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generaldisdainn · 1 month

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catalyst [no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader x frankie morales]

summary: You've been nursing a crush on one of your closest friends, Frankie Morales, for a year now. At his 40th birthday party, you finally meet his new friend and neighbor, Joel Miller, who Frankie hasn't been able to stop talking about. You hit it off a little too well. rating/warnings: E [smut, MMF, fluff, POV switch, they're all very hot for each other, one minor instance of pussy slapping, kind of double penetration but not really, a little voyeurism, some brief jealousy, Joel loves to show off, Frankie loves to watch, squirting, bossy Joel, very sweet Frankie, too many uses of the word soft] wc: ~7.6k a/n: please head over to @ezrasbirdie-updates and turn on notifs for updates!. this turned out pretty hot, i think. no beta, so all mistakes are mine and this head cold's. i just think they're a good pairing, ok? happy pride, bitches!

masterlist

You haven’t been to an honest-to-God house party in ages. It’s the kind of thing that usually takes a lot of cajoling from your girlfriends to talk you into, but Frankie Morales’s big brown eyes were reason enough.

“It’s just a little get-together,” he’d said, pulling that cap he wears everywhere off his head and twisting it in his hands, sliding the bill through his twitching fingers. “You can meet some of the guys.”

“What guys?” But you knew what guys. You’d made up your mind the minute he asked you to come; you just couldn’t help but give him a hard time. He caught on to your teasing, though, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips. Frankie could always see right through you. “Your Army buddies?”

“Yes, and Joel, too,” he said. Joel was Frankie’s new next-door neighbor. He’d been adorably nervous about making friends with him, intimidated by his neighbor’s age and knowledge of everything, apparently. Frankie was plenty handy around the house—he’d fixed your leaky faucets more than a few times—but this Joel had a background in construction.

“So it’s not gonna be a total sausage fest, huh?” You’d asked, and he pulled a face.

“No,” he’d said. “I just…turning forty’s a big deal, I guess. Be nice if you were there.”

“Aw, Frankie,” you’d teased. “All right, all right. I’ll be there.”

The relieved look on his face was worth the few hours of discomfort. You aren’t a big partier these days, much preferring the sanctuary of a pottery class at the community center to loud music and strangers. At least at the community center, you meet people like Frankie.

He’d been coming out of his Narcotics Anonymous meeting, damn near barrelling you and your freshly-fired vase over in his hurry to get to his car, panicked that he'd be late picking up his daughter. It was a meet-cute straight out of a mid-2000s Sandra Bullock rom-com. Or would have been, if it’d led to anything close to romance.

The first time you had coffee in the little cafe next door, the week after he'd almost broken your vase, Frankie’d mentioned he was focusing on his sobriety, which meant no relationships for him for a good long while.

You got the hint.

He was still fun to be around, though; sweet and charming and always available to go to whatever gallery opening or Sunday matinee you couldn’t drag anyone else out to. You swallowed your feelings, sharp as tacks when they bubbled to the surface every so often, but over the last year, he’d become one of your closest friends.

The least you can do is show up for his birthday.

You’re about fifteen minutes later than the designated start time, but that’s okay. As far as you’re aware it’s still uncool to show up exactly on time, and it’s not like Frankie needs to know that you’re running behind because you spent three hours picking out an outfit and fixing your hair and makeup, and instead of satisfaction at all your hard work when you’d looked in the mirror, all you felt saw was someone trying too hard.

Who were you getting all dressed up for?

That foolishness hasn't dissipated by the time you pull up to his house and peer through the big bay window at all the people you’ve never met. Why’s he want you to meet all these people anyway?

On your way up the walkway, a man exits the house to your left. He’s older with silver hair and golden skin, dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and fitted dark-wash jeans.

That must be Joel. Frankie did not mention that Joel was jaw-droppingly hot, but you guess that makes sense. He has no reason to.

As he jogs down the steps, he turns in your direction with a neatly-wrapped gift in his hands.

You realize with a jolt of horror that your gift for him, a carefully crafted vase exactly like the one he'd almost destroyed the first day you met, is sitting on the table next to your front door. You'd been so distracted you up and left without it. After he’d been so sweet and nervous when he’d invited you, you’re showing up empty-handed. He'd understand, right?

It’s almost enough to make you turn around and leave, and you might have, if the presumed Joel didn’t say, “Hi, there,” in a low, gravelly voice.

“Hello,” you squeak. More clever introductions flutter through your mind like a flip book, too quick to catch anything charming or funny, but he doesn’t give you much time to stumble over yourself.

“Joel Miller,” he says, reaching out one big, calloused hand and grasping yours. Yours aren’t abnormally small, but they feel positively tiny in his grip.

Frankie has big hands like that, too.

“You the girlfriend?” Joel asks after you give him your name.

“No,” you laugh and shake your head. “Frankie doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

Right?

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Well, he’s always talking about someone with your name. Figured it’d be the prettiest girl at the party.”

Your heart sinks just as blood rushes to your cheeks. The one-two punch of Frankie talking about some girl while a very handsome older man gives you a shameless, flirty compliment makes you dizzy. You clear your throat and give him a smirk.

“We’re not even inside yet,” you point out, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t think I need to see anyone else to know that,” he grins, and good fucking God, the gall on this man. But he stands far enough away from you that it doesn’t feel threatening, and something tells you that if you told him to back off, he would.

“Real pretty dress,” he says as the two of you reach the front door.

“You think so?” You ask, playing with the hem.

“Sure do.”

You’ve been to Frankie’s new house a few times now, but it’s only ever been the two of you. It occurs, perhaps a little too late, that you don’t really know how to interact with Frankie in the middle of a big group of people.

Joel opens the front door with the confidence of someone who’s done it many times before, and you wonder how often he and Frankie hang out. It makes you smile, the thought of Frankie bonding with this guy on the front porch over tools or baseball or whatever it is men talk about.

You break off from him in the entryway, matching his wordless “nice to meet you” smile with one of your own, scrunching your nose as you watch him place his gift next to a small pile of presents on a console table in the living room.

Fuck.

You’ll just have to make up for it later.

Wandering the house to find the birthday boy, you see plenty of pretty women around, some with equally attractive people hanging from their arms. You wonder, fleetingly, which girl Joel’s mixed you up with that Frankie’s been talking about, and why he hasn’t ever mentioned her to you.

Frankie doesn’t seem to be anywhere you look, but Joel’s in the dining room, surrounded by a cluster of ladies in dresses much prettier than yours. You smile to yourself and roll your eyes—so much for being the prettiest girl at the party.

You grab a drink from the kitchen and groan as you realize there’s not even alcohol to help you socially lubricate. Sweet, considerate Frankie—a lot of his guests must be people he’s met through NA. It’s so good of him to keep it comfortable for everyone, but it’s fucking with your ability to talk to literally anyone that isn’t Frankie.

Who is still nowhere to be seen.

A Sprite it is, then. No need to layer caffeine onto your already frayed nerves.

“Hey!” You spin around to find Frankie behind you, enveloping you in a hug before you can say a word. “You came!”

He smells so good. Like citrus and rosemary and something woodsy you can’t fully identify. Since when does he wear cologne?

Since he started talking about that girl, maybe.

“Of course! Did you think I wouldn’t?” You ask it as a joke, but part of you starts to wonder.

He pulls back, a wide smile on his face—your favorite smile; the one where his eyes scrunch up, crinkling on the sides like tissue paper. “I’m just glad to see you. You look…beautiful. Your dress…”

Your heart catches in your throat, and you start to trip over your words, but he’s quickly distracted by two men clapping him on the shoulder. Both blue-eyed, hair in varying shades of blonde—these must be the Miller brothers. No relation to Joel, they clarify cheerfully.

The four of you make your way into the living room after rowdy introductions, and you keep an eye out for anyone who might be The Girl. It isn’t like Frankie said “I’d definitely date you if I wasn’t working on myself,” but somehow, you thought you might be the first one he’d ask.

Assumptions, assumptions.

Frankie’s preoccupied, more extroverted than you’ve ever seen him, getting people drinks and regaling everyone with old Army stories. It’s good to see this side of him. You like the one he shows to you, too.

It’d be nice if you knew even one other person here, though.

The second time you encounter Joel is in the kitchen, moments after you’ve dug out a root beer you know is in the back of Frankie’s fridge. He catches you pulling your face out of the refrigerator, and it feels like you’ve been caught doing something you’re not allowed to.

“I—it’s okay. I’m here a lot. It’s—I put those there a few weeks ago,” you explain.

Joel holds his hands up. “I’m not the cops, darlin’. Wouldn’t even tell if you did steal yourself somethin’.”

“You’re not a very loyal neighbor,” you scold, opening the root beer and taking a sip. “God, I wish this was an actual beer.”

“First of all, I’m plenty loyal,” Joel says. “You’re just pretty enough to make me reconsider, is all.” You roll your eyes and take another sip. Here he goes with that shit again.

“And second?” You ask. He scratches at his beard and tilts his head.

“Just don’t seem to be having a very good time.”

Your stomach does something that feels like a cartwheel—you didn’t think you’d looked so miserable. “Is that obvious?”

Joel chuckles and scoots a little closer to you. The kitchen doesn’t have much room—Frankie’s always talking about knocking down a wall to open it up. Joel leans back just a few feet away from you, bracing his hands on the countertop. It makes his shoulders look extra wide, all spread out like that.

“Probably not to everyone else. I just haven’t been able to keep my eyes off you all night.” Heat creeps up your cheeks, spreading down your chest and all the way to the tips of your toes.

“Yeah?” You ask, taking a long gulp of your drink. He nods, eyes lingering on your neck for a beat too long, and it’s suddenly stifling in this kitchen.

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, darlin’, I know I’m a good few years older than you. But I’m not a big fan of these things, either, and I thought we could be miserable together.”

You look up at him, right into his starry midnight eyes, swallowing hard at the blush of his cheeks. How often do you let yourself do stuff like this? He’s handsome, polite, flirtatious without being a creep about it.

“I think that’d be nice, Joel.”

He’ll do it tonight.

Frankie’s going to tell you he’s in love with you. He’s going to tell you he understands if you’re not there yet, or if you don’t think you’ll ever be there with him, but he needs you to know.

It’s been a year, and he’s more stable than he’s ever been. So much of that he owes to you.

You don’t even know how much he owes you.

But then you get there, and you’re so beautiful he can’t seem to make his mouth work at all. So he finds something to do to keep himself busy, playing the world’s best host despite not being big on parties when there’s no coke or even booze to take the edge off. He’ll exhaust himself rather than tell you.

Rather than lose you, maybe.

Frankie regrets this decision as soon as he finds you next to Joel on the couch, giggling at something the older man said. Touching his shoulder, tucking your feet under your legs to scoot closer to him.

An odd twisting sensation pulls at him just under his ribcage as he watches the two of you.

Of course you’d gravitate to Joel.

Handsome, older, has-his-life-together Joel. He gives off the air of a man who’d take care of you, and you must have sensed that right away.

Frankie certainly had.

Joel’s daughter, Sarah, had welcomed Frankie to the neighborhood on behalf of her father. She didn't live there anymore, but she'd grown up on this block.

“Dad’s a little bit of a shut-in,” she’d said. She had a kind smile and radiated sunshine, and he wondered how a shut-in could have raised someone so bright. “He could use some friends.”

Frankie’d expected a grumpy old guy who needed someone to play chess with him once a week. That was not Joel Miller.

When Frankie admitted that to him, Joel had laughed until he had tears in his eyes. “She worries about me a little too much,” he’d said. “Think she’s feelin’ guilty for not being around as much as she thinks she should.”

Frankie found himself milling around his porch, hoping Joel might come out so he could invite him over, or even just wave to him. He liked the older man’s strong, solid presence.

And he eventually had invited him over for beers, and then again, and again. A few too many one night, maybe, because he’d found himself pressing Joel up against his front door and kissing him so hard Frankie’s hat had fallen to the floor. He’d stopped at the soft grunt Joel let out, embarrassed at his lack of self-control, before Joel pulled him back, sliding his hands into Frankie’s hair. He’d tasted like Modelo.

Neither of them brought it up again the next day, or the day after that, so Frankie chalked it up to alcohol and wrote it off as a blip. Joel hadn’t acted any differently, and so Frankie didn’t either.

That twisting sensation intensifies when Joel rests his hand on your shoulder. Frankie can feel that hand on his shoulder, too.

Frankie might be sick if he thinks about any of it for too long. You’re practically in his lap the last time he passes by, and then both of you have disappeared. He doesn’t think you’d leave without saying anything.

Joel might, but you wouldn’t.

He goes looking, and it doesn’t take long to find both of you in a dark hallway, Joel towering over you, pressing you against a wall with his tongue in your mouth and his hand sliding up the bottom of your dress.

The little keening noise that comes from your throat goes straight to Frankie’s cock, and so does the groan Joel lets out as his hand cups your pussy. Hot jealousy licks up his ribcage and he tries to back away, to not see this, but despite his special ops training, he’s not the sneakiest guy these days.

His foot hits the baseboard and the two of you jump apart. “Sorry!” He says immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He swallows the bile threatening to rise in his throat “--to interrupt. I was looking for…” His eyes fall to you, and you give him a curious glance.

“Looking for me?” You ask, straightening your dress. You’re so damn cute when you’re flustered. Joel, on the other hand, has a wicked, sneaky grin on his face. He looks almost proud of himself.

“I’ll give y’all a minute,” he offers, running his hands through his hair and pulling at his t-shirt. He turns to you. “See you out there, darlin’.”

You give him a sweet smile, and Frankie’s insides burn as Joel claps him on the shoulder with the same hand that was just cradling your pussy.

Darlin’.

You fold your arms across your chest, and the air is suddenly thick with some kind of tension Frankie’s never felt with you before.

You’re embarrassed.

“Hey, sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“S’no big deal,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not the boss of you.”

He leans against the wall, trying not to look at you too much. Your lipstick’s a little smeared, and your dress is just slightly askew. It rides up your thighs as you inch toward him, and his cock refuses to settle down.

“What, um, what did you wanna talk about?” You ask. “Or what did you need me for, I mean?”

What did he need from you? He can’t even remember what he was going to say before. You’re in front of him now, biting your lip and gazing up at him.

“Frankie?”

“I don’t—uh, I—” He’s never been so tongue-tied in his life. You’re looking at him with big, earnest eyes, and he’s trying to keep himself from seeming upset. You haven’t even done anything wrong.

“Did you like seeing that?” You ask quietly, after a few minutes. “Joel touching me like that?”

Frankie can’t look away from you. “I didn’t hate it,” he whispers, and you quirk an eyebrow at him.

“Would you…would you, um, like to see it again? More, I mean?”

“Are you serious?” He sputters out after a moment, and you recoil, mistaking his shock for something negative. You open your mouth, maybe to retract the offer, but he doesn’t let you.

He’s jerked off to the thought of you more times than he ever wants to admit. Just this morning he fucked his own hand to a picture of you at a duck pond, grinning into the sun. Maybe he could get it out of his system this way, and then the two of you could be friends, and he’d never lose you. “Wait, no, I’m not…what I mean is yes. I’d like that. If you want that.”

“Could be really fun, yeah?” You flirt. “And I forgot to bring your gift.”

“Yeah. Hell yeah, let’s do it. You think…I don’t know what his deal is, though,” he lies, jerking his head toward the living room where the party’s winding down. He thinks Joel will absolutely want him to watch, but you don’t know that. And he doesn’t know what Joel wants you to know.

“He said he wants to fuck me in his backyard,” you giggle. “I think he likes an audience. And…look, no pressure, Frankie. Just fun, okay? I promise.”

He watches you slip out to the living room, presumably to have a conversation with Joel.

A shiver sends up his spine as he thinks of Joel’s cock sliding in and out of you, covered in your slick, and he leans against the wall, wondering if he’ll be able to survive this. He wonders if you’ll let him do more than watch.

He prays you’ll let him do more.

Joel doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s not usually so forward with women he’s just met, but something about you called out to him the moment he saw you walking up to Frankie’s house.

When you told him your name his stomach sank. Say what you want about just being friends, but Frankie hasn’t stopped talking about you since Joel met him.

And then there’s the matter of that night that neither of them talk about; their lips slotting together perfectly, Frankie’s bashful red cheeks when pulled away, his dark eyes rounding in surprise when Joel pulled him back. He’d surprised himself, too.

But Frankie’d been drunk—much drunker than Joel, so he hadn’t brought it up, and Frankie hadn’t either, and Joel ignored the disappointment that had welled up in him over the whole thing.

He likes having Frankie around too much.

That’s why he feels so bad when he realizes you’re someone he’d like to get to know.

Joel shakes off that guilt pretty quickly the more he talks to you. If Frankie hasn’t had the good sense to snap you up yet, he can hardly fault Joel for taking a shot at it. Frankie’s young and handsome. Very, very handsome. He could have anyone he wants.

Not many women like you pay Joel too much mind.

He’s just about to slide his fingers into your panties, already hard at the drenched fabric, when Frankie walks in on the two of you. The sheer discouragement on the younger man’s face is enough for that guilt to come roaring back, but he doesn’t miss the briefest flash of hunger in Frankie’s eyes as he drops his head to look at Joel’s hand under your pretty, pretty dress.

Joel fights the impulse to keep going despite Fraknie’s sudden appearance, scolding himself as he imagines pushing his fingers inside of you and rubbing your clit; of your pussy shaking around his fingers as he makes casual conversation with Frankie.

It gets him really fucking hard, though.

In the end he just leaves you alone with his friend, but not before curling his fingers around Frankie’s shoulder and squeezing. Frankie’s eyes go wide, flicking to Joel’s hand and back, and something stirs inside his gut, his cock pulsing with interest.

People have gathered around the pile of gifts, clamoring for Frankie to open them. It’s getting late.

“Hey.” Your voice comes from behind him. He turns to see you looking up at him through your eyelashes, hands clasped behind your back.

“Hey. You wanna get out of here?” He asks.

“Actually,” you say. “About that. I have…an idea.”

Joel’s even more receptive to your proposal as you thought he’d be, and Frankie’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline when you relay the agreement. All you have to do now is wait for Frankie to open his gifts and throw everyone out.

It takes forever, despite Frankie speeding through it, though he slows down at Joel’s gift. He unwraps it like something precious, intentionally or not, and he pulls out a small, ornate wood carving of a catfish. Frankie takes a moment to appraise it, catching Joel’s gaze with soft, glittering eyes and clearing his throat before he thanks him.

“No big thing,” Joel grunts, but his neck is bright red.

Interesting.

Finally—finally—the gifts are opened and the guests head out until it’s just the three of you and a powder keg of tension between you.

You don’t know who moves first, but before you can blink Joel’s on you, his lips messy and hot on your neck.

“Where?” He growls.

“Bedroom,” Frankie says. “Down the—”

“I know,” Joel interrupts. He looks down at you, stroking your jaw softly. “You still want this, sweetheart?”

You almost glare at him. If someone doesn’t fuck you soon you’re gonna explode.

“Yes,” you whine. “Please.”

He walks you backward, Frankie trailing behind and turning off lights. It smells like clean laundry and that same woodsy scent in Frankie’s cologne. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, eyes dragging up and down your body with an unreadable expression on his face.

You’re almost about to ask him if he’s okay when Joel steps in front of you.

“S’all right, darlin’. He’s fine,” Joel says, pulling your dress up and searching for the hem of your underwear. “Aren’t you, Frankie?” His thick fingers find your clit and pull a needy whimper from your lips. Frankie strides to the bed with intent at the noise you make and settles himself on the edge, nodding and looking hard at you.

“Take her clothes off,” Frankie breathes, and Joel chuckles at him.

“Impatient,” he tuts. “That’s all right. You want me to undress you, sweetheart?”

“I—of course, yeah, can he? Is that okay?” Frankie asks, shaking his head, embarrassed by his eagerness. Your hand reaches out for his and squeezes it, trying to dispel any hint of that shame.

You like his eagerness.

“It’s okay, Frankie. I want that,” you assure him.

As thick as the air is with lust and heat, there’s a soft undercurrent of hesitancy, too. You’re grateful for that—it keeps you feeling safe enough to go forward. They could do whatever they wanted, and you wouldn’t be able to stop them. They were both too strong.

That reassurance is everything.

“Take my clothes off, Joel,” you murmur. He pulls your dress up and over your head, sucking in at the sight of your lacy underthings. Frankie’s eyes are so dilated with need they’re almost black.

Joel reaches around and unhooks your bra, and Frankie’s fingers twitch like he’s imagining his own hands undressing you. Your dress drops to the floor and Joel moves down your body, gently pulling off your panties and groaning at your naked body.

It hits you just how exposed you are, the two of them looking at you with parted lips and soft brown eyes.

Joel parts your legs and licks his lips, his hands running up and down your calves. He leans down and kisses your inner thigh, looking up with a soft grin when you giggle.

“She’s ticklish,” Frankie says softly. He should know—he has a terrible habit of finding the most sensitive parts of you and very innocently brushing his fingers against them.

“I bet she is,” Joel says, planting firmer kisses up your thigh until he gets to your pussy. He pulls your leg over his shoulder, gently opening your lips with his fingers and licking a long, slow stripe from your hole to your clit. A thick, needy whine emits from deep inside of you, and Joel chuckles, planting a soft kiss on your mound.

“Lay back on the pillows for me,” he says. You obey, relaxing against the headboard. Frankie plucks a pillow from an armchair in the corner of the room and tucks it behind your head.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and he presses his forehead to yours before trying to retreat to the armchair. You stop him, pulling at his wrist. “Stay.”

He sits on the edge of the bed again, a foot or so away from your naked body, his eyes roaming over you like he doesn’t know where to look. You’re embarrassingly wet, you know it, with more slick gathering at just the thought of how naked you are, laid out for both of them to see.

Frankie leans a little closer—not close enough to touch you but enough that you can feel his body heat.

Joel finds your clit again, rubbing with two fingers in a circle and gathering all that slick you’re leaking onto his fingers before pulling away again and shoving them in his mouth. Frankie sucks the air between his teeth and stiffens beside you as Joel licks his fingers clean.

He presses his nose between your legs and inhales. “Fuck, you smell so fucking good. Needy little thing,” he grunts. And then his face disappears completely, pressing the flat of his tongue against you and sliding one finger inside, zeroing in on something inside of you that makes your back arch and your nipples harden.

He chuckles, and it makes you fucking crazy.

Frankie’s moved even closer, still not sure where to put his eyes, balling his hands into fists. He lets out the most desperate little moan as you massage your breasts, and finally lets himself palm his cock.

Joel flicks his eyes up, eyebrows raised as he takes in your fingers pinching at your nipples and Frankie rubbing himself through his jeans. You whine when he takes his tongue off of you and leans up to your mouth, but he shushes you with a kiss.

“Pretty,” he murmurs in that deep, scratchy voice, pumping his fingers in and out and pushing his palm against your clit. “You want Frankie to help?” You blink up at him and whine, barely able to form a coherent sentence. He’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight into Frankie’s eyes, a soft, flirtatious smirk on his face. Frankie’s mouth parts as he swallows hard, nodding fervently. “I think he wants to suck on these pretty tits.”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Yes, if—yes, please.”

Frankie doesn’t need to be asked twice. His lips are on you before you finish your sentence. Joel makes his way back down between your legs, pressing his tongue against your clit and shaking his head slowly from side to side. The pressure of it combined with his fingers in your cunt and Frankie’s tongue and fingers on your nipples pull noises from you that you’re sure you’ve never made before.

Frankly, you’re not sure anyone’s made them before. This is heaven.

“Fuck, you taste good, knew you’d taste so fucking good, wanna taste your pussy, pretty girl,” Frankie murmurs in between little sucking noises. “You gonna let him fuck his cock in your wet little pussy, baby? You gonna let me watch? Yeah, you are. You’re such a good fucking girl for us.”

Joel groans and lifts his head. “Keep fuckin’ talkin’ to her like that. She’s gonna come. Can feel her little cunt squeezing me.”

He’s not wrong—you’re close. With all their praise and attention and Joel’s hot fucking tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers stroking, stroking, stroking—you can feel something building in your lower belly, a mounting pressure more intense than you’re used to. Maybe it’s nerves, or maybe you’d had too much root beer, but your whole body’s on fire.

“I-I-”

You try to warn them that something’s different, but it’s happening before you can get the words from your brain to your mouth.

Your cunt pulses around Joel’s big fingers, and a high-pitched whine escapes from your throat, stars bursting behind your eyelids. It feels so different, transcendent—like every bad feeling you ever had releasing from your body at once.

Frankie kisses you with those soft lips, swallowing your whimpers and soothing you through it. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Look how fuckin—oh—oh fuck, baby—”

Your eyes fly open. Joel’s face is wet—soaked, in fact, all the way up to his cheeks. He gently takes his fingers out of you, and you see—to your absolute horror—a large wet spot on the sheets.

Joel and Frankie exchange a look, and you’re sure you’ve just pissed yourself. And worse, it’s all over Joel’s face and Frankie’s nice sheets.

How fucking humiliating.

“I—oh my god, I’ve never—I am so sorry,” you say pulling yourself up, fully intent on grabbing your clothes, texting Frankie to bill you for the ruined sheets the next day, and, you don’t know, moving, probably.

Joel lays one big hand down on your thigh. “Sorry for what, darlin’? My friend here and I are awfully anxious to get you to do that again.”

“I—”

Frankie kisses your cheeks, his lips coming away wet—you’re crying, too? “It’s all right, bonita. It’s all right. Did that feel good?” You nod, sniffling and leaning into his hands, now cupped around your face as Joel rubs your leg. “Never had that happen before?”

Still breathing hard, you shake your head as you piece together what happened.

You always thought squirting was a myth, something to fantasize about at best—then again, you’ve never been this turned on before, either.

“Got an idea to make you do that again,” he says, not bothering to wipe any of you off of his face. In fact, he drags his finger through the mess and lifts it, examining it in the low lamplight. Frankie’s eyes go dark as he watches Joel, his pink tongue poking out to lick his lips.

Joel notices.

It seems like Joel notices a lot of things.

“C’mere,” he says, offering his finger to the younger man. “Come taste her. Heard you talking about how you wanted to.”

Frankie raises his eyebrows, a nervous smile spreading across his face.

“Suck it off,” Joel grunts, and Frankie listens. He wraps his lips around the tip of Joel’s thick fingers, and Joel bites back a soft moan as he pushes it further into Frankie’s mouth.

“Tastes damn good, doesn’t it?” Joel says, and Frankie lets out a quiet, desperate whine. “Good boy.”

You might as well be in a trance watching them. Something about it feels private; familiar, even. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve been this close.

Frankie catches you staring as he pulls off Joel’s fingers with a soft smack, and you try to look away, but he pulls your chin back to meet his eyes.

“Everything okay?” He asks, and you give a nervous grin of your own. You really want him to kiss you again.

“Like I was sayin’,” Joel rumbles, standing up and pulling his t-shirt over his head to reveal a soft tummy and strong, broad chest, a patch of black and gray chest hair that leads to a happy trail you want to follow. He pulls off his jeans, too, peeling of his boxer briefs along with them to show off strong thighs and a long, thick cock, curving slightly to the right. Your mouth waters.

This guy’s really fifty-six?

He crawls back onto the bed and leans back on his knees, gesturing for you to meet him in the middle of the mattress.

“Got a condom, Frankie?” Joel asks, stroking himself. You can’t stop looking at him, and neither, apparently, can Frankie.

“Frankie?” You ask gently, pushing him out of his own reverie, fighting the urge to tease him.

“What? Fuck, yeah, okay, condoms—”

He opens his bedside table drawer and you peek in—condoms and lube and a few toys you’d like to to inspect later, if he lets you.

He tears the condom package with his teeth and hands it to Joel, who rolls it over himself with practiced ease.

“All right, princess,” he growls. “Let us take care of you.”

He beckons you to turn around to face Frankie, who’s just finished unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is almost hairless, but you know that already. You’ve been swimming with him more than once. He has a little belly, too, less soft than Joel’s but just as enticing.

You’ve waited so long to get Frankie bare like this, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s been waiting a while to kiss you as he had earlier.

Joel’s strong arms snake around your waist, palming your breasts as he pulls you up, your legs spreading across his lap, back flush to his chest. He kisses the back of your neck, his hard cock throbbing against your ass, and you’re still slippery from your release.

“Leakin’ all over me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue over your pulse point. He reaches down to cup your mound and moans. “Gonna make you soak me again. Yeah?”

You don’t say anything, too overwhelmed with the way his body feels against yours, and you gasp at the small slap he gives to your pussy, just above your clit. Your hips buck upward, chasing the sensation. “Asked you something,” he says, rubbing gentle circle over the spot he’d just spanked.

“Yeah. Please,” you beg, tossing your head back over his shoulder.

You open your eyes, sinking down onto his cock and shuddering at his size. Frankie’s eyes keep flicking from where Joel’s cock is slowly pushing its way into you and up to your face, your mouth open and whimpering at the stretch.

Once he’s fully inside of you, his arms pinning you in place, you reach down between your legs to feel your cunt spread wide open around him.

“Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck, Joel, move.”

He chuckles and thrusts up inside of you, setting a pace you honestly aren’t expecting from a man his age.

Joel just keeps surprising you.

Frankie’s pulled his cock out—big, too, but not quite as thick as Joel’s. Not that you care one way or the other, you’re too busy drooling over him stroking himself feverishly in front of you. You just want him to kiss you again.

Joel’s cock brushes against your g-spot with every thrust, and it’s hard to speak you’re so overwhelmed with pleasure. It’s like he can read your mind, though.

“Come play with our girl,” Joel growls at him, and your breath catches at “our girl.” Frankie doesn’t waste any time closing the space between the two of you, kneeling in front of you, and pressing two thick fingers against your clit. He rests his hand on Joel’s shoulder for balance, and Joel moans quietly at his touch.

Frankie’s mouth is everywhere—your neck, your tits, your collarbone, sucking little bruises on every bit of bare skin he can get to. Joel starts to slow down, and you think he might need to reposition, but that’s not it.

“Listen,” he whispers, fucking in and out of your drenched cunt, Frankie’s fingers matching his pace. “Hear how wet you are for us?”

They work too goddamn well together.

Frankie’s mouth finds yours, finally, the three of you writhing in one slow, sweet motion. All you can hear are breathy moans and the wet suck of your pussy with each pump of Joel’s hips.

“You like being fucked like this?” Frankie asks against your lips. All you can do is whine and nod, and he readjusts, pressing his palm against your clit. You buck your hips at the new pressure, chasing that feeling from before.

“Poor thing can’t even talk,” Joel growls against your neck. His hips move faster now, and as you glance sideways you see Frankie slide his hand into Joel’s hair and give it a slight tug.

He likes that a lot, if the way his hips snap up into a brutal pace and the nearly-feral grunts he lets out are anything to go by. Something unspoken passes between the two of them, and Frankie sucks your bottom lip into his mouth.

“Think you can take a little more?” He asks, his finger probing gently at your stretched-open pussy.

You can’t say yes fast enough. “Please, please, please, Frankie,” you beg. He cups his hand around Joel’s neck and presses his face between your tits as he slips a finger inside of you.

All three of you moan, and the lewdness of it makes you giggle. You almost apologize, but Frankie looks up at you with big, dark eyes sparkling like moonlight on the ocean. He smiles sheepishly, and even Joel smirks against your neck.

It lightens the air in the room, and you relax even more, your heart fluttering at that feeling building up in your belly again.

“Oh,” you gasp, and Frankie snaps to attention, rubbing his palm in circles against your clit.

“Let it happen, sweet thing, don’t fight it,” Joel coos.

“We got you, pretty girl, come on,” Frankie says.

When it happens you clench around them, and they both freeze, just watching you arch and writhe and cry out their names, and you barely notice just how much gets all over Joel’s thighs. You come back to yourself to find their mouths on you, whispering sweet encouragement and praise into your skin.

Joel nibbles on your neck, holding you up all limp and boneless and whimpering in his arms. Frankie pulls his finger from you and sucks on it with a loud groan, and gives himself a few slow pumps with his eyes closed.

You watch him with a sleepy smile as Joel lets himself go, fucking and fucking into you. For the first time tonight, you’re the one giving encouragement.

“Joel, please, I need it so bad,” you whisper, and he pulls you down against him, slamming up into you with a choked moan. You can feel him throbbing inside of you, moaning harshly into your ear as he comes, and to your delight, Frankie leans over your shoulder and crashes his lips into Joel’s.

It’s intimate and lovely and sexy, but you get that same feeling that you’re intruding again, regardless of how deep inside you Joel’s buried himself. Joel breaks the kiss and finds you gazing back at them, wide-eyed.

“Honey,” he says, his voice dripping with playful condescension. “You feelin’ left out?”

“No,” you say quickly, but Frankie’s on you before you can say anything else. He shoves his tongue in your mouth, hungrier than he’d been before. You can imagine why—he’s barely touched himself this whole time.

