea that Will might think otherwise practically makes him clutch his proverbial pearls.

"And fuck knows we want Marie gone," Benny huffs under his breath.

"His gatita is the one to make both of those wishes come true." He's sure of it and he will bow out like a gentleman. It's the least he can do since the last half year of hell in his personal life is partially his responsibility. He had pushed Fish to come to South America. Pope looks back at both of the other men. "Want to help me fix Fish's life?"

Benny is the first to smirk, clapping his hands together and rubbing them dramatically. "You gonna pull a binder out of your ass or are we talking this one through?"

"First, I'm going to get really drunk and pretend like I'm not falling on a sword." Pope snorts, snatching the beer out of Will's hand and taking a drink. "Then, we're gonna figure out how to get Fish custody of Luna." He tells them quietly. "That little girl is the reason he's still with Marie."

"We just need proof that she's the one with the drug problem." Will mumbles, not wanting to say those words too loud. "And we need his hearing to go through so he can get his damn license back."

"Yeah." He sighs and points at Will. "Can you talk to your ex?" Pope asks, knowing it's a big favor. "She's still working in the DA's office, right? Maybe she can help us? Or know someone who can?" Being a paralegal isn't the same as being an assistant DA, but she knows people.

"I'll see if she can at least point me in the right direction," Will nods in agreement, knowing that as uncomfortable as talking to his ex-fiancée will be, it's definitely the right course of action. "She always like Fish. It shouldn't be too hard to get her to give an e-mail or phone number of who can help."

“Marie isn’t going be happy learning about Rachel.” Pope glances at Benny. “You know that.”

"She's going to be furious." Ben agrees, wiping his hand through his hair and blowing out a raspberry. "She's gonna think Fish kept it from her on purpose."

“Poor bastard looked like he was about to fall over.” Pope sighs. “I hate this.”

"We're gonna make it work," Benny promises him. "Sorry you got shoved into the middle of it, though."

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t and it actually really hurt that he was going to have to end things with you and pretend that he’s just friends with you, but his brother is worth it.

"Better to find out now than a year from now," Will offers, knowing it isn't a whole lot of comfort. But at least it's honest.

“Yeah.” You walk out of the house and he immediately turns to watch you. “Better now.” Santi murmurs, his heart aching.

******

Most people leave around dinner time, splintering off to nighttime plans or to go home to their families. Santiago, Frankie, and the Miller brothers stayed long enough to help you clean up and Rachel is loading the dishwasher when you realize Santiago has gone temporarily missing. On a hunch, you go down the hall to your bedroom and frown to see him there, tucking things back into his duffel bag.

"Decided not the stay the night?"

He hates that you caught him and he stands tall after shoving in a t-shirt and tamping down the guilty feeling. “It’s been a…surprising day.” He tells you. “Figured it might be better to change the plan for tonight.”

"Just for tonight?" You have a feeling you know the answer, but you want it out in the open. No questions or doubts.

His eyes slide away from you and for a moment, he falters. Wondering if this is the wrong thing to do. “No.” He admits, walking over to you and cupping your cheeks in his hand. “I am— was— falling in love with you.” He won’t lie to you. “But you’ve been in love with Frank for far longer than you’ve loved me.”

It's enormously frustrating for him to be both presumptuous and right. The last thing you want is to admit it, especially as tears press at the back of your eyes, and so a protest comes out of your mouth instead. "He's with someone else," you point out, knowing that someone mentioned it earlier. One of the Miller brothers, you think. "He's—he's—it's so complicated, Santi."

“I know it is.” His brow pinches together and he leans forward to kiss your forehead. “And if it’s too complicated, I won’t let you twist in the wind.” He promises. “But you deserve to find out if your love for him is still there.”

"This isn't how I saw today ending." Overwhelmed and next to tears was definitely not on the docket, but you're not going to beg him to stay. That's not the kind of girl you are anymore. You haven't been in a long time. "What a shitty birthday."

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Pope closes his own eyes and leans his forehead against yours. “I can stay if you want.” He offers in a whisper, feeling guilty all over as his resolve crumbles.

"You'd feel guilty if you did." He's a good man, that's why. It's part of what you liked so much about him when you met, and part of what's grown on you. "Like you were betraying Frankie."

“I would still stay.” He promises.

"You'd feel guilty and then you'd start to resent me." The defense mechanism of crossing your arms over your chest might guard you in spirit, but it doesn't stop you from feeling like utter dogshit in this moment. "Just...know that this isn't how I wanted things to go between us. That's all."

“I know.” He murmurs softly, the slight smile on his lips ironic. “I know, baby. I didn’t want this either.” He admits. “But I’m still going to be here for you. That won’t change.”

“Could I just ask you one favor before you go?” All things considered, it’s very minor and sort of the least you could possibly ask.

“Anything.” Pope would do anything for you, he’s proving that, but he wouldn’t deny you simple request if it’s in his power to take care of it.

“I don’t know if you’re going to see them at all tonight or not but just…don’t tell Rachel yet? She’s going to spend the night with Ben again and I know her. She’ll come straight home to be with me instead. I don’t want to ruin her night.”

He chuckles softly, aware of what that says about you as a mom. “You are a good woman.” He murmurs, leaning in kissing your forehead again. “I won’t say anything to her.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow.” You promise him. It’s not that you want to hide things from her — it’s that you know she’ll act rashly out of loyalty to you if she finds out tonight. She might even break up with Ben, which is the last thing she actually wants or that you want for her.

“When you tell her is up to you.” He would never think that he should have an input on your relationship with Rachel or when you tell her. “Whenever you are comfortable.”

“Well…” A shrug and a half sigh are the best you can do, not really sure of what else to say. Maybe you’ll get on Pet Finder tonight and look for a cat. Or three.

“Oh…” Pope reaches into his bag and pulls out your gift. “I didn’t want to give this to you in front of everyone.” He tells you quietly. “But this is for you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Especially now. Especially with everything that’s happened today. But you still smile weakly and accept the bag. Yup. It’s gonna be me and three cranky, elderly cats. That’s my future. “I—um, thank you. It’s…very sweet of you. You’re a very sweet person.”

“No, I’m not.” Pope snorts as he steps back. “But you are worth the effort.”

Impulsively, it does make you want to ask why he’s leaving, then. But you know the answer. You know this is about you and Frankie having a past and that nothing is going to change Santiago’s loyalty to his best friend. What’s even more annoying is that you like that about him, it hits harder and hurts more. All you can say without letting the emotions through the floodgates is just to excuse yourself to grab the book of his that you borrowed because it’s downstairs in the living room.

Staring at the door, Pope sighs and pulls his phone out of his pocket to text Will. Deciding that he needs a drink after the emotional rollercoaster of the day.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

My Masterlist!

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luxurychristmaspudding · 2 months

Text

wait | listen/watch/touch

summary: it’s just a shirt. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. smut, dacryphilia, p in v, light bondage, general (sadly not acacius) horny thoughts. takes place in the listen/watch/touch'verse. don't think too hard about timelines.

series masterlist

wc: 500+ (it's a baby!)

an: you have @undercoverpena to thank for this one. jo spun her magic wheel for her birthday celebrations, gave me this colour, and said ‘how very frankie/joel of you’. and - ya know - i had to pay them a visit. i'm sorry this turned out so smutty after swearing it wouldn't lol.

thanks also to @itsokbbygrl, who has filled my brain with the most delicious thoughts over the last few days.

happy birthday darling jo. you are a sparkling star, a ray of sunshine. so generous with your kindness and talent. i’m so lucky to have met you <3

The last time he wore it, Joel fucked you in it.

Hard and fast over the back of the couch, until you could feel your cum leaking down your thighs, until you could hardly remember your own name. Caged in by his arm on one side, his other hand holding you down by the back of your neck. Heavy and hard against you, his lips pressed to the curve of your spine, heat pulsing off him in waves. You were sweating, somewhere close to tears, close to the brink of unbearable pleasure. His grunts, rattling around in your swimming mind, his praises - good girl, I know, I know, just feels so good doesn’t it, baby? - the slick, wet sound of your cunt as you begged him. Begged him for more, for less, to devour you, consume you, swallow you and the world whole the way only he can.

Just a little longer, he’d moaned. Wait.

The last time you wore it, you fucked Frankie in it.

Swathed in the warmth of Joel’s smell as you rocked your hips against him, his mouth shining with your wetness, pretty flush all the way up his chest. This time, he was the one begging. Begging you not to stop, to let him come, to let him fill you up. Begging for relief against the suck of your greedy cunt, the way it tightened around him, begging for relief against the want and the heat, the smell of sex, the all consuming feeling of you against him. Anything to lessen the pressure in his belly, the tightness in his thighs. The days this had played out for, touching, not touching. You gonna break the rules, baby girl?

You’d slowed, pulled off, dragging your swollen, soaked folds over him.

Wait, baby boy. Just a little longer.

The last time you saw it, it was in Santi’s hands.

A scrap of anything would do to tie you up, hold you back. Keep you from the scene playing out before you - the tongues, the open mouths, the moans, the hands knotted into fists, the curses, the three beautiful men just out of arm's reach. And you’d cried for real then. Squirming against the sheets, wrists bound, as you pleaded brokenly, wantonly, for someone to touch you, to fuck you.

Watching through bleary eyes as Frankie crawled between your legs, as he kissed up your thighs, gasping as he slipped his tongue against your clit. Moaning into Joel’s mouth as he kissed you, feeding you his tongue. As he laid himself down at your altar, as you breathed in his musky scent, mixed with Frankie and Pope’s. As he licked the tears from your cheeks, rough hands all over your body. Santi, untying your hands from that damn green shirt, pressing tender kisses down your neck before latching his teeth around the sensitive bud of your nipple.

You’ve waited, you’ve waited. Not patiently, not like you were told. But when it comes together like this - when you come together like this - it’s so worth it.

And now, seeing that shirt slung over the back of the chair in Joel's room, where it all started, you don’t think you can be patient again.

divider from @/saradika-graphics

#jo's birthday bash #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia x reader #joel miller x frankie morales x reader

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shitsndgiggs · 1 month

Note

Can you write a fic for Hector's birthday where reader flies over to america to surprise him considering he is away on tour with barca rn? Ik his birthday was a couple of days ago 😭

HAPPY BIRTHDAY - HÉCTOR FORT

Surprising Héctor for his birthday

Héctor Fort x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

Barcelona’s preseason tour in the U.S. was well underway, and while the team was focused on preparing for the upcoming season, there was one special occasion that couldn’t be overlooked—Hector’s birthday.

I knew how much he loved his birthday, but with the team overseas, I worried he might feel a bit lonely celebrating without his usual group of friends and family. That’s when the idea hit me: I’d fly to America and surprise him.

After a few weeks of secretive planning with some of his teammates, I finally landed in the States, excitement bubbling inside me.

I knew Hector had no clue what was about to happen, and I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.

The day of his birthday, the team had planned a small celebration after their morning training session. I was hidden away in a separate room at the hotel, waiting anxiously for the right moment to appear.

In the team’s dining room, Hector was completely unaware of what was in store.

As he finished his post-training shower and headed to the dining area, his teammates were already gathered around, grinning from ear to ear.

