iloveenya

[iloveenya]

to flame on, or just flame out

part ii of some days, you just can't get rid of a bomb

AO3 Link | series masterlist | main masterlist | marcus moreno masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: marcus moreno x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: can he fuck you without breaking every bone in your body? only time will tell - specifically the next five minutes because you need your hands on him. Now.

warnings: nearly 7k of just smut with just a twirling of plot because it's just more fun that way, icky gooey feelings like love (bleh!), marcus is a man who appreciates tits and i appreciate him for that, very very inappropriate use of electrical currents because behind those glasses lies a horny fucking freak, barry allen would be delighted by the use of the speedforce here, use of 'ma'am' because the voice of god told me so

a/n: all my time spent writing bad mcu fanfic has finally paid off. enjoy

"How do you want to start?"

Flummoxed. An unusual word, but categorically correct.

Marcus Moreno is flummoxed. He kneels between your thighs, his palms capping your knees. He can see how damp your thin shorts are at the cradle of your thighs and it makes his heart squeeze, hot desire dripping down his spine. What is he supposed to do with you?

Your toe against his elbow has him looking up. That smug grin makes him nervous and excited all at once.

"I think that's a question for you, big guy. You said you've thought about this. What do you do when you think about me?"

At that, Marcus chuckles. "Now I know we don't have time for all of that. At least," he runs his hands down your shins, "not tonight."

You know he's not trying to be distracting on purpose, but it stilts your breath all the same.

"We'll put in a pin in that for now," you huff as he rings your ankles with his fingers. "What do you want to do the most?"

But he's lost in thought again, the crest of anxiety breaking and spilling off his shoulders, as he examines the bones of your toes, the arch of your foot.

You know he needs this, so you wait.

"I'd like to touch you," he says slowly. "But you have to tell me when it's too much."

You nod, your heart thrumming in your throat.

From the flats of your feet, he pushes over your soft skin with flat of his palms. The knuckle of his thumb catching on your ankle bone. Then, the loose muscle of your calves, the planes of your shins. His hands grip underneath your knees and here he stops, incrementally increasing his pressure.

As always, that first flutter of pain translates to pleasure and you stifle a groan between your lips.

His gaze drifts to your face when the groan goes high into a whimper.

"Yeah, okay, there, Marcus, that's too much—,"

He releases you immediately. "Sorry." But you shake your head, reaching for him and grounding his hands onto your knees again.

"Don't—," you swallow against your dry throat, "don't stop. Keep going."

Marcus nods, that inquisitive gaze turning back to your thighs.

His fingers wander beneath the hem of your shorts, to the joint where your hips bend, dragging them inward until you feel the brush against your curly, coarse hair.

Your slow draw of breath notches up your spine. You're transfixed. His hands are so big, fingers so thick, able to span the complete breadth of your throat, you're sure of it. The sleeves of his sweater have ridden high to his elbows, exposing the flexing muscle of his forearms. They look solid, rigid in their restraint.

But his hands halt in their exploration down your body. Instead, they roam up, over your stomach, thumb briefly touching your belly button, the involuntary clench reaching all the way down between your legs.

"Not too hard?" he asks, voice low and distant, like he's asking because he is compelled, not because he's capable of listening to the answer.

You shake your head and his hands encapsulate your ribs, fingers sliding between your ribs. The hem of the sweatshirt obscures his movements from view, but not the heat of his hands.

The weight on your lungs makes it hard to breathe and you let out another soft moan. Your chest shudders and quicker than before, his hands cup the swells of your breast. He explored everything else, but knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. With a quiet gasp, you arch your spine into his hands, trying to meet his wild stare, but he won't look up. Won't look away.

"I dunno what I want," he mutters. "I've thought about fucking you while you wear my clothes and about fucking you when you are completely naked."

His thumb circles your nipple, meeting flesh with his nail on the second whirl, and you are so high, both in your head and out of it, your body throbbing for him, your gentle groan staggers into a chuckle.