You want to offer your hand, your mouth—you’d give him your pussy if he wanted it, sore as you might be. But his arm’s already moving and he’s whispering filth against your lips.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come, can I come on you? Can I come on your sweet little pussy while he’s still inside? Can’t fucking believe how beautiful you are—”

You nod fervently, begging him to spill himself on you. It’s not long before he’s crying out your name, hot ropes of come splashing against your mound and all over Joel’s thighs. You can feel him softening inside of you, but he’s still playing with your tits and watching the show.

Frankie shudders when he’s done and lets himself fall back on his pillows. You start to untangle yourself from Joel, who places two big hands on your hips and all but lifts you up and off his lap, laying you down with surprising gentleness.

He looks at Frankie. “Gonna go get—”

“Yeah, in the linen cabinet,” he says.

You’re suddenly all by yourself with Frankie, and very naked, too. You’re a little too shy in front of him for someone with his come all over her.

“You okay?” He asks softly, and you look up at him.

Frankie’s always been pretty vulnerable with you, but he looks even more open than he’s ever been.

“I’m great,” you say, stretching out. “I don’t think I’ve been this great in a while, actually.”

He gives a shaky laugh. “So you…enjoyed it? It wasn’t weird?”

“No,” you say, starting to worry a little at the line of questioning. “Was it weird for you?”

“No! No, not at all. One of the best gifts I ever got,” he jokes. “Just—you said watch, and then I did more than watch—”

“I liked it, Frankie. I liked it a lot. I’d…wanted that for a while. With you.”

Joel reappears at the door before Frankie can say anything with two washcloths in his hand.

“Spread,” he says, and you do.

“You’re kinda bossy,” you tease as he runs the washcloth over your pussy.

“Mmhmm,” is all he says. He turns to Frankie when he’s done and gives him the same treatment, though he’s not nearly as messy as you. He is, however, surprised at the attention.

“Thanks,” he says, a hitch in his voice.

“Thought I’d go all out. Birthday and all,” Joel says, a half-smile playing on his lips.

Your eyelids are getting heavy, and you try to hide a big yawn, but Frankie sees it. “You need sleep,” he says. He wraps his hand around your waist and squeezes, leaning down to kiss your neck.

“Mm,” you sigh, closing your eyes. When you open them, he’s looking down at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen a sweeter face on anyone.

Movement in the corner of the room pulls Frankie’s attention. Joel’s almost finished getting dressed, and you both look at him with matching frowns.

“You leaving?” Frankie asks. Joel shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Didn’t reckon y’all needed me around for sleepin’,” he says.

Frankie untangles himself from you, planting a light kiss on your forehead before he gets off the bed.

“Stay,” he says when he’s in front of Joel. “Stay here. I wanted you to stay last…last time.”

Joel gazes down at the younger man as though he’s considering it. “Yeah?” He asks. “You did?”

“Should I…” You ask, thinking you might be intruding on a conversation.

“No,” both of them say.

“If you move from that bed, I’ll drag you back myself,” Frankie playfully threatens. You raise your hands in surrender. They can’t say you didn’t offer them privacy.

Frankie turns back to Joel, who’s smirking at both of you. “Stay.”

Joel undresses again, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom. When you return, Joel settles himself behind you, holding you in a much tender version of the position he fucked you in, and Frankie nestles himself against your breasts, pulling one of Joel’s legs between yours and wrapping himself around it.

"What happened last time?" You ask, unable to resist.

"We got a little brave," Joel says, kissing your shoulder. "Frankie did, anyway. I was a chicken shit."

You think of asking one more time--if maybe you need to go; if you're intruding on something delicate, but Frankie's running his thumb over your bottom lip, so you just suck it into your mouth instead.

"Shit," he murmurs. "Keep that up and I won't let you get a wink of sleep, baby."

"Promise?" You ask, half-asleep, smiling at his chuckle as you drift off.

It’s warm here, and safe, all wrapped up in these men, and it feels like the beginning of something.

"What'd you get him?" Joel asks into the dark.

"Hm?"

"Frankie's gift," he says. "What is it?"

"I'm not telling. But I made it," you say, and Frankie gives you a lopsided grin.

"You both made me things," he says.

"Guess we did," Joel murmurs. "Ain't that somethin'?"

#I am #obsessed #love love love their dirty mouths omg

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generaldisdainn · 2 months

Text

Homecoming (Joel Miller x f!reader x Frankie Morales)

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader x Frankie Morales, no outbreak!Joel Miller

Summary: Frankie asks his neighbor to keep an eye on things while he's in South America.

“I think that’s what he wants,” Joel finally speaks. His voice is low and dark, his eyes narrow. He’s talking to you but he’s looking right at Frankie. “I think when he asked me to look after you, he was hoping to come home to that. To see his woman treated right by another man. Tell me I ain’t right.”

Words: 5.6k

Rating: E 18+

Warnings: Frankie has to watch, he likes it, cuckolding, dom Joel, oral sex, voyeurism, orgasm denial, hand job, mentions of Frankie's addiction, toxic relationship, Frankie kind of sucks (canon, I said what I said), Joel steal your girl Miller (I'm sure I forgot some, let me know!)

a/n: I'll be honest, I don't see how Frankie was coming home to anything other than divorce papers after leaving his lady with a new baby (suggesting other babies!?) and giving all of his money away. Let's torment him!

As always thanks to @ezrasbirdie for the beta. Consider this my toxic Catalyst verse.

MASTERLIST - JOIN THE TAGLIST

Frankie drums his fingers on his thigh. Flight leaves in an hour and he’s thinking about the front door.

He should be thinking about this gig. It’s risky as hell. If things go sideways, they’ll be completely fucked in the jungle with a narco on their ass. The money’s good but there are a hundred ways it could get hairy.

But you had a bad habit of leaving the front door unlocked. You’d done it just the day before when you picked the baby up from daycare.

“Christ, Frankie. My hands were full, ok?” you said when he mentioned it.

“Just don’t forget while I’m gone. You’ll be alone with the kids and I don’t want the house to be wide open,” he said.

“If you’re so worried about us, don’t go,” you said.

You’d given him a raft of shit about it. Leaving you with a baby and a three year old and no help.

“You promised me you were done doing stupid shit,” you said.

He’s promised you a lot of things.

You’re still so pissed that when he kissed Franny and the baby goodbye, you barely acknowledged he was leaving.

Which means if something does happen, you’ll never forgive him. He’s biting on the side of his thumb when he reaches for his phone.

…I’m going out of town for a bit but I’d feel a lot better if you’d just keep an eye on things…

He shoots the text off to his neighbor. Frankie doesn’t know him all that well—they’ve shared some beers at backyard barbecues— but he’s a good guy. His daughter babysits Franny all the time. Frankie feels a little better. At least you’ll be safe while he’s not there.

—

When Joel sees you a few days after he gets the text from Frankie, he knows you’re going through it.

You’re juggling a diaper bag, keys, and a water bottle while trying to lug the car seat up the front walk. The humidity isn’t doing anything kind to your hair and he’s pretty sure he saw you wearing the same yoga pants and oversized t-shirt the day before. Your daughter is whining about something he can’t quite make out from his driveway. She hovers around you doing dramatic, exasperated stomps.

He remembers Sarah at that age. It was hard enough to be a single parent to one, he can’t imagine how you’re doing it with two even if it’s just temporary.

Joel has to admit, he’d be looking over at you even if Frankie hadn’t asked. He likes you. You always ask about Sarah and even remember her birthday. When she stays late babysitting, you stand at the door and watch to make sure she gets in safe even though she’s just crossing the yard. And he’ll admit it, you’re attractive. He knows you’re spoken for but he can’t help the way his eyes linger when you’re bent over the back seat vacuuming up cheerios.

“Maybe when daddy gets back,” Joel hears you say. You’re out of breath but trying to keep a light air in your voice.

“But when is he coming home?” she complains.

The little girl tugs on your arm and the carefully balanced tower in your hand topples to the ground, the bottle making an especially loud clang that sets the baby off crying.

“Franny!” you snap.

“I didn’t mean to,” Franny says.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Joel watches your chest rise and fall, one deep breath to collect yourself. He imagines that you’re counting to ten in your head as he’s done a thousand times.

“I know, mija,” you say.

You run a hand over your messy hair and begin collecting your keys from the grass. Joel’s sure you’re on the edge of tears.

“You need a hand?” he calls over.

You’re startled when you look over at him. Maybe you’d been so focused on getting everybody into the house, you hadn’t even noticed he was in his yard. Your brows knit together and it looks like you’ve been clenching your jaw for hours. Finally, your shoulders lower slightly and Joel feels like he’s lifted the weight right off of you just by asking.

“Yeah, actually,” you say.

—

Motherhood is torture. Even on the good days. You’re covered in spit up and boogers and sticky lollipop sugar. Your eyes are ringed from sleep deprivation. Most meals are the sandwich crusts Franny refuses to eat.

But what really gets to you is the noise. Franny is a chatterbox, the baby is always at an 11, and the house is full of plastic toys that each play a series of increasingly infuriating songs. Even the white noise machine feels like taking a cheese grater to your ears.

It’s not so bad when you can share the load. But Frankie’s gone. He’s been gone more and more often. A stint in rehab. Pounding the pavement for a new job. Now off with Pope and the guys being weekend warriors. You’ve lost count of the number of second chances you’ve given him.

You’re just about to lose your shit when Joel calls over to you. He’s a godsend. He carries the carseat into the house for you and has Sarah come over to help keep Franny entertained. He insists you take a shower– something you haven’t had time to do in three days– and when you come back into the kitchen, you nearly burst into tears when you see he’s done the dishes.

The kids are in bed now and Sarah’s gone back next door to do homework. Joel sets grilled cheese sandwiches on the table for the two of you and you give him one of Frankie’s beers.

“A little crispy,” Joel says as way of apology for the bread that’s absolutely blackened. “Cooking’s not really my thing.”

“That’s ok. It’s just nice to have someone else do it for a change,” you say. “Thanks again. And Sarah too. She’s a good kid.”

“She is.” Joel smiles to himself.

“You raised her right,” you say and his blush is so handsome.

He’s older than Frankie but just as good looking. Strong arms, narrow waist. The light over the kitchen table picks up all the gray hairs around his temples. He’s definitely not hard to look at after a long day.

Eventually it comes up.

“So where’s your man off to?” Joel asks innocently enough.

“Fuck if I know,” you grumble. You don’t want to think about him, not now in this nice moment. You weren’t pretending to play house with Joel but you didn’t mind forgetting about Frankie for an hour or two. “Maybe he‘ll do us a favor and stay there.”

You don’t mean it. Years of putting up with his crap has made you bitter, downright mean.

“He asked me to check in on you while he was gone,” Joel says.

“He did?” you ask and he nods. “I wish you hadn’t told me that.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because every time I decide I’m done with him, he does something sweet and I lose my nerve.”

Joel’s quiet. Probably doesn’t know how to respond to such a personal bombshell when he was just making small talk.

“Sorry. You don’t want to hear my business.”

“Did I say that?” Joel asks.

You sigh. His eyes are so kind and you’re so goddamn tired.

“He told me three days before that he was going. Doing some Rambo shit with his boys. He said it was going to pay well and I can’t argue with him there because we need the money because he lost his job. Drugs. I couldn’t even call my sister and ask for her help this week because I was so embarrassed. You know how many times she’s told me to dump his ass? And I should, you know. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself.”

By now, you can feel tears coming. You’re so angry with Frankie and you’re mad at yourself. You can’t imagine what Joel must think— that you’re an idiot, that you’re weak.

But he cups your chin in his big hand. He’s got a deep crease between his eyebrows and, the way he’s looking at you, you feel like someone’s seeing you for the first time in years. “That’s not true. You don’t deserve any of that.”

The air feels thick between you and you feel so fucking grateful for the words he’s just said.

You kiss him, practically falling into his lips. He’s been so damn good to you and it’s been so long since you’ve felt taken care of. And he kisses you back. He pulls you into him. His thumb strokes your cheek and he opens his mouth to you. You can taste the beer on his tongue and it’s familiar. You’ve tasted it a thousand times on Frankie.

You realize what you’re doing. You’re sick of Frankie’s shit but he’s still your partner, the father of your children. Maybe this is really the last straw and you’ll finally end it with him but you haven’t yet. You’ve always considered yourself the better person, the bigger one, who put the kids first and doesn’t keep secrets. You don’t get to act all morally superior if you’re cheating on Frankie.

You break away and slap a hand over your mouth.

“Fuck. Shit. I’m sorry,” you say.

“No. That’s alright.” Joel’s blinking like he’s trying to make sense of what just happened. “My fault. I came on too strong there. You’re having a bad day. I didn’t mean to take advantage.”

“I want to but I shouldn’t,” you tell him. You’ve never felt so mixed up in your life. “I guess I’ve got some thinking to do.”

Joel stands. “Listen, why don’t I get out of here. You can go to bed early.”

You’re mortified. He’s practically running away because you’re acting like a maniac. This man was kind to you for a minute and you blew it.

“Sorry again. Thank you,” you add as an afterthought.

He lingers in the doorway.

“Why don’t I bring Sarah back tomorrow if you’re still needing help? Promise I can keep my hands to myself,” he says with a little chuckle. “Unless…maybe you just want Sarah?” He’s jiggling his hand nervously.

You feel the faintest relief. You want him to come back. Not just for kissing purposes. He made you feel less alone.

“That’s be great. Both of you,” you say.

He gives you a sweet smile before leaving you to bury your face in your hands.

—

Frankie knows what to expect when he gets back. When he finally got cell service, you’d sent it his call straight to voicemail. He couldn’t blame you. He’d all but disappeared. And now he was returning home with nothing to show for it.

It’s not like this is the first time. He’s slept on Will and Benny’s couch more than once, come home to an empty house with a note on the kitchen table that you took Franny to your friend’s place. Don’t call until you get your shit together.

He’s got a whole speech in his head that he’s been thinking about for days. He wishes that he could tell you how close he’d come to death and how much he wants to turn things around but even he knows how hollow those words sound. This time he’s going to make it up to you.

It’s dark when he gets in. The house is quiet. He’s nervous again, jingling his keys in his hand. You’re sitting at the kitchen table which means he’s in deep shit. He’s ready to launch into his monologue but Frankie’s thrown off when he sees his neighbor sitting beside you.

“Is everything ok?” he asks, eyes darting between you and your guest. His mind immediately goes to the darkest places, worse things than the failure of your relationship.

“No, Frankie,” you say.

“Did something happen to the baby?” Adrenaline floods him for what must be the millionth time since he last stood in this room.

You sigh. “The kids are fine. They’re next door. Sarah’s watching them.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long pause where Frankie tries to recollect everything he was going to tell you, all of the promises he’d really keep this time. All he can think about is the fact that Joel’s sitting there looking at him like he’s a piece of shit. Frankie pushes up the brim of his hat to rub his forehead.

“Do I have to say it?” you ask. You look as exhausted as he feels. “I can’t do this any more.”

“I know,” Frankie says.

The guilt has made his throat go dry. He’s fucked up so many things. He remembers the last time you were sitting there, the little bag of white powder you’d found in his jacket resting on the table.

“You said you were extending the trip. I haven’t heard from you in a week,” you go on.

“Can we talk about this alone, baby?” he asks.

“No I don’t think so,” you tell him.

It’s hard enough to face the fact that he’s five minutes from losing you with without someone gawking. He shifts awkwardly.

“Can you give us a minute, man?” Frankie tries.

“Stay,” you tell Joel.

You put your hand on his upper arm and Frankie feels sick. He can tell just by that touch that Joel’s not just your shoulder to cry on. It boils in his gut.

“You’re going to do this in front of a stranger?” Frankie asks. It comes out louder than he meant. He’s got no business being angry. Not when he drove you away. But it’s suddenly not so easy to own up to his own failures.

“Frankie,” you say, level and quiet.

Joel crosses his arms and it feels like a warning. If Frankie doesn’t get his emotions in check, he will. Frankie’s almost tempted to test him. It would feel good to get hit.

“What’s this? Did you fuck him?” he asks.

Frankie wants to hear you say yes, to feel the knife slide in and twist.

“I didn’t,” you snap back. “But I wish I had.” You look like you want to stuff them back into your mouth but you raise your chin defiantly.

The words rattle around in Frankie’s ears. It hurts just the way he thought it would, imagining you spread out over this man’s lap.

There’s another feeling, too. He can’t name it. There’s a place where jealousy turns into violence but somehow it’s taken a left turn to self loathing. You deserve to have someone to make you feel good and Frankie, well, he’s hitting rock bottom again.

Frankie’s glaring at him but his breath shallows. The gravel in Joel’s voice goes straight to his groin. It’s twisted and he ought to punch Joel right in the mouth. Instead he’s frozen in place wondering why the blood is rushing to his cock.

Joel stands lazily and takes two steps to cross the distance between them. His eyes travel up Frankie’s body, slow, dangerous, until he meets his gaze. He’s mere inches away, close enough that Frankie can smell the clean scent of his soap.

“Tell me I ain’t right,” Joel says.

—

You’re on your feet in a flash to pull Joel away before they can come to blows but then you spy the growing bulge in Frankie’s pants. Your eyes go wide. Suddenly you're flooded with arousal though you can’t explain why. It should piss you off but you can’t help but imagine the look on his face if he’d walked in on you riding Joel in his own bed. You want to see it.

Before a cooler head prevails, you’re pulling Joel by the hand down the hall to your bedroom.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frankie asks, following behind.

“Looks like you’re getting your wish,” Joel says.

Frankie stands there gaping but he doesn’t do anything to stop you.

“You can stay there and watch or you can leave,” you tell him. That last word has a heavy finality to it. This isn’t like the other times when you took him back. He’s not coming home again.

Frankie says nothing, just shuts his mouth.

“You want to do this, sweetheart?” Joel asks. His tone is gentle.

You’re breathless. You’ve been fantasizing about fucking Joel since he swooped in and saved you. Behind Frankie’s back, maybe, not right in front of his face. But you want him to see, to know exactly what he lost each time he fucked up. You want to punish him.

“Yes,” you say and your eyes fall on Frankie.

His expression is a strange mixture of hunger and melancholy. Those sweet brown eyes are always what make you take him back no matter how much he’s hurt you.

“Pretend he’s not here,” Joel says, guiding your face back to him with his fingertips.

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” you say. It feels so good to be cruel.

“Good girl.”

His praise makes your mouth twitch into a smile.

“Tell him to take his clothes off,” you say.

Joel’s brows tick up.

“You heard her. Show her how hard you got,” he says.

“You fucking kidding?” Frankie asks but his words are toothless.

“You can go right now,” you say.

Frankie’s jaw shifts, grinding his molars. As he hesitates, Joel grabs the brim of his hat and pulls it off of Frankie’s curls. He examines the old thing with disinterest, then tosses it to the floor.

“Strip,” he demands.

The command makes you clench.

Joel turns his attention back to you once Frankie’s reluctantly begun to work at the buttons of his shirt. He brushes your cheekbone with the back of his knuckles, the pad of his thumb on your lips.

“Been thinking about kissing you since the other day,” he tells you.

His lips brush against yours, his nose nuzzling your cheek. The prickle of his mustache makes you gasp.

“Went home and thought about doing more than kissing you,” he says.

Your cheeks heat. He gives you a good, proper kiss now, pulling you in with a hand on your waist. It’s deep and slow, practically romantic though you’re in a situation that feels quite the opposite. Either way, you’re left swooning a little, tangling your fingers into his full hair so your knees don't buckle.

Frankie’s completely bare and Joel glances in his direction. His eyebrows lift momentarily when he catches sight of Frankie’s erection then he scoffs quietly and goes back to kissing you. He gets his hands under your shirt and slides it over your head.

You can feel Frankie’s eyes dancing over the two of you. You crack yours open to look at him while you let Joel’s tongue into your mouth. It’s like he’s watching a car crash and he can’t look away— horrified, exhilarated, disgusted. It feels as sinful as Joel’s mouth traveling down your neck.

You want Frankie to know just how badly you want this so you snake your hand down to palm at Joel’s cock straining against his jeans. He’s big, more than a handful. Joel groans against your collar bone. Frankie winces.

Joel’s touch leaves goosebumps on your skin. He trails his fingers down your chest and teases around the fabric of your bra. You unhook it and toss it aside then wriggle out of your pants. He lets out a low hum at the sight of you exposed.

“I’d hate to be the man that let this gorgeous thing get away,” Joel says.

He cups your breast, then puts his mouth to it. His teeth graze against your nipple and you hear Frankie hiss before you do.

Joel sits down on the bed, the one you’ve shared with Frankie for years, and draws you down to his lips. As he kisses you, his forefingers notch in the waistband of your panties and drags them down painfully slowly. He’s drawing it out for his audience, inch by inch before dropping them to the floor. His eyes look over the newly revealed flesh hungrily. The heat of his gaze and Frankie’s longing stare has you slick and needy.

Joel turns you around and sits you between his legs. He pulls you into his chest and spreads your legs wide, putting you on display for Frankie. His fingers strum at you, feather light and your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you sigh.

“Sensitive,” he says.

His stubble bites into your shoulder as he continues to touch you, carefully, finding the spots that make you melt. You tip your head back into him, tuck your face into the crook of his neck as you begin to lose yourself to pleasure. He smells so good— earthy and fresh and masculine. You want his scent all over your sheets.

“Come here. On your knees,” Joel commands.

Frankie swears under his breath but he obeys, kneeling in front of you, his nostrils flaring as he watches you writhe under Joel’s touch.

“Open up,” Joel says and swats at Frankie’s cheek.

It doesn’t seem like he used much force but still you say, “Don’t hurt him.”

None of the scars you have from Frankie are physical.

“That’s okay,” Frankie mumbles.

You’re surprised by him once again. He wants it, the full force of this torture.

“Yeah. She’s too nice to you,” Joel tells him.

He sticks two thick fingers into Frankie’s mouth, so deep that he gags. Joel returns them to your pussy, sliding one inside. The stretch pulls a dreamy sigh from you as the heel of his hand creates unbelievable friction against your clit.

Frankie’s eyes are riveted to the spot where Joel’s finger disappears inside of you.

“Hey,” Joel barks.

You look past the edge of the bed to see Frankie’s hand over his dick, thumb brushing down its length. It’s glazed in strands of precum, desperate.

“Hold on, beautiful,” Joel says, kissing your neck and removing his hand. He shifts around you on the bed and stands up.

“Do you think ought to be doing that?” Joel asks.

You bite down on your lip at the sight of him towering over Frankie, fully clothed while the other man shrinks beneath him like a scolded puppy.

“Next time you want to touch yourself, think about how you wronged this woman.”

Frankie makes a choked sound and he looks up at you with an apology in his eyes. Your first impulse is to go to him, comfort him, but then you remember why you’re here— the litany of fuck ups you’ve had to suffer. The nights you were home with the baby while Frankie went to Benny’s fights. The money that went up his nose. The excuses you made for him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. He’ll make it up to you. You know what she likes?” Joel asks him.

Frankie nods.

“Show me.”

Frankie moves slowly like he’s worried Joel’s trying to trick him. He puts his lips to you, tongue rounding your clit in the way that always drives you wild. Your head falls back with a long, slow release of breath. There’s no denying how good those luscious strokes feel. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s Frankie disappointing you and then giving you a mind blowing orgasm as penance.

As you rock your hips up towards his mouth, he starts to work faster like his life depends on it. Little grunts escape him and the sensation mounts, muscles tensing.

“Joel,” you whine as if he’s the one that’s making your legs begin to shake.

Frankie falters for just a second upon hearing the other man’s name. Though he lost that perfect rhythm, knowing you’ve hit him again makes up for it.

You go inwards, focusing all of your attention on the heat at your core, sure that you’ll break at any moment.

Suddenly, he’s gone and you gasp, your high stolen away. You look up to see Joel holding Frankie back by the scruff of his neck.

“You don’t get to make her cum,” Joel says.

If you were disappointed, Frankie looks absolutely devastated to be parted from you. His face is screwed up in torment, his glistening lower lip turned down in a frown.

Joel casts him aside and takes his place between your thighs.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, hooking his forearms around your open thighs.

His strokes are different but it feels just as dizzying. You close your eyes and lay back again, melting into his wet mouth. He hums against your lips and you feel it vibrate through your whole body. It’s been such a long time since you’ve felt something wholly different, the newness makes everything you experience heightened.

It’s not long before your ass is lifting off the sheets, panting and absolutely coming undone. Your tightening around nothing, your legs threatening to snap shut around Joel’s ears.

You’ve completely forgotten about Frankie in this moment of bliss. Especially when Joel says, “That’s my girl. Deserve to feel like that all the time.”

He kisses the crease of your thigh and up your belly, putting his lips to every inch of you.

“You look beautiful, darlin’. Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

“Yeah.” Frankie’s throat sounds dry like he just crossed a desert.

A blissful smile softens your face.

You roll into Joel’s chest and tug on his belt loops, grinding his hips against you. The denim is deliciously rough against your swollen clit and you can feel a damp spot. He wants you.

“Get these off so you can fuck me,” you say.

Joel chuckles. “Needy girl.”

He gets up and you see Frankie at the foot of the bed, helpless. You know him well enough to understand that look in his eye that’s begging you not to go all the way. You’ve made your point. Mercy.

You arch an eyebrow. Does he really think he’s paid the price?

—

All of the muscles in Frankie’s legs burn. His knees ache. It’s his ego that’s taking a beating.

He doesn’t have to sit here and watch this. In fact, he probably could’ve stopped this before it even began. But he hasn’t moved an inch. There’s part of him that knows he deserves this torment, another part that enjoys it. So he stays there watching you from a wholly new perspective.

“What’s her favorite position?” Joel asks as he shucks off his pants.

You’re watching him strip down eagerly, licking your lips like some kind of hungry beast. You used to look at him like that.

“She likes it from behind,” Frankie admits.

Joel’s eyebrows raise and he looks at you for confirmation. You can’t help but giggle.

“Filthy little thing,” Joel says.

Frankie’s always thought that too. You drove him wild with the dirty things you asked for. You’d get him hard under the table at the bar, pull him into the bathroom at Will’s place for a quickie. Things haven’t been like that between you for a long time, though.

Frankie’s eyes rake over Joel’s naked form. His arms are muscular and tan, well built for a man in his 50s. Well endowed, too. He doesn’t want to look but how can he stop himself from comparing his own cock to the one that’s about to fuck you? He doesn’t want to think about the way his mouth waters either.

“Frankie, you got a condom?” Joel calls.

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him. “You can cum in me.”

Frankie’s stomach turns but the desire twists in his belly. He can’t wait to be put out of his misery.

“Fuck,” Joel growls.

You get on all fours for Joel, ass up in the air, tits swaying just the way Frankie likes. You’re about eye level with him so he’s right there with you when Joel pushes inside of you. You moan, so pretty, and your face strains at the pressure. It’s such an obscene sight— only problem is that he’s not the one giving it to you. His cock still responds, twitching with need. He hates it and he loves it.

Joel’s swearing, gritting his teeth. His fingers dimple the flesh around your hips with a strong grip. Frankie knows exactly how exquisite it feels to be inside you, surrounded by warm velvet. He wants to be the one who’s hips, thighs are fucking against you, splitting you open and making you shake.

Instead he has to watch. Watch your back arch. Listen to that succulent squelch where your bodies meet. Savor the taste of you still on his tongue.

And because he wants to touch himself and he’s good at following a command, he thinks about all the times he’s forgotten your anniversary or gotten high before Thanksgiving dinner. It hurts and it feels so good.

When Joel finishes, he spares Frankie by not doing it inside of you. But Frankie has to see him paint your ass with it, marking you as you touch yourself and whine.

It stings. You’ve been looking at him like a cockroach and he’s so fucking turned on it’s painful. He’s still throbbing, surprised he hasn’t yet burst from hearing you cum. His cock is swollen, leaking and slick.

He’s obediently waiting, biting on his lip so hard that he can practically taste blood. Each moment of torment only intensifies the pleasure.

You’re glowing now, laid out on your side, chest still heaving. Joel’s caging you between his arms, kissing your jaw as you rake your fingers through his hair. He glances at Frankie like he just remembered that he’s there.

“How does he look?” Joel asks.

“Pathetic,” you say, still out of breath, and give a little laugh.

It makes him ache.

You stretch your arms over your head luxuriously

and sigh. “Let him cum.”

Frankie lets out a whimper. You’ve always been so generous with him. You’ve been patient and loved him when he’s made it so damn difficult. He’s never deserved you and he doesn’t deserve to get this release. But fuck he’s never needed it more.

“You do it,” you tell Joel with a mischievous smile.

He shakes his head with a laugh.

Frankie swallows thickly when Joel approaches him. He takes Frankie’s chin in his hand, the pad of his thumb grazing against his stubble. From his place on the floor, Frankie can smell you on him.

“Up,” Joel says.

He gets to his feet as quickly as he can but it takes some effort. His toes are tingling and even the air moving around his cock as he rises feels unbearable.

Joel’s near enough that Frankie can feel his breath on his neck. He lets out a moan and shuts his eyes. Joel’s hand closes around him, squeezes the base of his cock and Frankie bucks.

“You like that Frankie?” he hears you ask. “You like feeling his hands on you?”

He doesn’t know, can’t form words or even thoughts. Frankie’s never been touched by another man before, not like that. He’s so senseless he doesn’t even bother to figure out how he feels about doing this. If that’s what you want for him right now, he’s willing to do it.

Joel tugs at him, his hand rough except for what’s leaked down Frankie’s length. He’s so sensitive, so delirious.

“She asked you a question.” Joel’s lips are pressed against his ear, the sweat of his chest sticky on Frankie’s back. He sets a steady pace with his strokes.

Frankie tries to answer but he chokes, sees white behind his eyes. His climax is as violent as a slap in the face.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby,” he babbles as he coats Joel’s fist.

When the fog lifts and Frankie blinks his vision back into focus, you’re staring at him and Joel with your lips parted. You look turned on and awe struck and exhilarated. Frankie wavers and Joel catches him by the shoulder.

“You gonna make it?” Joel asks him.

Frankie can only nod. He feels relieved. Not just from the release. He tries to catch his breath, sitting on the floor.

“Let me clean you up, sweetheart,” Joel offers.

“Mm,” you respond.

Frankie’s left alone. He hears the shower. There’s so much to make sense of and he’s still, quite frankly, delirious.

He’s shocked when you come out of the bathroom a moment later, your robe hangs in your naked body. He wishes he could touch you but he’s not sure if he still has that privilege.

You crouch down beside him, a damp washcloth in your hand, and you begin to clean him. It’s warm and soft on his chin and you’re gentle as you mop up his thigh. He’s overcome. Once again you’re so good to him and he’s unworthy.

Your face is a mix of emotions and he can tell you’re thinking. You’re careful not to meet his eye until you’re finished and when you do, all of the mischief and desire is gone.

You sigh.

“You can stay but you’re sleeping on the couch,” you tell him.

A knot forms in his throat and he thinks he might just cry.

“Thank you,” he manages to whisper without tears.

You nod and then hesitate. Another sigh. Finally you put your lips to his forehead, a light, quick kiss. It feels like something close to forgiveness.

---

thanks for reading!

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#was thinking about this one today #it’s written so so so well #I don’t think I’ve ever read a dynamic like this before and I am obsessed #I adore it

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generaldisdainn · 3 months

Text

All the Time in the World

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Rating: E (SMUT, 18+ only)

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: body insecurities, internalized shame around sex and orgasms, use of vibrators, oral sex, fingering, PIV sex (unprotected, but let’s pretend they had that talk “offscreen” because they’ve been together for 2 months), Marcus Pike being the Absolute Fucking Most(™)

Summary: You’ve never been able to climax without the aid of a vibrator. Due to your insecurities and internalized shame, you rarely involve any toys during sex with a partner, and have been “faking it” for years. You and your new boyfriend, Marcus Pike, have been taking your relationship very slowly–building up a beautiful connection without ever having seen each others’ bedrooms. Two months in, neither of you can wait any longer. How will Marcus react when he discovers the thing you consider to be your deepest, darkest secret?

A/N: I know I said that this was on the back-burner until my OTHER Marcus stuff was completed, but then I got such lovely (and heartbreaking) responses to a snippet of this WIP that I picked it up again and couldn’t. stop. writing. This fic wouldn’t exist without @ezrasbirdie ‘s Going Slow, which is the only other fic I’ve read out there that deals with sexual dysfunction, and I can’t post this without acknowledging that her fic really paved the way and made me want to write about MY experiences, however personal, vulnerable, or “unsexy” they might be. It’s really fun to read (and write) about people with clitorises who can have multiple orgasms in one session, by intercourse alone, or by their partner just touching their clit, like, one time. This is not always the case in real life, a fact that is not well-represented in fic despite being very common. I think we should acknowledge that sex and pleasure can and do look different for everyone and can still be fun and sexy to read about. This is the fic I always wanted to write with Marcus Pike. I mentioned in the tags when I posted a snippet of this fic that the reason I write sooooo many Marcus fics is because I’ve kind of made this man an outlet for my trauma around this exact subject. When you’re too insecure or ashamed to prioritize your pleasure, sex can be fraught, even painful. If you’re reading this fic and think, “Hey, that’s me!” please know that you are NOT alone, it’s TOTALLY normal, and you deserve a partner who encourages and prioritizes your pleasure.