“Hey, birthday boy!” Frankie shouted as Hector entered the room.

The entire squad erupted in cheers and applause, making Hector chuckle and shake his head.

“Thanks, guys,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips as he took in the sight of a cake waiting on the table, covered in bright candles and decorated with the colors of Barcelona.

“Happy birthday, mate!” Lamine, one of his closest friends on the team said, clapping Hector on the back.

They gathered around as the team’s chef lit the candles, and everyone began to sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. Hector stood there, taking it all in, his heart swelling with gratitude for the people around him.

After he blew out the candles, the team began to hand him small gifts they had picked up during their time in the States—a cap from New York, a quirky t-shirt, and a few other trinkets. Hector thanked each of them, laughing at some of the more humorous gifts.

As the laughter died down, Pedri cleared his throat, getting everyone’s attention. “Hector,” he said with a mischievous grin, “we’ve got one more gift for you. We know it’s something you really want.”

Hector raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh yeah? What is it?”

The teammate glanced over his shoulder toward the door, where I was waiting just out of sight. “Come on in,” he called, giving me the signal.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room, my heart pounding with anticipation. The room fell silent for a split second as everyone watched Hector’s reaction.

He turned to see me standing there, and for a moment, he looked completely stunned. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open slightly as he registered that I was actually there, in America, for his birthday.

“Y/N?” he said, disbelief and excitement mixing in his voice.

“Happy birthday, Hector,” I said, grinning widely as I crossed the room to him.

In an instant, he closed the distance between us, wrapping me in a tight embrace. The room filled with cheers and applause again, but all I could focus on was the feeling of Hector’s arms around me, holding me as if he never wanted to let go.

“You’re really here,” he murmured into my hair, his voice tinged with emotion.

“Of course I’m here,” I replied, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I couldn’t miss your birthday, could I?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is the best surprise ever. I can’t believe you did this.”

I smiled up at him, my heart swelling with affection. “Well, I had some help from your teammates,” I admitted, glancing around at the guys who were watching us with amused expressions.

Hector chuckled, finally letting me go but keeping one arm around my waist. “Thank you,” he said, addressing the room. “Seriously, this is amazing.”

One of the players grinned and gave a thumbs-up. “We knew she’d be the best gift. Figured you could use a little extra love today.”

Hector looked back at me, his eyes softening. “They were right,” he said quietly. “You’re the best gift I could’ve asked for.”

The team gave us a moment, drifting away to give us some privacy as they continued to enjoy the cake and the rest of the celebration. Hector turned his full attention to me, a smile still playing on his lips.

“So, how long are you staying?” he asked, his tone hopeful.

“I’m here for the rest of the tour,” I replied, watching as his face lit up with joy. “I thought we could spend some time together, you know, exploring the States when you’re not training.”

He pulled me closer, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “That sounds perfect. I’m so happy you’re here.”

I smiled, resting my head against his chest. “Happy birthday, Hector.”

#football imagine #football x reader #hector fort imagine #hector fort

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latanyalove · 2 months

Text

Happy Times PT 2

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Y/N

Content: Collapse, happiness, slight insecuse.

A/n: I totally forgot it was Sanji's birthday this month so Happy Late Birthday Sanji! I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆

There was a lot of excitement and good tidings spilled during the three hours long celebration, ranging from Luffy eating like an elephant to Usopp telling the crew about his adventures of fighting the Kraken with his own hands.

There was not a single moment when you weren't enjoying yourself.

There was nothing that could stop you from smiling until your face started to hurt, but you didn't seem to be bothered by it.

You were happy.

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆

"Okay, it's time to go to sleep!" Nami slurred, clinging onto Robin as if her legs weren't cooperating.

Robin didn't look bothered, using her devil fruit powers to keep her balanced.

She then looked at me and smiled, saying gently. "Are you coming?"

"In a minute," you answered, trying to finish your third servings.

Robin nodded, dragging away the hyper navigator with ease to their shared bedroom after she said good night to everyone.

Which leaves the rest of the boys and you in the living room.

"Wow Y/N! I've never seen anyone compete with Luffy's appetite before," Franky said teasingly, drinking his sixth bottle of coke.

You immediately stopped eating, hesitantly placing the fork back on the plate.

Were you eating so much? Were they mad? Was Sanji tired of cooking for you?

"Franky! Y/N can eat as much as she wants because she deserves it with all she's being through. Now stop judging and go fix the ship," Sanji yelled, holding up a frying pan as a warning.

"Okay okay," Franky said, not wanting to lose any parts of his body. "Sorry Y/N, I didn't mean to judge,"

"It's okay," you replied shyly, picking up the spoon again.

You quickly glanced up to see Sanji smiling brightly at you.

You were flustered and looked back down at your plate, trying to hide your blushing cheeks. The attention from Sanji was unexpected, but it made you feel both embarrassed and strangely happy at the same time.

You started eating again, savoring each bite while stealing occasional glances at Sanji.

The combination of his smile and the delicious food made you forget about your worries for a moment, and you couldn't help but feel a warm sense of comfort in his presence.

It was a mix of emotions, but deep down, you couldn't help but feel a little giddy.

Soon Franky left, followed by Zoro, Usopp, and Luffy. Chopper was the last to finish his meal and leave the room, leaving you alone with Sanji. The atmosphere changed, and you could feel a subtle tension between the two of you.

"Y/N, would you like some dessert?" Sanji asked from the kitchen, his voice filled with warmth and anticipation.

You looked up at him, and a shy smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "Yes, please," you replied, feeling the tension dissipate as you both focused on the sweet treat that awaited.

As Sanji walked over to you, he placed a beautifully crafted dessert in front of you. The sight of it made your mouth water, and you couldn't help but appreciate the effort he put into making it.

The sweet aroma filled the air, adding to the anticipation of tasting the delicious treat.

but this time Sanji didn't move to the kitchen and stood in front of you, leaning against the table

You could sense a different energy in the room as Sanji stood in front of you, his gaze fixed on your face. The anticipation of the dessert was overshadowed by the growing tension between you, and you found yourself wondering if this moment would lead to something more than just a sweet treat.

He looked at you intently, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and something more.

You picked up the spoon and hesitantly scooped a piece of the dessert, feeling a rush of nerves and excitement as Sanji's gaze remained fixed on you.

You put the spoonful of dessert in your mouth, savoring the delectable flavors that exploded on your taste buds.

As you closed your eyes to fully relish the moment, you could sense Sanji's anticipation growing, his gaze intensifying, as if waiting for your reaction to the sweet treat he had prepared with such care.

"How is it?" he asked, his voice filled with anticipation and a hint of vulnerability, as if his own self-worth was riding on your response to the dessert he had poured his heart into.

You opened your eyes and looked at him, the sweetness of the dessert still lingering on your tongue. His expression was a mix of nervousness and hope, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for him.

"It's absolutely amazing," you said, your voice filled with genuine admiration.

Sanji's face lit up with a mix of relief and joy as he heard your words. The tension in the room melted away, replaced by a sense of contentment and shared happiness.

You could see the pride in his eyes, knowing that his efforts had paid off and that he had brought you joy with his culinary creation.

"Really?"

"Yep! This is the best food I've ever tasted," you said, a smile spreading across your face as you took another bite. "Well, it's the only food I've eaten this month," you added with a chuckle, thoroughly enjoying the dessert Sanji had prepared.

As you continued to savor the dessert, you noticed that Sanji remained silent, his gaze fixed on you. His expression spoke volumes, and you could sense that he was eagerly waiting for your reaction.

With each bite, you could feel his anticipation growing, as if the fate of his self-esteem rested on your enjoyment of the treat.

As you reached the last spoonful, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness that the experience was coming to an end.

A finger then went over to you and wiped a stray dollop of cream off your lips, causing a warm blush to rise to your cheeks.

"You don't have to rush it, I can always make more for you," Sanji said, his voice filled with sincerity and a touch of playfulness.

You shyly looked down at your empty plate, feeling a mix of gratitude and bashfulness. "Thank you, Sanji," you murmured softly, your cheeks still flushed. "That was an incredible dessert. I'm really lucky to have you."

Sanji leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and replied, "Well, lucky for you, I'm just getting started with impressing you. There's a whole menu of culinary delights waiting for you, my dear."

You giggled shyly and looked up at Sanji, your cheeks still tinged with a blush. "I can't wait to taste all the other amazing dishes you have in store for me," you said softly, feeling a flutter of excitement in your heart.

"Coming right up," Sanji said, taking your empty plate and heading for the kitchen.

As you followed Sanji to the kitchen, you couldn't help but be fascinated by his culinary skills. The way he effortlessly maneuvered around the stove and handled the ingredients with precision and grace was mesmerizing.

You stood close by, eagerly anticipating the next culinary masterpiece that he would create.

When he finished preparing the dish, he turned around to show you with a smile, presenting a beautifully plated creation that looked almost too good to eat.

The colors, textures, and aromas all combined to create a feast for the senses, and you couldn't help but be in awe of Sanji's talent and dedication to his craft.

"Y/N, here is your dessert," Sanji said happily, holding a decadent chocolate soufflé in front of you.

Unable to resist the temptation as if you were possessed, you reached out and gently tugged on Sanji's tie, pulling him closer to you.

The anticipation and desire in the air were palpable as your lips met, igniting a passionate connection that surpassed even the decadence of the chocolate soufflé before you.

It was a quick, impulsive kiss that took both of you by surprise. As you backed away, your eyes widened in shock at your own daring actions, unsure of how Sanji would react.

With his face flushed and his eyes unfocused, Sanji handed you the dessert with his hand shaking slightly and then stumbled backward, his legs giving way beneath him.

He fell to the ground, seemingly overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, leaving you standing there, both shocked and intrigued by what had just transpired.

"Sanji! Are you okay?" you asked worriedly, bending down to get to his level. His eyes fluttered open, and a dazed smile spread across his face.

"I've never been better," he replied, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and delight. . . .

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raspberrybesitos · 9 months

Text

birthday girl | frankie morales x plus size latina reader

Main masterlist

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~3.5k

Summary: It’s your birthday, and Frankie celebrates his favorite girl.

Warnings: established relationship, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all!!!), oral (f receiving), fluff, pet names (princesa, bebita, querida, hermosa, baby, etc), Frankie being in love, slightest hint of insecure reader, reader is female, reader is plus sized, reader is Latina, but no mention of hair type/skin color/height, reader understands Spanish, NO USE OF Y/N, translations available at the end.

A/N: it’s my birthday meaning this is completely 100% self-indulgent lol no other reason behind this. i wrote it with me (a plus size latina) in mind, but i hope you can still find relatability in it! y’all know Frankie is one of my favorite P boys, and i’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. shoutout to @mandoisapunk for hyping me up to post this one ilysm <333 anyway, happy frankie friday!! i hope y’all enjoy!! i’m off to pamper myself, then get plastered at the club 🪩💃 this was written very quickly. not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. 🏃‍♀️

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Daylight peeks through the blinds, bleeding through the curtains. A gloomy morning, typical around this time of year. Stirring in the sheets, you feel around for your boyfriend. Instead, you’re met with cold sheets on his unmade side of the bed.

He must’ve been up a while ago.