"All the time in the world, remember, baby?" The spread of his hands over your chest is infinitely warmer than any heated blanket and you roll your cheek against the pillow beneath your head, drowsy with pleasure. Your arms are tucked under the pillow, stretching as open for him as you can go.

"Take this off."

You still haven't opened your eyes, but you grin anyway. "Made a decision, Sparky?"

"Yes." Heavy his voice sits in the bubbling pit of your stomach, the sound coarse, sand-speckled, thirsting for water, air — something. His voice is much closer that you remember it being, so you crack one eye open.

He hovers above you, his gaze nowhere else but you. All the breath leaves your lungs the moment you meet his eyes. Are other humans capable of this? This searing intensity that swallows up your ego and spits it out.

"Please take off your shirt," he repeats gently. "I want to fuck you naked."

You move and he's helping you pull it over your head, fumbling together. It flops to the floor and you move again, pleading silently that the press of your lips against his will settle the heat roaring in your chest —

But he sits back between your thighs and removes his glasses, neatly folding them onto your bedside table. He kneels again, in supplication.

"Show me." He says, just as softly, just as sweetly, but with all the vibrato of a rock slide. "Show me how you like to be touched."

There's a part of you that is wildly interested in voyeurism. Eyes on you at a distance, unable to feel your skin, as you take yourself apart.

But it's too much tonight. He's too much.

"Give me your hand."

"But I need —,"

"Give me your hand, Marcus. I trust you."

Without another word, he extends his hand towards you and you take it. His knuckles are dry, but his palm is warm. You drag your nails lightly over the thick vein on the back of his hand and static crackles. A light zap, but he's grinning.

"Tease." You mutter, a smile curling your lips up. You lean back fully against the pillows, your bottom inching closer to his knees. "Ready?"

He nods.

You thread mirror his right hand with your own as you both watch him cup your breast. Watch as the nipple tightens before you drag his thumb underneath it. With his nail, you catch the flint edge and nick the pink bumps.

"That —," you gasp. You're doing this to yourself, just using him, why is it driving you out of your mind? "I love that."

"You're sensitive there," he mutters to himself. "Gotta be careful."

"With your hands, Marcus, not your teeth."

His lips part, his gaze steady, direct. You wonder if he can see through your skin, your bones, your blood. The thought delights you.

"Okay."

You nod again, linking your fingers with his as you turn his hand down the slope of your body.

"I like it when you squeeze my hips. I like it when you hold my ribs. I like it when you make it difficult to breathe —,"

Your name out of his mouth is a stilted sigh, as if something sharp is jammed between his rips but he leans forward, ever vigilant, watching where and how you put his hand. You stop inches from the waistband of your shorts.

"Now, at this point, I want your shirt off too."

"Right now?" His gaze is a little unfocused, his cheeks pink. You think he doesn't even realize how hard he is breathing. You nod.

In a blink, his shirt is gone and his belt is unbuckled.

You frown. "That's cheating."

He seems impossibly wider without a shirt, his bare shoulders smattered with freckles. On anyone else, they'd probably be covered in scars. But he isn't anyone.

"I said I want to take my time with you. Nothing about me."

You can't reach high on his broad chest, so you lightly graze his tapered waist, the hint of abdominal muscles. When you reach the thatch of hair disappearing beyond the edge of his jeans, he groans.

"You're rusty, not a virgin," you giggle. "You shouldn't be this sensitive."

He huffs a laugh, his curls springing loose from behind his ears. "You have no idea."

"Then give me one."

Again, he looks at you like maybe he misheard. Or maybe you're not real. Or maybe you're going to disappear if he hold on too tight. You beckon him closer.

The bristles on his jaw tickle your hand when he bends to kiss you, your palm on his cheek. Slow, indulgent, rich kisses — against your mouth, just in front of your ear, your nose.

"How you feelin', Sparky?" Why is the sound of your voice so breathless still so surprising?