Additional thank you's to @leslie-lyman for reading this over and being so lovely and encouraging in the DMs, and to @katareyoudrilling for letting me bare my heart and soul to a stranger on the internet, as one does. I love you both.

Main Masterlist

"Do you wanna come up?"

Those words are always laced with meaning, but with your new relationship, they seem even more significant.

It was no secret that your new boyfriend, Marcus Pike, has had a rough go of things before you started dating. And really, so have you–hence why both of you insisted on taking this fledgling relationship very slowly. It has been two months–two incredible, happy months–since your first date, and the two of you have developed a beautiful connection over dinners, walks, movies, lunch dates, even baseball games, without ever having seen each others’ bedrooms.

You know that you’re falling for him. How can you not? Marcus is considerate and kind, with a secret goofy side that you know he usually tries to hide. It seems as if his arms are meant for cuddling, and he’s generous with his affection, even though the two of you had agreed to keep things chaste until both of you are ready. He doesn’t shy away from difficult conversations, and he’s been forthright about his past hangups and flaws. It’s refreshing, and the fact that he’s so damn earnest makes you want him even more.

The minute those five little words escape your lips, Marcus’s gaze turns to full-blown lust. It’s been really important, really meaningful, to wait–but both of you are at the peak of sexual frustration, and you both know it.

It doesn’t help that Marcus is absolutely gorgeous, with those deep eyes, artfully mussed hair, broad chest and deliciously soft tummy. You and your vibrator have become very close over the last two months, when you would come home after yet another wonderful date staring at his full lips and feeling his large hand at the small of your back, or holding yours as you walked.

One of those hands comes up now to brush the backs of his fingers across your cheek. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly.

“Absolutely,” you answer breathlessly, the word more air than speech.

Marcus leans in close, a small smile on his face as he stops just short of your lips. “Lead the way, then,” he murmurs. You push down a pang of anxiety. You like him so much, want this night to be perfect, but you know better than to assume your body will cooperate. You wonder if he’ll mind if you… if you don’t…

Marcus’s hands travel as you ride the elevator up to your floor–the touches growing bolder, more blatantly sexual than they’d ever been before. He pulls your back flush to his front as the floors tick up, kissing a gentle path down the side of your neck as his fingers scrape over your hipbones and down, his hand resting just above your mound like a promise.

You waste no time when you finally open the door to your apartment–kicking it closed and then grabbing Marcus’s face and pulling it towards yours for a desperate, longing kiss. He makes a surprised little sound and returns your passion in kind, crushing you to him with an intensity you’d never felt from the man.

“C’mere,” you mumble hastily when you come up for air, and you pull him along until you’re stepping into your bedroom. The rush to take each others’ clothes off is more than a little frantic–both of you practically ravenous after so much time spent longing for one another. Shirts and pants are discarded haphazardly in your rush to feel skin against skin. You move to the bed in a tumble of bodies. Marcus is loud–groaning in your ear as he palms your ass and grinds his hips against you.

“Wanted–fuck–wanted this for so long, baby,” he says into your neck. “Been… been wanting to feel your skin against mine, be able to touch you…” he trails off as he starts to move down your body, kissing and nipping with enthusiasm.

“Better than I ever imagined,” Marcus murmured, as he brushes his lips softly–the barest of touches–against your clit, making you whimper softly.

He starts out so gently, licking you as if he’s simply exploring the area–unhurried, leisurely, patiently. As if he’s doing it just for the enjoyment of it, for the feel of your soft skin against his tongue. Every so often, his eyes flick up to meet yours, gauging your reaction as he eats you out.

It feels amazing, of course, but you feel that little tinge of anxiety starting to grow, knowing that even with his obvious enthusiasm and dedication, it probably isn’t going to be enough for you to come.

You and your stupid body.

You aren’t sure how much time he’s been down there already, but you know it’s probably conspicuously long. Suspiciously long. It doesn’t help that you’re starting to freak out a little, stressing out over the time–wondering if you should… should you stop him? Would that insult him? Most guys would have given up by now, and the fact that he hasn’t–fuck. The last thing you want to do is hurt his feelings. You like him so fucking much. You don’t want to ruin it.

Marcus, who is obviously unaware of your inner struggle as he flicks his tongue over your clit and gently thrusts one finger into your soaking cunt, says “Gonna come for me, honey?”

And you know he doesn’t mean to telegraph impatience–he probably meant it to be encouraging, but after he asks the question, you feel the pleasure that he had built up retreating quickly as you stare down at him with an anxious, apologetic expression.

“It’s, um… it’s not–I usually… I-I usually need a vibrator, it’s not you, it’s–” you babble.

Marcus’s eyes are kind and non-judgemental as he looks up at you, the evidence of your desire on his lips. “Grab it,” he says with a smile, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“I… I don’t know…” you murmur, your eyes shifting to the side.

Marcus, realizing that he’s touching on something very sensitive, crawls back up your body to give you a gentle kiss.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, and you ache at the tenderness in his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s fine, it’s just… it’s a hassle, you don’t have to–”

“Why wouldn’t I want to make you feel good?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours with growing concern.

You bite your lip nervously. “It’s not just that, it’s–oh, God–it takes forever, you don’t–”

“So?” Marcus is looking down at you, one eyebrow raised in both confusion and amusement. “So what if it takes a long time?”

“Like a really long time. I, um–I dunno, my body just doesn’t seem to work right. I’ve never been able to do it during sex, there’s just too much going on and I–I just get all in my head about it, and I just can’t…” you ramble, your voice rising in pitch as you lay out the most vulnerable part of yourself, laying yourself bare for another person in a way that terrifies you.

“Okay,” Marcus says softly, soothingly. “Okay. Hey, it’s all right.” He strokes your face with his palm as you stare up at him, your lip trembling.

“It still feels good without–um…” you trail off. “Like, I’ll still like it.” You drop your gaze, feeling silly. Feeling small. “I really want you,” you whisper. “I really wanted this night to go well.”

“This night is far from over,” Marcus assures you, a bit of firmness creeping into his voice. “It hasn’t even started, and I think it’s going amazing.” He brushes his thumb across your still-trembling lip and gives you a small, reassuring smile.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” Marcus murmurs, “But I really, really, would like to make you come. If you don’t want that, tell me now, and I’ll still make you feel as good as fucking possible tonight,” he promises. “But if you’ll let me, I’d really like to have that vibrator, now.”

He fixes you with a little smirk, his eyes still lust-blown even though you feel as if you’ve completely derailed the moment. You search his expression, but all you can find is patience and earnestness.

Eventually, you nod, and you reach over to your nightstand drawer and fumble around for the little bullet vibrator. Your breath stutters as you hand it to Marcus. It feels like you’re handing far more over to him than just a simple sex toy.

He fixes you with a heartfelt stare. “Do you trust me?” he asks softly.

Marcus smiles when he sees you nod rapidly. “Listen to me,” he says, that little edge of authority sneaking into his voice and making you wetter than ever. “We have all the time in the world. You don’t need to worry about that.” His voice drops in pitch, growing darker and soaked with desire. “I’m a patient man,” Marcus rumbles, dropping his head a little to let his lips slide against yours as he speaks. “And I don’t care if it takes all night.” He smirks. “Fuck, I want it to take all night. Wanna see you spread out underneath me for hours. You see this?” Marcus palms his cock and gives it a lazy stroke. “Look how hard you make me,” he murmurs. “Just the thought of teasing you with this until you fall apart for me makes me so. Fucking. Hard.” He punctuates his last words with a roll of his hips and a gentle little bite on your neck–just hard enough to make your brain spark with pleasure as you feel the sting of his teeth on your skin.

Marcus sits back on his heels and switches the vibrator on. He swirls it around your entrance first, collecting some of the slick that had gathered there. Despite your body’s shortcomings, you really fucking want him, and you can feel yourself dripping for him. He slides the arousal-soaked toy up to tease at your clit, and you whimper as the vibrations start to course through you.

It feels… different, to have someone else do this for you. The movements are just subtly changed, simply by extension of his hands not being your hands. Marcus knows what he's doing, that much is evident, but he can't feel what you feel–he doesn't have the advantage of knowing exactly when to move the vibrator slightly, or swirl it around your clit, or when to just hold it there where you're most sensitive.

When your body is already reluctant, the subtle difference means that the buildup is even slower than when you do it yourself and–and–and–

And there's the fact that there's another person in the room where there never has been before. A person who can see the faces you're making, the shift of your hips, what you sound like–and you start to wonder: do I look stupid? Is he bored? Is he impatient? Am I making the right noises? Is my body okay? Is–

"So fucking pretty," Marcus murmurs, almost to himself, and your eyes–that had been closed in concentration–snap open and meet his warm gaze.

He looks… reverent? In awe? He has a small, fond smile on his face, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes are sweeping up and down your body as if he'll never get his fill of looking at you. When you stare up at him with wide vulnerable eyes, his smile widens.

"You are," he tells you. "You look incredible, laying there and letting me take care of you. Does it feel good?"

You nod thickly. It really does. It might take forever, but you'll enjoy every minute if it means Marcus will keep looking at you as if you're a piece of rare artwork–precious, priceless, irreplaceable. You wonder, just for a moment, if he might lo–

"Can I touch you with my fingers while I do this?" Marcus asks, interrupting your thought.

His eyes are still warm and patient, and despite the fact that laying yourself and all your vulnerabilities bare like this for the first time is absolutely terrifying, you feel safe in his arms.

You find yourself nodding, and the next thing you know, your head is thrown backwards as one of Marcus's thick fingers slides gently inside you.

Marcus chuckles at your intense reaction. "Yeah?" he breathes. "Feels good?"

You whimper in assent, and you feel his finger crook inside you, drawing another gasp from your lungs.

"That's it," he whispers, encouraging you. "Perfect."

He languidly pumps his finger in and out, seeming to instinctively understand that you need him to be slow, careful, steady. He's rubbing on something deep inside you that you can’t reach by yourself, and it’s sending sparks up and down your body, and you can feel something start to build. You close your eyes and try to concentrate on it, on the coil that’s tightening inside you, willing it to snap. You want it so badly.

Your body always seems to do this–seems to hover right on the edge for endless minutes, not willing or able to take the final leap. You teeter back and forth for a while, your brow furrowing as you chase the feeling–chase it before it retreats again, like coaxing a timid animal out of its burrow. The act of pursuing it actively makes the feeling start to recede, and you let out a little frustrated whine.

“I–I don’t know if–if I can–” you stammer out.

“Hey,” Marcus says softly, soothingly. “It’s okay, we’re in no rush.”

He withdraws his finger from your cunt and sucks it into his mouth with a small, pleased sound before laying down next to you, not letting the vibrator leave your clit for a second.

“You’re doing so well,” he husks into your ear. “Just close your eyes and feel it. Don’t worry about anything else. You don’t need to be impatient, we have all the time in the world, remember? I’m not going anywhere.”

You whimper and nod, trying to relax your body–relax, and let it happen, rather than fight for it.

“I’m gonna touch you again, okay?” Marcus says beside you. “If I do anything you don’t like, tell me.”

Marcus moves back between your legs, and, keeping his eyes fixed on you as he sinks his finger back into your cunt. You close your eyes, focusing on the feeling, but not trying to force it along this time. It will happen. It will happen. You breathe and relax, trying not to overthink, trying not to stress out about whether Marcus is happy and focus on your pleasure.

The moment you stop trying to come, you start to feel the coil tightening again. Holy shit. He’s going to cause you to get off. You’re almost in disbelief–no one has ever done this, not once, and it doesn’t feel real. But the gradual tightening of your core is definitely real, and you know Marcus can feel it too because he breathes out a little “yeah” as he rubs his finger right over the little spongy spot that drives you crazy.

“Oh!” is the only thing you’re able to say before the coil finally snaps and you fall apart on Marcus’s finger. You jerk with sensitivity as you clench around him over and over again, but he holds the vibrator steady on your clit until your walls stop trembling and you slump boneless on the bed.

“Oh, fuck yes,” you hear Marcus exhale. “Oh, baby…”

He follows you down, casting the vibrator aside and lying beside you. He pulls you into his arms and you can hear the smile in his voice when he tells you, “That was definitely worth the wait. You look so pretty when you come apart, honey.”

You twitch with another aftershock and you’re suddenly hit with the idea that maybe… you're not a lost cause? Maybe you aren't hopelessly broken? This realization is followed immediately by an intense wave of emotion, flooding all of your senses and overwhelming you, and to your utter humiliation, you realize you're definitely about to start crying.

"M-Marcus," you murmur urgently, trying to distract him so he won't see the tears. "Marcus, please fuck me."

He pulls back to look at you and you do your absolute best to keep the moisture welling in your eyes from falling down your cheeks, but the moment you meet his gaze, you know it didn't work.

"Hang on," Marcus says gently. "Honey, I'm not–I can’t do that while you're crying. Let's just slow down. Like I said, we have all night."

The patience and kindness in his words, his demeanor, just his entire being tonight is enough to send those tears over the edge, and you bury your face in your chest as they start to fall. Marcus’s arms immediately come around you, pulling you flush against him as if he were attempting to take away years of trauma with just his body surrounding yours. You really wish he could.

“Will you tell me about it?” Marcus asks tentatively in your ear.

“I–I’ve never… no one’s ever… done that,” you say quietly. “It’s always been me. I’ve never felt comfortable l-letting anyone–” you trail off, and the room is enveloped in silence again.

You feel Marcus swallow thickly. “Thank you,” he says, his voice raspy with emotion. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”

The two of you simply exist together for a long moment, neither of you speaking again for a long while, and Marcus starts to trail one of his hands up and down your spine softly, making you shiver slightly. Eventually, he speaks again.

“What happened?” he asks. “What happened to make it so scary to let someone else do it?”

You bite your lip, thinking about your answer for a moment. “Nothing… happened, exactly. It’s just… when you spend years and years being frustrated over the fact that your body doesn’t work right, or worse, having partners that are frustrated over it, you eventually give up trying.”

“Oh, honey,” Marcus starts, but you keep going.

“And a lot of it is my fault,” you confess, “I spent my early twenties either not communicating what I need, or not knowing what I need, let alone how to tell it to someone, and those habits are really hard to break. So even when someone was trying, I wouldn’t let them in.”

Marcus pulls back to look in your eyes, and the hand not currently wrapped around your body comes to caress your cheek gently.

“I–then I’m proud of you,” he says quietly, his voice full of sincerity. “And I’m–I’m honored that you feel comfortable letting me in.”

The truth is, if you can’t let yourself be vulnerable with a man like Marcus Pike, you can’t do it with anyone. He’s been so earnest, so utterly genuine as you’ve gotten to know him over the past two months. Already, the two of you have shared so much of yourselves–you know about his past, about the fact that he really struggles with impulsivity, and now, after tonight, he knows your deepest, darkest secret.

“It always felt like the rest of the world knew something I didn’t,” you tell him. “It always seemed like everyone else was having a good time, and I’m over here with a body that doesn’t work right, barely able to get myself off, let alone do it multiple times a night just from someone’s dick like they do in erotic novels.”

Marcus barks out a laugh. “Those are as fake as porn,” he chuckles. “And I think you’re wrong,” he says, sobering up. “Your body works fine. It’s fucking perfect, actually–I just saw it working. I felt it. And you know what?” He playfully bumps your noses together. “I was having a good fucking time.”

You giggle tearfully. “Yeah?”

“Of course, honey. I–I loved being able to do that for you. I loved watching you, I loved those cute little sounds you make, I love how hard you squeezed me, I–I love–” Marcus breaks off, his eyes full of trepidation, as if he’s on the knife-edge of a precipice and about to fall in. “I–”

“What?”

“I–I can’t—I don’t think it follows our rule of taking this slow,” he murmurs.

You smile. Marcus may be holding back from saying it, but he can't hide the fact that it's written all over his face. If you're being honest with yourself, it's been embedded in his expression for a while now–in his eyes as the two of you had walked hand and hand through an art museum, in his voice as he told you about his past failed relationships, even in his body language every time he touches you. Marcus has been showing you how he feels for weeks with his entire body. You can certainly take the leap and tell him.

"I love you," you murmur.

You watch Marcus's face as a million little microexpressions flit across it in the blink of an eye. Finally, his deep brown pools meet yours.

"Yeah, that–that was it," he says with a breathless laugh. "That was what I was–"

"I love you," you say again, this time with more confidence.

“Wow,” Marcus breathes, joy and disbelief written all over his face. “I love you, too.”

It feels as if a huge amount of tension that’s been building for weeks now has suddenly abated, and the two of you start giggling like idiots, sharing gentle kisses in between your giddy laughter. Short kisses become longer kisses, and soon Marcus is rolling you over, covering your body with his as he presses his thumb into the hinge of your jaw and takes.

You give back with equal fervor–fisting your hands in his hair and tangling your legs together as you shift your hips upward, seeking friction.

“I–mmph–fuck, you feel so perfect,” Marcus murmurs in between kisses that are becoming more and more passionate.

“Will–now will you fuck me?” you ask breathlessly.

“Let me check,” Marcus says, pulling back and making a show of studying your face with a mock-serious expression that makes you laugh. “Yep, think I will.”

He sobers for a second, pausing–as if he’s considering something.

“If you’re not comfortable with this, feel free to tell me ‘no,’” Marcus begins, “but I’d really like to make you come again.”

Oh. “I-I’m not sure if I can–” you trail off, trepidation etched over your features for the second time that night.

“It’s okay to say ‘no’ if you’re not comfortable with it,” he says again, “but don’t say ‘no’ because you think it takes too long,” he pleads.

“It might,” you say in a small voice. “‘Cause I already did once, and sometimes it takes a while…”

“What a hardship,” Marcus teases, lightly tickling your ribs and making you squirm. “Getting to fill you up for as long as it takes, feeling you trembling around me.” His hips rock reflexively against yours as he bites the meat of your shoulder. “Such a fucking shame if you kept my cock warm all night.”

You laugh again at his gentle teasing. “You’ve made your point.”

“Is that a ‘yes?’”

“Yes.”

Marcus’s smile could outshine the sun. “Good,” he whispers. “Would it be easiest for you if you were on top?” he asks. “So you can control the pace?”

Truthfully, you’re not sure. It’s been a long time since you’ve attempted to do this–to involve a toy in sex with a partner. It’s rarely been successful, but Marcus’s kindness and patience have already helped to shed some of the weight of this burden you’ve carried for so long by yourself.

When you nod, Marcus gives you one last sweet kiss before moving up to the head of the bed. You bite your lip. You hadn’t really looked at him–not yet–and he’s huge.

“Can we–” you start, “can we um, use–” you nod your head in the direction of a small bottle of lube sitting on your nightstand.

“Absolutely,” Marcus agrees. As you pour a little bit into your hand and experimentally grasp his thick cock–earning a hiss from him–he grabs your wrist gently to get your attention. “Hey,” he says seriously, “don’t ever be afraid to ask for what you need.”

You nod thickly, entranced by Marcus’s earnest expression–by the love in his eyes. After pumping his cock a couple more times, spreading the lube around his shaft, you smear the rest on yourself and start to sink slowly down, inch by inch.

He’s just large enough that the stretch is delicious, but stops short of painful. You hear yourself whimpering as you slide down, letting him fill you, until you’re seated fully on his lap. Marcus is still staring at you with that same lovestruck expression, and you flash him a little smile before experimentally rocking your hips, eliciting a little groan from deep within his chest.

“Here.” Marcus passes the little bullet vibrator into your hand. “Touch yourself, make yourself come. I want to see it. I really wanna feel it.”

You push down the fear of being vulnerable again, the fear of failure, of not being good enough, and you switch it on.

Marcus is so deep inside you. It feels fucking amazing, better than any toy you’ve ever used on yourself. He’s hot and thick and real and his deep brown eyes are still looking at you like you’ve hung the stars yourself, and having him beneath you is overwhelming and distracting in the worst and best of ways. You start to rock your hips slowly, fucking yourself on his cock, grinding against him without rising up off of him all that much. You’re not sure you can make it happen if you’re bouncing quickly up and down, so you keep things unhurried and easy. To your surprise, you can already feel an orgasm building–it’s illusory, it’s subtle, but you can feel it every time you cant your hips just so.

The only problem is, you aren’t sure if it feels good for Marcus–after all, you’re barely moving, most of the motion is caused by your hips flexing and relaxing rhythmically as you grind against him.

“Is–is it okay if I just rock like this?” you ask him timidly. “Is it still good for y–”

“Don’t finish that question,” Marcus interrupts gently. “You feel fucking amazing. You don’t even have to move, if that feels better for you. Just–just feeling you like this is incredible.”

He leans up to give you another passionate kiss. “I love this, and I love you, and I don’t want you to worry, okay? If you ever wonder whether this feels good for me, the answer is always going to be yes.” He smiles and playfully rubs his nose against yours. “Keep going,” he whispers. “Don’t think, just feel.”

As Marcus reclines back against the headboard, his hands travel to your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the nipples, and your pussy clenches. Marcus notices–you can tell by his sharp intake of breath. He fixes you with a dark, fiery stare, a devilish glint in his eyes, and your own breath catches. That felt really good.

“M-more?” you request weakly, still struggling with the concept of asking for what you want.

His thumbs press a little harder, rubbing little circles into the hardened buds, and your head falls back as your hips start to rock a little faster. You can hear yourself making little whimpers and pants as Marcus lavishes attention to your sensitive breasts. He gently flicks one nipple, and you keen loudly, and oh, fuck, that–that’s going to send you over the edge. If he keeps doing that, you’re going to come. You can feel the heat rising to your skin, a wave of pleasure starting to surge up, and up and up and—

“K-keep–” you manage to pant out before another gasp leaves your lips.

Marcus takes your meaning. “Not gonna stop,” he rasps. “Gonna play with these perfect fucking tits until I feel you come around me. I–oh, fuck–honey, I can feel you tightening–holy shit, baby, you’re doing so well, you’re perfect, keep going…”

He keeps talking to you, praising you, talking you through it, as your body teeters on the edge of a cliff for the second time tonight. Please, you beg yourself, please cooperate.

“I’ve got you,” Marcus is murmuring over and over. “I’ve got you, honey.”

You feel your hips lock into place as you reach the point of no return–that point at which you finally know you’re going to fall one way or the other. It’s always such a relief, this little moment of free-fall before your orgasm hits. Your mouth falls open as you embrace the inevitable, and you sob out Marcus’s name as your cunt starts clenching hard around his cock. You’re almost in disbelief, you can’t believe this is happening–first, Marcus being the first person to ever make you come undone by his own hands, then a love confession, and now, you’re falling apart on his cock, the first time you’ve ever allowed yourself to during sex. You laugh in joy in amazement even as your body still shakes with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Marcus is smiling too as he surges up to meet your lips in an exuberant kiss. “Perfect,” he says against your lips. “So beautiful when you do that.”

He bands his arm around you and flips you on your back, keeping his lips close to yours as he starts to fuck you with deep, long strokes. You're still incredibly sensitive from your last orgasm and it feels like every sensation has been multiplied tenfold. You’re dimly aware that you’re being very loud right now, crying out as he hits the perfect spot inside you over and over, but you don’t care. This is easily the best sex of your life.

Marcus is being loud as well, groaning praise into your ear interspersed with your name as he snaps his hips into you harder and faster. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders as he ramps up the intensity of his thrusts, and all you can do is gasp and pant his name until he's spilling inside you.

Marcus immediately starts peppering little kisses across your face, holding himself over you as not to crush you, but not allowing himself to slip free from your heat just yet. Your heart is still fluttering with emotion–you love him, he loves you, and he’s patient and understanding and handles you gently, something you wish you had had in your earliest experiences with sex–someone to reassure you that you’re fine, you’re normal, all you need is a little extra care.

Speaking of care, Marcus finally pulls away with a happy little sigh, giving you another soft smile as he goes into your bathroom to find something to clean you with. You watch him from the bed–admiring his shoulders, his narrow hips, his adorable barely-there butt that you really want to pinch… And, of course, those warm brown eyes, that piercing gaze that seems to see right into the very core of you.

You can’t look away, even though holding his gaze as he swipes a warm cloth between your legs seems overwhelmingly intimate.

“Penny for them,” Marcus intones softly, noticing your staring.

“Where were you a decade ago?” you ask with a little laugh.

Marcus fixes you with a wry grin. “Finalizing my divorce,” he answers sardonically.

Oh, right. “Sorry,” you murmur.

“Don’t be,” he says gently. “We’re both here now, that’s what counts, right?” He discards the cloth and lies beside you again, taking you into his arms and kissing you tenderly on the forehead. “After all, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

#I come back to this one a lot <3

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generaldisdainn · 3 months

Text

acts of service | frankie morales x f!reader

masterlist | frankie masterlist | kofi | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 7.9k

summary: an unexpected admission leads frankie to make you an offer you can't refuse. this surely won't come with any consequences. OR you've never had your pussy ate and your best friend frankie helps you out. warnings etc: [pre-triple frontier] smut, childhood best friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love are lying to themselves and each other, shy!reader, kind of insecure!reader, pet names in both english and spanish, literal porn, piracy, the US military, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), a little handjob action, frankie morales has a huge cock, reader is curvy coded but i think anyone could read this fic, pov swapping, this has kind of a bittersweet ending i'm sorry. no use of y/n.

a/n: these two kind of just swept me up and took me on a ride. i headcanon this girlie eventually becomes frankie's "lady," which i tell you now bc i fear i might have accidentally made this sad. thank you @joelscruff for the beta and thank you @adamantiumspy for the notes on the spanish.

“I should get going soon, huh?”

“No.”

“Okay, then,” Frankie shrugs, requiring no more convincing than that.

He hadn’t really wanted to leave anyway. He was just trying to be polite. He knows he doesn’t have to worry about that with you, but still. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome or anything.

It's just that the times he gets back home are rare, and even rarer are the times he gets with you. His best friend. He doesn’t know if that’s still what you’d call him, but that’s his own stupid fault. Maybe he’s known you the longest but he knows you’ve been busy building your own life, a life far removed from the years you’d spent growing up together.

You’ve got all kinds of friends now. People he’s never met, people that came into your life while he’d been deployed. Hell, you’ve spent the better part of the last six months dating some guy you’d met on a dating app (he didn’t even know you could use those things for anything other than fucking) but that relationship had fallen apart before he’d even gotten the chance to meet the guy. Your first real boyfriend, as you’d put it.

It’s probably for the best anyway. Frankie’s sure he wouldn’t have liked him.

Frankie’s not sure he’ll like any guy you’re dating who’s not him.

But you don’t need to know that. He’d chosen this life, for better or for worse, and the last thing he’s going to do is burden you with his stupid, inescapable feelings when he knows he’s just gonna have to leave again anyway.

So instead, he overstays his welcome.

The bowl of popcorn you share sits half finished on the end table, your cozy little living room cast in the faint glow of a colourful glass-shaded floor lamp, that one you’d proudly boasted about finding at the antiques market. He remembers the ache in his chest when you’d sent him that picture, that painful longing for a simple life with you, complete with antiquing and brunch and nights like tonight; your feet in his lap, splayed out together on your sectional while Frankie flips aimlessly through your seemingly never-ending list of channels.

“Jesus, how much do you pay for this?” he demands, honestly just curious now as he clicks towards the channel-800 mark, waiting for the numbers to circle back to 1–which he really thinks should have happened by now. “Who even needs all these channels?”

He jumps past a slew of news stations that all appear to be from different countries, perfectly punctuating his point.

Your sweet laughter fills the air. God, he loves that sound. He’s missed it.

“You think I pay for this?” you say. “Frank, this shit is like, so illegal.”

“Excuse me?” He rounds on you, pausing his scrolling on what appears to be a soap opera from Indonesia, “So you’re a criminal?”

“No,” you insist, making grabby hands for the remote, which he deliberately holds just out of your reach with a smirk. “My dad set it up, I don’t even know how it works. I only use it to watch Housewives, anyway.”

“Sure,” he teases as you squirm a little closer, your legs draping over his thighs almost to the knee now. His cheeks warm at the proximity but he pushes down the butterflies in his stomach, twisting away from you as you reach across his body for the remote. “Next time I come home you’re gonna be running some kinda underground piracy ring on the dark web.”

“Whatever.” You slump back into your spot on the couch, adorably mock-grumpy about it. But Frankie can still see the smile tugging at your lips.

“No, seriously,” he presses on, “If I’m gone long enough, I’m gonna come back and find you in jail.”

That quickly wipes the smile off your face. Your mouth forms into a hard line and a sharp twinge of guilt punches Frankie hard in the gut.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t go away for so long,” you grumble, and there’s no hint of teasing in your voice anymore.

Frankie’s own face falls and he swallows tightly against the sudden lump in his throat. He shouldn’t have fucking said anything. And worst of all, you keep looking at him with these big, sad eyes, like you’re heartbroken at the thought of him going away again and goddamnit if you keep that up, he might start to believe it means something more than it really does.

Whatever anguish he’s feeling inside must be showing pretty clearly on his face because before he can even open his mouth to make it right, you’re apologizing to him.

“Sorry, I made it weird,” you quickly amend, shaking your head and forcing a smile. Like it’s your job to alleviate the tension in the room. You’re always doing that. Always making sure everyone else is comfortable. But Frankie’s not gonna let you get away with that. Because you have every reason to be mad at him and he knows it.

“Hey, no,” he sighs, sitting forward and anxiously rubbing at his scruff. “You didn’t make it weird. I’m sorry.”

He’s not sure what for. For leaving, for bringing it up, for loving you. The sympathetic smile you offer him feels less forced now, at least.

“It’s okay,” you nod. You take a deep breath through your nose and Frankie’s relieved to see you let your guard down again, your head falling back into the couch behind you as you exhale. Your eyelids flutter closed for a second and he feels almost envious of how relaxed you look. That is, until a cacophony of blood curdling screams begin erupting from the television and your head is quickly snapping up at the sound.

“What the fuck are we watching?” you demand, your voice coated with genuine laughter again.

“I think she just found out he was having an affair,” Frankie posits, trying his best to make sense of the drama currently unfolding on screen.

“I don’t know, she could be screaming about how much she loves that other woman’s outfit.”

“She’s crying.”

“Maybe she’s just passionate about fashion, Francisco.”

He snorts and for a few minutes, you watch in comfortable silence, taking turns guessing what the hell is going on until you give up and nudge at his leg with your socked toes.

“Keep looking,” you suggest. “I don’t know what else is on here, I’ve honestly never gone this high in the channels.”

“‘Kay,” he agrees easily with a smirk. He’s always loved how you let yourself get a little bossy with him. You’re not like that with everyone. You’re quiet with most people, always trying to make yourself smaller or sweeter or softer. But not with him. And that’s how he likes it. He’d never want you to pretend with him.

He clicks his way higher and higher through the channels, waiting for something to catch his eye or yours. He quickly flies over a long string of radio channels, 60s, 70s, 80s, Easy Listening…he’s flicking through them so fast he doesn’t catch the moment the channel titles lining the bottom of the screen change to XXX–Adult, 24/7 Porn and you’re suddenly being slapped with the image of a woman laid out on a kitchen counter, bare beyond a pair of stilettos, moaning out obscenely while her male scene partner buries his face in her pussy.

“Oh, Jesus,” you groan. You cover your face with your hands, poking an eye out from between your fingers, a sight so fucking cute Frankie forgets for a second that he should probably change the channel.

The woman on screen cries out as the man between her legs devours her–a little overzealous, in Frankie’s opinion. Frankie swallows tightly, pushing down on the unconscious twist of arousal the sound inspires. He’d be lying if he said the images on screen combined with your legs still slung over his thighs weren’t having some kind of effect on him.

“You’ve really got everything on this thing, huh?” he chuckles, working to keep his tone light.

You keep peeking through your fingers at the screen and inexplicably, Frankie finds himself torn, hesitating with his hand on the dial. What would it be like to watch this with you? Would you want that? Why does it feel like crossing a line? Why does he kind of want to?

“Frankie, turn it off,” you beg and that easily settles it. If you don’t want it, then neither does he.

He mumbles a hurried, okay okay, continuing his exploration upwards through the channels but…it doesn’t stop. Just channel after channel of actors in various states of nudity and debauchery.

“Fuck–there’s a lot,” he notes, more to himself than you.

He combs past a few orgies and some painfully inauthentic lesbian stuff. He knows he could just hop back to the guide instead of skimming through it all, but it’s kind of funny now to see just how much porn is baked into this highly illegal cable device your dad had apparently set up for you.

He only pauses when you make a small comment, just as he comes upon another video of a man shouldered between a woman’s thighs, the camera zoomed in close to his face as he flicks his tongue over her clit.

“Ugh, why do they always have them doing that?”

Frankie turns to face you, letting the video continue on in the background. Your hands aren’t covering your eyes anymore. Instead, you assess the scene with furrowed brows and your lips curled upwards in disgust.