You swipe your phone from your nightstand, catching a glimpse at the time while unlocking it.

10am. He’s definitely been up for a while.

Frankie is an early riser, waking with the sun. While you prefer to sleep in as much as you can, being a night owl and borderline insomniac.

Rubbing your eyes, you scroll and respond to the birthday texts you received throughout your sleep. A few missed calls, you make note to call them back later.

Sitting up, you stretch and let out a yawn. The urge to crawl back under the covers grows strong as the chilly air hits your skin. Just as you’re about to get out of bed, you hear those unmistakable footsteps.

The door gently swings open, there stands your Frankie - beaming with a tray in hand.

“Happy birthday, hermosa,” he says through his dopey grin as he walks towards the bed, balancing your breakfast. You let out a soft hum, touched by the sweet gesture.

“Babyyy, you didn’t.”

“But I did. And I don’t want to hear any complaints, it’s your day, let me spoil you.”

“But you always sp-,”

“Ah ah! Let me spoil you, bebita. It’s what you deserve. I even made your favorite,” he says, setting the tray down in front of you. A tiny gasp bubbles over your lips.

“Frankieeee,” you whine, bottom lip jutted out as tears well in your eyes.

It’s a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but not one you make too often with how time consuming it can be. Your favorite childhood breakfast - chorizo con huevo y frijoles and homemade tortillas - one your abuelita would cook on the mornings you went to her house as a little girl.

You’d told him about it one morning when he found you downstairs making tortillas from scratch to go with breakfast. A labor of love from both of you, as you taught him the same way your abuelita had shown you - a way to honor her legacy.

He remembered.

“You remembered,” you whisper, voice wobbly as you’re overwhelmed with the simple, sweet gesture. Glossy eyes meeting his soft gaze.

“Of course, baby. I remember everything you tell me,” he says, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your head.

“How did you make the tortillas?” you ask.

He chuckles, sitting down beside you.

“I told you, I remember everything you tell me,” he says while fishing out a crumpled up index card and placing it in your hands. It’s got all your abuelita’s instructions, measurements, and ingredients scribbled on it in his chicken scratch.

He’d written everything down.

“Wrote it all down after that morning. It took some trial and error, and they’re nowhere near as perfect as yours and your abuelita’s, but…”

“I- Frankie…” you sigh, tears pricking your eyes as you’re nearly rendered speechless. Cupping his face softly in one hand.

“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you,” you sniff, a stray tear cascading down your cheek as you smile at him through watery eyes.

He swipes his thumb on your cheek, wiping away your tear.

“Of course, baby.”

You capture his lips in a languid, sweet kiss. Sighing into each other as you wrap a hand around his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. Frankie cupping the back of your head, deepening the kiss.

Parting for air, he rests his forehead against yours - toothy grins adorning your faces.

“Come on, princesa. Eat before it gets cold.”

The two of you share breakfast in bed before getting ready for the day.

Frankie spends the rest of the day spoiling you - taking you to a surprise nail appointment he’d booked. He’d headed home unbeknownst to you, setting up something else.

He picked you up, and the two of you landed in Barnes & Noble. Letting you go rampant, Frankie bought every book you wanted. He’d tucked them away safely in his trunk, reminding himself to take them out in the morning. You’d both decided to grab some dinner before heading out to the bars with some friends.

The bars are loud, particularly this karaoke bar. Although he despises karaoke, his love for you trumps his disdain. Seeing you sing your heart out on stage with your friends - the people who always show up for you - makes his heart swell. Your happiness is his.

Frankie nurses a glass of whiskey the entire night, allowing you to have your fun with everyone. He can sense your exhaustion, your telltale yawn is his silent cue that it’s time to call it a night.

Bidding everyone good night, you and Frankie walk hand-in-hand to his truck. Heading home after a day well spent. Giddiness radiating from both of you on the drive home, excited to finally have some privacy.

You two could barely keep your hands off each other the second you stepped out of the truck. Both of you stumble into the house, giggling through the tender kisses. Frankie tosses the truck keys onto the table in the foyer and flicks on the lamp before cupping your face again. Both of you refuse to part for air as he attempts to stealthily guide you into the living room.

Something brushes against your head, making you break away and whip your head around. A soft gasp is punched from your lungs, your eyes glimmering at the sight in front of you.

Balloons hang throughout the living room leading into the kitchen as a bouquet of flowers sits on the coffee table. Frankie grabs your hand, pulling you out of your trance, weaving through the trail of balloons as he leads you into the kitchen. Tears well in your eyes at the gesture. A small cake in your favorite color sits on the table, next to a card and another vase of flowers - tulips specifically, your favorite flowers.

He fishes for a lighter in his pocket, showing you how prepared he was for this moment. Lighting the candles, he pulls you into his embrace, your back flushed against his chest.

“Surprise, princesa,” he whispers. A watery chuckle bubbles from within your chest, sniffling while he softly sings his own rendition of ‘happy birthday’ in your ear as he sways you side to side. The glow from the candles illuminating the blinding smile on your face.

“Make a wish, birthday girl,” he whispers, placing a tender kiss to the shell of your ear.

You close your eyes, wishing for this love, this life with him for eternity. Leaning forward slightly, you blow out the candles before falling back into Frankie’s arms. He gives you a gentle squeeze before turning you around to face him.

Gently kissing you, you yelp in surprise when he swipes frosting on your nose.

“Couldn’t resist, sorry, bebita. Que le muerda,” he says with a wink. Playfully scolding him, you reach behind you to scoop frosting on your fingers and smear it on his cheek.

Frankie smirks, “Oh you think that’s funny?” You nod, snickering as you lick your fingers. He reaches for the cake, gathering more frosting on his fingers. Smearing it all along your lips and chin, you burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Normally, you hate the tradition of taking a bite of the cake - it usually leads to having your whole face smashed into it, makeup ruined. But with Frankie, it’s not done with malice, not done to embarass you. It’s playful, fun - like the life you’ve built with each other.

Before you can retaliate, Frankie swoops in and slots your lips together. The sugar from the frosting combined with the glass of whiskey he had at the bar makes for a full-bodied kiss. Giggling like a pair of school kids, you and Frankie clean each other up with some paper towels.

"You missed a spot, bebita," he says, gesturing to the bottom of your lip.

"Oh!" You swipe your lip. "Did I get it?"

He grins. "Almost. Let me help you, hermosa," he says before crashing his lips onto yours.

Shared laughter resumes as he guides you into the living room, never letting your lips part. He accidentally bumps into the coffee table as he moves onto the couch. He smiles into the kiss as you laugh at his clumsiness. He plops down, grabbing your hips and tugging you onto his lap.

His large, rough hands squeezing your plush thighs before giving your ass a firm squeeze. Eliciting a surprised hum from you, you part from him with heavy eyes and a dopey smile. Frankie mirroring your expression.

“You have a good day today, baby?” He asks softly, timidly awaiting your answer.

You fervently nod. “The best. Thank you so much, baby - for this, for everything.” You say, gesturing to his hard work.

“Of course, bebita. Least I could do,” he rasps against your skin, littering kisses along your neck. A content sigh leaves your lips, basking in the love he showers you in daily.

“Baby?”

He hums in response.

“When did you find the time to even do all this?” You ask, carding your fingers through his hair as you straddle him, his lips still connected to your throat. He lifts his head, locking eyes with you.

“Did it all this afternoon while you got your nails done. I bought all the balloons and blew ‘em up on my lunch break yesterday and just kept ‘em all at work. The flowers, I went right after I dropped you off at your appointment to get them before I went to pick up the balloons and your cake from my fridge at work. Knew I could surprise you one day,” he explains with a wink.

You feel your heart grow 10 sizes bigger, a swarm of butterflies flutter throughout your tummy.

He’d done all this for you.

Tears sting your eyes again, a soft smile on your face - one only reserved for him.

“Frankie,” you whine in protest, your gaze shifting to the side as guilt floods you.

As if he can read your mind, Frankie grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Uh uh. I don’t want to hear it. I wanted to do this for you. It’s your special day. Now I know this day isn’t the easiest for you, but I want to make it easy. I want to make everyday easy, the same way you make loving easy. You deserve the whole world and more. And I’ll work everyday to give it to you. Let me celebrate my favorite day, my perfect girl. Because on this day those years ago, the world got brighter. And 2 years ago, my world did too.”

Overwhelmed by his devotion, you shamelessly let your tears fall. Love seeping from your eyes and onto your cheeks, Frankie draws you in gently. Kissing you with such tenderness, cradling your face as if you were the most delicate diamond in the universe, your cheeks wetting his. He pulls back, swiping those tears, mirroring each other's small smiles.

“I love you, bebita,” he says, his voice hushed and husky.

“I love you too, Frankie. Thank you for today, for all of this, baby. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had, all thanks to you. You always make me feel so loved, and I hope you know just how much I love you. Eres el amor de mi vida,” you choke out.

“Of course, baby. I’d do anything and everything for you, princesa. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I do know how much you love me, you show me everyday, bebita. I’ve got you, baby. Always. Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. Eres mi todo. Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita,” he whispers against your lips.

Melding your lips together, your combined hums ring in the air as you vehemently consume one another.

He shifts his grip to your thighs, tightening his hold on you as he rises to his feet.

“Frankie, stop! I’m too heavy, you’re gonna hurt your back!” You yelp as he carries you up the stairs, the whispers of insecurity creep into your head.

“Hush, bebita. My back is fine. I’ve never thrown it out any of those other times I carried you before, and I’m not about to start now. You’re never too heavy. ‘Sides, how many times have I tossed your sexy ass around in bed? Hm?” He asks as he turns the corner, leading you to your shared room.

He immediately rids your mind of any insecurities as he’s met with your silence. Bashfulness coursing through your veins as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck..

“Exactly. That's what I thought,” he says as he kicks the door open, tossing you onto the bed. You yelp as you bounce in the air, Frankie’s pupils dilate - blown black and wide.

Your head resting on a pillow with dress ridden up your thighs, exposing your panties to him as your breasts nearly spill over the low neckline.

He pulls your shoes off, his following suit as tosses them off to the side. Snaking his hands up your thighs, he grabs the hem of your tights.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he warns before yanking them down, tearing them in the process. It’s unbelievably feral, how swiftly he ripped the tights in two. You gasp as another wave of arousal pools in between your thighs.

He hovers over you, hands trailing up your tummy and cupping your breasts. He captures your lips in his, patience thrown to the wind as his tongue invades your mouth. Sucking in your bottom lip between his teeth, you moan as he bites down. The slight sting only sending more slick to seep from your weeping cunt.

You eagerly fumble with the hem of his shirt as you moan into his mouth. His chest rumbles with a small chuckle, before parting from your lips. He quickly yanks it over his head and tosses it to the floor, refocusing on your lips.

He snakes his hands down to your waist where your dress is bunched up. Slowly raking it up your body, you lift yourself up so he can pull it off you. Frankie licks his lips. He knew you’d been wearing one of his favorite lacy bras, but it’s such a sight for him every time.

Sloppy kisses are exchanged while he slickly maneuvers to unhook your bra, lifting you slightly and discarding it on the floor. He kisses down your bare breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth while he fiddles with his belt. Frankie releases your nipple with a lewd pop and shucks off his jeans and briefs, his hard cock throbbing.