He nuzzles your cheek, tucking his nose beneath your jaw to turn your head and allow him full exposure to your throat.

"Good. Really good. I wanna keep going."

Oh, thank god.

"Do you still need to be shown?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Christ, Marcus —,"

Sometimes you wonder if this big-eyed, blinking innocence is just an act to get into girls' pants. Well, it's fucking flawless and fucking worked, to be entirely honest.

"C'mon, show me —,"

With a deep inhale that you know you will loose, you continue from where you left off; past the waistband of your shorts, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the coarse hair — a zip of static and you yelp — "I promise that wasn't me," he lies with a big giant grin on his stupidly gorgeous face — until he runs out of skin and you bend his fingers over your folds, into the wetness he made.

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, no longer needing your guidance to stroke up and down. You sigh with a roll of your hips.

"Are— are," he clears his throat. "Are you always this wet?"

"When you do it right, yes."

He groans, hanging his head. "I honestly don't know if I can go this slow every time."

"You don't have to be slow. You just have to be a-ah-attentive— Marcus!"

He's spread your folds apart with two fingers and is stroking the flat of his middle finger up, dipping into where you gently leak for him, through your wetness, and daringly close to your bundle of throbbing nerves.

Fuck, you almost forgot about that.

"Marcus, at the top, there's —,"

He hushes with a kiss, the barest hint of teeth. "I know what a clit is, baby. What do you like?"

Pleasure is bursting from where he touches, from between your legs, to where he holds your elbow to the mattress with his other hand.

Focused on every twitch in your face, every spasm of your throat, he watches and waits, cataloging you beneath him until he can recognize the signs with his eyes closed.

"Baby, tell me —,"

You tug his fingers from the plush of your cunt and press hard against your clit.

He doubts you mean for desperation to be so plain on your face. Lip trembling, sweat peaking across your forehead. Breath short, fast. He can hear your heart rumble with the force of a train.

"When I'm this close —,"

"You're close?"

"When I am close," you drop your eyes closed, steady his wrist, and grind against the pads of his fingers, "I just need —,"

He sees it and hoards it all away. The tremble of your thighs, the improbable bend of your spine. He thinks he sees your nostril twitch. You actually stop breathing —

It's either his name or a stunted scream that comes out of your mouth. He isn't sure which.

"Holy fuck, Marcus, that was . . ." You open your eyes to the closest thing to a smirk you've ever seen on his face.

"Good?"

"Excellent. And you didn't finger me into oblivion. I mean, you did, but no broken bones, or open wounds, so that's good — really, really, really good —,"

Pride blooms in his chest; he's usually the one babbling nonsense, and it's a sight to behold to watch you unable to shut your damn mouth because of him. Because of what he did to you.

He silences you with a kiss. Like you taught him.

That seems to ground you, settle you back into your body. When he opens his eyes, the expression on your face can only be described as gooey.

"Mhmm, hi there, Sparky."

"You okay?" He knows he's being smug but he just can't help it. This is going marvelously well.

"Very okay." You sigh, big, and he takes this moment to lick his fingers clean, watching you come back to yourself. Tangy, strong, he decides. He can't remember the last time he's tasted pussy.

"Can you take my shorts off?" You ask, watching him pluck his ring finger from his mouth. You lick your bottom lip. "They're . . . sticky."

He obliges and tosses the article of clothing away, but he remembers where they go. (In case, you fall asleep and he doesn't.)

Or at least, he tries to remember where your shorts fly. But you're naked, curls glossy, and that sight, those smells, that sound — it liqufies everything in his brain into a dribbling mess.

He is exceedingly gentle as he spreads your legs, mouth open, the tang of your release still wetting the corners of his lips.

And then your fingers smack his forehead.

"No."

"No?"

"Not tonight. If you'd just been honest with me after that night we went bowling and you'd already fucked my brains out, then who am I to stand in the way of a man and his meal?" He blinks slowly, gulping.

"Bowling? Wait — wait a second. Bowling, that was our first date."