“What?”

“Like, there’s no way either of them enjoy that,” you continue, waving your hand at the screen like he should just know what you’re referring to.

Now Frankie frowns, turning back to the TV in case he’s missed something horribly wrong. But no…as far as he can tell, it’s just a man feverishly eating pussy.

“You’re talking about him eating her out?” Frankie asks.

“Yes!”

You say it like it should be obvious.

You watch together now, and Frankie tries his best to take in the scene pragmatically. Which is hard, considering the wet smack of the man’s lips against the woman’s pussy is making his ears burn and the blood rush to his cock.

The male actor is…enthusiastic. Lacking some finesse maybe, but certainly giving it his all. His eyes are closed, mouth glued to her cunt as he rocks his head back and forth. He’s on his knees in front of her, dick hard as a rock between his legs. Frankie can’t really see the problem, but you’re still cringing away beside him.

“I mean, she’s over acting a bit but he seems to be enjoying it,” Frankie shrugs.

At that, you scoff.

“What?”

“No guy actually enjoys that,” you say insistently.

His first reaction is shock; you’re a smart person and he’s never heard you say anything more wrong. But the initial disbelief quickly turns to rage the second it dawns on him that there’s no way you could have come to that conclusion on your own, which means someone else must have convinced you it was true.

“Who the fuck told you that?” he demands.

It comes out angrier than he intends.

“I–”

All at once, you shrink in on yourself, dropping your head and staring down at your hands. And all at once, Frankie feels like an asshole because he can tell you really fucking believe the lie.

“Nenita,” he says, softening his tone.

He turns the volume down on the TV and twists to face you full-on. The obscene images on screen play on in the background but they’re easier to ignore without the wanton moans of the actors. He wraps a hand around one of your wrists and you peer up at him shyly.

“Who told you that?” he repeats.

You take a deep breath.

“You remember that Tinder guy I told you about?”

Any attempt at softness dissipates in a second. Your voice is so timid and Frankie’s blood boils because you’re not supposed to sound that way with him. About a million furious thoughts cross his mind, like how much he’d love to fucking kill the loser who’d made you feel this way, who’d fed you the most absurd, bullshit lie just so he could deny you pleasure–

Jesus. Your first real boyfriend. How many times had you sucked his cock, maybe even let him fuck you and he–

The goddamn injustice of it all has him too mad to even respond. He just makes some noise between a huff and a scoff and squeezes his fingers tighter around your wrist.

“I don’t know, that’s just what he said,” you go on quickly, always trying to diffuse the tension. You shake your head and look down at your hands again. “He said he didn’t like it and any guy who says he does is lying.”

“Well, I like it,” Frankie says reflexively and your eyes snap up to meet his at once.

One thing about you and Frankie is that you rarely ever talk about sex. You’ve been with people, he’s been with people–you both know this. But you don’t…talk about it. Frankie’s not one to kiss and tell anyway, plus, maybe part of him had always thought that if he’d been too explicit about his experiences with other people, you might start to think he hadn’t been dreaming about you through every single one of them.

It’s why this admission, here, in your apartment, on your couch, with some second rate porno playing in the background, has you staring at him wide-eyed. Because it feels like crossing a line.

But Frankie holds his ground, staring right back at you until he sees you nod.

“I fucking love it,” he continues, like he needs you to really hear it. “And I’m not lying.”

You nod again, and even though you still don’t look fully convinced, he leans back into the couch, prepared to let it go but–

“Wait, so.” He sits upright again, and he really shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t go crossing yet another line but some sick, masochistic part of him needs to know. “Does that mean he never even–?”

You just give him this look before dropping your gaze back down to your lap and Frankie sighs, pulling his cap back to comb an exasperated hand through his curls instead of saying what he’d really like to say.

It probably is for the best he never got the chance to meet this guy.

“I mean, it’s fine, I didn’t want it anyway,” you insist with a shrug. “Or…I don’t even–I don’t even know if I like it.”

That’s fair, he guesses, but also–

“You probably just haven’t had anyone do it right.”

Every woman he’s ever been with had seemed to like it when he’d done it, anyway. He’s certain if he got his mouth on you…

Don’t even think about it.

But it’s too late; he already is thinking about it. Thinking about your messy little pussy and how warm and wet it would feel against his lips and how your sweet juices would stain his moustache and beard. How your soft thighs would feel pressed against his ears and how you’d writhe when you came for him. How he’d like to ruin you for anyone else so you’d never again have to doubt how much you loved it.

He’s thinking about it before you even quietly admit, “I haven’t had anyone do it at all.”

And the admission breaks his heart, because you deserve it. You deserve to feel good. He could make you feel good.

He blurts out the offer before his brain can catch up in time to stop him–

“Can I?” he asks in a breathless rush. “Can I do it for you?”

Your eyes widen and something fiery burns in his belly, a tingling, nervous heat expanding outwards to his extremities with a kind of electric shock. Adrenaline, he realizes, coursing in his veins after crossing yet another uncrossable line.

“Frankie,” you breathe and he swears he can feel the same waves of anticipation that are currently flooding his senses rolling off of you in turn.

“Just as a friend,” he lies, inching closer to you on the couch, experimentally resting his hand on your thigh. You both stare at it in wonder, shared breaths coming faster between you.

“You can say no,” he whispers. Please don’t say no.

Your breath catches as he moves his hand higher, intoxicated by the warmth radiating between you. He gets as far as the soft crease of your thigh and then your hand is flying down to cover his, stopping him in his tracks.

“Frankie,” you repeat. He thinks you sound sad, and that’s not right. He lifts his stare from your conjoined hands to carefully watch your face, trying to make sense of the fear there, while you shake your head and nervously avoid his gaze.

“You don’t need to do me any favours, Francisco,” you murmur.

“It’s not–” he starts, cutting himself off with a deep breath as he tries to collect his thoughts.

A favour? Yeah, right. How can he find the right words to tell you he’s dreamt of this a million times? That even if he hadn’t been in love with you since he’d first laid eyes on you, getting the chance to eat you out would still be the sweetest fucking gift in the world?

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up so he can see your eyes. You glance up at him from under your lashes, doleful and shy, shoulders bunched up to your ears. No. You’re not supposed to look like that with him, you’re not supposed to make yourself small for him.

He presses his fingers down into the meat of your thigh and your lips fall apart as a shallow breath passes through them.

“I want it too, querida,” he rasps. He can hear years and years of pining and desperation underscoring his words. He hopes you don’t.

You’re treading on dangerous ground and you know it.

I want it too, querida.

His whispered words ring out between you and you allow yourself to believe that they’re true. Frankie wants it, he wants to see your pussy and he wants to put his mouth on it, he wants to give this thing that no one’s ever given you before–

As a friend.

It’s fine, you can ignore that part. You can pretend. This is just a friend helping a friend and not the man you’ve always wished would love you back and it’s definitely not going to fuck you up forever to let him do this.

You’re too blinded by arousal to think straight, too caught up in the heat of the moment as he moves your legs off his lap and pulls you down so you’re lying on your back and he’s hovering above you. He slowly strokes his hands up and down your thighs over your leggings, like he’s trying to get a feel for you. And he kind of is, you think. He’s never touched like this before, all reverent and patient with it as his thumbs near the apex of your thighs before trailing his touch back down to the tops of your knees, over and over until you’re so turned on you don’t even care how much of a mistake this is.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he hums, almost to himself as his big hands curl around your hips and his fingers play just under the edge of your shirt.

He sounds so genuine. There’s no way this is real.

Instinctually, you roll your eyes. “Frankie, come on.”

“You are,” Frankie insists, reaching up beneath the hem of your shirt to glide his palms over your bare sides. He exhales shakily at the feeling of your naked flesh under his hands and your cunt throbs in response, your will to argue with him fading in an instant.

Then he licks his lips, flitting his eyes up to your face as if to ask permission for whatever he’s going to do next. Whatever it is, you nod your acceptance.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, appearing to steel himself before he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and begins to tug them down your thighs and–

Reality hits you like a ton of bricks. Frankie’s about to see you naked. Francisco Morales is about to see all your imperfections and your curls and your pussy.

“Frankie, wait.”

You clench your legs together and Frankie stops at once. He looks up at you like a wounded puppy, brown eyes all wide and unsure, eyebrows raised in questioning.

Oh god, he’s so beautiful. He has no idea how beautiful you’ve always found him. Not a clue how inadequate you’d started to feel beside him when he’d begun to grow up into such a handsome, desirable young man while you’d stumbled awkwardly through your teen years, always feeling like you’d never be worthy of love or pleasure, least of all from Frankie.

Of course you know now that’s not true; you’ve had plenty of suitors and casual hookups since Frankie’d gone away. Although, you’d never felt comfortable with any of them to let them do this for you. And then your stupid ex had to go and make you feel so ashamed for even wanting it that you’d been forced to just accept your fate, that this just wasn’t something you were ever going to get to experience.

And while you have to admit there’s probably no one in the world you feel more comfortable with than Frankie, you’ve also spent years convincing yourself he would never love you the way you’ve always loved him. That he’d never look at you the way you’d always wished he would.

If he’d wanted to, surely he would have done it by now. Right?

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

“I just–”

You do but you also really, really don’t. You throw an arm over your face, debilitating nerves co-mingling with the electrifying need coursing through you. You can’t fucking think.

You take a long, steadying breath, prying your arm away from your face to find him still looking down at you with that stupid, beautiful face.

You’re about to offer him an out but the earnestness in his eyes makes you say something honest instead.

“What if you don’t like what you see?”

The confusion on his face dissolves into something like shock as he huffs out a disbelieving laugh. You frown, embarrassed, and Frankie quickly reins himself in.

“Corazón,” he says, working to sound more serious even as a smile continues to pull at the corners of his lips. He grabs your arm and much to your surprise, places your hand over his crotch. Your mouth falls open with a sudden gasp.

“Feel that? Feel how fucking hard I am?” Frankie murmurs gruffly and you do. Even through his jeans, the thick, prominent outline of his cock is firm and solid under your touch. You don’t think you can speak without moaning, so you just bite your lip and nod in answer to his question.

“Créeme,” he grunts, pressing your hand down into his bulge like he’s trying to prove his point. “I already like what I see. Are you gonna let me see me more?”

You nod frantically, the evidence of his arousal all the convincing you need for now.

“Yes?” he presses expectantly.

“Yes–yeah, Frankie.”

You think you hear him say, ‘kay, under his breath, and then he’s shifting, considering the couch around him like he’s trying to decide how he wants to do this.

“C’mere,” he suggests, not really giving you much of a choice as he guides you towards the corner of the sectional, maneuvering your body until your legs are dangling off the end of the couch. He locates a cushion and places it under your neck and then he falls to his knees on the floor before you.

You’re now face to face with the muted porn on your TV screen, the actors having now advanced from cunnilingus to rabid fucking. It’s kind of a debauched backdrop, you guess, but no more debauched than the sight of Frankie throwing his cap off and darting his tongue out between his plush lips as his fingers make their way under your waistband again. He starts to tug, and this time, you let him.

“Lift up just a bit for me, babe,” he instructs you gently when the fabric bunches around your ass. You angle your hips up and Frankie hums appreciatively, carefully pulling away your leggings and underwear. He keeps his eyes on his hands while he strips you from the waist down, moving without an ounce of haste.

You bring your knees together out of habit once you’re fully bare but Frankie isn’t even looking where you expect him to. He’s looking at your ankles and shins as he draws a line up your legs with his hands, that same up and down pattern he’d painted on your thighs earlier.

“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he marvels softly.

Your heart rate quickens into overdrive when his hands eventually move up to rest on your knees. Something seems to overtake him then as his soft eyes darken and go a bit glassy, dull fingernails digging into your skin with barely-contained desperation.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, his voice almost a whine. He leans forward into you, teeth grazing at the flesh of your thigh as he peeks up at you from under his dark lashes. “Can I please look at your pussy?”

“Yeah, Frankie,” you squeak. How could ever say no when he sounds like that?

You urge your muscles to slacken as Frankie coaxes your knees apart, pulling back to look at you when he does. You can’t help it; you squeeze your eyes closed and hold your breath, waiting nervously for the moment he decides to end this.

“Fuck me,” Frankie groans.

What does that mean? Is that good?

“Holy shit, baby,” Frankie continues, shaking your leg a bit to get your attention and against your better judgment, you open your eyes. You look at him, rather than your own body laid out like this, because it’s easier that way.

He’s ogling you, sitting back on his haunches with his hands on your knees, mouth agape as he takes in your pussy for the first time.

“You’re so wet,” he revels quietly, glancing up at you curiously. He looks…thrilled about it. “Do you always get this wet?”

You’re not sure you’ve ever been so wet in your entire fucking life actually.

“Mm-mm.”

Frankie smiles.

“Just for me, huh?” he hums, then he’s looking at your pussy again and it’s like it entrances him. He growls, hinging to kiss your inner thighs. He inhales deeply through his nose and you try not to get too embarrassed at the thought of him breathing in your scent. Anyway, he seems to like it, if the ragged sigh he exhales and his fluttering lashes are anything to go by.

“Oh my god, you’re gonna taste so fucking good,” he grits through his teeth.

You’ve imagined your first kiss with Frankie thousands of times. But you’ve never imagined it quite like this. Never imagined his lips on your knees or his scruff on your thighs, his fingers tracing the stretchmarks around your hips like he’s drawing a map across your skin. Every touch, every patient, adoring graze of his hands and his mouth and his teeth both calms and excites you.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers after several long moments.

“Yeah.”

“You have a perfect pussy.” The smile in his voice is audible and it quickly breaks the spell.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, playfully kicking a leg out at him. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“Do what? I’m being so fucking serious,” he retorts, his sweet smiling fading. “It’s…so pretty. I’m not lying. Okay?”

You nod and choose to believe him. “Okay.”

It’s getting hard to argue with him now, as his hands glide up towards the apex of your thighs, spreading you open wider as he slowly nears your centre. Your heart pounds in your ears, chest light with anticipation as his thumbs brush your outer lips and your eyes snap shut again.

“Can I touch you, baby?” he asks, his voice all low and husky in a way you’ve never heard him sound before.

“Please.”

He sucks in a long breath, which you mirror unconsciously, and then he’s swiping two thick fingers through the seam of your folds, spreading wetness from your hole to your clit.

“Oh,” Frankie sighs reverently as you melt under his curious touch.

Your breaths come fast as he plays with your pussy, running his fingers up and down through the mess of it, getting to know you here just like he had with his hands on your body. This part you know, most men have at least put the effort in to finger you. But the fact that it’s Frankie touching you makes every sensation more electrifying and new.

Never mind that no one’s ever touched you with as much patience and attentiveness as Frankie does, quietly observing every response his fingers elicit from you. He spreads your lips apart and pinches them back together, stroking your clit just enough to make you squirm before pulling away.

You sneak an eye open just in time to catch him sucking his fingers clean, sighing long through his nose before he refocuses on your cunt.

Well, he did say he loved it. Maybe you’re starting to believe him.

He inches closer, broad shoulders finding space between your thighs.

“I’m gonna put my mouth on you now, hermosa,” he tells you. He reaches out to touch one finger to your dripping core. “Right here.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“It’s so wet there, Frankie,” you protest weakly. Why would he want to put his mouth on the messiest part of you? You can’t understand it. Frankie just smiles.

“I know, baby. I wanna taste you.”

You can only whimper in response, Frankie so close now you can feel his warm breath against your folds. He plants one last kiss to the crease of your thigh and then at last, closes the space between his lips and your pussy.

You feel him lick a thin stripe through the wettest part of you, the slick contact sending an empathic jolt to every nerve ending your body. He does it again, widening his tongue this time, and your responding gasp is cut off when Frankie fucking moans. What does that mean?

Your head snaps up and you stare down at him in horror.

“What’s wrong? Does it taste bad?”

Frankie detaches his mouth from your cunt, confusion mapping the crease between his brows.

“Bad?” he repeats. You just blink back at him with uncertainty written all over your face and he seems to recognize you’re being serious. His features soften.

“No, querida,” he insists. “Just tastes like pussy. Really fucking good pussy. Did it feel good?”

You nod–you can’t lie.

“Good. I’m gonna do it again. Just relax for me, okay?”

He waits until you nod again and your tense muscles have loosened, then he dives forward for a second time.

Now, you trust that the breathy moan he lets out is one of pleasure rather than disgust. It’s not that hard to believe either; Frankie glides his tongue through the seam of your folds with ravenous interest, up and down, in wide circles around your lips and curious flicks over your hole, peeking up at you with each careful ministration to ensure he’s on the right track.

And, Christ, you may not have any frame of reference but it certainly feels like he is.

It’s so…wet. So dizzying and warm and all-encompassing. Then Frankie dares to spear his tongue inside you–once, twice, a third time–and you keen at the welcome intrusion, moaning out a sound so pornagraphic you could probably rival the woman currently being railed from behind on your TV right now.

You feel–rather than really see–Frankie smile against you.

“Does that feel good when I do that?” he asks and then he does it again.

“Yes, Frankie.”

He hears the silent plea beneath your words and quickly gets back to work.

With his tongue still dancing over your fluttering hole, Frankie closes his lips.

And that’s–oh–that’s so much more overwhelming. His mouth consumes your pussy as his tongue laps and lathes at your core, drinking down everything your body gives him. His eyes close and his brows furrow while his lips move hungrily against you and you imagine this is what it would feel like to kiss him–hot and wet and sloppy and perfect.

He continues like that, making out with your pussy until your hips involuntarily begin to rock up into his mouth in search of more. Frankie groans, sucking at your folds before pulling away with a wet pop.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he groans. He gazes bearlily at your pussy, his lips coated with arousal and saliva. You don’t miss the way he drops a hand to his bulge.

“Oh, fuck,” he sighs. Usually so controlled and composed, Frankie sounds almost delirious now. “Baby, I’m gonna lick your clit now. Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah–yeah, please, Frankie.”

Frankie makes a wild, guttural noise, leaning in to press a kiss into your pussy.

“Tell me, baby, tell me where you want my tongue.”

But then he’s teasing his mouth over your hole again, making speech nearly impossible as he swirls his tongue around your opening–like a preview of what he’s about to offer the most sensitive part of you.

Desperation takes over and any lingering nerves fade away.

“My clit, Frankie,” you beg him. “Please lick my clit.”

The order has him moaning against you again, the vibration alone enough to make you dizzy even before he’s gripping both your thighs to spread you open further and his mouth is moving to find purchase over your nub.

A sound you’ve never heard yourself make before spills from your parted lips as Frankie begins to deftly work your clit with his tongue. Sparks ignite in your belly at the sensation, so different than how it feels to have someone’s hands on you here. It’s slick and it’s intimate and it’s so much more…concentrated this way. Frankie presses into you harder and flattens his tongue, focusing on drawing precise little circles around your clit that have you seeing stars.

Jesus–did he go to school for this or something? How does he know to apply just the right amount of pressure? How does he never falter in his rhythm or even stop to come up for air? How does it already feel like you could come at any second if he keeps doing what he’s doing right now?

Fully intent on your pleasure, his messy curls frame his flushed cheeks and his hooded eyes. He’s coaxing towards your end like he’s been fucking training for this his entire goddamn life.

You get lost in it, indulge in the feeling and the fact that it’s Frankie doing this for you. Frankie is making you feel this good. Frankie is going to make you come.

You grab at his hair and push his face into your cunt, past the point of caring if he’d be upset about that as your orgasm blooms hot in your core. Frankie just groans appreciatively, laving at your clit and giving you just that much more when he puckers his lips and sucks at the tiny bundles of nerves.

“Oh, Frankie, fuck–fuck, do that again–”

Bossy. He loves when you get bossy. You’re so close and, apparently, that makes you bossy.

He smiles. He doesn’t hesitate to do as you ask, sucking hungrily at your clit and swallowing down your salty-sweet flavour. When he feels your muscles begin to tighten he offers you his tongue again, sucking and licking, sucking and licking. He thinks about the man on screen earlier and takes a page out of his book, slowly moving his head from side to side as much as he can with your hands in his hair–and, yeah, you seem to like that, if your wild, needy moans and your breathless little gasps are anything to go by.

He doesn’t want to leave here ever. He wants to drown and die with his face in your cunt and your hands in his hair. He wants his last breath to be coated with your scent so he can be buried in the ground with it, knowing his life had been worthwhile because at least he’d got to have you this way even one fucking time.

But your pleas are growing stronger and your chest is heaving faster and Frankie knows it can’t last–because you’re going to come. Suddenly, that’s the only thing in the world that matters.

“Like that, Frankie,” you cry, when he finds a new rhythm with his tongue, broad, coaxing strokes over your twitching pearl. Your eyes snap open and find his at once, beseeching him. “Don’t stop doing that, Frankie–I’m gonna come.”

He hums against you and heeds your orders, never stopping or slowing the movement of his tongue. You chant for him–yesyesyes–and Frankie just hums and hums his encouragement.

Come on, baby, come on, baby, he thinks. Let me see what you look like when you come for me. Let me know this part of you.

“Frankie!”

The drawn-out cry of his name is the last warning he gets before your pussy begins to pulse under his tongue.

Your climax is even more beautiful than he imagined it’d be.

You arch up into his mouth and his hands are quick to hold you there, licking you through it as you quiver with the force of it. Wetness gushes from your core and Frankie laps at it greedily, drunk on your taste and your sounds and your writhing form above him.

Years of service to his country, and somehow he thinks this might be his proudest achievement. He’s never felt more gratified than he does watching you fall apart for him right now.

Meanwhile, Frankie’s cock aches, leaking and hard in his boxers and begging to be touched. He’s already so close, he could probably come too if he just–

With his mouth still closed over your pussy and your body still shaking with the swells of your orgasm, Frankie begins to palm himself furiously through his jeans, chasing his own high before you can come down from yours.

But it’s too late. You catch him red-handed.

“Frankie–stop, honey, don’t come like that.”

You pry him off your soaking cunt and Frankie doesn’t fight you. You’re sitting up, watching him, gaze smouldering and fixed on the hand he’s currently rubbing against his clothed cock. He should be embarrassed but he just wants to come.

“How, baby?” he asks you brokenly.

“Take it out.”

“Fuck, fuck–”

He hurries to obey, straightening up off the floor and fumbling hastily with his belt buckle. It takes him three tries to get his fingers to cooperate long enough to figure it out, unzipping his jeans and yanking them down his thighs, completely forgetting this is the first time you’re ever going to see his–

“Oh my god,” you gasp the second his cock is free from his boxers and he’s wrapping a relieving hand around himself. He looks up at you, momentarily concerned until he sees your eyes are trained on his cock.

And yeah, fine–sue him–his ego blooms for a second, watching your eyes widen at his size, breath leaving you in this adorable little sigh.

“Frankie, you’re so–”

“I know,” he interrupts. You share a smile, something so familiar, as Frankie strokes his cock over your cunt, something so decidedly unfamiliar. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna fuck you with it this time.”

This time. Fuck. He hasn’t even finished doing this with you now and he’s already planning when he’s gonna get to do it again. As if he even knows if you want that, as if he’s not leaving again in just a few weeks–

“You can,” you say hurriedly and the offer pulls him off the edge of spiraling and right back into the moment, cock throbbing in his hand as his head falls forward into his chest with a groan. “Frankie, you can fuck me.”

He shakes his head.

“Gonna come in two seconds if I do that, babe.”

He’s also not sure he has the self control to fuck you right now without hurting you.

Plus he really is so fucking close. Your fingers explore his belly and Frankie pumps himself faster. He watches in a lustful haze as your hand moves to hover over his cock, almost curious about it.

“Can I help you, Frankie?” you whisper. Jesus, do you even know how alluring your voice sounds? He’s gonna fucking explode if you keep talking to him like that.

You lightly touch your fingers to the back of his hand–and he’s never said yes so fast in his life.

“Yeah–fuck, yeah, baby, you wanna help?”

“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him sweetly as you take over.

“Oh, shit–fuck,” Frankie rasps the second you wrap your fingers around him. Then you start to stroke him in long, languid pumps and his eyelids involuntarily flutter.

“Yes, baby, just like that,” he sighs. He abandons the urge to come for a moment, letting his eyes slip closed and really trying his best to just savour the feeling of you touching him. His stomach lurches when he feels you swirl your thumb over his slit, smearing wet drops of precum around the head of his cock. His chest warms with something like pride at learning this about you, that you know what you’re doing when you get a cock in your hand. That you’re good at this.

“Fuck…that’s so good, sweetheart,” he finds himself whispering just because he thinks you deserve to know.

“Frankie.”

Your voice calls out to him through the fog of bliss and he dares himself to glance down at you. Still working over his length in deep, adoring strokes, you bite your lip and meet his stare with wide, faraway eyes of your own. He cups your cheek in his hand just because he can.

“Hm?”

You smile and it’s so fucking beautiful and soft and you that he can’t help but smile right back.

“You made me feel so fucking good,” you tell him earnestly.

“Yeah?” Frankie strokes your cheekbone with his thumb and you tighten the grip of your fist around his cock.

“Yeah,” you nod, just as your smile falters in lieu of something darker. “I want–I want you to come for me, Frankie. I want you to come on my pussy.”

“Jesus,” Frankie grits, nodding frantically as he shoos your hand away and takes his cock in his own hand again. “Yeah–yeah, okay.”

The request alone has him hurtling towards release and in a flurry of desperation, he reaches up under your shirt to palm at one of your tits with his free hand while he concentrates the pumps of his fist to the head of his cock. Your head falls back behind you when he gets one of your nipples between his fingers and you moan so pretty for him.

Fucking hell, he’s not gonna last.

“You want me to come on your pussy, baby?”

“Mhm.”

That pleading lilt in your voice makes tension coil in his core, heat rising up the back of his neck. He can hear the sound of his own heady grunting as he strokes and strokes himself for you, eager and impatient to give you what you’d asked for.

“Whose pussy is it?” he growls.

He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe part of him just needs to know he’s really claimed this experience for you. That no one’s ever going to make you feel good as he had.

Your eyes lock and you tell him exactly what he needs to hear–

“Y-yours, Frankie. It’s your pussy.”

“Yeah…yeah, it is–fuck!”

He comes with blinding force, his cock twitching violently in his grasp as he paints your mound and lower belly with white ropes of spend. Huffed breaths pass through his lips as the waves pass over him, his knees aching against your floor as he shudders and groans and milks himself over your pussy. His pussy.

Once he’s emptied himself completely, his body still quaking with residual aftershocks, he hooks a hand behind your neck to pull you in closer. Sated, your features shrouded in bliss and gratitude…Frankie’s always loved you, but he’s never loved you more than he does right now.

“Mi vida,” he breathes, clutching your face between his palms. “Can I kiss you?”

And even though it’s beyond backwards, to share your first kiss with your tang on his tongue and his cum on your skin, you nod, leaning into him willingly as he finally, finally presses his lips to yours.

Somehow, even after waiting years for this, he finds it in himself to kiss you slow. You don’t seem to be in any rush either, sighing as you part your lips for him and let him spill his tongue between them. You press yourself closer, wrap your arms around his neck to deepen it and a glimmering warmth trickles down his spine.

Breathless and charged, there’s a change in atmosphere, and suddenly everything feels painfully fragile. Like the moment he breaks this kiss, the earth will crack open under him and he’ll be pulled down into its molten core and it’ll never be like this again.

So he just kisses and kisses and kisses you, finding his way back onto the couch and holding you hostage against his lips. But you make no attempt at escape. You just mould your lips against his and fist your hands into the fabric of his shirt and kiss him right back with just as much force and finality.

He wants to tell you everything, but he doesn’t know how or if that would even be the right thing to do.

I love you. I still have to leave.

No. He can’t do that to you.

“See how good your pussy tastes?” he asks between kisses instead. You laugh against his lips, but when he opens his eyes to see your face, he finds your eyes are wet with tears.

Shit.

“You know that’s not why I’m kissing you so much, Frankie.”

Reluctantly, he breaks away. He holds your face between his hands, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Why are you?” he whispers. Is it the same reason he can’t stop? Is it that same feeling of impermanence he can’t seem to shake?

The tears in your eyes spill over and pool in the webs of his fingers.

“Because I’ve always wanted to,” you tell him shakily. And as quickly as his heart swells with the confession does it deflate with your next words, “And I don’t know when I’ll get to do it again.”

Frankie sighs, his forehead colliding with yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head. For so many things but mostly–

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay, Frankie,” you assure him, scratching your fingernails into his scalp and slanting your head to steal another salty-wet kiss. He thinks he feels you smile, and it almost soothes the ache. “It’s okay now.”

#jfc #so fucking beautifully written and sexy and ah #I’m at a loss for words #so perfect

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generaldisdainn · 5 months

Text

another time, baby | joel miller x f!reader

a your summer dream bonus chapter

your summer dream masterlist | main masterlist | kofi | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

pairing: dad's buddy!joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 3.4k summary: joel makes good on a promise. warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] established relationship, porn no plot, smut, unprotected anal sex, vaginal fingering, use of a butt plug, joel miller eats ass and pussy and also has a big dick, some affectionate spanking, creampie, cum play (eating and sharing), a little bit of spit, just a lot of bodily fluids all around, one (1) poetic description of a queef, joel miller's filthy mouth, pet names, ysd!joel at his most soft dom, joel's also kind of feral in this, multiple orgasms, sweet sweet aftercare, pov swap. no use of y/n.

a/n: you can all thank @gasolinerainbowpuddles for this one ya'll. but in all seriousness, your summer dream was my favourite part of this year. so what better way to send it off than with a horny little one shot for my favourite little freaks? and for anyone who hasn't read the series, i am stoked to tell you that you can absolutely enjoy this fic as a standalone. for those of you who have the read series, this takes place between the fall and winter seasons and you may find one teeny tiny little plot nugget in here which i hope you will appreciate. happy new year everyone!

"Oh, fuck, that's pretty."

His voice a low rasp, all hushed and adoring, he may as well be talking to himself at this point. You are somewhere far away. A pliant, whining, perfect thing slung over his lap, your soft skin glistens with lube around the transparent plug in your ass. Seeing you like this, Joel allows himself to think the worst–that you're his and no one else's, that only he can make you like this, only he gets to know this part of you.

"Please, Joel, please," you'd cried when his tongue had dipped from your pussy to your other hole earlier this week. Your fingers clawing at fistfuls of his hair, he'd known by the desperate edge in your voice, the patience there waning, you were finally going to ask.

"What, baby? What do you want?"

You'd seized and moaned and shaken your head, afraid to say it, confess it.

Till he'd slipped one thick finger into your asshole, taunting you with a plea of his own as he'd slowly fucked you with it: "Tell me. Tell me, baby. Say it. Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck my ass, Joel! Please–"

And as his lips had closed around your clit with his finger still buried in your ass, you'd come apart for him with blinding force. Joel, for his part, had spilled onto the sheets beneath him and in the haze of the afterglow, he'd kissed your inner thighs and made a solemn vow.

That he'll give you what you need–but he's gonna do it right.

Now you've stopped begging, reduced to little more than breathless whimpers under his touch while you let him ready you.

He cages your naked body under his, fingers spread wide over the globe of your ass, pinching and grabbing and slapping at the plush flesh there. Your poor, dripping cunt flutters around nothing and Joel can't help himself–he's a weak man; he takes pity on you.

"Feelin' empty, baby?" he muses, slipping a hand between your thighs to caress your folds, soaking with lube and your last release. He gazes down at you in wonder when you twitch violently at the contact, your ass jiggling around the end of the plug.

He's so goddamn lucky.

You make some muffled sound against the mattress and Joel's other hand comes down on your ass cheek in response. His lips twitch, chest and cock swelling with something like pride when you recognize it for the reminder it is, immediately pulling your face up off the sheets to answer him properly.

"Mm-mm," you croak and Joel can tell you're struggling to get the words out, your loose form spasming across his thighs whenever his fingers brush over your sensitive clit. "Feel so–full, Joel."

"Yeah?" he murmurs gruffly, still lazily petting your sex. "You like havin' your ass all stuffed, sweetheart? This what you wanted?"

"Want–more, Joel. Please fuck me."

But there's no strength behind the words, no genuine intention behind the plea because you know; this had been the deal. He'll give you this–and god, does he want to give you this–but he's not going to rush it and he's not going to hurt you. He's well aware of his size and he's well aware of your less-than-savoury experiences with men before him and he will not subject you to that. He'll spend all night prepping you if that's what it takes.

Plus, he's having fun.

"Gonna feel a lot more full with my cock inside ya, baby," he hums, sinking his thumb into your wet heat, reveling in the way you push back into him with a breathy little moan. "You think you can take it?"

Your answer gets caught in your throat as he begins to fuck his thumb in and out of your weeping pussy, his fingers circling over your clit, buried between the soft meat of your thighs.

His lip curls in concentration, ravenous at the soft squelching sounds of your cunt and the choked, little whimpers spilling from your open mouth. Just one more time, he thinks–he just wants to watch you come one more time.