Both of you bared naked, on display for each other.

“So fucking beautiful, baby. The most beautiful woman on Earth,” he rasps, nearly to himself.

Heat radiates throughout your body, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears and a fire simmering in your belly as he slides down to position himself in front of your bare sex.

Frankie insatiably licks his lips, feasting his eyes on your glistening folds. As if he’s about to devour the finest meal. He peppers kisses along your soft thighs, making you twitch under his grasp.

Your clit throbs, aching for attention. Whining, your hips buck up into his face as he presses a tender kiss to your mound.

“I got you, bebita,” he whispers against your core. He dives in, tongue licking languid stripes up your folds. Frankie groans at the taste, something he’ll never get enough of.

Flicking your clit combined with the vibrations of his groans draws out a high-pitched moan from you, your head sinking further into the pillow. His tongue prods your entrance, slurping up your slick.

“S-so fucking good, Frankie. A-always so f-fucking good to me,” you keen as the flames in your belly fan into a fully-fledged fire. Panting and whimpering, you squirm beneath his hold as he relentlessly flicks your pearl.

He grips your thighs tighter as he suckles your clit between his lips, humming into you. Stars burst behind your eyes as you're engulfed by your orgasm.

“I’m gonna cum, Frankie! I’m gonna-,”

You're cut off by a never-ending stream of moans, babbling incoherently about how good Frankie is. Tugging on his hair as you fall over the edge.

He lets out an animalistic groan as he laps at your slick, slurping up every last drop. Savoring the tangy sweetness seeping from your aching cunt, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the taste. He takes great pleasure in getting you off.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your body, glistening in the warm glow of the room. Frankie presses a chaste kiss to your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before towering over you.

Your eyes heavy and glossed over with bliss. Whimpering into him as he presses his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Sweeter than any fucking cake, bebita,” he jokes, getting a giggle out of you. You bring him down to meet your lips again. Humming as you feel his hard length graze against your bare sex.

Precum weeps from his tip, lightly smearing on your mound. A soft moan slips from you as Frankie lines his cock up with your pussy. He swirls the tip around your mound, gathering your slick on his cock as he teasingly prods your entrance.

“Frankieee, please. Need you inside me,” you whine, rutting your hips seeking relief.

“Relax, hermosa. Like I said, I got you.”

He slowly slips inside, your dripping pussy welcoming him in with ease. Your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. Moaning in tandem as he slides home, bottoming out. He’s so big, he’s already kissing your cervix.

You clench around him, panting as the sting from the stretch of his cock morphs into pleasure. Frankie lets out a moan, huffing as he tries to keep his composure.

“Don’t do that, baby. Or else it’ll be over before it even started,” he grunts above you.

“Then how about you fuck me, Morales? ‘S my birthday, I want you - need you, baby,” you whine.

“Oh I’m gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna have you fucking stumbling all over the place after this,” he slurs, nearly drunk on just being inside your warm walls.

Without preamble, he swiftly draws his hips back before slamming into you. You unabashedly scream, not caring that your neighbors will probably hear you.

Your noises drive Frankie wild, spurring him on to bring you to your orgasm. His pace picks up, unrelenting as he cants his hips into yours - pushing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust as he hovers above you.

His chest brushes against yours as his thrusts grow sloppy.

“Feel good, bebita? Huh? Feel me here, in your stomach?” He taunts, pressing down on your stomach as he punches your g-spot. The added pressure makes the coil in your belly tighten, burning white hot as he fucks in and out of you.

“Answer me, baby,” he growls against your lips, the angle he’s at hitting that spot just right.

“Y-Yes, Frankie! Feels s-sooo fucking g-good! Gonna feel you for d-days,” you shriek, hiccupping as tears prick the corners of your eyes. Squeezing around him as your second orgasm rapidly approaches.

“That’s right, baby. Your pussy feels so fucking good, so fucking tight. I could live between these fucking thighs. Like you were made for me,” he babbles, moaning as you clench around him.

“Made for you, Frankie. Only you,” you whisper, the air being punched from your lungs with every thrust.

“Cum for me, bebita. Dámelo, wanna see your gorgeous face when you soak my cock. Come on, baby,” he grunts, holding out on his orgasm - set on making you cum first.

His words toss you over the edge. The coil snapping in your belly as you writhe beneath him, riding out your orgasm, gushing all over his cock.

“Fuck yes, bebita. Good girl, good fucking girl,” Frankie grits as he continues to fuck you through your high. His own orgasm not far behind.

“Cum, Frankie, f-fill me up, baby, please!” You beg breathlessly as you come down from your high.

He moans, chasing his high as he ruts into you. Moaning in tandem as he fills you with his load. Both of you sticky and clammy, covered in sweat and cum. He topples over you, caging you in between his broad biceps.

Small lingering kisses trail along your neck as you bask in each other's proximity and warmth. The post-coital bliss sinking in. You wrap your arms around his taut back, running your fingers through his disheveled curls.

“Love you so much, Frankie," you whisper into his ear.

“Love you so much more, princesa."

Translations:

Que le muerda - bite it

Eres el amor de mi vida - you are the love of my life

Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. - you are my love, my light, my light, my moon and all my stars. You are my everything

Eres mi todo - you are my everything

Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita - I love you so much, with all my heart, baby girl.

Dámelo - give it to me

hehehehe can you tell Frankie is rotting my brain?

this was definitely my most vulnerable piece yet, as it contains aspects authentic to me so i was very nervy to post. like i said, i hope you found some relatability, and enjoyed!

anyway, happy frankie friday!! thank you so much for reading!! 🩷

tag list: @nostalxgic @sweetercalypso @undrthelights @gracieheartspedro @sapphic-gardn @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @tinygarbage @mandoisapunk @pedrostories @harriedandharassed

#happy frankie friday #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x plus size reader #frankie morales x latina reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x oc #frankie morales #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction

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astoryisaloveaffair · 5 months

Text

Fix You - Chapter 16 - Genesis

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

Fic Masterlist

Read on A03

Spotify Playlist

»»———————►

Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: cussing, graphic violence, mentions of sex. I'm not giving more warnings than that, sorry.

A/N: Hey all. First I want to say I'm sorry. I literally had no time or motivation to write this. I'm gonna be honest, this is a really tough chapter, and it was hard to get in this headspace. Suffering a recent heartbreak, things in this chapter are things I have thought also, and so it was really hard for me to voluntarily want to address that. I also started working in veterinary medicine, i do not have the spare time that I used to. We also recently adopted a puppy who we named Bucky! And if you read my earlier posts, you know that I was SA'd last January. All that to say, sorry I couldn't do this faster.

Also want to wish a happy birthday to @musings-of-a-rose, my beloved, my bestie, and my constant support. This is for you. Sorry it's not a happier chapter....

* If a character is speaking fully in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this

Suggested Songs: "Exile" Taylor Swift feat. Bon Iver, "I Love You" Billie Eilish, "Vampire" and "Logical" by Olivia Rodrigo, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron and Phoebe Bridgers, "Genesis" by Grimes

You didn’t even flinch at the landing, which was rough, so that’s saying a lot. When the janky cargo door (which looked like at any time during the flight would be ripped right off) opens, you barely even lift your eyes from the floor. You felt heavy and hollow, somewhere suspended in between shock and just not giving a fuck anymore. The only thing you could still fell was the pinching in your heart. It was still broken.

At some point during the journey, the co-pilot had taken pity on you and untied your arms from behind your back and bound them in front of you instead. You hadn’t struggled. There was no point. Where would you go? Jump in the ocean? You weren’t that great of a swimmer and you loved sharks and everything but the open ocean is not where you are supposed to be.

You have no sense of space and time, so you have no actual clue where you are other than not the mainland. You’re dehydrated as fuck, groggy, your vision’s blurry and you’d figured out the sticky moisture on your face was your own blood.

Because when you had suddenly blacked out it was because they’d hit you, and had absolutely no hesitation doing so. They did not care about you, they did not see you as a human being, they didn’t even bother strapping you into a seat so you had been sliding around the cargo bay the entire flight, bumping into everything. You were in deep danger, any hope that you would have some ransom protection had pretty much disintegrated. You had hoped that the boys wouldn’t come for you at first. Then you had hoped that they would, because if you’re ransom, even if at the very least you’d be alive until then, right? But “alive” doesn’t mean unharmed.

A shadow looms over you and it finally makes you look up, squinting to adjust your eyes to something so close, as well as the brightness of the sun. It feels like it takes you 10 whole minutes to process that you were being spoken to in English.

“Eh!” The man leaning over you snips, and when you simply blink in confusion and don’t answer, he slaps you lightly on both cheeks. You’re stunned enough to finally look at him, his oval face, beady eyes and unique sideburns seeming so familiar to you but quite frankly you wouldn’t trust yourself with recognizing even your dad at the moment, so you push that thought aside.

He kneels down in front of you. “You listen to me. We don’t want you. We want the money. This means if you don’t fucking piss me off, I might be nice and not kill you, you understand? Be a smart little girl, eh?.”

You nod, you probably should be feeling some sort of panic setting in but you don’t. Whatever. Who even cares anymore.

He takes your silence as submission. “Bueno.” He whispers, leaning down and grabbing you by the arm, lifting you until you are back on your feet. He tilts his head and steps to the side, revealing 5 additional men with AKs pointed straight at you. From behind, you feel the sharp tip of another poking your back, urging you forward and down the precarious ramp. The pilots.

You didn’t trust that they wouldn’t hurt you, but you knew you had no other choice. Trying to fight was asking for it, and once you step out of the hold and realize you were in the fucking jungle, there would be no sensical place to go even if you did get away.

You step out of the plane onto a rickety steel ramp that bounces as the footpad of your sandals touches it and shuffle slowly down it. You feel suffocated sandwiched between four men, your hands chafe where they are tied and you have been in the same positions for so long your whole body is sore. Every touch and movement hurt.

You stumble as the ramp ends but one of the men grabs your arm and yanks you so you don’t fall. It wasn’t kindness. It was a way to hurt you that he could get away with. The tiny dirt landing strip is almost canopied completely by the jungle trees, leaving large patches here and there where the plane flew through, not noticeable from far above. It looks like you’re walking to nothing, just a dirt road that ends right into the thick middle of the jungle, but you don’t stop at the edge. You push through.

It’s hot as shit and you felt sweat buildup in every crevice of your body, your thighs are rubbing raw from your asinine decision to wear short shorts to the fair, and you could feel a heat rash growing under your tits that you couldn’t even scratch because your hands are bound.

You walk for forever. You walk until the friction rash on your inner thighs turn to lesions. You haven't drank water in almost 48 hours and it feels like 150 degrees out, with full humidity. You’ve had to stop twice already to vomit from heat exhaustion and you still occasionally gag even though there’s nothing in your stomach to come up anymore. All the years that you did not appeal to insects are making up for it now, they’re all over you and you can’t walk 3 steps without one getting in your eye. The jungle gets tighter and you can’t breathe because it’s pushing in on you almost as tight as the hands on your shoulders pushing you forward..