"Exactly," you say smugly, "but you didn't, so I need those pants gone and you right up here."

You pat your low stomach, indicating exactly how deep you need him, and he goes a bit light-headed.

"Baby, I need more practice. I'm not sure I can completely control —,"

"But you did already."

"Yeah, once."

He hears your heartbeat pick up. "How many times can you come in one night, Marcus?"

"Um," he rubs the muscle at the back of his neck, "I don't know but I do know I lost count one time."

"Fuck," you sigh, sitting up, "you really are perfect."

He definitely can't control the rising heat in his cheeks. "I don't know about perfect—,"

You kiss him and he feels every fiber of his being strengthen. Beneath the smell of sex that he hopes has imprinted on his senses permanently, the rush of your perfume floods the air with every thrumb of blood in your neck.

You part from his lips, far too soon for his liking.

"Where's the easiest for you to control yourself?"

"Mhm, what?"

"Focus, Sparky." You tap his forehead again and he grins, distractedly. "In what position is it easiest for you to stop yourself from finishing?"

"Um," he tries to rattle the memories from his sex-sodden brain, but everything in there has turned to ooze. "Um, on my back?"

Your grin widens, your finger curling around a chunk of hair near his neck. He did good, whatever it was.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"Why?"

"Because I want to feel as close to you as possible for this first time."

Oh.

Oh.

"That's dangerously close to sentimental, ma'am." You loop your arms around his neck and rock back into the pillows, tugging him down with you. He holds himself up just on his elbows, close as he can be and still see you straight. His face hurts from smiling. "Never would have expected that from an intrepid reporter like yourself."

"Don't tell anyone, I think I'm losing my edge." He ducks his head, dropping slow, marked kisses against your neck and shoulder. You smile into his hair, nails gently scratching the skin below his neck. "This guy's got me all hot and bothered and I can't think straight around him."

He pauses with his mouth over your collarbone, then bites down just enough to make you gasp. You can't help but wonder how much harder he would have to bite to break the skin, or the bone, and how easy it might be for him. Like you tearing into an apple, you assume.

"Killing is strictly against my moral code, ma'am," he says mockingly stern, noses around his bite, already purpling. His fingers circle your shoulder. "But I think I might make an exception for this guy, who's got you all hot and bothered."

"Now who's got a conflict of interest?" You tease and he laughs into the hollow of your throat. Adjusting over you, he straightens up, face serious. You're only slightly distracted by the divots his hands make in your mattress.

"Answer me honestly." You nod. He's so beautiful when he makes himself soft for you. "Do you really trust me to do this? To keep you safe, e-e-even if that means from myself?"

Your quip is ready on your tongue, the ghost of a smirk inhabiting your lips, but the gravity of his gaze plucks your flippancy straight out of your mouth.

Is it strange, then, to feel so protective of an invincible man? A man who is literally bulletproof?

Is it love that makes you worry this much?

"Yes." You comb his unruly curls back from his face, allowing the silence to let your truth sink into him. "Yes, Marcus Moreno, I trust you with my whole life."

Every part of me.

Every part you can touch and even the ones you can't.

You'd give him the organ of your heart if you could.

His head falls in the grasp of your hands, the fingers that held his cheeks now near his eyes. You feel dampness on the tips of your thumbs.

He nods.

He once told you that before Missy came along, he had been made into a weapon. Something cruel and sharp, with precision and vuglar fragility. No matter how many times his wife assured him that that life was long in his past, that as a father and a husband he had proven his immense capacity for love and kindess over and over and over again.

But that feeling, that he is only — inevitably — capable of destruction, never quite went away, he had said.

You wonder if that is on his mind now.

Marcus drags himself, kneeling again, but you take his cheek before he's out of reach.

"Hey, Marcus —," he won't really look at you, so you grip his chin and turn his entire head towards you. A frightened animal looks down into your eyes. "You deserve this, Marcus. You deserve good things. You deserve l—,"

Your voice catches.