"Look at you, huh?" he marvels as he switches gears, using one large palm to spread you open and push his middle and ring fingers into your cunt instead, curling and scissoring them inside you till he swears he can feel the plug taking up your ass. "Look at you with both your little holes all full for me. Bet you could take two cocks f'you wanted. Ain't that right, babygirl?"

Something about that thought makes you gasp, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing your g-spot before you're coming again, a small gush of liquid pouring down his knuckles as you pulse around him with a broken cry.

"Oh, fuck, yeah," Joel hisses through his teeth as the waves of wash over you, awestruck and mesmerized at the way you shudder and squirm in his lap. You're all his. It's all for him. You fall apart like this for him. "There's my good girl."

You go limp when it ends, a delicious noise of gaping emptiness escaping your pussy when he slowly retracts his fingers. He sucks them clean, sighing at the taste of you, and decides he's done enough.

"C'mere," he growls softly, manhandling you carefully off his lap and collecting your knees beneath you. You go like a ragdoll, folding in on yourself with your ass in the air for him, chest pressed into your thighs. He crouches beside you, trailing a hand up your spine to rest it at the nape of your neck, massaging the other over the rounded peaks of your ass.

"You ready, sweetheart?" he whispers, tracing his fingers around the edges of the plug. "Gonna take this out now."

"Oh, fuck," you whimper into the sheets, your voice all cracked and oozing anticipation. Your ribs expand and contract with each ragged breath you take and even Joel isn't sure he can wait much longer.

He leans over your body, sinks his teeth into the meat of your ass, buries his nose into your skin and makes himself at home there. He stakes his claim with little indents into your flesh and yearns to mark you elsewhere–everywhere.

"Let me hear you say it," he insists.

"I'm ready, Joel. Please."

He shifts to hover over you, cradling your body under one arm while he curls his fingers around the end of the plug.

"Relax for me now," he murmurs and even though you're already gooey and gone, you find a way to obey him. Your muscles slacken and you melt impossibly deeper into the mattress, waiting.

"Good girl," he tells you and he's never meant it more than he does right now.

With patient care, he slips the plug past that tight ring of muscle, watching you stretch around the thickest part of the toy, groaning with you when he pushes it back inside. He repeats that motion, mesmerized at the slide of the plug moving in and out of the constricting fist of your asshole. You take it so fucking well. You're gonna take his cock so fucking well.

It's all he can think about as he finally pulls the plug out of you entirely, cursing under his breath when your hole stays open for him, stretched out and lax, still so enticingly tight. He tosses it aside, hungry eyes fixed on your opening, locked in on it like a missile acquiring its target.

"Jesus Christ," he groans, feeling slightly crazed as he crowds the space behind you, hastily searching for the bottle of lube, abandoned somewhere on the mattress. He coats his length in it, stroking himself with one hand while the other spreads you open, one thick finger dipping into the inviting warmth of your asshole. "You gonna let me fuck you here, baby? This where you want me?"

"Yes," you whine and Joel's cock twitches in his grasp as you start to fuck yourself on his finger in shallow little thrusts, as if to prove your point. Fucking hell. He's never seen you so needy as long as he's known you and it stirs something carnal in him.

"Alright, baby, okay," he hums, sliding his finger free from your hole to grip your side and still your movements. His cock is slippery and your skin is shiny with excess lube but he wants to be sure, overly thorough. He rakes his fingers through the seam of your cunt, collecting come and lube and slick, and coats your other hole in it. And just because he wants to see it, he lets a string of his of spit fall there too, rubbing his own fluids in with yours, over the sacred place he's about to fuck you.

He thinks you look fucking perfect together. He thinks he might be in love with you.

He presses closer, notching the tip of his cock at your entrance. You reach back to grip the wrist of the hand he's got glued to your side and Joel's heart pangs. He can't tell if the way you squeeze his arm is a sign of nerves or eagerness or the same painful desperation he feels to be as attached to you as possible in every conceivable way. Frankly, he's too far gone to ask, so he gives you what he thinks you always need, what he thinks he's best at giving you–

"You're okay, baby," he assures you. "Just relax, I got you. M'gonna make it feel good, okay? Gonna make it feel so fuckin' good for you."

Your fingers tighten around his wrist, a high-pitched moan pouring from your lips as you nod against the sheets.

You trust him–of course you do.

And you want this, want him to fill the deepest corners of your body, to take up every vacant space inside you and make you his, over and over in every which way. Joel's unwavering control seems to fade as he lines himself up with your hole, his breaths coming shorter and less even, sucked through his teeth like some voracious animal. Your pussy clenches in an unconscious way, like your body still hasn't realized that's not where he's going.

It quickly becomes clear.

Because then he's pushing forward, the head of his cock slipping past your puckered rim and it's like he stops breathing altogether, the flow of air from his lungs choking off into a strangled moan. You echo that sound, twist your free hand into the sheets and whine at the intrusion, the stretch and strain almost dizzying.

"Oh–fuck–shit," he's rambling, stilling where he is to let you adjust–though you're wondering now if such a thing is even possible. "Fuck me, that's so fuckin' tight."

You can feel your breathing shallow, hear the distant sound of your own voice leaving you in the form of weak and whimpered nothings.

Joel takes a deep breath.

"Talk to me," he grits out. "Tell me how it feels."

You rack your brain but you can't find the words.

"You're so-you're so fucking big, Joel."

He growls, a sound buried low in his chest, deep and guttural. "Tell me how it feels," he repeats.

"Fuck–good," you cry, and you think it's true. The stretch, the ache, the fullness, the elation that it's him finally giving you what he'd promised you so many months ago; yes, it feels good. It feels perfect. "More. Please. I can take more."

"Fuck, yeah, you can," Joel groans, sinking deeper, still at a sedulous pace, till you feel his hips meet your ass and he bottoms out completely.

"Shit," Joel marvels, pausing once again with his length buried to the hilt in your ass, voice thick with adoration. "Feel fuckin'–so perfect, baby. Fuck, you look so good like this. Takin' it so well."

He experimentally rocks his hips and you feel yourself stretch open for him, the way your body accepts his girth and makes such willing space for him. It's fucking…otherworldly how big he feels inside you, the pleasant aching sensation of fullness unlike anything you've ever felt before. Your uneven breaths harmonize with his, breaking off into a groan of appreciation when he finally pulls out halfway just to push back in.

He fucks you like that for what feels like hours; slow, patient drags of his cock in and out of your hole while his hands rake over your skin in appreciative sweeping patterns. His words from before echo in your pleasure-drunk mind–"Bet you could take two cocks f'you wanted"–and while you can't say you've ever thought about that, the suggestion festers and consumes, so much so that you reach a hand between your legs to slip three fingers into your pussy and imagine how it would feel if they were something else.

"Oh, yeah, honey?" Joel croons when he notices, the pace of his thrusts picking up. "That feel good? You wanna be all filled up, don't you?"

You whine in response, burying your fingers deeper, meeting his thrusts with a steady rock of your hips back into him.

"C'mere," he's suddenly saying again, carefully pulling his cock free from the tight clench of your ass. Then he's maneuvering you onto your back and placing your arms by the side of your head. He hooks his hands beneath your knees and hoists them up to your chest before settling back between your legs. He takes a moment there, gawking at your naked front and your gaping hole, watching your face as he presses his palm over your mound and strums his thumb over your clit.

And, god, he looks wrecked–wild. You can't imagine what he's seeing reflected back at him in your eyes.

Fuck, you already miss him inside you.

"Joel," you press him, tilting your hips upwards a little higher in a silent plea.

He grants it without question, maintaining the steady ministrations of his thumb on your clit as he once again lines himself up with your asshole.

"You perfect fuckin' thing," he murmurs, his mouth falling open as he pushes back inside, his eyes never leaving your face. "You love it, huh? Love this big cock in this tight little ass. Yeah?"

His voice strains around the words as he begins to move again, faster and harder than before. You nod at him frantically–tell him yesyesyes–then you forget how to speak altogether as he eases his thumb into your cunt and fucks you with it in tandem with the drag of his cock in your ass.

"There you go," Joel hums. "My girl's all full of me now."

It's overwhelming, a mind-numbing sort of satiation that has your eyes rolling back into your skull as you dissolve into a mess of wanton moans and broken sobs. You're too far gone to even feel surprised when another climax crashes into you, wetness pooling around Joel's thumb and trickling down to the place your bodies are connected.

"Fuck, Joel, oh my god–"

Your voice shakes as you quiver under him, sparks of heat cascading down your spine. Joel's heady grunting is buried under your own cries of ecstasy and then you're conscious of his hands are on the backs of your thighs, holding you open as he begins to fuck you with abandon, chasing chasing chasing.

"Eyes," you hear him growl urgently. "You look at me when I come in your ass, baby."

Your eyelids snap open at once–and the sight of him takes your breath away.

His brows are furrowed in concentration, hot breaths coming in heavy pants through his bared teeth. Sweat dampens his forehead and shines on his chest and shoulders, the expanse of skin there dotted with splotches of pink. His soft belly flexes and falls as he pounds into you and you don't think you've ever seen his brown eyes look so black.

He's so fucking beautiful. He's all yours.

"Come for me, Joel," you beseech him, reaching out to touch your hands to his chest. "Please. Please come in my ass."

It doesn't take much more than that, Joel's hips stuttering as he groans out a chorus of expletives and paints your insides with his release. He comes hard, his final thrusts almost bruising against your ass as he fucks his spend deeper, filling you to the brim. You can feel everything–the way his cock spasms inside you, the soft press of his balls against your sticky skin, the wet drag of his length slowly slipping out of you the minute you've both caught your breath.

You reach out to touch his face, but Joel is not looking at you. Joel is transfixed on your leaking asshole, crouching back to watch his come drip from you, his big hands on your thighs still spreading you wide for him.

He looks almost…overcome–trancelike as he dives forward without a word to bury his face between your cheeks. You gasp as his tongue laps at your pulsing hole, collecting fat drops of escaping come and it occurs to you then what he's doing. Your hands fist into his curls and you yank him up to kiss you, his lips crashing into yours as hot, salty release pours from him his open mouth into yours.

You swallow it eagerly, moaning against his lips as his body weight comes down on top of you. You wrap your legs around his middle and for a good long while, you stay like that, letting your tongue lazily dance with his in a kiss that's all gratitude and quiet devotion.

As the fog of orgasm fades, your lips come undone. Joel rolls onto his side and pulls you into his chest, pets your hair and presses soft kisses across your shoulders.

"You alright, baby?" he asks, clutching the sides of your face in his gentle hands and tilting your head up to meet his eyes. The blackness there is gone, replaced by tender warmth.

You think about it. You are alright. You're sleepy, though. Sleepy and sore. And fucking…messy.

"I'm okay," you tell him, feeling the corners of your mouth turn up in a smile. Joel mirrors it, his thumbs stroking lightly over your cheekbones.

"Did so fuckin' good for me," he breathes. His forehead collides with yours as he exhales something that sounds like a laugh. "I mean, that–that was so goddamn hot."

"It was," you agree. "Thank you, Joel."

"Thank you, sweetheart," he amends, ducking forward to plant another fleeting kiss against your lips. "M'gonna get a shower goin', alright? Get you all cleaned up? How's'at sound?"

"Sounds good," you smile dreamily.

He looks like he wants to say something else, lingering there with his face just inches from yours, soft eyes scanning your features like he's searching for something. You think you know the words he's holding back–think you could say them too right now–but you don't, and neither does he. Instead, he sighs and kisses your forehead, finally rising up out of bed to stride towards the ensuite. You let your eyes slip shut at the sound of running water, imagining it's a falling stream in a lush, tropical forest. You sigh.

It strikes you, in moments like these, how in the hell you ended up here. In Joel Miller's bed with his come leaking out of your ass, your heart so full it feels like it could burst right out of your chest without warning.

You think maybe it should scare you, but it doesn't anymore. Because then Joel is sauntering back into the room and extending a solid arm out to you, hoisting you upright with all the care and attention you've come to expect from him. His embrace is so familiar it may as well be your second home at this point. And it kind of is. And it's kind of perfect.

And you're kind of in love with him–but you don't tell him that yet.

#absolutely incredible #I am in awe #so gorgeously and intimately written #I could not ask for anything more from a fic #<3

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generaldisdainn · 6 months

Text

beg.

summary: you and marcus pike have been together for a while, but he thinks you might be holding back some of your desires in the bedroom. he’s secure enough to know when he could use a helping hand, so he tracks down an old flame of yours—dave york—to show him how to please you. he learns a few things about himself in the process.

rating: E [warnings: THIS IS FILTHY SMUT but also kinda cute bc marcus is just the cutest; BE WARNED THERE IS A SPRINKLING OF DADDY KINK IN HERE PLEASE TURN AWAY IF THAT IS AN ISSUE (i tagged everyone i usually do bc it’s a copy/paste thing, but i know some of y’all hate that shit like fire, so please be aware); choking, spanking (hands and belts), dom!dave, sub!marcus, PIV, oral sex, degradation (marcus for sure calls you a slut, it’s fine, you like it lmao), squirting, unprotected sex, I THINK I GOT IT ALL, it straight up wild in here]

pairing: marcus pike x dave york x fem reader

word count: ~4800

note: SHOUT OUT to @221bshrlocked for putting me on this fuckin’ path, @starlightmornings for thots and feelings, and everyone who’s shown excitement about it, i sure hope y’all like reading it as much as i liked writing it. after the world’s worst weekend, bringing you some smut and joy is all i want to do. also, who knows if this will show up in the tags, so reblogs are always appreciated. also, no beta we die like all those people dave kills. also, the formatting is garbage bc tumblr and there are THREE perspective changes, so like…i’m so sorry ;-; IF you prefer an audio version, please go have a look at my lovely friend @starlightmornings podfic of beg. it’s obscenely hot, so obviously don’t listen with anyone under 18 around. or at work.