You start crying. At least, that is what you tell yourself as you whimper and sob as quietly as you can. You know you’re strong, but this is just beyond reason that any normal person could take. And when you think about how this is probably what life was all the time in Delta for the boys, you cry even harder because you feel guilty, that you have no right to complain.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the tightness of the jungle seems to loosen. More open. You notice some of the trees look more oddly arranged than others. As you get closer you realize they aren’t trees at all, but tents and dilapidated buildings built into the shadows of the trees. The huge roots and overhanging canopy of the jungle transformed a bustling camp into what looks like a little village. At the entrance, a line of guards in jungle fatigues that were impossible to detect until you got right up to them. You hear someone speak above you, alerting you to a man up in the trees on a platform tucked between the branches. There was another in the tree on the opposite side. He calls to the man with the sideburns, saying something in Spanish you can’t interpret fast enough, but it’s jovial and they laugh, and it makes you feel like you’re going to go mentally insane.

It’s like it’s not even serious to them. And it’s so serious to you.

You are pushed through the camp quickly, but not quick enough that you don’t see the insane amount of cocaine packages piled up in the makeshift buildings, sheds, and tents toward the back. Men were milling about checking them, moving them and glaring at you as you walked past.

You continue past the main camp, crossing over a bustling creek whose bridge was literally just planks of wood, but you noticed there were tire marks across them so you felt at least safe it could handle a car’s weight. Across the creek, an old stonework manor stood. You can tell at one time it must have been glorious, but the white stone-worked walls were dirty and crumbling in many places, the fountains out front had dried crusty palm fronds and dirt in them and looked like they hadn’t sprayed water since the 1980s.

It was still oddly beautiful. You thought about how this house came to be, what it might have looked like when it had been first built. A beautiful Caribbean sea mansion. A jungle that hadn’t closed in on it yet. Fountains spraying and colorful birds resting on the rooftops. But then you realize that this place has probably always been used for what it is now. Someone like Carl Lehder probably lived here and ran an entire cartel within this very jungle. Maybe it was the same one, just run by someone else.

There was a shabbily made shack to the left of the manor with padlocks, piles of debris piled next to the door. You assume that’s where you would be taken, but you were instead led up the stairs to the manor proper. And as your eyes focus in on the ground while you were being guided to the mansion instead, you realize the heap of matter by the shack that you thought was some dying plantation was actually a crumpled human body. A boy looking not much older than 17, shot execution style in the head and left to rot.

Then smell hits you, your knees buckle and you vomit on the stonework stairs, a scream of shock and realization pierces the jungle, making the nearby tropical birds explode from the treetops. When the sicarios pick you up and carry you through the mansion door, you’re still screaming.

Eventually whoever was carrying you became fed up, and simply dropped you at the bottom of the stairs and dragged you up backwards by the armpits instead. You didn’t even feel the step edges hitting the small of your back all the way up, but you would later.

You were tossed stricken and shivering on a disgusting, top-sheeted mattress on the floor in the corner of a room, your feet still bound together and your rope-bound hands looped through a radiator that was long enough only for you to lie down or shuffle over to a bucket for your business. Everything stank and you still had vomit on your chin so you curled up in a ball and slammed your eyes closed, hoping that in time the voices and smells and fear would give way to just simple numbness. You didn’t hear a female voice speaking to you for several seconds.

Your eyes snap open, skin pulled taut from dried unwiped tears,and you jolt upright to look in the direction of the voice. A woman who wasn’t even tied up was propped up against the adjoining wall, and as you take in her condition you could understand why they hadn’t even bothered. She wouldn’t have been able to run.

Her legs look..wrong, splaying at angles that shouldn’t be possible. They look like they could be broken, but you can’t tell for sure because she was wearing jeans that cover up most of her skin. The jeans were ripped in some places and stained with dark blood spots, the color turning brighter wherever her skin shows through the tears in the fabric. She’s missing several fingers on her left hand that had been burnt at the ends to cauterize, and her face was black and blue, swollen and smeared with more blood that seemed to be coming from her scalp somewhere. Her lips are pale and cracking and her eyes are glazed over and barely open. When she speaks, she already sounds like she is dead.

She swallows and winces slightly in pain, then licks her cracked pale lips.“Is…my…her–my brother. Did you see him? Out there?”

Your face scrunches in confusion, which actually hurts a little and you’re not sure from what specifically. Perhaps you look just as bad as the other girl. “Your–I—I don’t understand.”

She’s too exhausted to even be annoyed with you. “My brother. They took him from me days ago. They do not talk to me anymore. They don’t—need me anymore.” A single tear falls down her swollen cheek and you suddenly feel so much connection with this woman and how incredibly fucking strong she is. Her eyes roll over to you, meeting yours for the first time. There are burst blood vessels in them.

“I think that they killed him.”

Your lips part and you utter a shuddering breath as you connect the dots. There’s no point in sugar-coating it. You nod slowly. “I think so. But it’s not…recent.” You look away as her eyes slowly close, the additional tears she was holding back finally spilling over and cascading down her cheeks.

“Bueno.” She says. “Then at least he is not suffering like me.”

You both fall quiet and you look over her again. Her pants aren’t completely done up and her t shirt is ripped at the neckline, exposing a gashed shoulder. Almost like…

You start crying again, and you feel even worse about it this time because you have in front of you a woman who has been through much worse and is somehow NOT crying. You curl tighter into yourself to try and hide.

But she simply asks. “Who are you?”

You swallow, raising your head up off your arms, quickly wiping the access tears off on your sleeve. It’s incredible how adrenaline and fear can sometimes make you the most clear-headed you’ve ever been. Your thoughts are swirling but you knew one thing for damn sure, if they didn’t know your name yet, you weren’t going to say it now.

If I look forward I am lost. Focus on right now. Nothing else. It’s my best chance.

You know enough about trauma that compartmentalizing this moment is your best chance. You can’t think what will happen if you don’t escape, if you aren’t found, if they never come for you. You need to stay focused. You need to keep hope alive. You need to stay coherent, because if a chance pops up, you need to be able to think quickly.

“I’m no one.” You mumble. “Just happened to be dating the wrong person.”

She sniffs and looks away, but it’s muffled because her nose sounds congested. You don’t miss her tone though. “Mmmm. His new one then.”

You blink. “What?”

Her glazed over, discolored eyes snap back to yours. “Pope.” She spits. “Your man. Santia—”

“NO!” You cut her off with a shout, you know there is a guy who is in the area and you still don’t know how much these men do or do not know. “Don’t. Don’t give them names if they don’t already know it.”

“I don’t give a shit about Agent Garcia, or his friends, or anyone else, it’s their fault I am here and it’s their fault my brother is dead and..” She finally, finally starts to cry. “I told him I didn’t want to do it. They said they would let us go if we gave them what they wanted.”

“It was you.” You exhale with a shuddering breath. “They found us cause of you. You told them.” You shake your head, and for some reason you feel betrayed by this woman even though you’ve never met her. “How could you?”

“Because all I care about is my brother, do you understand?! I wish I’d never met him, Garcia, we would have just snuck away and no one would never seen us, but no, instead we listened to him and helped them steal from fucking Lorea, and now they found us and I knew they would, and YES, I gave them EVERYTHING because they said they’d let us go so long as they found you and–”

“Eh!” A voice trails in with a watchman you knew was hanging out somewhere in the hallway beyond. He slips through the doorway, a smaller man you were not expecting from that voice, and leans against the deteriorating door frame. He crosses his arms and his legs and it makes the handgun on his hip jut out prominently from his skinny hips. “No talking to each other.” His voice is silky and the words all slide together so it sounds like ‘no talkintoeeachother.’

You shrink back into the dirty wall behind you as your associate spits a bloody phlegm ball in the man’s direction. “FUCK you!” She snarls, a tirade of cuss words in Spanish flying from her lips.

A loud pop almost bursts your eardrums and your heart and you exclaim in terror as your associate is shot point blank in the head, her back slumping against the wall and her head hitting with a bang, pieces of blood and brain tissue spraying over the back wall with pieces flying in your direction.

The man remains completely motionless with his arms still raised before huffing a laugh to himself, putting the gun back on his hip, and looking at you with the such an unaffected gaze it leaves you feeling dizzy and you scream and scream and scream yourself hoarse, crumpling onto your mattress in a terrified heap, arms over your head, sobbing hysterically.

A gentle but firm palm wraps around your forearm, yanking you back up to a seated position. You look away, but the man’s other hand takes you gently by the jaw and makes you look at him. And just behind him, the woman slumped in a pool of blood and brain matter. You try to wriggle out of his grip but he tightens ever so slightly, and you can’t help but notice how different it is when Frankie would grab you like that versus this man. Frankie held you the same, sometimes harder, but you had trusted his domination and his care of you and because of that, it made it arousing. That same motion with this man has you more scared than you ever have been in your life.

“Bebita.” He coos, thumb lightly caressing your jaw. He wipes at a small speck of blood you don’t know is even there. You can feel yourself shaking and breathing so fast you can see his half waxed back tousled locks that hang past his temples are blowing in its breeze. You can’t answer him. “Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are a dark, almost black chocolate brown, shape mismatched, a scruffy beard and goatee and thin lips. In another world you would find him devastatingly attractive and the fact that you do makes you feel absolutely violated and disgusted with yourself.

“Do not cry.” He continues. “You have no reason to if you behave, si? You be good and you listen and I will keep you safe you understand? Well, at least for now.” He shifts closer to you, you can smell his breath. It smells like orange and cloves. “There are a lot of men here Bebita. I am sure you understand what this means, si? Answer me.”

“Yes.” A final fat tear spills from one of your eyes, and it stings as it mixes with your sweat and the raw skin around your eyes.

He juts his head in the other woman’s direction. “This one, she fight the whole time. I like a easy job. Make my job easy, I make sure you always deal with me. Do not make me call in the other guys, they are not as nice. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He releases your chin and you scoot back quickly as he saunters over to the other woman’s bloody body, grabs it by the arm, and casually drags her as dismissively as possible out the door and out of your sight, leaving a bloody trail behind.

At first you just sit there in a slump staring at the opposite wall,, you don’t know for how long. Probably hours. Maybe days. The man, whose name you figured out from when he spoke to someone else in the hall, is Angel. Sometimes he would sit up and watch you, as if figuring you out, your body and the way you shift and switch positions when you are uncomfortable, what it looked like when you were crying and trying to keep quiet and unnoticed. But most of the time he ignored you. Occasionally others would come into the room and either speak to him or approach you, but upon noticing Angel watching them they would hiss or spit a curse and slink off.

The room reminded you of those old houses from the 70s that had those drafty unfinished basements that were simply concrete floors, painted stucco or white brick. To the sicarios, it served as an overflow area, there was a rotting desk along the side wall with a metal folding chair and piles of scattered papers and random household tools on them. Against the opposite side wall was a pretty nice tv, considering, which was always playing soccer. Angel seemed to make that his home base, his lithe frame sprawled across a grandma-fabric sofa, head resting on one of the puffy arm rests. He binge-smoked cigarettes and his right hand was always stretched over his head resting against his forehead in the direction of to an end table with an massive overflowing porcelain ashtray on it. You didn’t used to mind the smell of cigarettes too much but now it makes you feel sick.

You’re ashamed of how little you actually think about your current situation and like the hopeless romantic idiot you are, mostly all you can think about is Frankie. The things he said–you knew he said mean things when he was mad, or things he didn’t mean, but isn’t there always some truth to things that are said in the heat of the moment? That was enough for you to silently spiral. You thought about every memory you had of him and how it could be viewed through the lens that Frankie just wanted to fuck you. Your self confidence was low enough it was believable, and your mind races through every instance of an older man being in a relationship with someone much younger and how of course it was predatory, and how could you not see it, that you didn’t have anything in common? It’s a tale as old as time. He just wanted to fuck you, he wanted to fuck you and dominate you, his dark desires seducing you into feeling so wanted you can’t believe you thought he loved you and didn’t see right through it.

And his friends, well, they were all in on it weren’t they, because why would they want to hang out with someone like you either? Why would men such as that actually want to be friends with you when you have never experienced half of what they have.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his lying ass, he was a fucking loser addict and you’re pissed at yourself for even considering him. Like how lonely were you?? To choose an old man with a kid who served in an institution that represented everything you hated about this country? To be so easily blinded by pretty words and love bombs to immediately take your clothes off. Because how, if he actually loved you or even like you, could he possibly have lied about something so big?! Or bought you something nice with all that fucking drug money he stole. Not that you’d want it or expected it, but why wouldn’t you want to treat someone you love as much as he claimed to?

How could he sit there and make up what happened to Tom like that, when you were being so coddling and trying to be a caring ear. And Benny…Pope...if they were your friends they should have told you, that’s what real friends do…

But they weren’t your friends. They were never your friends.

And if you went the other way, and considered that it was all true, that he did love you, that they were all your friends, and that he lied to you and threw stones to hurt you and push you away, how was that any better? You couldn't even think about a future not being with him, but obviously he could. He could watch you cry and question him and not even look at you, completely ignore you, then not even think about you again. No texts, no calls. No “I’m sorry, please come back.” Silence.

How could it be so easy for him? How can he just go about his life like you never happened? Why did you still care?

Why did you still want him?

Why did you still love him so so much. Part of you wishes they’d get on with it and just kill you. At least then you wouldn’t have to feel this excruciating pain. You wouldn’t have to see him show up to rescue you because he has to, to have to see his fucking face and every line, crinkle, scar, the bald patch in his beard and the tousled little curls that pop out of his hat…only for him to save you and then leave again, or die and then you have the guilt of killing a man who no longer loved you.

Yea. You think you’d rather die.

You feel like you’re going to throw up again. You’d let him force his cock in your mouth as far as it could go, let him tie you up and fuck you hard enough to leave bruises you had thought of as a badge of honor. You’d let him cum on your face. You’d let him fucking cum inside you! He’d gaslit you so you actually wanted him to tie you up with zip ties—-

Your heart almost stops. You can picture how his face looked exactly when he said it.

Sometimes rope can give over time.

That’s why we always used zip ties.

You look down at your bound hands.

They’re bound with rope.

#fix you fic #triple frontier fanfic #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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somanyratsinthewalls · 9 months

Note

Congrats on 300 folower 🎉🎉🎉 can I request caramel lily it's totally ok if you can't lol btw love the way you write

Thanks so much for the req! This is SO much plot with a bit of porn, I'm not sure what got into me here! Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Sanji x Afab!Reader

WC: 2100 LOL

Prompt: “I’d eat 10 devil fruits if it meant I could see you naked.”

— —

It was Robin’s birthday, so you and the rest of the Straw Hats were enjoying an evening of drinking and celebrating. Empty bottles littered the dining room table and your captain was asleep and snoring on the deck, distended belly evident of his overindulgence. A few of your crew mates had returned to their quarters, the hour having grown late. You sat at the wooden table with Nami, Zoro, Franky and Robin playing cards while Sanji finished up dishes at the sink. You were all a bit tipsy, some more than others *cough* Zoro *cough* but it was clear the party was winding down.

“I’m not tired yet. What if we made this game more interesting?” Robin made a suggestion and set her hand of cards down on the table.

“*yawn* like a drinking game? I’m in.” Zoro takes another swig from his bottle of sake.

“How about we put real money on the table? I know I’d kick your asses if there was actually something at stake.” Nami suggests.

“I was actually thinking we could play strip poker.” Robin smirks as she makes the lewd proposal.

*WOOOSH*

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Sanji was somehow squeezed in between Nami and Robin on the dining room bench when he was all the way across the room at the sink not a second ago.

“What an incredible idea, Robin! And it is your birthday after all, so we should all do whatever Robin suggests!” Sanji hurriedly spits out with hearts in his eyes, seemingly out of breath from rushing over.

“Absolutely not. If you think for a second that I’m going to-“ Nami protests.

“Sure, I’m in.” Zoro interrupts her.

“Yeah I’m down I guess.” You chime in, wanting to keep the party going. You had known these people for years now, they were your best friends. Everyone has a body, who cares if they see you naked? What’s the worst that could happen.

“Aww come on, bros! That’s like super unfair! I’ll obviously lose first! This game is rigged!” Franky exclaims while gesturing to his lack of clothing.

“Rigged against who? Perverts?” Zoro cocks his head and smirks.

“Whatever, I’m out. I have maintenance to do on the engine anyway.” Franky excuses himself and heads down into the belly of the ship to finish his tasks.

“Come on, Nami. We can still put real money on it. Well… most of us could, anyway…” Robin smirks as she looks at Zoro hunched over his drink at the other end of the table. “Hey! I have… some.. cash.. somewhere…” Zoro looks in his pockets and inside his sash trying to find some semblance of money.

Nami sighed. She pulls a small stack of berries out of her pocket and puts it on the table in front of Zoro.

“I’ll add this to your tab. I’m going to bed, goodnight guys.” She turns back to Zoro. “Don’t lose it all at once, idiot.”

After Nami exits, the four of you that remained settled your first bets and started the first round of cards.

Much to Sanji’s dismay, he lost the first three hands and has already removed his tie, sport coat and belt while the two beautiful women before him were still fully clothed. Zoro lost the next few, casually shedding his shirt and boots. Eventually, after many more hands of cards and many more bottles of booze, the four of you are all minimally clothed. Robin was winning, still in her bra and skirt. You were sat in your bra and panties, happy that you chose a nicer looking pair to wear today. The boys were both left in their pants.

“Alright, guesshh I’m out…” a very drunk Zoro sighs out as he puts his losing hand down on the table. Wordlessly he stands up and pulls his pants down to his ankles.

“OH MY GOD MY EYES-“ Sanji throws his head down on the table to shield himself from the now fully nude swordsman. “ROBIN? Y/N? AM I BLIND?” Sanji continues to scream towards the floor.

“WHY don’t you wear underwear! That’s gross! I do our laundry!” You exclaim with wide eyes.

“Hmm.” Robin hums. “Carpet does match the drapes.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Screw you guyshhh… I.. I’m going to… to lie downshh…” Zoro stumbles fully naked out of the dining room.

“I’m going to make sure he makes it back to his room…” Robin stands up and dresses herself. Hands sprout from the floor and gather Zoro’s shed clothing and neatly folds it into a pile. Robin grabs the pile and heads towards the door. “… and make sure he doesn’t permanently traumatize Chopper in the process.”

The door slammed closed and you and Sanji were left alone at opposite sides of the table.

Sanji cleared his throat.

“Shall we play on, angel?”

You roll your eyes. You were up tons of berries, there was no reason for you to keep playing, but something urged you to keep going.

“Bring it on, Mr. Cook.” You give him a wink and you could swear your saw a drop of blood spill from his nose.

Perhaps distracted by your tipsy flirting, Sanji loses the next hand and stands up from the table to remove his slacks. He returns to his seat quickly but not quick enough for the large bulge in his briefs to go unnoticed. You smirk. You spot his hands trembling as Sanji pushes his money into the center of the table for the next hand.

“Wow, Sanji, that’s the last of your berries! What if you lose? How are you going to afford cigarettes this week? It’s worth that much to you?” You laugh and take a sip of your drink.

“It’s not the money, angel.” Sanji looks across the table at you with sparkling eyes. “I’d pay any cost. I’d eat 10 devil fruits if it meant I could see you naked.” You couldn’t help but smile at his desperation.

“Well…” You say teasingly. “Let’s play then.”

Your confidence betrays you. You lose the hand.

“Shit!” You throw your losing hand on the table. You rub your eyes with your hand, realizing that you have very little left to remove. The air in the room is different from before. Earlier it had been four crew mates laughing and goofing around, now the air was heavy with tension. It was just you and Sanji, sitting across from each other in your underwear. He was handsome and you found yourself admiring his lithe, slim body. You couldn’t help yourself from becoming aroused.

“Well, fair is fair.” You push the money back towards Sanji and move your hand behind your back to unhook your bra. Your other arm held the cups of your bra in place over your chest as you undid the clasp. You look across the table at Sanji and his mouth was hanging open in anticipation. You aren’t sure why, but you decide to tease him a bit. You use your arm holding your breasts to push them up and together before you let them fall out of your bra, bouncing dramatically.

“Merde, y/n…” Sanji couldn’t pry his gaze from your bare tits.

“We still have one more round to play, don’t we?” You pick up a new hand of cards and hold it with both hands. Doing this, you push your naked breasts together with your elbows, teasing the poor cook further.

“I… Y-yes…” Sanji grabs another hand while shaking himself out of his stupor.

You had four of a kind, there was no way you could lose. You were going to make off with all the money and Sanji’s dignity.

“Royal Flush.”

“What?!” You balk at the cards Sanji had laid on the table. It was his turn to lean back in his seat and smirk. You were speechless. You stared blankly at the table for a few moments before you slide out from your seat on the bench. Sanji watched you intently.

You turn around so that your back is towards him. You hook both of your thumbs into the sides of your light pink panties. You bent forward at the hip, poking your ass closer to Sanji’s face. You slowly, dramatically peel your panties down your bottom, revealing your supple skin inch by inch. Sanji groans as your glistening cunt is revealed to him. You straighten your back and step out of your panties. You turn around.

“Well, Sanji. Looks like you won. I guess you could take the money…” You slink towards him and swiftly hop onto his lap, straddling his trapped erection. You place both your hands on the side of his face to make him look up at you. You gently grind your bare pussy onto his throbbing crotch.

“Or you could have me…” You purr at him, lips almost touching.

Sanji takes no time to weigh his options before slamming his mouth onto yours. His hands fly into your hair, trying to force your lips impossibly closer to his. His tongue forces its needy way into your mouth. You kiss wildly for several minutes before you snake your hand down Sanji’s slender torso and lift your pelvis up so you can free his aching cock from its confines in his silk briefs. You give his member a few slow strokes before Sanji whimpers into your mouth desperately.

“Mmm… Y/n.. please…” Sanji mutters.

You pull away and kiss down his neck.

“Please what, Mr. Cook? I can’t quite understand…” You seductively whisper out. You lick and suck his collarbone as you continue to pump his cock.

“Need you…” Sanji is panting like he ran a marathon, he can’t handle your teasing anymore.