taglist | masterlist read on AO3.

~~~

Marcus Pike remembers the conversation. You don’t think he does because you were both drunk, but he remembers it vividly. You hadn’t started dating yet, just grabbing drinks as friends after work. You both had a few more than you should have.

Keep reading

#my fave <3 #i think about this fic all the time omfg #literally everything i could ever want

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generaldisdainn · 8 months

Text

day 15: cuckolding [or: set alight]

summary: Is it jealousy, or is someone just curious? Din has a request. rating: E [smut, obviously; m/m/f, feelings of jealousy and insecurity, PIV, oral m receiving, a smidge of DinCobb] pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader x Cobb Vanth word count: ~2.7k note: Hello! This went in a completely different direction! I really tried to make it more, uh, cuckold-y, but I’m a soft bitch so this happened. Prompts taken from @absurdthirst! Thank you @starlightmornings for always putting up with me and my shenanigans and being a wonderful beta and writing wifey. <3

masterlist | kinktober 2022 masterlist

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#damn!!!!!!#I love love love love love this ugh

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generaldisdainn · 10 months

Text

Reckless

Pairing: Dave York x f!reader

Rating: E (Smut, 18+)

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Oral sex (f receiving), PIV sex (protected), body insecurities, sexual dysfunction (trouble orgasming), Dave York being a fucking Menace, use of vibrators, fingering, cockwarming if you squint,

Summary: Letting a strange man buy you a drink isn’t something you’d normally do, but once again, you’re going through your reckless phase. You also wouldn’t normally let him guide you to a quieter booth, sitting too close and talking in your ear, with one finger occasionally grazing your shoulder, just enough to cause you goosebumps. You especially wouldn’t invite said near-stranger back to your place after several more drinks and a surprisingly deep conversation about love and loss, but like you said–reckless.

A/N: Did I have an idea, create a word doc, write 3.5k, and then post in the same day? Yes, yes I did. This is basically “What if All the Time in the World, except with Dave York?” Partly inspired by @foli-vora ’s recent Dave fic, which made me feel feelings and I had to put those feelings somewhere, so here’s… some feelings. I apologize for any errors, this was written in 5 hours and yeeted into the world.

Masterlist

He’s different from anyone you’ve been with before.

That’s kind of the point–after your divorce, you feel reckless and impulsive. You want to do things that scare you.

Dave York scares you.

All you know about him is that he works for the Government; although in what capacity, he won’t say, and you don’t ask. The tone in which he forms the word–Government–gives you the feeling that he couldn’t tell you even if you had asked.

It’s rather cliche–you meet at a bar, both of you apparently drinking alone (another thing that used to scare you). You can’t keep your eyes off of the well-built, handsome stranger with a perfect cupid’s bow and piercing stare. Those dark eyes meet yours from across the bar top, and you know you’re already done for.

Letting a strange man buy you a drink isn’t something you’d normally do, but once again, you’re going through your reckless phase. You also wouldn’t normally let him guide you to a quieter booth, sitting too close and talking in your ear, with one finger occasionally grazing your shoulder, just enough to cause you goosebumps. You especially wouldn’t invite said near-stranger back to your place after several more drinks and a surprisingly deep conversation about love and loss, but like you said–reckless.

Dave is intense; he consumes you. The moment the door latches behind you, he pulls you in close and kisses you. It’s been a long time since your last first kiss, and the novelty of it makes you gasp softly into his mouth. Dave doesn’t spend a long time tentatively exploring your lips. When your lips part, he’s there immediately, licking into your mouth, pressing his thumb against the hinge of your jaw to open you further. Dave takes. You don’t realize he’s pushing you backwards until your shoulders hit the wall with another little exhalation of pleasure. His hands grip your hips and your fingers dig into his chest, gripping the collar of his too-crisp dress shirt and causing it to wrinkle.

He’s moving too fast and you like that. You like that his fingers are already teasing the bare skin under the waistband of your pants. You like that his teeth are nipping at your lower lip with a dark chuckle. You like that you can feel his thick length pressing against you where you’re pinned to the wall. You like it when he finally breaks the kiss, his lips trailing across your jaw and over to the shell of your ear, where he husks, “Show me your bedroom, baby girl.”

Breathlessly, you do as Dave asks, walking the path from your hallway to your bedroom in a daze. Part of you is starting to question whether this is really a good idea, but then his hands are at the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head, and you forget to ask yourself again.

“Beautiful,” Dave murmurs, and you blink up at him in surprise. He doesn’t seem like a particularly soft man, or an affectionate man, but his attention is overpowering, the way his gaze rakes over your chest with unabashed hunger.

In return, your hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt, opening one, two, three, before Dave takes over, undoing the remaining four, and yanking the shirt out of his dress pants and over his shoulders before discarding it on your floor.

Your breath stutters as you look at him–his broad shoulders, thick chest, and slightly, deliciously soft belly. His physique clearly wasn’t earned at a gym, but with work, which makes you wonder again, in the back of your mind, what exactly this man does for the government. Whatever he does, it’s earned him a strong, but not overly-muscled chest and arms that have no business being that thick. You subconsciously lick your lips as Dave unbuckles his belt and undoes the button on his pants, and your eyes trace the little trail of hair down, down, down to the waistband of his underwear.

Dave sees you looking, and he smiles–a smug, self-satisfied quirk of his lips–before he suddenly kneels down in front of you and swiftly yanks your pants halfway down your legs, causing a startled yelp of surprise to fall from your lips.

“Shhh,” Dave teases, his smirk widening as he draws your pants down one leg, then the other, letting you step out of them. You feel a little awkward and ungainly standing before him in just your underwear, but all too soon he's pushing you back on the bed, covering your body with his and kissing you again.

Dave kisses a path down your body, interspersed with little nips of his teeth that make you squirm and whimper. When he reaches your underwear, he presses his nose to the fabric and inhales, and your eyes go wide as your lips part in silent surprise. Oh, he’s filthy. You’re questioning whether you may have bitten off more than you can chew with this man, but before he drags the fabric down your legs, those dark, intense eyes meet yours again.

“Yes or no, baby girl.”

The question (even though it’s not phrased as one) makes you feel more at-ease than you have all night. It’s been so long, and Dave can clearly sense your nerves, but his final check-in causes all the tension to seep out of your body. You can see it in his eyes–if you said ‘no’ in this moment, the man would stop, even though his eyes are dark with lust and his mouth is hovering just a hair’s breadth away from your pussy.

You feel no sense of apprehension when you answer, “Yes.”

Dave devours you. Your eyes flutter closed and your mouth opens again in a silent scream as he dives into your pussy like a man starved. He’s the perfect combination of rough and gentle, mixing little flicks of his tongue against your clit with long licks inside your cunt. His nose presses tantalizingly on your clit every time he does the latter, and you’d be self-conscious except he’s groaning as he eats you, his fingertips digging into your hips as he pulls you harder onto his face.

It feels incredible. It’s filthy and messy and depraved and you’ve never had anyone consume you so greedily. You can feel the wetness dripping out of you, the way your pussy clenches and your hips flex against him.

You’ll never be able to come like this, but it doesn’t matter–no one’s ever made you feel this good without a vibrator before and the fact that your body won’t cooperate during sex has never felt less important. Who cares? Dave is licking you as if he’ll never get enough and all you want is for this man–who still scares you a little–to put you on your knees and fuck you like a whore. If he fucks with even half of the enthusiasm with which he’s currently ravishing your pussy, you’re going to be screaming into the mattress for half the night, whether you come or not.

“D-Dave, fuck–” you gasp out. “Wow, you–you’re really–will you fuck me? I–I want you to fuck me.”

Dave pulls off of your clit with a wet pop, looking up at you with wide eyes and parted lips with the evidence of your desire shining all over them.

“Oh yeah?” Dave asks. “Insatiable girl,” he teases. “Good. I like that.”

He sits up on his knees and shucks his unbuttoned pants down his legs, along with his underwear. “Condom?”

Nodding, you reach over to your drawer and pull out the box that you’d recently purchased on a whim. It’s still unopened, something that makes Dave’s eyes glimmer with amusement as you hand it to him. You watch with your heart in your throat as he tears open the foil packet and rolls it onto his cock. Holding your gaze, he spits down on it, slicking his hand back and forth a few times to coat himself.

“Oh, shit,” you breathe. Yeah, you may have bitten off more than you can chew with Dave York, but you’re past the point of caring, now. You scramble up and turn around, getting on your knees and wiggling your hips playfully.

“Really?” Dave asks, his voice low and positively dripping with lust. “Mmm, I like a girl that knows what she wants. You want me to fuck you like this?”

At your frantic nod, Dave notches himself at your entrance. “Good,” he growls. “I want to watch you drooling on your sheets, drunk on my cock.”

You whine frantically as you feel Dave enter you, dragging slowly against your walls and making you feel every ridge before seating himself fully in you. When he starts to move–slowly, at first, then picking up speed–you cry out against the onslaught of his cock. Before long, you’re giving him exactly what he’d asked for–drooling and cock-drunk, your fingers clutching the sheets as he pounds into you.

“Fuck, you like this, huh?” Dave asks teasingly from behind you.

“Y-yes–” you cry out. “Yes, yeah–”

“Need it rough, just like this?”

“Please,” you answer, your voice breaking as Dave hits something devastating inside of you.

For not the first time, you really do wish you could come like this. It would probably feel so good, clenching around his cock while he drills into you. It’s just not something you’ve ever been able to do, and at this point in your life, you’ve pretty much made peace with it. Sex is still good–great, even, especially tonight–and fun, and you enjoy it. If Dave doesn’t stay (you don’t really expect him to), you’ll finish yourself off afterward (maybe a few times) with your vibrator to the memory of his cock inside you, and how utterly full you felt.

Dave’s hand reaches around to your clit, rubbing little circles around it. “Cum for me, baby girl, let me feel how tight this pretty pussy gets.”

You fake it.

The pleasure isn’t faked, not in the slightest–the way you scream and writhe for him, the way your hands grasp uselessly at the sheets as he hits the perfect spot over and over–none of that is an act. You feel incredible, Dave feels incredible, this is the best sex you’ve had in years.

You’re just… not coming. You can’t.

You purposefully clench around his cock a few times for effect. It’s not like Dave hasn’t earned this–with anyone else, he probably could have made them come three times already, the way this man fucks.

Dave stills inside you. At first, you assume he came too. You give him a happy, satisfied, “Oh, wow,” but when you turn to look back at him lazily, his eyes are sharp and assessing.

“You didn’t cum,” he says frankly.

Heart pounding, you argue back. “Yes I did.”

“No.” Dave answers, a crease forming between his eyebrows as his frown deepens. “No, you didn’t.”

You swallow. For a few moments, it’s an awkward standoff. Dave’s expression is somewhere between confused and offended, and you don’t really know what to say to make it better. When you bite your lower lip in worry, Dave’s confusion grows.

“Is there something wrong?”

You shake your head rapidly. “No! I mean–no. Nothing’s wrong, I just–um–” you trail off, not sure what to say to fix this moment.

“You faked it,” Dave murmurs. “Why?”

“I–I don’t know.” The little tingle of apprehension you’d felt for this man at the bar has returned: Dave York scares you a little.

“You don’t know,” Dave repeats. “You faked it, but you don’t know why. Did you think you needed to satisfy my ego, was that it?”

You panic, trying to backtrack. “No–I mean yes, but no! Hang on. It’s just that–I can’t.”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t… cum?”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Dave nods slowly. “So you… faked it.”

“I was enjoying it, really I was,” you say truthfully. “I loved it, it’s not you, I’ve never been able to. Ever. I still like sex.”

Dave’s expression softens visibly; the little crease disappearing completely as he looks down at you. “Not even by yourself?” he asks. “With toys?”

“No, I can with those,” you nod. “I just can’t during sex.”

“So you can,” Dave says, arching one eyebrow.

“I mean… yes? But like I said, just by myself, and not during–”

“Has anyone ever really tried?”

“Sometimes,” you answer with a noncommittal shrug. “It’s just not worth it, it takes forever. There’s too much else going on during sex, it’s like I can’t concentrate.”

Dave’s lips curl into a small smile. It’s different from the ones you’ve seen so far. The smiles previously could all be classified as smirks. This one is fond, soft even. His amusement isn’t at your expense, it’s more as if he finds the entire situation… cute.

Dave slips from you, and a protest is immediately at your lips.

“Shit, I’m sorry, please–”

You think, for one horrifying moment, that Dave is going to pull on his clothes and leave. Instead, he opens your bedside table drawer and starts rifling through it.

“I–hey!” you cry out indignantly, turning around, but Dave is already pulling out one of your vibrators with a triumphant look.

“You don’t fake it with me,” Dave states simply. “If you’re able to cum by yourself, you can do it with me. Get back on your knees.”

You stare at Dave, not moving. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I’m telling you, it’s not–”

“On your knees, baby girl,” Dave repeats, much quieter.

Your mouth snaps shut, and you nod, turning back around without any further protests.

Dave spits on his cock again, then smears the remainder around your pussy, keeping you as wet as possible for him. You wait for the tip of his cock to notch at your entrance, but instead of his thick length, you feel the slightly-cold, buzzing metal of the little bullet vibrator swirling around, collecting your slick before moving up to your clit.

Dave doesn’t give you his cock–not yet. He makes you wait. He teases your clit with the little vibe, and when you aren’t expecting it, one finger teases your entrance. He slides it back and forth, not going any deeper than the first knuckle. It feels surprisingly good, just this soft touch. When you’re whimpering slightly and squirming for more, Dave finally slides the finger fully inside you.

“You just need a little extra attention, isn’t that right?” Dave coos.

He fucks you with it slowly, rhythmically, letting you anticipate the speed of each thrust. It’s surprisingly effective at building you up. You close your eyes and concentrate on the feeling. Just the one finger inside you is delicious, but you want more, you want his cock again.

“Fuck me,” you entreat softly, but Dave only makes a little tutting noise behind you.

“You’ll take what I give you, baby girl,” Dave murmurs. “I’ll give you my cock when you’re ready, I promise.”

“I’m ready, you were already fucking me,” you argue back indignantly.

“You’re ready when I say you are,” Dave remarks coolly, and you stop protesting.

He works you up until you’re trembling with desire, a little sheen of sweat on your temples as the pleasure builds. It takes a while, of course–but Dave pursues your pleasure with relentless determination. Your orgasm starts to feel inevitable, and your mouth falls open in surprise as your hips start to lock into place.

“Dave, I–oh, shit–D-Dave–”

“That’s it,” Dave murmurs. “Cum for me, I fucking told you you could, let me feel it.”

You fall apart around his finger with a whine, and Dave makes a low sound in his throat.

“What did I say, hmm? Just because you need a little extra attention doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Dave keeps the vibrator on your clit until you’re squirming with overstimulation, and then, you finally feel the tip of his cock notching at your entrance.

“Don’t need to spit on it now, do I?” Dave remarks smugly. “You’re soaked.”

“Please–” is all you manage to get out before he sheathes himself completely with one swift motion.

“And now,” Dave says, bending forward to give you a little kiss on your shoulder blade–a move that’s far too tender for a one night stand–before turning the vibrator up to its highest setting. “You’re going to cum around my cock.”

This is the part that you can’t do. You can’t focus on the pleasure when a cock is pounding into you, you just can’t, as much as you want to. There’s too much unpredictability, too much that’s not in your control.

“I don’t know if I can, with the–with the—all the moving,” you confess. “It’s too much, it always has been.”

Dave makes a little hum of understanding. “That’s not a problem,” he says frankly. “Just keep it warm until you cum all over it.”

You don’t have any response, so you simply drop your head onto your forearms and surrender to the feel of the vibrator buzzing against your clit while Dave’s thick cock is inside you.

“I’m gonna stay hard just with all those little noises you’re giving me, sweet thing,” Dave coos. “All these sweet little noises, and I’ve got you trembling, don’t I? You feel that? Your legs are shaking.”

It’s true–your whole body feels as if it’s vibrating with pleasure. You whimper into the pillows and focus on the feeling of fullness–the same feeling that you were going to touch yourself to the thought of later, later–but now the little vibrator is buzzing insistently against your clit and Dave’s cock is hot and heavy inside of you.

Again, it takes time, but Dave is ruthlessly patient. True to his word, he doesn’t move a muscle inside you, and his cock stays hard as he watches you writhe below him on the bed. You don’t know how long he stays like this, but suddenly, you feel the telltale heat start to rise up the back of your spine.

“Dave,” you whisper. “Dave, it’s–”

“Louder,” Dave commands. “Give it to me.”

Your cries increase in volume as the pressure inside you finally snaps and you squeeze his cock over and over and over. Dave hisses at the feel of it and starts to move inside of you. The movement elicits aftershock after overwhelming aftershock, and you find yourself begging for him to go harder, faster, please, Dave, and of course he obliges, snapping his hips into you as you go limp, a little ragdoll being fucked into the mattress.

“Told you I was going to have you drooling and cock-drunk by the time the night is over,” Dave says with a smirk. “Look at you. I wish you could see yourself right now–I should take a picture next time.”

The sentence worms its way in among the fog in your brain. Next time?

“Let this be a lesson to you, baby girl,” Dave growls. “You do. Not. Fake. It. With. Me.” Each word is punctuated by another devastating thrust. “Say it.”

“I won’t–” you agree. “Won’t fake it with you.”

“Good,” Dave responds, his voice starting to sound more and more breathless as his end approaches. “What a fucking waste if you did, the way this pussy squeezes my cock. You can’t fucking fake that.”

With that, Dave’s hips finally stutter and he comes with a deep groan. You realize that you’re still trembling–an effect of the far-too-intense sex for simply a one-night stand. You’re feeling vulnerable. Too vulnerable. With a shaky breath, you pitch forward onto your stomach with a sigh. The fact that your head is hidden in your forearms is simply a coincidence, an inevitable result of being in this position. Not because you don’t want to watch him pick up his clothes, mumble something like “Thanks,” and leave. Nope.

You hear the telltale sounds of Dave moving without looking–taking off the condom, throwing it in the trash, grabbing a few tissues from the box on the table and wiping himself off–

“Oh!” you exclaim softly at the feel of him gently wiping you clean with a few tissues. “Thanks.”

“Turn over,” Dave says, and why can you never seem to disobey this man when he asks you to do anything?

You blink up at him dumbly, feeling small.

“Do you like breakfast?”

You frown in confusion. “Do I… like–?”

“Breakfast,” Dave finishes for you. “There’s a place not too far from here that I’ve been to before–ever been to the Jumping Bean Diner?”

“I—no.”

“They’ve got good coffee,” Dave says. “I’ll take you there tomorrow?” He raises one eyebrow in question. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that the man looked almost vulnerable.

Slowly, you nod. “Yeah,” you agree. “Let’s do that.”

Dave smiles–the second non-smirk you’ve seen from him all evening–and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“Good,” he says simply.

Letting a near-stranger you’d just met at a bar hold you close all night long isn’t something you’d normally do, but once again, you’re going through a reckless phase. You also wouldn’t normally let him lazily eat you out at seven in the morning with a vibrator pressed insistently on your clit, or buy you coffee and a massive plate of apple-stuffed french toast afterwards, but hey, like you said—reckless.

248 notes · View notes

generaldisdainn · 10 months

Note

If you're still accepting fic requests, could i request a smut fic with joel using the hitachi wand on the reader? i doubt theyd be able to find one in the apocalypse but for sexy purposes, it'll work!!

rare | joel miller x f!reader

REQUESTED ~

pairing: joel miller x afab!fem!reader

summary: all porn, hardly any plot. a rare find on a supply run leads to some new and unlikely experiences.

word count: 3.3k

rating: 18+ minors dni

warnings etc: filthy smut, pet names, use of a sex toy, bondage, squirting, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, masturbation (m), mild dacryphilia, age gap implied (reader is in their 20s/30s, joel is in his 50s), unprotected p in v sex, established relationship. NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: non, there are no rules here. however, nobody ask me how batteries work. finally working my way through requests, thank you all for ur patience <3 sorry for edging you all with this one, have some overstim to make up for it :) restraint reference | hitachi magic wand reference

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Miracles in the apocalypse are something of a rarity.

As such, the threshold for what constitutes a miracle is, by definition, considerably low.

Like today, for example.

Miracle number one is getting Joel to agree to go on a supply run with you, something he usually avoids, despite the fact that you’ve been comfortably settled together in Jackson for some time now.

“Get too distracted when I’m with you,” he grumbles whenever you offer. “Always come home with nothin’ ‘cause I’m too busy tryin’ to keep you alive.”

It’s romantic, to be sure, but if he hadn’t agreed today, miracle number two might not have happened.

Because miracle number two is all you. It’s you who, while exploring a neighbouring city, wanders down a side street and finds the abandoned sex shop, only mildly raided despite decades of opportunities (something-something-not-really-a-necessity). It’s you who discovers the library of toys, including one exceptionally ostentatious-looking one you think you’ve seen in a magazine.

“It’s not gonna work,” Joel assures you, coming up behind where you stand holding the big white thing.

“Not with that attitude,” you smirk. “But you’re probably right. Bet the battery inside’s corroded to shit.”

“Maybe with this?” Joel ponders, holding up miracle number three:

A pack of replacement Hitachi batteries still in their original packaging.

He cocks his eyebrows at you and you shoot him a winning smile back.

You won’t be coming home with nothing today.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

After some not-so expert (but certainly determined) jimmying, Joel manages to replace the internal battery in the device, plugging it into the wall and revelling at his handiwork when the thing actually comes to life.

You both eye it cautiously charging on the nightstand.

“Have you ever…?” Joel asks.

You shake your head no, even though he probably could have guessed your answer, considering most of your adult life has been consumed by the whole end-of-the-world thing.

“Have you? I mean - on someone else - have you used it?” you inquire curiously, trying to imagine a younger Joel Miller getting experimental with sex toys.

He wrings his hands together, like he’s nervous to tell you. “Not this exact kind but…yeah. Long time ago.”

The tinge of jealousy you feel for the nameless woman from twenty years ago is easily overshadowed by the knowledge that Joel has some experience in this department.

It’s one of the many things you love about him, one of the things that makes him such a reliable partner, sexually or otherwise. He’s not a perfect man - far from it - but he is, if nothing else, competent with machinery.

“Damn,” you say, impressed. “Anything I should be prepared for?”

Joel grins.

“Might wanna wait till Ellie’s out to try it,” he says slyly, leaning in to wrap his arms around your waist and nip at your earlobe. “I don’t want ya holdin’ anythin' back.”

You shiver, anticipation sending sparks to your core. You hear it in his voice too.

“That good, huh?” you whisper, already a little breathless just at the thought of what Joel's going to do to you with the toy.

“Mhmmm, s'what I hear,” he hums in your ear, planting a heady kiss to your neck before biting down gently on your jawbone.

It's enough to make you want to try it right now, but then you hear Ellie rummaging around in the living room downstairs, and yeah, okay, it can wait.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Your chance finally comes one sunny afternoon, the kind of day that any sane person would be spending outside like Ellie is, but you and Joel are not sane people.

You are two very hard up people who have been impatiently waiting half a week now for the chance to test out what is probably the last functioning vibrator on Earth.

"I was thinkin'..." Joel starts as he kisses the back of your neck, the wand staring you both down intimidatingly from its place on the nightstand.

"What's that?" you breathe, arousal already coating your voice as Joel's big hands snake their way under the hem of your shirt, lifting the fabric over your head to reveal your bare chest beneath.

"It's gonna be intense," he whispers - an enticing promise. "I want you to keep those legs nice and open for me the whole time."

He punctuates his words with a pinch of your nipples, making goosebumps rise on your skin as your head falls back onto his shoulder.

"I will," you assure him ardently, voice coming out whinier than you intend, maybe a little offended at his doubting you.

Joel chuckles darkly.

"I know you say that now, sugar, but I wanna be sure."

You crane your neck to look at him, his brown eyes staring back at you with a mischievous glint.

"How?" you inquire, earnestly desperate to do right by him, to make the experience as good as possible for both of you.

"What if I told you I took somethin' else from that shop?" he grins.

Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead, a fresh wave of arousal coating the inside of your underwear with wetness as you ponder what sweet surprise Joel Miller has been keeping from you for the last three days.

"You what?"

"Take the rest of those clothes off and get on the bed, I'll show ya," he instructs you, planting a wet kiss behind your ear that sends shivers down your spine.

You do as your told while Joel ducks off to the closet, stripping off his shirt as he goes. Your eyes wander over the thick muscles of his back, the wide set of his shoulders...god, he's so beautiful. Lying naked on the bed, waiting for him to give you this new brand new experience, it's hard not to get caught up in how truly you lucky you are to have found the man.

Clock it as miracle number four.

You don't get to bask in your adoration for long though, because then he's turning to face you with that same impish grin on his face, clutching his little secret in his hands.

"Oh my god," you say, recognition hitting you like a ton of bricks. Restraints. The kind designed to connect your wrists to your ankles and thighs, six distinct loops that will no doubt ensure Joel's request that you stay constantly open for him at all times. You feel the colour leave your face, nerves settling in your stomach.

"No?" Joel asks, instantly concerned at the look of apprehension on your face.

"No!" you protest. "I mean, yes - yes."

You try to infuse some confidence in your voice to put him at ease. You do want to try, you just...hadn't been expecting it is all.

"Guess you've never done this before either, huh?"

"Mm-mm."

Joel crosses to where you sit on the edge of the bed, cupping your face comfortingly in one of his big hands.

"Well, I got you, sweetheart," he hums soothingly, though an intoxicating darkness coats his tone. "I'll care of ya."

"Mhmm," you sigh, your eyes falling closed as you lean into his familiar, calloused touch.

You believe him.

He smiles lovingly down at you and then he's stepping back to strip down to just his boxers, the thin fabric barely veiling his semi-hard cock.

He inches closer to you, placing his hand firmly against your neck now, something new burning behind his eyes.

"But you oughta know right now - I'm not lettin' up," he vows then. No mistaking the darkness in his voice now. "Even when it's too much. You're gonna take what I give you, alright?"

You swallow harshly, biting your lip as arousal mixes with nerves - the good kind, the kind that make your heart race and wetness grow between your legs.

"Yes. Yes, Joel."

Joel runs the hand on our neck up and through your hair, coaxing you down onto your back, but not before propping a pillow up under your head.

"Open your legs wide for me, sugar."

You do, and then Joel is climbing onto the bed beside you. You watch intently as he, with careful concentration, holds your legs open and fastens you into the restraints, interlocking your legs with each of your wrists so you're fully on display for him, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.

But Joel's not focused on that yet.

"How's that feel, sweetheart? Not too tight?" he asks first, because he cares and because he's Joel.

"Good," you promise him. It's true. You can't move your arms and your knees have been forced open so wide that the muscles in your hips strain but, to your shock, you find that it feels...exciting.

Joel smiles, finally sitting back to take in the sight of you and revel in his handiwork.

"You look so goddamn pretty, darlin'," he says reverently. "So fuckin' pretty all open for me like that."

Fuck. You're dripping just from the build-up and the praise, cunt throbbing with need for him.

"Touch me, Joel, please," you whine.

"Mmmm, we'll see how long you're saying that," he says somewhat threateningly, leaning in to kiss your neck, his hot breath on your tender skin clouding your focus and making you dizzy.

But Joel's not interested in keeping you waiting. He slides his hand slowly over your breasts, squeezing lightly at your perked nipples while his mouth continues to nip and kiss over your clavicle. You moan softly at his touch, then louder when his hand finds purchase over your wet heat, coating his fingers in your wetness before rubbing soft circles over your swollen clit.

"That feel nice, baby?" Joel whispers into your skin, his lips trailing down your chest to take one of your nipples in his mouth and flick his tongue over it.

"Fuck, yes Joel, god...you're so good to me," you sigh, because it deserves to be said aloud. His delicate touch, the care he takes; it's all-encompassing and it's barely even started.

You feel him smile against you as he increases the pressure of his fingers on your clit, finally sinking one of his long digits into you, right down to the knuckle. In no rush, he adds a second, then a third, finally reaching across you with his other hand to circle your clit while he fucks the fingers of his other hand in and out of you methodically.

Your eyes flutter closed, it's so good - Joel knows exactly how to drive you wild; he's made you come like this hundreds of times. But it never gets old, even when he removes the hand he has on your clit so he can duck down and lick his tongue deliciously over the bundle of nerves instead.

You're already moaning and squirming under him, in a daze with pleasure when -

"Think you're ready for it, pretty girl?"

Oh shit. The wand. You'd forgotten about the fucking wand.

"Yeah - " you say, realizing how true it is, your eyes shooting open to see him curved domineeringly over you. "I'm-I'm ready."

Joel presses a soft kiss to your mound before pulling back to grab the toy off the nightstand. You watch with anxious wonder as he clicks it on, flinching unconsciously at the dull buzzing noise it emits.

"I'll start it low," Joel says, eyes boring into yours.

"Okay."

You lay your head back, and let Joel get to work.

His movements slow and deliberate, Joel tentatively hovers the wand over one of your nipples and -

“Holy fuck!"

You involuntarily arch away from the acute sensation. "That's low?"

Joel just gazes back at you with an eyebrow cocked disapprovingly.

"I warned ya, sweetheart. Stop your squirmin' now."

You take a deep a breath and try.

Just to be sure, Joel holds you steady with a firm hand on your ribcage, as he starts to work the rounded end of the toy back over your breasts. You flinch when it makes contact with one of your nipples again, breath catching in your throat as Joel begins to circle it over the sensitive bud, feather light, letting you adjust to the feeling.

It doesn't take long, the shock of the vibrations quickly dissipating into paralyzing pleasure and going straight to your cunt, puffy and soaking between your spread-open legs.

Joel doesn't ignore your pussy either, rather, he attentively slides his hand over your wet heat and slips two thick fingers inside you again, fucking into you while he continues to press the toy, with more pressure now, over your hardened nipples.

"Oh my god, Joel," you keen amid a series of cacophonous groans, your head falling back hard on the pillow behind you.

You know the sounds you're making are obscene, know they're also driving Joel crazy. You can feel his cock, now rock hard, pressing into your side through his boxers; you'd reach out to touch it if you had the hands to.

It's already overwhelming but then he removes his fingers with a low grunt, which you realize is his way of preparing you for what's coming next. You a chance a glance at his hand around the wand, watching with bated breath as Joel moves it down over your font to swipe it from the bottom of your cunt up to your clit, before pulling it away entirely.

You actually scream, your knees attempting to close in on yourself protectively despite the restraints. "Shit!"

Joel's not having it. He forces your legs open further still with a solid hand on your knee.

"Stay with me, baby, come on, now."

You can't watch as he experimentally places the end of the toy over your folds, just a gentle tap, before pulling it away again. He repeats that same pattern over and over, chuckling darkly at how you cry out each time the wand makes contact with your needy cunt.

Before you think you can really handle it, Joel presses the wand down then, hard, over your clit, simultaneously turning up the power to its next speed (if you can recall, it only has two: holy shit and holy fuck). You arch up off the bed, your thighs instinctively trying to come together again even though they can't, your hands longing to grab onto something, clenching into fists when you find that, they too, can't.

Joel keeps that same solid hand under your breast, forcing you back onto the bed as you whine and squirm under the toy and the force of his body weight pinning you down.

"Tell me how it feels," he commands you, his voice gruff.

Intense. Agonizing. Overwhelming. Amazing. But all your mouth can muster is -

"So good - a lot - "

"Mmmm, you can take it." He says it like it's an instruction and you're faintly cognizant of him stroking himself under the hem of his boxers, getting off on your heavenly torment.

Now he shoots to kill - sliding the toy down into your wet heat and back up to your clit, soaking it thoroughly in your juices. He repeats that motion mercilessly, and you feel your release building then - a dull buzz deep in your core like an echo of the electrical hum of the wand against you.

It would be more than enough - would have been more than enough - but then Joel is dropping the grip he has on his cock to glide two fingers into you again, focusing the toy over your clit as he fucks his digits into you expertly, the combined pressure with the toy making your tummy tighten and your toes curl.

"You gonna come for me, sugar?" he growls like he doesn't already fucking know.

"Fuckfuckfuck, yes, Joel I - " your desperate mewling is cut off by the sensation of him crushing the balled edge of the wand over your clit at the exact moment his fingers hook and hit that spot inside you.

"Takin' it so well, sweetheart - fuck - you look so good," Joel praises you, his cock now visibly dripping precum through his boxers.

“Come for me now."

"JoelJoelJoel - " you wail, your entire body jerking as you come around his fingers, involuntarily squirting as you do, soaking the sheets under you and splashing Joel beside you.

That’s new.

"Fuck, yeah, darlin'," Joel praises you. "Goddamn, that's so good."

He doesn't let up the beckoning curve of his fingers inside you as you come, keeps the toy firmly planted over your clit so you just keep coming like that, over and over.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

Finally, finally, Joel pulls back, taking the toy and his fingers with him as you gasp for air.

"Good job, sweetheart," he commends you, ducking down to plant a tender kiss over your spent heat as you attempt to catch your breath.

But the momentary, beautiful, ridiculously good peace is short-lived.

He's moving in again with the wand.

"Joel - Joel - I can't - please," you beg when he suddenly returns the end of the toy back to its place over your clit.

You try in vain to move away or close your legs but you can't - it's no use.

"What'd I say, sweetheart?" Joel grumbles, forcing your knees apart again. "You're gonna take what I give ya."

"S'too much - Joel - " you groan, clawing at nothing.

"You're okay." Again, it sounds like an order.

You squirm and jerk but you can't get away - he just holds it there, unrelenting, as the pulsing vibrations start to border on painful. He maneuvers out of his boxers then and strokes his hard cock, getting off on the sight of you whining and whimpering and weeping with overstimulation.

Then he starts to shift his place on the bed, moving so he's situated between your legs.

"Joel - wait - "

You want him inside you - of course you do - but every nerve ending in your body is pleading for respite, tingles of pleasure fading into an arduous sting more akin to pins and needles.

But Joel's already lining his thick cock up to your throbbing hole, sinking himself into you and holding the toy steady against your clit as he does.

"I can't, Joel, I can't - " you shriek as he stretches you open.

"Yes you can, sweetheart. Been so good for me."

That has you moaning out again, the praise softening the ache of the overwhelming sensitivity. You turn your head (like that could help you get away) while Joel fucks in and out of you with brutal force, the toy still violently buzzing against your clit, so good it hurts - and you can't stop it - tears prick at your eyes and spill out into your ears.

"So pretty when you cry, angel," he grunts as he fills you to the brim with each punishing thrust.

"Fuuuuuck, Joel, please..."

You're not even sure what you're begging for anymore.

Because despite it all, you feel pressure building inside you again, excruciating sobs fading back into moans of bliss as another climax starts to bubble in your core.

Joel senses it.

"That's it, sweetheart," he keens, his voice hoarse and hungry. "You're gonna give me another one, aren't you?"

You didn't think it possible but your body can't contain it - Joel's cock taking up your cunt and the sensation of the toy assaulting your clit turns the pain to pleasure one last time and -

"Yes - yes - yes - Joel, I'm gonna come - "

Joel groans ravenously when you come for the second time around his cock with a laboured cry, squeezing and soaking him and you swear you feel yourself black out for a second, seeing spots as your body goes numb, Joel still crushing his hips into yours with tenacious force.

"So good, baby, so good for me..."

But his voice sounds very far away now, as he throws the toy down on the bed, still humming away, gripping your sides furiously and pounding into your limp form, desperately searching for his own release.

You're distantly aware of his noisy grunt when he comes inside you, his broad form hunching over you, his muscles trembling as he fills you with his hot seed.

You're still whimpering away under him, pussy spent and sore. Joel pulls out and you gasp at the feeling of his length sliding through your wasted folds. He quietly helps remove the restraints from your wrists and ankles while you stay perfectly still, save for the aftershocks still sending shivers through your depleted form.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

Joel chuckles. Had you said that out loud?

At last, you bring your knees together, hips and thighs aching and weak. You curl into Joel's chest, sticky with sweat, slowly coming down and melting into a hazy state of euphoria.

"Was that too much?" Joel asks a little too knowingly (the bastard), still out of breath as he gently wipes away stray tears from your cheeks.

You just laugh, too blissed-out to reem him out properly.

"Nah, I think I could do one more round," you say sardonically.

"Oh yeah?"

Joel snakes a hand down between your bodies, slipping his fingers between your legs to barely hover them over your mound and you physically jolt away from the touch, a pathetic whine escaping your lips as you squeeze your legs shut tight defensively. "You sure about that?"

You shudder without meaning to, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth.

"Okay, fine, give me a few days," you concede with a contented sigh.

Of course, it’ll be miracle number five if you can even walk by then.

END.

just tagging some folks who i think will be interested (aka the people who replied to the teaser post and who liked my tag list post earlier today) (some tags didn't work, i've crossed out those ones sorry babies)

@pedgito @midnightswithdearkatytspb @eviiyone @joelscruff @chaseispunk @cutesyscreenname @beskarandblasters @tieronecrush

@lovebandrry @megangovier20 @eggnox @strang3lov3 @detectivedaughter @pedrostylez @sad-smol-princess @moriartyyouwhore @ievutebebe @fandomoniumflurry @kamcrazy123 @livinxdeadxgrl @isitcool-thatisaidallthat

@gold-dust-prude

#Yesssss #so. fucking good

2K notes · View notes

generaldisdainn · 10 months

Text

What a Pair we Make

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: dd/lg dynamics (no age play, although he gives her lots of stuffed animals and cutesy things), daddy kink, spanking, kink negotiation, mentions of abusive relationships and bad childhood, edging/orgasm denial, PIV sex, fingering

Summary: A series of short scenes depicting a very loving growth and evolution of a dd/lg relationship with Marcus.

A/N: There’s no plot to this. I just love, LOVE, LOVE writing conversations about kink negotiation and discussing kink and the cute sort of awkwardness they can carry. The following is just several related ‘slice of life’ scenes that don’t really connect other than the throughline of a kink relationship, inspired by some unhinged DMs with @littlebirdsbookshelf. It’s mostly soft, although there is some explicit smut in some scenes. Dividers are by @firefly-graphics. Please note: reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent and has trouble communicating when upset, although no specific diagnosis is ever mentioned.

A Further Note on Setting: There is a scene in which these two go to the National Zoo, but the actual zoo I’m describing is based on the one I regularly go to, both for plot conveniences and because I do not want to spend hours looking at a Zoo map to write my dumb stories. And because rays are cool.

Masterlist

You fume as you stalk into your building, slamming the elevator button several times in rapid succession, as if you could solve all of your problems by hitting this one button.

You’re not sure who you’re mad at. The VP of Sales, for giving you a very public dressing down for your “leadership” on the doomed project you were handed two months into your employment, that–shocker–ended up being implemented poorly, with not enough resources to achieve all of your goals? Your boss, who didn’t say a goddamn thing during the worst Zoom meeting of your life, not sticking up for you or standing up for her team?