“Need me what, Sanji? Come on… tell me what you need…” You bring your hand that isn’t wrapped around his member up to his chest to tweak and squeeze at his nipple. Sanji lets out a high pitched moan.

“Need to be inside you, please angel, let me feel you…” Sanji grips your hips suddenly and firmly. He could barely form a coherent sentence. You giggled.

“Hm…. Fair is fair…” You smiled as you lifted your pelvis and aligned Sanji’s cock up with your hole before slowly sinking down him. The stretch overwhelmed you at first as you moved your hands up to grip at his shoulders tightly.

“Shit, angel… so tight and wet…” Sanji buries his face in your breasts as you adjust your body to his length.

“Fuck…” You moan softly as you begin to bounce softly on Sanji’s cock. He was thicker than expected, and the anticipation had your body alight with sensation.

“Does it feel nice, my love? Is my cock good for you? Please tell me…” Sanji breaths out as you use him for your pleasure, trying to contain his own release.

“Mmmh…” You let out a moan as you switch from bouncing to grinding yourself onto the blonde’s slim hips. “You feel so good inside me, baby… you’re doing so good for me…” You rub your clit into the base of his shaft as Sanji hits that sweet spot inside of you. You bring your gaze to look into his eyes. Those gorgeous ice-blue eyes stared up at you with what could only be described as adoration and amazement. You saw tears well in his glazed eyes, he was clearly so lost inside the pleasure that was your warm cunt.

“So good…” You continued to praise him. “Gonna cum…” You throw your head back and grip Sanji’s shoulders tighter.

“Please cum on me, angel, want to feel your pussy when you cum, please…” You hear Sanji’s muttering but you were too focused on reaching your peak.

You shriek out a loud moan as your orgasm rolls through your body. You fall forward into Sanji’s neck and stop your movements as the spasms slow down. Sanji picks up the slack and pumps his hips upwards into yours, finally able to let go.

“Fuck, love, I’m cumming!” Sanji slams your hips down onto his and works his load deep into your cunt with a loud groan.

After you both catch your breath from the intense love-making session you had just experienced in the dining room, you slide yourself off of Sanji’s cock and sit onto the seat next to him. You put your head on his shoulder, feeling exhausted.

Sanji reached for his pack of cigarettes, desperately needing one after his climax. He finds the pack empty. He looks at all the money that is now rightfully yours on the table.

“So…. I might need to borrow a little cash this week…”

#one piece #one piece anime #one piece smut #one piece fanfiction #one piece fanart #one piece live action #one piece netflix #one piece fandom #sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #one piece sanji #sanji x reader #roronoa zoro #straw hat pirates #zoro x reader #law x reader

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standfucker · 4 months

Text

"My Boy"

Characters: Jinbe

Reader: trans male

Word Count: 4k

CW: explicit N.SFW content, monsterfucking vibes, size difference, vaginal penetration, double penetration in one hole, creampie, exhibitionism/risk of getting caught, oral (giving)

Summary: Polite interactions with your newest crewmate turn a little less polite when you catch each other ogling during a shared bath.

Ao3 Link

@jinbeioyabun

🎉🎉 Happy Birthday El! 🎉🎉

For most of the crew, the best part of getting swept up into yet another conflict is the post-battle celebration. You tend to be more like Zoro–you enjoy the fight itself more than anything, a chance to really cut loose and prove your worth. But when the town you’d inadvertently saved offered the crew their private hot springs to use, it wasn’t something you were going to pass up on, either.

The other men had already finished their soak and gone ahead to the feast. You lag behind purposefully to have the springs to yourself, wanting some peace and quiet to relax properly. As much as you love to fight, it takes you a while to wind down from all the chaos, needing a few hours to really calm your body and mind. You care for the others, but you’d prefer to bathe without the background noise of Zoro and Sanji bickering, or Brook and Franky’s general silliness.

Warm, humid air wafts into your nose and hugs your skin as you step out into the men’s private springs, the warm humidity a comforting promise of the steamy bath you’re about to enjoy. There’s several natural pools in the hot springs, the biggest sporting a cluster of rocks in the middle that men liked to jump off of. You’re about to step into the biggest one when you notice someone off to the far side of the spring. Only his head is sticking out of the water, but the color of his skin makes him stand out against the gray of the rocks. A twinge of disappointment quickly dissipates–it’s just Jinbe, his eyes closed and a serene look on his face. The placid, honorable helmsman is the most favorable of your crew to run into here; you can look forward to a calm soak if it’s just him around.

Jinbe opens one eye upon hearing your footsteps, then closes it again after seeing it’s you. Sliding off your towel and folding it up, you step into the springs. The hot water around your legs is a stark difference to the air around you, almost a little too warm, but you don’t wait to adjust, walking down the scarped steps cut into the rock.

An involuntary sigh escapes you as you’re immersed up to your shoulders, the heat wrapped around your body pleasant and soothing. It’s a little more intense around your healing cuts, close to a sting, but your tired muscles are so relaxed by the therapeutic heat that it well makes up for it. You hear a gruff chuckle come from the other end of the pool.

“It’s really nice, isn’t it?” Jinbe says, smiling warmly. “I never got to experience hot springs until long after I became a pirate. Such a luxury is exquisite…”

“Mhm,” you agree, feeling the bottom with your foot to get an idea of how deep the pool goes. It’s deep enough that the bottom slopes away from your feet, and at least deep enough that Jinbe can soak his entire body. That’s saying something, given that he’s almost ten feet tall. “Makes sense. They don’t exactly form under the sea.”

“No. A shame–the hot water feels great going through your gills.” Jinbe dips his mouth into the water, taking a gulp, and you watch with some fascination as the water flows out of his gills and trickles down his neck. He lets out a sigh of contentment. Your eyes widen slightly as he rises, his massive upper body breaking the surface so he can hook his elbows onto the bank and lean back. “The contrast is nice, too. I enjoy how cool the air feels on my skin.”

“Mm,” you reply, the sight of his broad, broad pecs erasing proper words from your vocabulary. They’re hefty and thick, a layer of fat that you know hides powerful muscle underneath. His upper arms are the same, deceptively soft looking until he flexes and shows the bulging of huge muscles. You’ve always had a thing for big guys, and even more so for Fish-men. Finding Jinbe attractive was a given, but you didn’t really anticipate the effect seeing him naked would have on you.

That’s probably why he catches you staring. You realize it too late, your eyes meeting before you rip your gaze away. At least he’s too polite to say anything about it. He scratches the back of his neck while you look anywhere else.

“You fought well today,” he says awkwardly, but sincerely. “Given my brief time in the Straw Hats, I haven’t had the chance to see how everyone fares in combat.”

“What, did I surprise you?” you ask, grinning at him.

“Yes and no. I knew you’d be strong, but I didn’t expect you to tank hits as well as you did. I’m always impressed by the resilience of humans. Especially the smaller ones.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you shrug. “But I’m alright. Look, this is the worst that I got today.” You stand on the tips of your toes so your shoulders come out of the water and point to your clavicle. There’s a long cut across the middle, and while it bled a lot initially, it was just shallow enough to not need stitches.

“You were injured?” Jinbe says, pushing himself off the wall before you can respond. Dipping low again, he moves through the water toward you swiftly and gracefully. Even on land, he moves elegantly, surprising considering his size, but it doesn’t compare to how he swims. The water seems to part around him, barely disturbed like a swan gliding across the surface.

“Just a little,” you say, taking a step back despite yourself as he reaches you, rising up out of the water. He’s even bigger up close, looming over you. The proximity makes your heart pick up its pace. You can’t help it–he’s just so big, and he’s looking at you with such concern.

“Has Chopper seen it?”

“No. It seemed minor. I didn’t want to bother him while he was helping people who really needed him.” You have to crane your neck back to look up at Jinbe.

“As a former captain, I’d admonish you…but truthfully, I would have done the same.” He chuckles. “I’m no doctor, but I have treated my fair share of injuries. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Oh. Uh…” You hesitate, caught between flattery at his concern and bashfulness. “No, I don’t mind.”

Jinbe lowers himself in the water so he’s at eye level with you again, inching closer to get a better view of your cut. You turn your head as he leans in, unable to meet his eye at such a close distance. You can feel his breath on your skin, the soft warmth making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Despite the warmth of the hot springs, you still feel a heat creeping into your cheeks.

“It’s not bad,” he says after a minute. “You made a good call this time. Did you disinfect it?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Good! It should heal up nicely.” He smiles big, making your heart leap, and then he perks as he notices something else. “That’s a nasty bruise there.” He gently rests his fingers on your arm, right below the deep purple bruise on your shoulder.

“It’s, uh, it’s no big deal,” you shrug. Jinbe’s lifted your arm slightly to inspect your shoulder better, and you swallow at the touch. His webbed hand is so large it wraps entirely around your arm. “J-Jinbe…”

“Ah!” he lets go, seeming to notice your unease. “Am I making you uncomfortable? My apologies.”

You laugh nervously, trying to play it off. “Come on. Being doted on by a big, handsome guy would make anyone tense.”

Jinbe’s completely taken by surprise, mouth slightly open as he goes quiet. He clears his throat, and a slow, adorably shy smile stretches across his mouth. “I must say, it’s not often you get that sentiment from humans.”

“I’ve always found fish-men attractive,” you say without thinking. Immediately you realize what you said and start stammering. “I mean, um, you know. You guys are often pretty big, and, uh, really strong, and, I look up to that, and…”

His smile grows as you talk yourself into a corner. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, “it’s not unheard of for fish-men to be interested in humans, either.”

Your stomach does a funny little flip. “Do you…do you know any fish-man like that?”

“You could say that.”

You finally meet his eye. His sheepish grin makes you smile, too, even as your heart pounds. He doesn't move away, and up close, you notice the darkened, violet mottling above his left gills.

“You're bruised, too,” you say, reaching for his neck. Jinbe lets you, angling himself to give you easier access. You brush your fingers lightly over the spot, careful not to press down, and hear his breath catch. Glancing at him, you see the skin of his face tinged violet as well, something you somehow missed earlier. You touch his cheeks gently. “Oh–you also got hit in the face, huh? That's never fun.”

Jinbe clears his throat. “Actually, er, that's just a blush,” he admits, gaze averted.

“Oh!” You yank your hands away. “Sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable this time?”

“Naturally,” he grins cheekily, “being doted on by an attractive young man would make anyone nervous.” Your cheeks flare even hotter at the revelation, more so when Jinbe takes your hand, enveloping it in his large one. “I don't mind. It's nice.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. “I think so, too.”

He puts your hand back where it was on his cheek, glancing aside shyly for a second before looking at you again. He steels his resolve, taking a breath, before he says your name so gently it makes a shiver run down your spine. “Y/n…”

“Yeah?” Entranced, you lean in until there's only a few inches of space between you, and Jinbe answers you by closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours hesitantly.

The contact is fleeting, a brief testing of the waters, but it feels like little fireworks setting off beneath your skin. You two blink at each other, and then you place your other hand on his cheek and pull him back in for another. Like the first, it’s soft and uncertain. The next kiss is more sure, and by the next one, he’s placed his hands around your hips, squeezing when you gently lick along his lower lip.