Or are you mad at yourself for the sum of your small mistakes and missteps early on, caused both by lack of leadership support and your own naivete? Are you angry at your idealistic optimism, charging headfirst into this job and happily taking on new responsibilities, not understanding that you were being handed this project because no one in their right mind would want it? Or… are you upset because, at the most critical moment, you couldn’t manage to form the words to actually speak up for yourself, choking on your successes and looking like an idiot in a meeting where it felt like everyone was out to get you?

Of course, the easiest punching bag is always you. You, who’s always struggled in one way or another with fitting in, and now the entire sales team knows your name and hates you. You, who’d bounced around from dead-end job to dead-end job before finally landing this first big break–a tiny little cog in a massive organization, where anonymity is your friend, and you hide in plain sight behind massive spreadsheets and reply-all emails. When shit hits the fan, though, you stumble on your words, your tongue feels thick in your mouth and all the thoughts in your head can’t seem to find their way out of your mouth.

You’re not cut out for it, you decide as the elevator dings, announcing your arrival on your floor. You may as well quit, before they force you out. Which is fine, half the time you’re hardly a functional human being, let alone able to manage this failed project, the ire of your coworkers, and still somehow cook dinner for yourself.

It’s too much.

The door opens with a bang, and you flounce into the living room and throw yourself down on the couch. Marcus’s shoes had been on the mat beside the door, so that means he’s home before you, probably in the bedroom changing out of his work suit into something more comfortable. The two of you have lived together for about three months now, and have slipped into an easy routine.

Sure enough, in a few minutes, Marcus comes out of the bedroom, wearing track pants and a plain gray t-shirt. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully, coming around the back of the couch and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“Mm,” you respond, shrinking away from him even though you crave his presence. You always do this–you push everyone away, isolate yourself, your own worst enemy.

“Someone must’ve had a bad day,” Marcus remarks, not dropping his friendly demeanor. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I’m a failure,” you state dramatically. “Literally. This project is tanking, and it’s my fault.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Marcus says gently.

“It is,” you insist. “And even if it isn’t totally my fault, even if the damn thing was doomed from the beginning, it doesn’t matter, because I’m being blamed. Very publicly, I might add.”

“Really?” Marcus sinks down on the couch next to you. “Where the hell is your boss in all of this?”

“It’s no secret that she’s scared to death of our VP,” you mutter. “She’ll never say a word against him.”

“That’s shitty management,” Marcus says, ire in his tone over your treatment.

“Yeah?” you snap. “Well, it’s fucking happening, I don’t have any control over it.”

“Hey, I know,” Marcus replies. “It’s nothing against you, I was just saying–”

“Isn’t it?” you demand, your voice becoming high-pitched and shrill. “I might get fired, and it’s my fault.”

“I–I really don’t think that’s true, and even if it is–”

“I’m not cut out for this,” you say suddenly, putting your face in your hands. “I don’t think I’m one of these people who can handle the normal, day-to-day pressure of corporate America. I just don’t think I can. I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re plenty strong,” Marcus assures you. “You are.”

“I’m a basket case.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” you counter. “Remember last week when I freaked out when the store was out of zucchini, and I had to make an entirely new plan for dinner? Who does that?”

“Some people have a harder time with change,” Marcus points out diplomatically.

“Ugh!” you cry. “You’re no help!”

“What can I do?” Marcus asks softly, touching your arm, trying desperately to forge a connection, and it makes you feel even worse for lashing out. Through all things, Marcus just wants to feel connected, and here you are, pushing him away because of your own personal bullshit.

“I don’t know,” you cry out, just so frustrated with everything that you can no longer carry on a reasonable conversation about it.

But then, almost unbidden, an image flashes through your mind. You blink several times in rapid succession to dispel it. No, that’s ridiculous.

“What?” Marcus presses, noticing the change in your expression.

“N-Nothing would help,” you say. “It’s just my own personal shit that I have to work through.”

The image returns. You, laying in Marcus’s lap, getting the catharsis you need through something physical–

“Okay,” Marcus says, frowning. You can tell he doesn’t buy it.

You can’t stop thinking about it, now. His hand coming down on you again and again, finally giving you a reason to let go of it all. No. Marcus wouldn’t. He doesn’t mind rougher sex, sometimes, but he’s hardly sadistic about it. Everything he does, he does for your pleasure and enjoyment.

That wouldn’t be about pleasure or enjoyment. It would be about release. Just… being allowed to feel things instead of being stuck in your head.

“You know,” Marcus says softly, “you can tell me anything. I promise, no matter what it is, I’ll want to hear it.”

You shake your head from side to side.

Except, your denial lets Marcus know that there is something on your mind.

“I just want to understand,” he murmurs, his hand stroking a gentle path up and down your arm.

“I don’t know what I need,” you mumble. “But I keep–I can’t stop thinking about–”

Marcus nods patiently, but doesn’t speak.

“I–I wonder if you would… spank me,” you say under your breath.

Marcus’s eyebrows raise. “Come again?”

See? You knew he wouldn’t go for it. “Never mind,” you say, shaking your head again. “I just… I dunno, some kind of physical release feels like it could… help.”

“Hang on,” Marcus says. “Don’t dismiss it. Let’s talk.”

"It's stupid," you protest.

"You haven't even given it a chance," Marcus points out.

"It was a fleeting thought," you say.

"Was it?"

"...No," you whisper. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"About being spanked?" Marcus asks.

"About you. Um, spanking me. Not just in general. You," you clarify. Marcus is an integral component of this fantasy. You've never wanted this before, but something about this relationship with Marcus makes you want… something more. Something as-of-yet undefined and unexplored.

"About me?" Marcus asks, smiling. He scoots closer, putting his arm around you on the couch. "Tell me."

"I just feel… safe, with you. And sometimes I think about how you… take such good care of me. And it makes me want… I don't know."

"Makes you want… more?" Marcus supplies.

"I don't know," you repeat quietly. "I'm not… I'm not wording this right, I can't find the words right now, I'm not in the right headspace," you murmur. "I'm stupid."

"That's certainly not true," Marcus says firmly.

"I c-can't talk right when I'm having a rough day," you stammer. "It's too hard, I–"

"Then don't talk," Marcus says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. "I'm gonna ask you a few questions, and you can just nod or shake your head, okay?"

You sink with relief, nodding.

"Okay. Question one," Marcus says with a sheepish expression. "Do you want me to spank you?"

You can't keep eye contact, but you nod, looking down at your hands.

"Okay," Marcus replies softly, reassuringly. "Next question. Can I trust you to say 'stop' or tap my leg if you need to stop?"

Another nod, still looking down.

"Last question," Marcus says, and you can hear his smile. "Do you love me?"

An easy one. You bob your head up and down rapidly, making eye contact and smiling for the first time that night.

Marcus’s smile widens. "I love you, too. And hey–I'm always here to help, okay? No matter what it is you need."

You nod again.

Marcus scoots back, sitting back on the couch. "Come here," he instructs quietly. "Come lie across my lap."

You feel silly as you come to your stomach, face down in Marcus’s lap. You consider saying 'never mind,' but part of you is so curious, wanting to feel this so much, you don’t open your mouth.

Marcus gently pulls your leggings and underwear down, and you inhale sharply. You didn't expect him to do that. It sends an extra frisson of desire down your spine.

"Still okay?" Marcus asks, noticing the small tremor.

"Yes," you whisper.

Marcus's fingertips gently trace up and down your cheeks. "How many should I give you? Ten?" he asks, his voice a little rougher than normal. Does he like this, too?

You think for a moment. Ten doesn't seem like enough, not if you want to really feel it.

"Fifteen," you whisper.

Marcus is quiet for a few moments. "Okay," he says. "Fifteen."

His fingers stop tracing you, and you automatically tense in anticipation. You count your breaths for stability–one, two, thr–

Marcus’s hand comes down on your left cheek and you squeak in surprise. It stings, but it's not too bad. It's the jolt that startles you more than anything.

Another sharp sting on your other cheek, and you press your lips together and whine softly.

"Why are you being punished?" Marcus suddenly asks above you.

Oh. You have no idea, you didn't think about this at all.

Slap. "Come on, sweetheart. Tell me why."

You suck in a breath and try to think. One thought comes to you immediately.

"Because I'm being stupid," you mumble bitterly, thinking of your inexplicable outburst earlier.

Smack. "That is absolutely not it," Marcus says, his voice far more firm than it had been before. "I want you to really think about why for the rest of your punishment," he says, before dealing you another hard thwack on the alternating cheek.

It already kind of hurts. He's done what, five? And you can already feel your cheeks burning with friction. You try to think about Marcus's question, you really do, but already your mind feels like it's emptying, unable to focus on anything but the sharp stings on your ass as Marcus deals out six, seven, eight, nine–

You start crying on ten. Huge, globular tears that run down your face as you sob in relief and pain.

"Remember to say 'stop' if you need," Marcus reminds you, but he doesn't stop. His hand comes down for the eleventh time and you give up trying to staunch the flow of tears and simply cry loudly into the couch cushion.

After the twelfth, Marcus asks, "Now do you know why you're being punished?"

You don't. You shake your head as you continue to sob.

Slap. "Because you're not being kind to yourself," Marcus says firmly. "And I can't stand to watch you beat yourself up over and over." Smack. "So it stops now, understand? I don't have any problems doing this again."

His hand pauses for a moment. "Tell me you understand," he says.

"Yes," you sob, open-mouthed, as all the tension you've carried all day–or hell, much longer than that–breaks, and you feel like you're floating away when Marcus delivers the last devastating slap.

The punishment has stopped, but you can't stop crying. You take huge gulping breaths of air as you try to get yourself under control, and Marcus is pulling you up and into his lap properly.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You can cry. You don’t have to try and stop yourself.”

You nod your thanks into his shirt, clutching at him desperately.

“Shhh,” Marcus soothes. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The two of you sit there for God knows how long. You, sniffling softly into Marcus’s shirt, and him holding you through it. The longer you sit there, the more you realize: the internal pain you’d been feeling has been washed away, replaced by a bone-deep sense of relief.

Eventually, the tears subside, and a wave of gratitude washes over you. You close your eyes, breathing Marcus in.

“Are you feeling okay?” Marcus asks quietly.

“Yeah, actually,” you answer at the same volume. “I really do feel… better.”

“It helped?”

You nod. “I just kind of feel… blank, and floaty.”

“That’s good,” Marcus says.

“Did you–” you start. “Was that–okay? Like, it wasn’t too much, or… bad, or–”

“I don’t like causing you pain,” Marcus begins, and you cringe. “No, hang on,” he says. “But I do feel good when I give you something you want, or need, and it–it seems like you needed that, in a way. And,” he says, swallowing. “I, uh–” he ducks his head, chuckling.

“What?”

“Well, turning your ass bright red like that was… surprisingly hot,” Marcus admits, blushing lightly.

You let out a watery laugh and tighten your hold on Marcus. A word escapes your lips, then. One word that, in hindsight, would change your relationship, your life, forever.

“Daddy.”

Whispered, barely audible, muffled by his shoulder. More of a reflex than anything else.

Marcus’s only reaction is a sharp intake of breath that he lets out slowly. His hand gently rubs up and down your back. You don’t think he’d heard, but then, just as quiet–

“I’m here. Daddy’s got you.”

“Can we talk?”

For a moment, you panic. That phrase has never heralded anything good in your life, ever. Seeing your alarm, Marcus quickly changes tactics.

“Nothing bad, I promise. I wanted to talk about last night,” Marcus says, sitting down next to you.

Oh. Right. Last night, when you’d asked Marcus to spank you out of nowhere after having a bad day. Well, technically, it wasn’t out of nowhere. It hadn’t been the first time that mental image wormed its way into your brain, but it’s not like you know how to actually talk about something like that.

“I’m sorry if that was weird–” you begin.

“Not weird. I may be wrong–but I don’t think I am–” Marcus says, grinning, “–but liking to be spanked is very common.”

“I know,” you grumble, your face heating exponentially. “I’ve been on fucking Pornhub, too.”

Marcus laughs loudly. “Caught me,” he teases. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. “What, then?”

Marcus swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “You… you called me something,” he says quietly. “And I can’t get it out of my head.”

You don’t say anything right away, waiting for Marcus to continue. Eventually, he does.

“I hear it in my head every five minutes, I swear,” he says with a little huff of laughter. “And all I know is that I wish I could hear you say it again.”

“Daddy?” you whisper with a small smile.

You don’t miss the way Marcus shudders. “I don’t know why I like that,” he laughs softly.

“I may be wrong, but I don’t think I am,” you say with a grin, mirroring Marcus’s earlier statement, “but liking being called ‘Daddy’ is pretty common.”

“Touche,” Marcus murmurs, grabbing your hand and kissing your palm.

“What a pair we make,” you say softly.

“I think we make the perfect pair,” Marcus protests.

“I like calling you ‘Daddy,’” you admit, your voice barely audible. “You–you take such good care of me. I’ve never felt more… safe, with anyone,” you tell him. “I know I’ve mentioned that my, uh, my childhood wasn’t a great one. My mom… she fled an abusive relationship in the middle of the night and took only me and what she could carry,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh. “I remember fucking crying because I had to leave all my stuffed animals behind. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing? We were fleeing for our lives, and my dumbass was worried about–”

“Shh,” Marcus hushes you quietly, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You were a kid. You didn’t know.”

“Anyways,” you mutter, “I spent the next, I dunno, twenty years? Feeling unsafe and unmoored, and now suddenly there’s–” you swallow, “–there’s you, and it’s the healthiest, most positive relationship I’ve ever had, and I feel like I can finally… exhale. Does–does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Marcus murmurs, between kissing your forehead and temples over and over again. “Yes, honey, it does.” He’s quiet for a while, the both of you just existing together in the moment, reveling in the security of Marcus’s arms. After a long while, he speaks again.

“What was your favorite? Of the things you left behind,” Marcus asks you softly.

“Oh,” you say, laughing softly. “I had this bunny. It came with a book that I loved–The Velveteen Rabbit. My mom used to read it to me, and I’d just flip through and look through the pictures when I was alone,” you tell him.

“What happened to the book?” Marcus asks, but you can tell from his tone that he already knows the answer.

“It’s long gone,” you say wistfully. “Wish I knew what edition it was.”

Marcus abruptly pulls you into his lap for a crushing hug. “I’m glad you feel safe with me,” he says, emotion choking his voice. “Please, always feel that way.”

“I will, Daddy,” you whisper, burying your head in Marcus’s neck. “I really, really will.”

You don’t know why it surprises you that, in less than a week, Marcus has a gift for you. Coming home from work, you walk into your bedroom to change into some sweatpants, and nearly fall to the ground at the sight that awaits you.

On the bed, propped up on the pillows, sits a simple brown stuffed bunny with large, floppy ears that look impossibly soft. And, sitting next to it, is a book with an old, worn cover.

You gasp and surge forward to pick it up, flipping open the front cover and raking your eyes over the title page. The Velveteen Rabbit.

“It’s a first edition,” comes a soft voice behind you.

You spin, and Marcus is leaning in the doorway, watching you with a small smile.

You pick up the rabbit next–it feels just as soft as it looks–and hug it to your chest, burying your face in its soft fur.

You don't remember the last time someone purchased something so simple and yet so meaningful.

You look at Marcus with unnaturally shiny eyes. "Daddy…" you whisper with a watery smile, "I love it."

"Come here," Marcus says, and you don't have to be told twice. You stride forward, bunny still clutched tightly to your chest, and allow yourself to be wrapped in Marcus's arms.

"Thank you," you whisper into his chest.

"You might not have gotten what you needed, what you deserved as a child," Marcus murmurs into your hair, "but that won't happen with me."

Your breath catches at the quiet ferocity in Marcus's tone, but at the same time, a little sliver of doubt worms its way into your brain. This isn't his responsibility, it says. This is too much of a gift for him to possibly give you.

"You don't have to, I dunno, take care of me or anything like that," you tell him in a small voice. "I don't want to just be a… a burden."

Marcus huffs a laugh, as if you'd just said something incredibly ridiculous.

"Oh, honey," he chuckles, "I've never wanted anything more."

It doesn’t happen all at once–there are many more funny, sometimes awkward discussions where you and Marcus hash things out, negotiating this new side of your relationship.

The crux of all of them, though, is that, for the first time, you feel safe just being… you. You start to indulge more in the little things that bring you joy–things that you might have dismissed as frivolous or silly before, but now that Marcus is really paying attention, he notices.

Like he notices one day in the supermarket, when the two of you are buying groceries for the week, how your eyes linger on a bin of stuffed toys near the checkout. Already in line, your cart full of groceries, you look down at them, one hand reaching out briefly to touch a cute little avocado with big, sparkling eyes and a tiny smile. Something in its goofy expression makes you smile, giggling softly at the toy.

Normally, you’d continue through the checkout aisle, putting down the stuffie with one last fond smile and returning to the task at hand, putting your groceries on the conveyor belt. When you turn, though, Marcus is watching you–with the same fond smile.

“Here.” He picks up the same stuffed avocado you’d been admiring. “Is this one your favorite?”

“It’s–it’s nice,” you say, “but it’s fine, I mean–it’s silly, what am I doing to do with–”

“Let me spoil my baby girl,” Marcus murmurs in your ear. “Let Daddy spoil you, honey.”

He hands you the toy with a crooked grin and a quick kiss on the forehead, and you can't contain the happy smile that spreads across your face. "Thank you," you whisper.

"Of course," Marcus answers softly. "Now help me with the groceries, hmm?"

As your comfort level grows, you realize that it’s not just about feeling a newfound sense of joy, getting to experience things that you’d lost out on as a kid. It’s not really about those things at all–it’s about safety. It’s about care, and protection. It’s not about the silly, blush-pink socks with little bows on the ankles that you like to wear around the house, kicking your feet as you type on your laptop, it’s about the care and the trust they symbolize. You’re safe to be completely and utterly yourself, to be vulnerable. You can allow yourself to slip back to a time where you felt the most vulnerable, except this time, Marcus is here to catch you.

As much as you feel safe and fulfilled by your new dynamic, Marcus seems to thrive in it as well. Now that you’ve essentially given him license to lean into that part of him that just wants to take care of you, he doesn’t hold back. You know by now that Marcus likes to be given a direction, and now that he has this, he blazes forward with enthusiasm. Marcus likes to be useful, and it’s as if you’ve handed him the world’s most powerful tool.

Marcus has always wanted to help you, whether by going to a few of your therapy sessions and holding your hand, or simply by being patient when you struggle to find your words. He’s one of the few people you’ve known that doesn’t try to finish your sentences or speak for you.

It makes you finally start to feel comfortable in your own skin, like you’ve finally come to the realization that you don’t have to try to be any different, not even for Marcus. On hard days, when you need his touch but don’t necessarily have the words to ask for it, you know that all you need to do is gently butt your head into his arm or shoulder, and he’ll turn with a soft smile and kiss the top of your head while he winds his arm around you.

You’ve never had anyone’s touch be so soothing.

Even still, there are bad days. Days where everything is too much and the words are caught in your throat and like the fighter you always have been, you push through it with sheer, stubborn bullheadedness until you collapse on the couch and draw a blanket over your head and breathe, like a little ghost haunting your living room for a little while.

“Hi, honey.” The words are always so soft-spoken, like he’s afraid he’ll startle you, as if you hadn’t heard the click of Marcus’s key in the lock moments before.

“I’d like to try something, is that okay?” he asks, and you nod.

“Can I see that pretty face?”

After a few more breaths, you lower the blanket and are greeted with the warm, brown eyes of your partner, and, in spite of yourself, you smile a little.

“There she is,” Marcus says softly. “My little girl.” He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. “Will you follow me?”

When you nod, Marcus stands and walks to the bedroom with you in tow. When he strips off his shirt, you look at him warily. You can’t, you think. The sensory overload would be…

“Do you trust me?”

You nod for the third time, and Marcus approaches you and gently pulls your shirt over your head as well.

“Come lay with me,” he says, taking your hand and pulling you with him as he gets on the bed.

You allow yourself to be enfolded into Marcus’s arms with a shaky sigh. He gently pulls you on top of him, so that you’re laying fully on his chest, and his hand trails up and down your spine. You have to admit it, the feel of Marcus’s bare, warm chest against your cheek and the rise and fall of his breaths is already starting to loosen the tight coil of tension in your body.

Your eyes fall closed and you surrender to the feeling of being surrounded by Marcus. He doesn’t speak until your breaths lengthen and the muscles in your shoulders start to relax.

“I read this study a while back,” he murmurs, and you feel the words against your cheek when he speaks, “that skin-to-skin contact affects adults just as much as it does infants. There’s a whole range of physiological responses–heart rate goes down, blood pressure goes down, cortisol, anxiety levels, pain…” he huffs a little laugh, running the backs of his fingers up and down your neck. “I told myself I’d try it the next time you were having a hard day.”

You smile and tighten your hold on Marcus. “Such a scientist,” you murmur. “Testing hypotheses and whatnot.”

Marcus chuckles, and you smile too.

“It’s not a good study,” you tell him. “Your sample size is one.”

“Well,” he concedes with a smile. “Then we’ll have to do this again.”

You do. It becomes a habit on bad days, so much so that all you need to do is nuzzle your face into Marcus’s chest and tug at his shirt and he'll chuckle affectionately, pulling you over to the couch and letting you lounge, topless, against his bare chest as you watch a movie with the sound turned low.

It's never sexual, even with your breasts exposed and your nipples pebbling in the cool air. There's always a clear distinction between this, the loving way in which Marcus cares for you on bad days, and the times when you're intimate. Before Marcus, you'd never paid all that much attention to non-sexual touches, but this man seems to thrive off of touching you. He has an uncanny ability to make something as tame as a caress of your shoulder into something highly erotic, while at the same time showing you that even touching an intimate area–like the way his hand gently rests on the underside of your breast as he holds you–can be comforting and chaste.

"Daddy," you whimper pitifully. "Just… just a little longer, just a little more, just–argh!" You let out a cry of frustration as the little vibrator leaves you again and Marcus pauses the timer on his phone.

"Four more minutes," he announces.

"I can't go four more minutes," you whine.

"You said that at ten minutes, too," Marcus teases.

"You always say you like to spoil me," you pout. "Why are you making me wait?"

"I am spoiling you," Marcus counters playfully. "Think about how good it will feel when you're finally allowed to come."

You writhe uselessly on the bed, your hands restrained loosely above your head by a pair of lacy pink cuffs with little bows on them. They're only velcro; you could pull out of them easily, but you hardly want to. You know how much Marcus likes the look of you like this, and you get off on the feeling of perceived helplessness.

"Besides," he says, rubbing soothingly up and down your inner thigh. "Oh, how I love seeing you beg for me. I love seeing you like this. Daddy's little mess."

Marcus touches the little vibrator to your clit and restarts the timer, and you keen in frustration as you try to keep yourself under control. "C'mon, just four more minutes," he says. "You can do it."

Fifteen minutes, he had said, holding up your little vibrator. Fifteen minutes of this before you're allowed to come.

You've somehow managed to last eleven without completely breaking apart, but the last four minutes are torture. You're so close to the edge that he has to pause every thirty seconds or so, and whenever he pauses, so does the timer.

"Two minutes," Marcus murmurs gently. "You're doing so well. You're being so good for me, baby girl." He pauses the timer again and rubs his hand up and down your arm. "So good for me," he repeats quietly as you shake for him. "Catch your breath, it's okay."

The next two minutes might last a lifetime. When he stops for what seems like the tenth time and you let out a high pitched whine of frustration, Marcus brushes the hair from your forehead and says, "You've got twenty seconds left. I'm not gonna pause again, but you have to be a good girl for me and hold it there the whole time without coming, can you do that?"

You nod, biting your lip with determination. "Okay, Daddy," you whisper.

"Good girl," Marcus whispers back.

He restarts the timer and you try to take deep, even breaths, not allowing your body to do what it wants and fall off the edge. It feels impossible, especially when Marcus announces fifteen and then ten, and it feels like you can't possibly last another second. He starts counting slowly down from five, four, three, but your body is already seizing up as you fight the inevitable. The heat rises inside of you, and all you can do it grit your teeth and hope you can make it to one, when your mouth falls open and you start to come.

Marcus drops to his elbow beside you, not moving the vibrator from your clit, and hovers close to your face, whispering little praises as your pussy clenches violently.

"Perfect," he soothes. "Perfect girl. See? It feels so good when Daddy makes you wait, doesn't it?"

You nod pitifully. "Thank you, Daddy," you whimper.

"No, no," Marcus chuckles. "Thank you, baby girl. You do so well for Daddy."

"I want to feel you," you tell him softly. "Will you fill me up?"

Marcus smiles wickedly as he pushes his underwear down, freeing his cock. "Baby," he says with a chuckle, "Daddy will fill you up anytime you ask."

He lines himself up and, keeping his face close to yours, slowly pushes inside.

"My girl's choice," he rasps. "Slow or fast?"

"Hmmm," you smile teasingly, thinking about it for a moment. "Slow."

"Oh yeah? You like it when Daddy takes you apart inch by inch, don't you?" He asks as he reaches the deepest point within you.

"Yes," you answer blissfully, tipping your head back as he starts to to thrust, undulating his hips perfectly slowly, just like you'd asked.

“You wouldn’t believe the day I had,” Marcus says as he collapses onto the couch next to you.

“Oh! That bad?” you ask, curling into his side.

“No, just… really unbelievable. There was an elephant at my crime scene.”

Immediately, you pull back to look at him. “What?”

Marcus smiles at your reaction–from the glint in his eyes, you can tell he did it on purpose. “I swear. A real, live elephant.”

“Why?” you say with a little laugh.

“I was at the Smithsonian National Zoo,” Marcus explains, grinning. “One of the pieces the elephants painted was stolen.”

Now you’re even more confused. “The elephants… paint?”

“Yeah, you know, they train the elephants to hold a paintbrush, and they auction off the paintings for fundraisers,” Marcus says. “They’ve got a little gallery in the exhibit.”

“I’ve never been,” you say quietly.

“To the National Zoo?”

“To any zoo.”

Marcus’s lips part, and for a moment his eyes are sad–mourning for something you never had in the first place, before he perks up, realizing that now he gets to be the one to show you.

“Well,” he announces. “We’re just going to have to change that, aren’t we?”

Just a few short days later, you’re wiggling with excitement next to Marcus as you stand in line outside of the zoo.

“Excited?” Marcus teases.

“Yes,” you answer matter-of-factly, not bothering to hide it.

Marcus’s eyes crinkle as he grins. “Good. Where to first?”

Your eyes flit from sign to sign as you enter, momentarily overwhelmed by your choices and unsure of where to begin, before something catches your attention, and you know exactly where you want to go.

“Aquarium!”

You love it from the moment you walk in, taking in the darkened room lit by the otherworldly glow of the water. The first large glass window you come to contains an entire coral reef, with hundreds of different types of fish and one very ugly green eel that makes you giggle.

“Look,” you whisper in awe, hardly able to tear your eyes away. “Daddy, look.”

“I am looking,” Marcus says beside you, but when you turn, he’s not watching the fish at all.

He’s watching you.

“What?” you pout.

Marcus smiles and shakes his head. “Nothing, baby girl.”

His hand is always a comforting weight at the small of your back as the two of you stroll slowly through the gallery, until you come to a room with one large, open tank with low walls. Lips parting in surprise, you rush forward to look. It’s full of rays, swimming slowly, moving majestically and gracefully around the tank.

“You can touch them,” Marcus says beside you.

“What?” “The rays. You can touch them.”

You finally notice that many of the people around the tank have their hands submerged up to their elbows.

“No way,” you whisper.

“Yes, ray,” Marcus jokes beside you, and you elbow him in the ribs.

“Daddy.”

Marcus chuckles and you step forward, leaning over the tank and slowly sliding your hand into the water.

“I’m afraid I’m going to freak out if one of these things touches me,” you say with a giddy smile. “Do you think they’re slimy?”

Marcus shrugs. “I dunno, I’ve never touched one.”

“Stick your hand in the water.”

“You first,” he laughs. “Look, here one comes.”

You press your lips together with excitement as one of the rays swims along the side of the tank toward the two of you. It passes just under your hand, and you gasp as you feel its skin below your fingertips.

“Oh,” you exclaim softly. “Oh, that’s weird.”

"Weird?" Marcus laughs.

"Yeah, it's like, the smoothest thing I've ever felt, but it's soft and spongy."

"That is weird," Marcus says, his nose crinkling. "Hey, look, it likes you."

Sure enough, the ray turns around and comes by for another pass, one fin gently splashing the side of the tank as it swims by. It does it again and again, and you watch it with a disbelieving expression.

"Believe it or not, rays are quite social," a zookeeper says, noticing your odd companionship. "They can be playful, splashing people to show off, and they can form bonds."

"It does like you," Marcus breathes, watching the ray swimming underneath your fingers.

"That one's been through the ringer," the zookeeper comments. "It was rescued from a fishing net. See the big scar on its fin?"

You blink, looking at a line of darkened skin that you'd thought was simply color variation. "Oh," you whisper. "Poor thing."

"She's usually not very social," the zookeeper says. "I've never seen her do this."

"Is that right?" you say, smiling softly. "Are we friends?"

You stay there for a long time, until your fingers are pruny, in awe of the strange friendship.

Marcus, as always, is patient, and ends up chatting with the zookeeper, who's happy to share information about her research to the two of you.

"Hey," Marcus finally says, with an amused smile. "We've got a lot more zoo to see."

"I know," you say quietly, strangely reluctant to leave.

"This isn't the only time," Marcus assures you softly. "We'll be back."

Smiling sheepishly, you nod and withdraw your hand from the water, waving goodbye to the ray.

"That was the weirdest thing," you say with a laugh.

"That was adorable," Marcus hums, kissing your cheekbone.

The two of you walk through the rest of the zoo, you tucked into Marcus's side as you look at every exhibit. Finally, you find yourself back where you started at the entrance.

"C'mere," Marcus says, grabbing your hand. "One more thing."

He pulls you into the gift shop, smiling as you take in every conceivable type of stuffed animal lining the shelves.

"Pick your favorite," Marcus says.

"I don't know if I can narrow it down," you say with a laugh, overwhelmed with the sheer number of choices. But you walk up and down the aisles, looking at seals, tigers, penguins, orangutans, and sloths. They're all so cute. You bite down on your lip, looking around as you consider, and then you see it.

Back in one corner of the store, an entire shelf dedicated to…

"This one," you whisper, picking up a stuffed southern ray.

"How did I know?" Marcus chuckles.

You pause, a decades-old cycle of doubt worming its way into your brain. "Are you sure?"

Marcus frowns. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You always get me so many things… you spoil me too much."

Marcus raises one eyebrow in challenge. "I don't spoil you too much. I spoil you just the right amount."

He gently takes the ray from you, pays for it, and hands it back. He's quiet on the walk to the car, and it's making you uneasy.

"Daddy… are you mad?"

"What? No. God, no. I just…" Marcus sighs, leaning against the car. "I hate to think that you see this as spoiling you, baby girl. I don't see it spoiling you. I see it as giving you everything I want to give you. Everything you deserve."

"Daddy," you breathe, starting to tear up.

"You're everything to me," Marcus says quietly. "So I'm gonna give you everything. And if all I have to give in exchange for literally everything I want in my life is a few stuffed animals? Baby, you're getting the raw deal, here."

You laugh a watery laugh. "His name's Pancake, by the way."

"Pancake," Marcus chuckles, opening the car door. "That's cute, baby girl. Did you have a good time?"

"Of course I did," you answer. "I always do with you, Daddy."

"Daddy, aren't you going to bed?"

Marcus gives you an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, baby, Daddy’s got a big press conference tomorrow and I'm nowhere near prepared."

"Oh," you say, disappointed. "But I'm really tired."

“That’s okay, you don’t have to wait up for me.”

“But I miss you when you’re not there,” you pout.

Marcus looks up from his laptop with a wry smile. “You want Daddy to come tuck you in?”

You let out an involuntary shiver at his words.

"Yes, please," you whisper.

He grins. “Go get ready for bed, then. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You giggle and hop up from the couch, hurrying to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You throw on your favorite tank top to sleep in, leaving only your underwear on the bottom. As you’re getting into bed, Marcus comes in and sits beside you on the bed. He kisses you unhurriedly, taking his time moving his lips sensually against yours. You sigh into his mouth–he’s such a good kisser. Just as you start to lose yourself in the act, Marcus smiles against your lips.

“Lay down, baby girl.”

You obey, smiling dazedly up at him as your head hits the pillow.

“What’s Daddy’s rule?” Marcus asks softly.

“Don’t move,” you answer dutifully.

“That’s right. Get nice and comfortable for me.”

You arrange yourself half on your side, half on your stomach, with one leg bent to the side and Pancake tucked under one arm.

“Good girl,” Marcus whispers. His fingertips trail down your spine, over the fabric of your underwear, and then down, where he gently pulls them to one side to allow his other hand to touch. He sucks in a breath when he dips his fingers dip shallowly into your pussy, collecting your slick and rubbing it onto your clit. “Always so wet for Daddy, aren’t you?”

“Mmhmm,” you sigh contentedly into your pillow as Marcus starts rubbing in slow circles..

“My perfect girl, do you like it when I play with you?” he teases.

“Of course I do, Daddy,” you answer. “Would like it better if you gave me your c–”

“Shh,” Marcus chastises. “Not tonight, baby girl. I’m just trying to help you relax.”

You whine softly and shift your hips impatiently, and Marcus stops.

“No, no,” he chuckles. “Stay still for Daddy.”

“Sorry,” you whisper, taking a deep breath and letting it out as Marcus’s fingers start to move achingly slowly on your clit.

“Don’t be sorry,” Marcus soothes. “You’re doing so well for me. Look at how relaxed you are. You look so sweet, lying there and letting me take care of you.”

Your breath starts to come in pants, and you have to fight to keep yourself still as the pressure inside you starts to rise.

“That’s it,” Marcus whispers. “Nice and slow.”

Marcus is a patient man. He doesn’t rush toward your climax; he never speeds up the movement of his hand. He slowly builds you up until the fall becomes inevitable.

Your hands tighten into fists when Marcus finally pushes you over the edge; your mouth falls open and a little, ragged whimper comes out. Other than that, you don’t move a muscle as you come undone, and it brings all of your focus to the way your pussy clenches over and over again.

“Good,” Marcus whispers. “Good girl.” He gently pulls your underwear back into place and covers you with the blanket. “I love you so much, baby girl,” he whispers into the skin of your temple.

“Daddy,” you say softly, your eyes already closed. “You do a really good job. You take such good care of me.”

Marcus is quiet for a minute. “I’m glad,” he finally says, his voice rough with emotion. Clearing his throat, he adds, “I’ll be with you soon.”

His lips ghost against your temple once more before you hear him padding out of the room.

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generaldisdainn · 1 year

Text

I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT!

Control will be available in Paperback and on Kindle on JUNE 20TH!!!! You can pre-order the kindle version NOW, RIGHT HERE!

Pre-order sales are important for Amazon's algorithm, so if you are interested in this book at all, please pre-order a copy! I'm so very excited for you all to read Control!!!!

I'll have more announcements coming soon, such as when the paperback will be available to pre-order, etc. **Both versions SHOULD be available worldwide!**

#YAY!!!!

127 notes · View notes

generaldisdainn · 2 years

Note

Could you help me find a fic potentially? I’m pretty sure it’s about Javier and the reader. They share an apartment and he hears/listens to her masturbate with a vibrator. Eventually she comes over to his place to ask for batteries bc her vibrator died and then they end up fucking haha. It’s really good and I cannot find it for the life of me!

I love a Javi neighbor fic but this one isn’t ringing a bell. Anyone else?

#boosting bc I also want to know!!!!#this sounds so good

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generaldisdainn · 2 years

Text

“It’s a benediction, a final devotion to her–slowly dragging the clothing down her legs and helping her step out of them.”

I am in awe of how beautiful this is. My heart is full.

Yours

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Rating: E (SMUT, 18+ only)

Word Count: 9.1k

Warnings: slightly dark!Marcus, controlling!Marcus, BDSM relationship, HEAVY D/s dynamics, total power exchange relationship, sprinklings of smut, pregnancy and childbirth, home birth, descriptions of labor, birth, etc., nothing TOO graphic but birth is disgusting so… if there’s anything I missed that you think should be tagged please do let me know.

Summary: His heart is hammering as she picks the test up and turns it over, both of them seeing the result at the same time. Two little lines. Two.

A/N: Alternate title: Marcus Barely Holds His Shit Together For Nine Months. This is from Marcus’s POV, and it starts going back in time a little bit since we found out at the end of the last part that SURPRISE! she was already pregnant. They would have visited his family sometime in the first trimester between weeks 8 and 10. The most heartfelt, over-the-top enthusiastic of thanks goes to the incredible @leslie-lyman for the beta, for letting me scream about this idea for WEEKS in her DMs, and, last night, letting me spam her with literal home birth pictures like a fucking weirdo.

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Week 4, 5:11 PM

“Hello, my love.” Marcus smiles warmly as he walks in to find her–his pretty wife–waiting so sweetly for him on her knees by the door as she has almost every day since she catapulted herself into his life.

She’s wearing a pretty silk nighdress–the one he had picked this morning. (He truly can’t help himself, he has a thing for her in dresses–knowing he can slide his hand up her bare thigh as she washes up after he makes dinner, or as they sit on the couch together, reaching higher and higher, until she squirms.)

It’s as if the day resets when they do this–her, on her knees, looking up at him with adoration, knowing he'll take care of her. Him, going to her and pressing his hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb against her lip, perhaps letting his fingers tease at the little leather collar around her neck.

He does this now, and she leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed in contentment as they complete this little ritual they’ve built into their day. Their little oasis. Theirs.

When her eyes blink open again, Marcus cocks his head to the side at her expression. Something is on her mind, he can tell. She doesn’t look anxious, exactly, but it’s close. Worry? Anticipation? Excitement?

“What’s going on?” he asks her softly, running his fingers gently along her collar.

“I feel weird,” is all she says.

When she doesn’t clarify, Marcus squints a little in confusion. “What do you mean, you feel weird?” he asks.

“I dunno,” she whispers, “like, weird weird.”

That doesn’t clarify anything. Marcus doesn’t feel like he needs to say this thought out loud, so he simply raises his eyebrows and waits.

She swallows. “I think I wanna take a pregnancy test.”

Has all the air been sucked out of the room? That has to be the only explanation. Marcus cannot breathe. He manages to choke out, “Aren’t you due any day now?” (He knows exactly when it should be–since the first unsuccessful month of trying, she has been obsessively tracking her cycle, and his life has been taken over by tracking apps and temperature checks and ovulation charts as his little doll tries to control the uncontrollable.)

“Yeah, but it doesn’t feel right, you know?”

No, he really doesn’t know, but he’ll always trust her instincts.

“Okay,” Marcus says weakly. “D-do you need me to go get one, or…?”

“I have one,” she says quietly. “I was waiting for you.”

“Okay,” he repeats, with a little more conviction this time, as his mind starts to get back online. The momentary instinct to panic is over, replaced by the urge to protect and care and guide, so he crouches down to where she’s kneeling–staring up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes–and smiles. “C’mon,” he says, brushing a few stray hairs behind her ear, “let’s go.”

He takes both of her hands in his and pulls her up, giving her a little reassuring hug before she pads through their apartment and into the bathroom. Marcus sits on the edge of the bed, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs as he waits. He doesn’t have to sit for long before she’s emerging again, looking small.

“T-the package says we have to wait fifteen minutes,” she says shakily.

Marcus hates seeing her nervous. He always wants to take it all away–all her worries, everything that scares her, or stresses her out. They’ve been trying for three months now, and with each unsuccessful attempt, she’s grown more and more frantic. He’s tried desperately to keep her from shouldering all the blame herself, but in the end, all he can really do is hold her and tell her it’s okay, that he loves her, and he’ll love her no matter what.

He pats his thigh, and she smiles gratefully before striding over to him and dropping to her knees again, sighing happily as her head comes to rest on his leg. The universe seems to have brought him his perfect match, he muses. What did he do in this life to deserve her? His fingers stroke the side of her neck absentmindedly as they wait together.

After ten minutes, she asks, “I know it’s only been ten minutes, but do you think we can check anyway?”

Marcus smiles at her anxious-yet-hopeful expression, and playfully chucks her under the chin. “Let’s go see,” he says.

His heart is hammering as she picks the test up and turns it over, both of them seeing the result at the same time.

Two little lines.

Two.

Marcus’s reaction is nearly instantaneous–grabbing her and pulling her into him, wrapping his arms around her, her, her. He can't hug her enough–not close enough or hard enough or long enough, but dammit, he'll try. Perhaps if he squeezes hard enough he can stop himself from completely breaking down, stop his shoulders from shaking with silent, grateful sobs. A family. He’ll have a family.

"You're hurting me," she murmurs into his chest, and he realizes how desperately he must have been gripping her.

"Fuck," he exhales in apology, loosening his hold and dropping down roughly onto his knees on the bathroom floor before her, pressing kiss after frenzied kiss to her lower stomach, and she squeals and giggles at his actions.

It's not enough, it's not enough, he needs to feel more of her, feel her skin, her warmth, her heartbeat, so Marcus stands and lifts her into his arms, carrying her to the bed and laying her down.

He moves between her legs and lifts the hem of the sundress and there's her soft skin–and he nuzzles her tummy and kisses it again and again and again until they're both laughing and breathless.

"Perfect." He whispers it like an invocation into her skin. "Perfect, perfect, perfect."

Week 7, 6:17 PM

Marcus whistles to himself as he adds a final pinch of rosemary to the pork chops sizzling in the pan. He's been at it for what feels like hours, but they smell delicious, and he hopes they won't make her nauseous. She's barely been able to eat anything, lately, and it's making him nervous. He saw her eat three saltine crackers for lunch, and he's fairly certain she threw up all of her breakfast.

She needs a good, filling meal.

He wipes the sweat off his brow. Hopefully "maple balsamic bone-in pork chops" will do the trick. Hell, they smell amazing to him; he'll definitely be trying this recipe again.

Marcus tiptoes into their bedroom and smiles fondly at her lightly snoring form, sprawled on the bed. He had come home to find her like this–half in her work clothes, half in her "home" outfit, apparently having abandoned the task and fallen fast asleep. Poor thing. Constantly nauseous, and exhausted.

He hates that there's nothing in his power to actually help. All he can do is offer support, holding her hair back or encouraging her to have another cracker or rubbing her back as she snoozes on the couch, but none of those things actually take away her suffering. He hates being powerless.

"Hey, sweetheart," Marcus murmurs, dragging his fingers across her shoulder blade. "Dinner's ready."

"Oh!" She sits up blearily, looking around in shock and confusion, and then down at her halfhearted attempt to get dressed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"You needed it," Marcus tells her, kissing her on the forehead. "Let me help you put on some sweatpants or something, then we can go eat dinner."

When she gets to the kitchen, she immediately throws her hand over her mouth.

Oh. Shit.

She shoots him a desperate, broken look. "I'm so sorry," she wails. "Oh, God, you worked hard on this and it–it's–fuck!"

Marcus watches with a grimace as she retreats quickly back to the bathroom to throw up. That… that did not work. He looks back at the pork chops longingly–God, they smell good–and pushes down his frustration. It's not her fault, obviously, and they'll make good lunches for him for a few days

He comes into the bathroom with a glass of water to find her slumped over the closed toilet, sniffling pitifully, clearly having just been sick again.

"I'm sorry," she whimpers again. "I'm sure it's really good."

"Hey, don't worry about that," Marcus says, kneeling next to her and wiping her tears away. "I'm more worried about the fact that you've barely been able to keep anything down this week."

"Me too," she whispers. "I'm supposed to be gaining weight, but I've lost some instead."

Marcus nods and pulls her in for a hug. He'd noticed. Her face has been looking a little more drawn, lately.

"Tell me what you need," he entreats. "What do you think you can keep down?"

"I don't know!" she cries, frustrated.

"Shhh, okay. You want me to bring you some crackers?" he asks.

"Those things taste like cardboard," she mutters. "I wish I–hey!" she suddenly exclaims. "What's that soup they serve at hibachi restaurants again?"

"Uhm, miso soup?" Marcus squints in confusion.

Her eyes are suddenly as wide as dinner plates, enthusiasm and hunger in her expression. "Yeah," she breathes. "I think I want that." She pulls back to look at him hopefully. "Please, Sir?"

Marcus nods slowly. "Miso soup it is."

Week 8, 10:31 AM

Marcus feels as if his skin itches when she's beside him like this and he can't touch her. Or, at least, touch her like he wants to. He wants to take her onto his lap and watch her curl into him instinctively the way she does–as if he actually can take all of her worries away simply by holding her.

He settles for lightly tracing the little gold chain around her neck with his fingertips, smiling when he sees a few goosebumps rise to the surface of her skin.

They’ve been at the doctor’s office for what seems like hours, now–her first appointment. She’s had an endless array of tests, including drawing what Marcus feels is an unnecessary amount of blood, before moving on to the ultrasound.

He can still hear the telltale ‘whubwhubwhub’ of its heartbeat in his head as he sits now, waiting to have a consultation with their doctor. Just thinking about it gives him goosebumps–they had watched, hands threaded together, as the grainy image of a little blob that would become their child had appeared on the screen. She had immediately burst into happy tears (Marcus had mostly hidden his), and he had resisted the urge to gather her into his arms right there on the little bed.

The doctor finally comes in, and the two of them are questioned extensively about family health history and the like. When she asks about their birth plan, Marcus can feel his sweetheart stiffen beside him.

“Birth plan?” she asks.

“You know, where you want to give birth–at a hospital, birthing center, whether you want a midwife, that sort of thing. I’m going to assume hospital?” the doctor asks, looking to the two of them for confirmation before making a note in her chart.

She nods, but Marcus can see the little furrow on her brow that indicates her uncertainty.

On the drive back to work, she’s quiet, staring out of the window with that same little frown and a faraway look in her eyes.

“What’s on your mind?” Marcus asks.

“The doctor put down ‘Hospital’ before I really had a chance to think about it,” she answers. “The more I think about it, the more I don’t really want that.”

Marcus frowns. He hadn’t given thought to anything but giving birth at a hospital. Hospitals are safe. Hospitals have NICUs. A large staff of doctors and nurses should something go wrong. Blood. Medicine. The memory of sitting next to her hospital bed with a needle in his arm, donating blood for her after she was shot, flashes through his mind.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks.

“You’re going to tell me this is insane, but what if we did a home birth?”

Marcus blanches. “A what? Sweetheart, what if something goes wrong?”

“We wouldn’t be alone,” she says quickly. “We could get a midwife. I want to be able to have our baby at home, with you. If we were in the hospital you’d just be shoved to the side, feeding me ice chips or whatever. They wouldn’t let us… be us.”

He glances over at her as he drives. “Be us?”

“I know you,” she says with a small smile. “I know you want to be involved, to be more than just an accessory, an afterthought. I–I want… I want that too. You know how… how safe I feel when you take care of me,” she murmurs. “You wouldn’t be able to really do anything at the hospital–or if you did, they’d judge the shit out of us. I wouldn't even be able to wear my actual collar.”

Marcus chuckles. “Whether you can wear your collar will be the least of my worries on that day,” he jokes.

It’s the wrong thing to say. She bursts into tears–she’s been prone to that, lately–and snaps, “It’s important to me. It makes me feel secure and I’m going to need all the fucking help I can get when I push a live fucking human out of my vagina!”

“You got it,” Marcus agrees seriously, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from quirking upwards at all. She’s adorable when she’s angry, but he knows better than to point that out.

Week 10, 1:51 AM

"Hey. Hey."

Marcus startles awake. "What? What's wrong?"

"I've been thinking," she says, sounding wide awake. "I don't want to know the sex of the baby. I want it to be a surprise. What do you think?"

"Yeah," he agrees tiredly. "Sure, sweetheart."

He collapses back on the pillows.

"Hey."

"Yeah, honey," he mumbles, sleep already pulling him under.

"Do we have any ice cream?"

Week 12 7:48 PM

She's showing.

Marcus didn't realize that he could possibly crave her more, but then he'd never before seen her with the adorable beginnings of a baby bump. It’s subtle–just barely peeking out of her clothes, only truly evident when she’s naked, and fuck if he doesn’t wish he could have her in his bed, naked and wearing only her collar, every hour of every day.

He feels like a man possessed. More and more, he finds himself having to hold himself back–and not making her come over and over until she cries every time he has her. Not waking her up in the middle of the night when he slides his cock inside her again, taking her slowly and gently, listening to her little gasps and pants in the darkness. Not fingering her in his lap when they watch TV, or bending her over the counter as they make dinner.

He tries to satisfy this urge by touching her nearly constantly. She's still tired a lot, so they've been spending lots of evenings watching movies on the couch, and he's taken full advantage. He likes to hold her against his chest, smiling when she tips her head back against his shoulder with a sigh, baring the column of her neck for his fingertips to trace up and down. He'll absentmindedly play with her hair, or draw little shapes on her palm, or drag her onto his lap and suck little bruises into her neck until she's begging for him. (Okay, so he does still finger her in his lap quite a bit.)

When they're out, he always keeps his hand on her back, her neck, her arm, or just gently holding her hand as they walk. He hopes he isn't seen as overbearing–by her or by any outside observer–but he's always felt as if he'll implode if he doesn't reach out and touch her, and that feeling has increased tenfold now that he can physically see the evidence of their love, of the fact that she's his–growing larger every day until he has to buy her maternity clothes.

They make her look even cuter.

She’s wearing some now–a pair of leggings and a cute little tunic that highlight her growing belly. The weather has been atrocious this weekend–storms in the morning and a constant drizzle of rain throughout the afternoon, and she had announced over breakfast, after another loud clap of thunder, that she was going to watch all three Lord of the Rings extended editions today, because she’s pregnant and she can do whatever she wants.

Keeping her on the couch all day to touch and cuddle and hold is Marcus’s idea of a dream weekend, so he had quickly agreed, settling down with her nestled between his legs, wrapped in a blanket, as the rain continued to pelt the windows.

She knows every line, it seems. She keeps absentmindedly mouthing along, matching the cadence of each phrase perfectly. They’re nearing the end of the third movie, finally–celebrating the last battle with a bowl of popcorn that he keeps playfully dropping into her mouth as she reclines on his chest, making her laugh every time.

When the credits roll, she whines and says she needs him and he is all too happy to indulge, licking her sensitive cunt until her thighs tremble on his shoulders before bending her over the couch and taking her as slowly as he can stand.

It seems as if all her nerves are hyperactive in pregnancy, and if Marcus thought she was responsive to him before, it's nothing compared to the way she sobs and gasps and fucking screams into the couch cushions as he takes her apart now.

It's no wonder he wants her all the time when she sounds like this–a little broken thing, panting and crying and begging him–more, more, more.

He'll always give it to her.

Week 15, 12:37 AM

Marcus slowly blinks awake, realizing their bedroom is being lit by the dim light of a phone screen. He rolls over to see her scrolling with one finger, an adorable little frown on her face.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks quietly.

“Had to pee. Couldn’t get comfortable again,” she grunts. “And I think–I think I have an idea for where to find a midwife.”

“Oh,” Marcus says. “You’re up researching midwives in the middle of the night?”

She shoots him a look that seems to say, “duh.”

Marcus smiles to himself. “Are you going to be able to go back to bed if you don’t tell me about it first?”

“No, Sir.”

He chuckles. “Hit me with it.”

“I’ve been doing some reading on that BDSM subreddit I follow, and I saw a post from a domme who specializes in home births for BDSM couples, after she and her wife had a really negative experience at the hospital because she couldn’t be there in the way her wife needed, and so she became a midwife to help other couples through it,” she finishes quickly in one breath.

“She’s not located too far away, I thought maybe… maybe, if you were okay with it, we could contact her.”

Marcus nods slowly. “You know I don’t love the idea of something going wrong, and we’re nowhere near a hospital,” he says carefully.

She nods rapidly. “If anything is weird about the pregnancy at all, we won’t do this,” she agrees. “We’ll do it at the hospital. But if everything is normal…” she bites her lip, looking vulnerable. “I just really love the idea of being able to be at home, be with you, have you be involved and–and be able to help me, take care of me, and…” she trails off, her voice small.

Images flash through Marcus’s brain. Holding her while she labors. Gently bathing her. Comforting her as she cries. Helping her through it. Holding the baby. Holding her and the baby. Just the two of them–three–of them, no one else in the way.

“Contact the midwife,” Marcus agrees quietly. “I’d like to talk it through, first.”

She lets out a pleased squeal and tackles him onto the bed, and he knows at that instant that he’s made the right decision. He chuckles and returns the embrace, brushing her sleep-mussed hair back from her forehead to give her a gentle kiss.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Of course,” Marcus returns. Silly thing–doesn’t she know he’d do anything she asked? He would find a way to move mountains for her.

“Oh my God,” she suddenly murmurs under her breath.

“What is it?”

“You know what sounds really good right now?” she asks. “Hot wings.”

And that’s how Marcus finds himself driving to the nearest bar that’s still serving food, scrolling hopefully through their menu on his phone before making the call.

Week 17, 11:27 AM

Marcus is immediately taken by the midwife.

Vivian is cheerful, has a dry wit, and a no-nonsense, blunt manner of speaking about childbirth that Marcus deeply appreciates. It seems as if everything he reads, everyone he speaks to glosses over the particulars in a way that makes him more anxious. He knows he’s a ‘worst case scenario’ type of person–he needs to know specifics or he’s just going to worry.

Vivian gives them classes to go to, items to buy in preparation, and doesn’t spare any details about the messy reality of home births. It’s a lot to take in, and Marcus is still skeptical–but she promises, with a gentle hand on his arm, that it’s worth it.

“You’ll both appreciate it so much more,” she assures them, and Marcus believes it.

She tells them her story–how they went to the hospital for the birth of their first child, and her wife had ended up having a panic attack that the team of doctors and nurses did not take seriously. Vivian had been pushed to the side, feeling useless and unable to intervene, watching her wife struggle without being able to give her what she needed.

The births of their two subsequent children were done at home, after Vivian had done the necessary training to become a midwife. She’s been helping BDSM and otherwise unconventional couples do home births ever since.

“It’s a big commitment,” Vivian tells them both, looking at his wife with an honest expression, “especially for you. It takes a lot of strength and a hell of a pain tolerance, but if you’re willing to do it, I personally think it’s worth it.”

Marcus watches her with a fond smile as she nods her head seriously. She swallows thickly and squares her shoulders. “I can do it,” she announces.

Marcus smiles wider and drapes his arm over her shoulders, playing with the leather band around her neck absentmindedly as he looks over at her.

“I know you can.”

Week 19, 2:19 AM

“Marcus. Marcus.”

“G-wuh?” He startles awake, blinking in the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

“Feel this,” she says breathlessly, grabbing his hand and pressing it to her bump.

At first, Marcus doesn’t feel anything. Then, it happens.

A minute twitch of her belly, just hard enough that he can feel the disturbance against his palm.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, my God.”

Their little baby, kicking and squirming enough for him to feel it on the outside. It feels like a miracle. Okay, obviously, given the human population of the earth, it’s rather commonplace–but this is different. This is theirs.

Another little tap against his hand has him smiling so big it hurts. He leans over to kiss her temple adoringly, then bends down to do the same with her belly.

“Hi, little one.”

Week 25, 7:31 AM

Marcus smiles from the bathroom doorway as she does her makeup in the mirror. She's getting big now, so adorably round, and he can't ever seem to stop staring.

She meets his eyes and gives him a little crooked smile.

"Did you take your prenatal today?" he asks.

"Crap!"

He tsks playfully and steps in close behind her, flush against her back, and closes his hand around her throat, pulling her head back to rest on his shoulder.

"That's three days in a row you've forgotten and I've had to remind you," he chastises gently, his lips against her ear, making her shiver.

She grimaces. "I don't know why it's so hard to remember those."

"Speaking of nothing in particular, do you know what my favorite way to punish you is?" he asks teasingly.

She gives him a faux-angry look (she's terrible at hiding her smile). "What, Sir?"

"I like to make you hold my cock in your mouth without moving," he rasps in her ear, delighting in the way her knees seem to buckle as she slumps back against him. "I like to see you struggle to keep it as deep as I ask you to take it. I like watching how hard it is for you to stay still like that, how you can't even swallow around it properly."

She's panting, whimpering in his ear as he speaks to her, and he smiles wickedly. "I'll let you think about that all day at work today."

He meets her eyes in the mirror, gives her a chaste peck on the temple, and walks back out of the bathroom.

"Better hurry up, my love, or we'll be late."

Week 30, 5:07 PM

Marcus smiles as he opens the door to find her kneeling there waiting for him as she always does.

He'll never get tired of that sight.

His breath catches when he looks down at her. She's so… round, so full of life, of him. She does have a glow about her, although every time he tries to tell her that, she rolls her eyes and tells him that it's sweat. It's more than that, though. It's the look in her eyes and the fullness of her cheeks and the extra shine in her hair, and he watches her in awe most of the time as she goes about her day.

A palm to her jaw, a "Hello, my love," and he's extending his hand and pulling her up and she struggles to her feet in the most adorably awkward, ungainly way possible and Marcus grimaces–this can't be good for her.

"I think you need to stop doing that," Marcus remarks as he kisses her forehead.

"Why?" she pouts, obstinate.

He chuckles. "It doesn't really look like it's comfortable to you at all."

"Kneeling is comfortable, it's getting to my feet that's the problem," she protests with a wry smile.

Marcus turns her around, pressing her back against him and cradling her belly, lifting up ever so slightly, and she moans in relief as he takes some of the pressure off of her lower back.

"Can't be making sounds like that, my love, or I'm going to drag you to bed and have you for dinner instead," he growls in her ear.

She giggles and tips her head back against his shoulder with a sigh. "How am I supposed to wait for you if I can't kneel anymore?" She sounds so disappointed that it simultaneously makes his heart swell and break.

"Well, right now I'm thinking you can wait in our bed, instead," he teases. "It would save me the effort of taking you there anyway."

"But I'm really hungry," she whispers, and he laughs.

"Okay, okay," he soothes. "Dinner first. Then dessert."

Week 32, 9:24 PM

“Give me one more, Sweetheart.”

Marcus crooks his finger inside of her and she keens for him and fuck, he’s so hard that it aches but he can’t allow himself to press inside her–not yet, not until he’s had his fill of watching her come like this.

He watches his finger pump in and out of her pussy with lust in his eyes. The area is darker, fuller as she gets farther and farther along. It’s also so sensitive that some days he barely has to touch her puffy, pink clit before she’s falling apart in his arms.

And so he does it again and again and again until she’s pushing helplessly at his shoulders.

“C’mon, come for me again,” he says darkly. “I know you want to.”

She sobs and nods frantically, her hips starting to rock against his hand again and he stops fucking her and just rubs back and forth on that spot inside her, hoping he can make her–

“Shit!”

Marcus watches with a smug sense of pride as she gushes around his hand. Good girl.

“Again,” he growls, pressing harder on her g-spot and rubbing at her clit with his other hand.

“You already said ‘one more,’” she gasps, throwing her head back as her spine arches reflexively.

“I’m saying it again,” he replies.

“Please, Sir, I can’t–” she cries out, her voice wavering.

“Yes you can.” Marcus drops his voice to a soothing murmur. She always jumps to obey him when he orders her quietly, don’t think he hasn’t noticed. All he has to do is whisper a little suggestion in her ear, keeping his voice low and gentle, and she gets all pliant and docile for him, closing her eyes and whimpering as his voice draws goosebumps to the back of her neck.

“No…” she whimpers.

Marcus pauses. “No as in ‘red,’ or no as in ‘you’re playing a role?’” he asks quietly.

“No as in red,” she whispers.

He slips his finger from inside her pretty cunt and immediately lays down and draws her to his chest, turning her a bit so that she’s on her side with her belly supported.

“Okay,” he whispers in her ear. “You did such a good job for me, sweetheart.”

“I’m so sensitive,” she whines. “It’s a double-edged sword. I want you to make me come over and over but I–”

“Shh, I know,” he soothes. “Poor thing. It’s okay, I’ll take care of you. Why don’t we go get in the bath?” he suggests. “Make all those aches and pains go away.”

“That sounds amazing,” she murmurs sleepily.

Marcus smiles as he gets up. “Let me go turn on the water.”

“Wait!” she cries, and he stops mid-stride in a panic.

“What’s wrong?”

“...I have to pee again.”

Week 36, 6:42 PM

Marcus's thoughts have been dark today. As the day that they'll bring a new life into the world draws nearer, he can't help but worry about his fitness as a parent.

Will he do a good job? Love them as they deserve to be loved?

Truthfully, he had written off the idea of having a family as something he'd never be able to have after his divorce from Shannon, the "good Catholic girl" his parents had pushed him to marry.

He had done it because he had wanted a family–wanted one desperately, and he thought marrying her was the answer.

He'd loved her fiercely, as he always does–and she had backed away, telling him not to be so intense.

He had told her everything, trusting her with his tastes in the bedroom, wanting her to know him and to know everything about her in return, but it was clear from the start that they weren't exactly compatible.

He had tried anyway–after all, he'd just wanted a family and was still far too concerned with making his parents proud, being the son they wanted him to be.

It was exhausting, being everyone for everybody.

He was still young and relatively inexperienced and he had the audacity to be shocked when she told him he was depraved.

It was an accusation she'd hurled at him during their last big fight–that he'd never find someone willing to put up with him long enough to have his children.

She'd called him crazy.

He'd believed it.

Even putting his prior relationship hangups aside, there was the problem of his upbringing, something that's kept him up at night far more often than the baseless accusations of his ex-wife.

Marcus didn't have the best model for fatherhood growing up. Is he doomed to repeat the same mistakes? Is he patient enough? Lenient enough? Easygoing enough to handle a child?

His father was a strict disciplinarian. Marcus’s biggest fear is mirroring that behavior, and the fact that he's so incredibly comfortable exerting control over his little doll, delighting in her helplessness, enjoying how she looks when she's being punished, his cock getting even harder when he sees her tears…

Well, it makes him worry that he's not only become his father, he's worse.

No. No, no, no. He's different now. He's changed. He does these things not just because it makes him achingly hard to see her tied up and begging for him, or because it brings him so much pride to see her on her knees, but because it's something she wants, too.

He can calm her with a look, can empty her chaotic brain by overpowering her other senses. He's able to take his overwhelmingly intense emotions and channel them in a way that helps her manage hers.

Marcus smiles. She's helped him see himself in a different way. At the start of their relationship, he couldn't fathom why she was choosing to be with him after he laid out all his faults on the table, all the reasons why he wouldn't be good for her. She ignored them.

Find someone whose mess matches your own, she had told him.

She had shown him that he wasn’t unlovable. He was just waiting for her.

Her. God, he'd do anything for her.

That's when he realizes with a sharp intake of breath–he's not a strict disciplinarian. He'll give her anything in the world. He's helpless when it comes to her. He's never felt so raw, so vulnerable in his life than in the time that they’ve been together. He chuckles to himself. How could he ever have thought he was strict?

He'll give her anything.

All he wants in return is her love.

When he worries about whether or not he’s become his father, he foolishly has been thinking only of their more extreme activities, and he's discounted all of the times he'd cared for her gently–but those count too, and they far outweigh the times he's spanked her until she cries.

He’s fallen into that old trap again–a well-worn path where he insists he’s a broken man, too controlling, too possessive, too dark in his tastes to have a family. A trap that she’s pulled him out of, telling him over and over that he’s okay the way he is.

And somehow, against all odds, he’s begun to believe it himself.

Sure, he’s gleefully doled out punishments, smirking to himself every time she acts up on purpose, but he's also washed her countless times, dressed her, held her until her anxiety passes, gently reminded her to take her prenatal vitamins when she forgets…

He’s sat on the couch with her laying in his lap, stroking the skin just above her collar until she goes boneless. He’s cooked her dinners and rubbed her feet and carried her to bed when she falls asleep on his shoulder. He’s kissed away every tear she’s ever cried.

He’s taken care of her in every way a person can be cared for.

He lets out a shuddering breath.

He can do this.

Marcus is shaken from his reverie by a gentle pressure on his leg. He looks down to see her kneeling at his feet, her head resting on his thigh, looking up at him with so much love in her eyes.

“Where’d you go, Sir?” she asks with a little smile. “You were far away for a minute, there.”

He reaches down to tuck a few hairs behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her skin.

“I’m here, now.”

Week 39, 3:15 AM

"Marcus!"

He's awake instantly, something in her voice alerting him to the fact that something is wrong.

"What is it?" he asks breathlessly, sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp.

"My water broke."

His mind is blank. Radio static. White noise.

"...Shit."

"Marcus!"

"Okay! Okay, hang on. Let me, uh, text Vivian." He grabs his phone.

Don't freak out don't freak out don't freak out–

"Oh fuck I'm freaking out," she murmurs beside him.

Right. Deep breaths. His job is to not freak out.

Well, okay, his job is to keep the freaking out to himself. She needs his support, not his panic.

Marcus takes her face in his hands and presses kiss after kiss to her cheeks, forehead, nose, lips, chin–

"We're gonna have a baby today," he whispers to her. "My perfect little doll, we're gonna have a baby."

Several hours later, Marcus lets Vivian into their apartment with a grateful smile.

“Where is she?”

“She’s wandering around the house, pacing,” he answers. “She’s kind of restless.”

“That’s pretty normal,” the midwife replies.

Marcus nods. He’s restless too, an itch under his skin because there’s nothing to do but wait and watch her labor, and with each painful contraction he’s left with the feeling of needing to do something to take her pain away, and he can’t.

Instead, he resorts to following her around for most of the day, giving her snacks or water or just rubbing her back and coaching her through her contractions. At one point, they get in the shower and he just holds her under the spray, whispering praises into her skin and hoping the warm water is helping to soothe the ache in her lower back.

They’ve been to weeks of classes, and as a result Marcus feels fairly confident in his ability to be a good partner, but he’s glad Vivian is there because otherwise he’d be far less calm. The midwife seems to assuage both of their anxieties at the same time, but she has an especially soothing effect on his wife, and he smiles as he watches the two of them talk. He supposes it makes sense–Vivian has a sense of authority about her, and he knows from experience, obviously, that it’s calming to his wife. Vivian seems to be gentle, but firm, and he likes to think that he’s the same way.

He’s lost track of time. It must be sometime in the mid-to-late afternoon, but he’s not sure of the exact hour. Her contractions are getting closer together, but apparently not close enough that she’s ready to push. In the meantime, he and Vivian set up the inflatable pool she had suggested they purchase, blowing it up and setting it in the living room. Marcus blinks dumbly, taking it in, trying not to panic about the fact that they’re about to have a baby right here in their living room.

He eventually tears his eyes away and goes to find his little doll, who’s in his office inexplicably rearranging his books by color rather than alphabetical order, which makes him grimace, but there are far bigger things to worry about.

“We’ve got everything set up,”Marcus tells her quietly, stepping in close behind her and kissing the side of her neck, just above her collar.

“Great,” she mumbles. Her eyes are tired, she looks frustrated and worn out and all Marcus wants to do is have this fucking kid already so she doesn’t have to go through this ordeal any more. It’s breaking his heart to see her in so much pain.

“Do you need anything?” Marcus asks, rubbing his hands up and down her arms.

“No.”

She walks out of his office into their living room, and Marcus follows, keeping one hand on the small of her back–reassuring her, or himself perhaps, that he’s got her.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Thirsty?”

“No.”

“You sure? I can bring you some water, or we can go–”

"Will you give me some goddamn space?" she snaps, stalking (waddling) as fast as she can to the bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

Marcus flinches as if he's been slapped, staring at the bedroom door, willing it to open again. It doesn't. He scrubs a hand over his face.

Vivian shoots him an expectant look from across the room, raising one eyebrow at him.

Marcus throws his hands in the air in frustration. "She's–she's in active labor, what am I supposed to–"

"Just because she’s in active labor doesn't mean she doesn't need a firm hand," Vivian says. "If anything, she's lashing out because she needs it more."

"I… I can't–" Marcus shakes his head and trails off, not keeping his eyes off the door.

"I'm not talking about discipline," Vivian says. "But you're her dom. Remind her of that."

Marcus offers the midwife a weak, but grateful smile, and goes after his girl.

She's leaning over the dresser with a grimace, shifting her hips back and forth as she tries to get comfortable. The minute he opens the door, she bursts into tears.

"I'm s-sorry," she wails. "I-I–"

"Settle down," Marcus says, keeping his voice even and low as he moves to sit on the edge of their bed. "Come here for me."

She approaches, sniffling.

"Is it still comfortable, getting on your knees?" he asks.

When she nods tearfully, he helps her sink down in front of him, gently cupping the back of her neck and guiding her to lay her head on his thigh.

"If you need space, you need to say it in a different tone," Marcus chastises gently.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she says, lip trembling.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm not upset. But if you want this to work at all, we have to be a team in this,” he says, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Right?”

"R-ri–hnng!"

She can't finish the word–Marcus feels her spine tense as another contraction starts. Her hands grasp at his thighs, clenching and unclenching uselessly as she rides it out. He stays steady, rubbing her back and talking her through it, reminding her to breathe.

He can't handle this. He can't handle seeing her in pain. He’s brought her to the edge of what she can take over and over and over again, so why can he not handle this?

He pushes his own panic aside as the contraction subsides again and he feels her relax, still slumped in his lap.

"Breathe,” Marcus says again. “Catch your breath. Once you do that, I'll give you some space, okay?"

"No!" she cries frantically. "No, don't leave. Please. Can we–can we stay… just like this?"

“Of course,” Marcus whispers, brushing some of the sweat-dampened hair off of her forehead as she lays on his thigh.

“Th-this is the first time I’ve felt comfortable in hours,” she groans. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Then stay right here,” Marcus says, tracing the line of her collar absentmindedly. “Just stay right here with me.”

He loses track of how long he sits there, on the bed, with her kneeling between his thighs. They develop a little rhythm as she endures each contraction–her, rising up on her knees a bit and crying out as a new wave begins, and Marcus gently rubbing her back and soothing her through it until she can relax again, when she slumps back down on his lap and catches her breath as Marcus wipes the little beads of sweat from her brow, or the escaped tears from her cheeks.

He sees movement in the doorway, and looks up to see Vivian standing there, taking in the scene with a soft smile. “You two are cute,” she remarks. She looks at Marcus. “Have you been timing her contractions?”

He nods. “Yeah. They’re about two minutes apart, now,” he confirms quietly.

“I thought so. I got the pool prepared while you were in here. I’m gonna check and see if you’re at ten centimeters yet, okay?” Vivian says to her.

Marcus smiles at the frustrated groan coming from his lap. She stays still as the midwife confirms it–she’s ready to start pushing. Marcus gulps. Easy, easy.

“We should move to the pool now, okay?” Vivian says softly to his wife.

Marcus watches in alarm as she bursts into tears again. “I can’t,” she panics, taking gulping, frantic breaths that are definitely the opposite of what she’s supposed to be doing. “I can’t do it, it hurts too much and I’m at my fucking limit already and I’m scared and I–”

“Hey, hey, hey–stop. Slow down,” he urges, taking her face in both of his hands and tilting it up to look at him while Vivian rubs her back. “Listen to me," he urges her firmly. "You are doing so well. You are so strong. I’ve seen how strong you are. You’re going to do amazing and I’m going to be here every step of the way. We’re a team in this, right? Just like we talked about.”

She nods reluctantly, and Marcus rubs away her tears with his thumbs. “I need you to slow down your breathing for me now,” he tells her. “You’re breathing too fast.”

He takes her hand and presses it to his chest. “Just like this, remember?”

She stares up at him with wide, frightened eyes, but he watches with satisfaction as her breathing slows and the rise and fall of her chest matches his own.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You’re going to get through it and I’m gonna help you, okay? I’m scared too,” he admits. “I’ve been fucking terrified for nine months. But all I know is that you’re the strongest person I know, and you can do this.”

She nods again, then stiffens with a cry as another contraction hits. Vivian keeps rubbing her back and Marcus keeps up a steady stream of nonsense interspersed with breathe, breathe, breathe until she’s able to relax again.

“Hey,” Vivian says reassuringly, “why don’t we stand up and go into the living room, okay? One step at a time.”

Marcus watches as his wife nods with a frown of determination back in her expression. She has that stubborn set to her jaw, that strong-willed ferocity that he loves with all his heart as he and Vivian help her to her feet again.

When she reaches the birthing pool, she squares her shoulders and says–tiredly, but resolute–“Let’s fucking do this, then.”

Marcus drops to his knees and gazes up at her in reverence. He is a supplicant, an acolyte. He has never been much for religion, but he’s found all he needs in her–round and full with his child, eyes red with exhaustion, her brow tinged with sweat, dark marks on her tummy and thighs that show just how much she’s turned her body inside-out to grow a little life. She has complained profusely about all of the imperfections and indignities of pregnancy, but to him, she’s never been more beautiful.

Undressing her has always been a bit of a ritual, for them–a little slice of their day where he can focus on her, and where she can lean on him and erase any worries she may have as Marcus takes over. The term ritual has never been more fitting than it is today, as he helps her out of the baggy maternity shorts she had been laboring in. It’s a benediction, a final devotion to her–slowly dragging the clothing down her legs and helping her step out of them.

She’s bare before him, save for a plain maternity bra, and Marcus worships every peak and valley, every bit of dimpled skin, every scar, every freckle.

“You clearly get it,” comes the amused voice of the midwife, startling him out of his veneration.

“Get what?” Marcus asks, not tearing his eyes off of the goddess in front of him.

“I’ve worked with a lot of couples like you, and you’d be surprised how many doms seem to think they’re the ones with the power,” Vivian explains with a wry grin.

“Idiots,” Marcus replies quietly, a soft smile teasing at his lips.

His gorgeous girl has finally had enough of his ardent staring, because she gives him an irritated pout and asks, “What the hell are you staring at?”

Marcus leans forward with a smile and presses a little kiss to her swollen belly. “You, my love.”

He pulls back and looks back up at her. “Let’s do this thing.”

The next thirty-seven minutes are lived in three minute increments, getting through one horrible contraction at a time. Marcus can only hold her, letting her squeeze his hand painfully as she endures each wave.

Marcus sits just behind her, cradling her against his chest as best he can with the barrier of the pool between them. One of his hands is her personal stress ball; the other wanders–caressing her belly, rubbing up and down her arm, feeling the band of the collar, just holding her and feeling her breathe. He murmurs nonsense into her ear; it hardly matters what he says, he's positive she isn't listening, but he keeps a steady stream of encouragement and praise and love.

He has to compartmentalize–shutting out everything except his job, which is to help her through this. He tries his best to ignore her tears, the chilling sounds she's making in his ear, the tinge of red in the water and just focus on what he can do–coach her through this in any way he can. He sets his jaw with determination and simply does.

This is one thing in life that he can't control–so he lets it all go. He has to.

He's never been so terrified. He's never been so proud.

"Marcus."

Vivian's ever-calm voice cuts through the fog in his brain, and he tears his gaze away from his sweetheart to look up at her.

"The head is crowning," she tells him with a gentle smile. "If you want to catch, now's the time."

He offers Vivian a small nod and strips down to his boxers before carefully climbing in the little pool with her. She automatically reaches for him and he leans down to give her damp forehead a kiss before sitting back on his heels and trying, for the thousandth time today, not to freak out.

A few more heart-rending cries from her and suddenly it's over and there's a baby in his hands, a little squalling thing–gray and covered in viscera but it's here, it's theirs and it's–

"It's a girl," Marcus says breathlessly. "It's a girl."

He's dimly aware that he's crying as he places the baby in his wife's arms and cradles them both in the messy water. She's crying too, and he frantically holds her against him and presses kiss after frenzied kiss to her forehead.

"Claire," she slurs tiredly.

Claire.

"Good girl," he breathes against her skin, hardly able to separate from her for a single second. "Perfect, strong, amazing girl."

Marcus hardly remembers the rest of the day. He knows he was in the shower with her at one point, gently washing them both before helping her into a comfortable bathrobe and into bed. He's fairly sure he helped Vivian clean up while she and the baby slept. He vaguely remembers Vivian taking Claire's measurements and listening to her little heartbeat and directing them to go to their pediatrician within twenty-four hours, before shaking Marcus's hand with a warm smile, and leaving the two of them alone to recover.

He knows that he sat with her in bed, propped up with all the pillows they own, as she nursed for the first time. He knows he cried happy tears again as he watched in amazement as his little newborn instinctively knew what to do.

His little miracle.

His two little miracles.

She's still wearing his collar–has refused to take it off, and he watches her with a soft, reverent smile as she nurses. He can't help but reach out and rub his fingers gently against the leather.

After that, she sleeps again, and Marcus wanders around their apartment with his daughter in his arms, talking to her in a soft voice as she blinks up at him with dark eyes.

He casts his gaze around their apartment.

"We really need to move," he tells the baby seriously.

"This place has outgrown us, which is funny, because I bought a larger apartment with the sole purpose of having a family," he says conversationally.

"I think I misjudged how much room we'd need." He looks down at the baby with a wry grin. "I also misjudged who I was gonna share it with. Dodged a bullet there, didn't I?"

His daughter lets out a funny little grunt.

"Exactly," he agrees. "I never would have met your mom, and I never would have had you." He huffs a little laugh. "Never would have had a lot of things."

Claire's arm flaps reflexively, escaping the blanket he'd wrapped her in.

"Hi to you, too," he murmurs.

He cradles her tiny little hand, and his breath catches when impossibly small fingers wrap around his pinky.

"Yeah," he whispers. "There I am."

Claire decides she's hungry and starts to fuss again, and Marcus smiles.

"I guess it's too much to ask to give your mom a little break, huh? You really wore her out."

The squalling gets louder, and Marcus relents. "Okay, okay," he says soothingly. "Let's go wake her up."

He gently kisses her tiny wrinkled forehead and then walks to the bedroom.

Another kiss, to a larger forehead, and his wife is stirring out of sleep, blinking tiredly.

"You have no idea how amazing it feels to be able to sleep on my back," she says with a tired laugh. "Are we hungry again?"

"Couldn't reason with her," Marcus jokes. "Must be dinnertime."

"Dinner sounds amazing," she mumbles, taking Claire into her arms and cradling her against her still-bare chest.

Marcus has a lump in his throat as he watches the two of them together. His girls. The family he'd never thought he'd have.

"What would you like?" Marcus asks. "Anything in the world, it's yours."

"Pizza," she murmurs. "With pineapple."

Marcus grimaces. "Oh, come on," he groans.

She laughs joyfully. "I'm kidding. Honestly, I don't care. Just pizza. Any kind."

"Anything my little doll asks," he says with an easy smile.

She turns to look at him with wide, vulnerable eyes. "Am I still your little doll?"

Marcus frowns in confusion. "Why on earth wouldn't you be?"

"It just feels like everything has changed," she whispers. "So much is different, and I didn't want that to change either."

Marcus watches as a few tears escape down her cheeks. "Oh, sweetheart," he says, leaning back against the headboard and pulling them both into his arms. "That'll never change."

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