It’s a little different from kissing a human; his mouth is so wide, for one thing, that he can’t really close it over yours properly; instead he lets you do most of the work, your tongue probing and tracing patterns across the expanse of his. Bringing his hands up your sides to support you, he tilts you back, pressing heated, messy kisses against your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck, just able to dig your fingers into his hair at the base, and kiss along his lower lip, nipping by one of his large lower fangs. You can’t resist a little chomp on his fang, either.

Jinbe growls, a sound that goes straight to your dick. “Careful,” he rumbles as you press your cheek to his fang. “They’re sharper than they look.”

“I guess you biting me is off the table?”

He chuckles. “I won’t bite you, no. But if you hold very, very still,” he warns and promises at once, “I can do this.” With the utmost delicateness, he drags the points of his upper row of teeth down your neck and over your shoulder, leaving faint, ashy lines. The sensation tickles and teases, the razor’s edge of danger, drawing a soft whimper out of you. His control is so good it doesn’t even sting.

“Jinbe,” you breathe, running your hands down his broad chest and scraping your nails against his skin–comparatively dull, but he groans appreciatively all the same. “Would you think less of me if I told you I really, really liked that?”

“Of course not,” he chuckles and pecks your lips fondly. “I find it attractive.”

“Okay,” you say, “‘cause for the record, this is my first time kissing a Fish-man, and it’s better than I imagined.”

“Than you imagined?” Holding onto you, Jinbe rolls over so you’re propped up on his chest, both your lower halves beneath the water as he swims backward easily. “You imagine yourself with Fish-men often, do you? What else do you imagine?”

He’s confident now, shining eyes fixed on you, and you meet his challenge. “Why don’t I show you?”

Jinbe pulls you in for another kiss, the two of you making out until his back hits the opposite wall. Now in only about three feet of water, you slide down between his legs while Jinbe leans back on the sloped bank.

Through the water, you can see the faint outline of his cocks–there’s two–each one at least as thick as your forearm and just as long. Arranged vertically, they’re slightly darker than the rest of him, with a purplish flush beneath the skin. The top one is erect and rigid, the other one halfway there. You try to act nonchalant at the sight, as he’s currently watching you with some amusement. Rather than make a comment, you reach for the lower one, and Jinbe sucks in a breath as you wrap your hands around it.

The skin is silky and warm even under the hot springs. You stroke him from base to tip, thumbs pressing into his frenum, making him gasp. The lower member quickly swells from the attention, stiffening until it’s as big and rigid as the upper one.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Jinbe comments.

“Didn’t want to be rude.” you respond, making him grin. “You’re, um…you’re impressive, to say the least.”

Jinbe’s about to reply when you take one cock in each hand and start stroking firmly, pressing them against your stomach, his balls resting on your lap. Whatever he was going to say turns into a soft gasp. Like a human, he seems to be more sensitive toward the tip, so you focus your attention there. Though you can’t see it, you can feel a sticky, mucousy fluid coating the heads of his cocks, spreading down his shaft by the movement of your hands.

“Ah…you… you’re certainly eager to please, aren’t you?” he praises, one hand cupping your cheek.

“You have no idea.” Taking a deep breath, you plunge your head into the water, shutting your eyes tight, and take one of his cocks into your mouth. His pre-cum is thicker and saltier than a human’s, but otherwise doesn’t have a strong taste. You stuff as much of the head of him that will fit and suck. His groan cuts through the water, cocks twitching in your hands.

As a non devil-fruit user, you’ve gotten plenty of swimming practice rescuing the other members of the crew, so you can hold your breath for some time. You easily spend a while sucking him off, stroking the opposite cock in the meantime, and when you finally surface to take a breath, you switch to the other.

Jinbe pants and groans above you, fingers digging into the pool’s rocky edge, doing everything he can to resist thrusting up into your mouth. Even for him, it proves to be a challenge; you feel his hips shift forward as he squirms just a little. The filthy act already has your cock engorged, but knowing you’re putting cracks in his iron willpower just riles you up worse. To have someone as powerful as Jinbe writhing beneath you is a thrill like nothing else.

You surface, gasping, just a bit light-headed from holding your breath repeatedly for so long. Without hesitating, you start to mount him, but Jinbe stops you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Hold on,” he says. “Is it safe?”

“I don’t have those parts anymore,” you say. Jinbe looks down at your stomach, and the lack of scarring there. “Law removed those for me the last time he sailed with us from Zou,” you explain. “I told him I’d owe him a favor if he would do it for me. Afterward, he told me I didn’t owe him anything as long as I didn’t tell anyone he did it for free.”

“A soft side, hm?” Jinbe chuckles. “Rare for a warlord.”

“I could say the same about you.” You move over his lower cock, lining him up while he holds your hips steady. “For all your strength, Jinbe, you’d never hurt me. Even if I wanted you to.”

Jinbe pauses for a moment, then leans in close. “Don’t misunderstand, Y/n. I’m still a Fish-man,” there’s a low, gravel to his voice now, “I still have my urges. Now,” he starts pulling you down onto his cock, and you gasp as the broad head spreads you open wide, “Shark fish-men don’t bite our romantic partners by nature. Our teeth are too sharp. However…” He doesn’t slow down or give you time to pause, and your fingers dig into his stomach at how easy it is for him to manipulate your body, how his cock spears in deep and bottoms out only halfway down, how his thickness forces your walls wide. “Stuffing you full–” Jinbe presses your back against the pool wall, ”–taking you for myself–” he starts to thrust up into you, “filling you up–” he growls by your ear as you whimper, “all are things I crave doing to you.”

“Jinbe!” you cry, trying to brace yourself against the rocky wall. It’s smooth enough to not cut, but you think he might bruise you if he gets too excited. But he’s currently fucking you so good that you don’t have it in you to care, especially not when his upper cock rubs against your own with every thrust.

“That’s it, my boy, just take it,” he purrs, “you wanna know what it’s like to fuck a Fish-man, I’ll show you.”

There’s so much pre-cum he slides in and out of you with only a slight resistance, and it sticks to your sensitive skin, something you realize must be an adaptation for sex underwater. The upper cock is painting it along your stomach as he fucks you. Your eyes roll back at the dual onslaught.

“Gonna cum,” you whimper.

“Already?” he teases, “I don’t know if to be flattered, or scold you for your endurance.”

“But it feels–ha–so fucking good,” you moan. “Can’t–help it!”

“Cute.” Jinbe chuckles. “Then go ahead–let go for me.”

A few more thrusts, and you’re forced over the peak, your eyes shutting tight as orgasm overwhelms you.

“Ahh–mmf!” Your cry is cut off as Jinbe’s hands wrap around your mouth. He holds you there for a second as you ride it out, shushing you.

“Someone’s coming,” he hisses, pulling you away from the pool’s edge and rapidly swimming backwards. He takes you around the other side of the cluster of boulders in the middle of the springs, hiding behind them. You go still, listening; a moment later the sound of voices reaches your ears–Franky and Usopp.

Jinbe pulls out of you, only to turn you around, facing you away from him and lining up his upper cock with your center. You look over your shoulder at him in shock. “Jinbe?” you whisper harshly.

“Just be quiet,” he whispers back. “No one will hear with our bodies underwater, so long as you don’t make a sound.”

“But–!” you bite your lip as he starts to penetrate you, his lower cock now positioned to glide over your own.

“Shh.”

The water in the center of the pool is too deep for you to reach the bottom; all you can do is brace your hands against the boulder and take what Jinbe gives you. Every thrust pushes your body up a little, but as you remain submerged up to your shoulders, there's no sound. However, the pleasure proves to be too much of a challenge as you stifle back a whimper.

“Mind your noises, boy,” Jinbe whispers. “You don't want them to hear, do you?”

You're caught off guard by this boldness coming from him–you'd never have thought he was the type. It seemed you had a lot to learn still about your new crewmate.

Franky and Usopp's voices get a little louder as Jinbe presses kisses to your shoulder. You bite your lip in pleasure and nervousness, now able to hear their conversation. The sound of splashing water reaches you both, and upon realizing the other men have entered the hot springs, you tighten up despite yourself.

Jinbe grins against your back, licking up the back of your neck to the shell of your ear. He doesn't need to say it out loud; you already know he's delighted to find out you like the risk. Unable to speak, you're entirely at his mercy in the water, helpless to the pleasure he commands all through your body.

Jinbe shifts, and you feel the head of his second cock nudging up at your entrance next to the first. You give him a shocked look over your shoulder, he tilts his head and raises a brow in question. You can practically hear him ask: Do you want it, boy? Can you take me?

The other men’s conversation grows louder, something about collaborating on a project. They have to be less than 30 feet away now.

You make your decision on a whim, nodding your consent, and Jinbe grins.

The push of his second cockhead is an immediate, challenging stretch, your insides gradually pushed apart to accommodate him. He doesn't stop until he physically can't fit another inch, stretching you taught around him. Like this, there's a constant, firm pressure against your g-spot no matter how he moves, something that makes your legs go weak. You're only held up in the water now by his cocks stuck inside you.

There's no way Jinbe can thrust like this–you're too full. Instead he rolls his hips against yours, humping into you so that his cocks grind up inside you. Your eyes roll back at how good it feels, his hushed panting warm against the back of your neck. One of his hands reaches around to cover your mouth, the other goes between your legs to jerk off your cock, instantly making you twitch and squirm. You keen into his hand, prompting him to squeeze tighter.

Jinbe leans in to growl lowly into your ear. “I was wrong about your endurance. Look how well you're doing…want me to fill you up, right here?” You nod fervently. “That's a good boy…”

He pins you to the boulder, rubbing faster circles on your cock, grinding himself so hard into you there's a slight, sweet ache. It lasts for another secret, filthy minute, until suddenly Jinbe's pace stutters and he breathes out harshly as he hits his peak. Both his cocks spurt into you at intervals, hot stickiness filling you and forcing your walls to swell even further. The sensation pushes you over the edge, your moan muffled into his hand. The orgasm rocks through you, walls spasming around him as you ejaculate into the water.

He holds you there for a minute while you both silently ride out your highs, catching your breath. Then he gently pulls out one cock at a time, only uncovering your mouth afterward. Jinbe presses your legs closed as he whispers into your ear.

“Better not let any spill out, my boy. You'll contaminate the spring even more.”

“Who's fault would that really be?” you mutter.

He chuckles and kisses the top of your head. “Come on. You'd better get back to the showers. Want help?”

“I'll be okay,” you smile wryly. “The real challenge is to climb out of the spring without spreading my legs.”

“I can take care of that.” He hooks an arm around your middle and swims you to the far edge of the pool, where he lifts you up easily and places you out on land.

You have to shuffle awkwardly to keep everything in as you walk around the perimeter toward the showers. Your towel was on the shore by Franky and Usopp, but they've seen you naked before during group baths, so that's not an issue. They call out to you as you come into view, mentioning their surprise that you were there at all.

“Yeah, Jinbe and I were soaking around the corner,” you say, keeping your face as straight as possible.

“Oh, he's here too? I didn't hear you guys.”

“We weren't talking.”

As you waddle off toward the showers, deftly avoiding eye contact, you figure you're technically telling the truth.

#jinbe x reader #jimbei x reader #x reader #trans male reader #one piece imagines #reader insert #zen writes

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