His bottom lip trembles.

"Say it. Please. I need to hear you say it."

The knot in your throat stings. "You deserve love, Marcus. You always have."

His nostrils flare. His body lined with tension. Those words aren't enough.

And?

That bruise, the one you didn't know existed, aches because it was put there by people who you'd given your heart to and they didn't deserve it. It was put there by your father, your mother long dead, and on your own it was left to fester. Rot. It's been killing something beneath your skin for decades.

Something has been killing you, hurting you, and you didn't even know it.

But he did.

He saw it, stopped it, and in every way possible, saved you. Without powers, without his strength, without his invincibility, he saved you.

In every way that matters, he saved you.

"Marcus, you idiot, you know that I love you—,"

The words had barely left your lips before he's swallowing them down, making you taste the sweetness of your confession as he licks it against your tongue. He has your wrists pinned against the pillow as if all he wants to feel is your wet mouth on his.

You nip the swell of his bottom lip between your teeth and that grip around your wrists tightens immeasurably.

"Marcus, be gentle —,"

He plucks himself off you, horror in his eyes. "I'm sorry, shit, I'm sorry —,"

The sting in your wrists can wait. The depth of wanting in your cunt and in your heart cannot.

You continue what he started.

You yank down the zipper completely with one hand, the other ready to push both his pants and shorts down the instant they're loose.

But he has gone still above you. This means more begging, ("baby, slow down—") or he'll stop you entirely.

It's only when you see the coarse hair that you realize he hasn't done anything at all.

Glancing up at him, you worry you've pushed him too fast and he's uncomfortable or shy or — maybe he's not ready for any of this and you cruely made him do it anyway, or you — or —

"Don't stop."

It's a kind of begging, you think. Raw, unfiltered, wild — but begging all the same. His hands join yours as you shuffle his pants off together. He's breathing rapidly and you wonder, just for a second, what it would be like if he did lose control.

You lean back into the pillows, a delicious viewpoint, as his cock bobs up against his stomach. You think you may hear fabric tearing but that might just be your deranged imagination.

God, every inch of him is perfect.

He's not as long as his god-like physique might suggest, but wow, he is thick.

"When I said I'm up for any challenge, I think I underestimated you."

Marcus blushes all the way down to his navel.

His hand twitches at his side like he's thinking about covering himself, so once again, you take his hand and lead him where he's mean to go. Where you hope he'll stay for hours tonight: between your thighs.

"Oh, wait."

He takes the covers up to his shoulders before lowering himself down onto you. He seems very intent on a freckle on your neck.

"I heard it's hard for women to orgasm when their feet are cold, so I thought . . ."

You giggle like this is your first time. "You said 'orgasm'."

This time, he's the one rolling his eyes. "What are you, fourteen?"

"No, but you're trembling like you are."

"Oh. Shit, you're right. I don't mean to be."

You take his knuckles between your fingers and press light kisses in the valleys between his bones, being sure to watch him watch you the whole time. You can feel the quick pulse of his chest, his lungs snipping in air.

"Marcus." It really is warm and lovely with the comforter covering you both. The unspooling of your mind, your anxieties, your fears and anger, brought on from being touched like this — being loved like this — is already starting. Your hand on his face settles him, like you're the one who is an immovable object. Maybe you're his unstoppable force. "Marcus, the only way you could break me, or hurt me, is if you ever left me. You can't hurt me like this, okay?"

"O-okay."

"We can go as slow as you want like this. If you're close, tell me and we can switch. I'll go slow too, so you don't—,"

He chuckles, back arched, hand down between his legs. You pull your legs up and far apart, your own pulse quickening, and on the first try, he finds your hole.

Forgotten how to fuck — bullshit.

"I don't want to g-go slow just for my benefit," even with your release still coating your folds, slick as can be, he's still a lot to take. He grunts and drops his head against your temple. Another inch and you grab the curve of his broad shoulder. So full already, fuck, can you choke from being this full? "I want — relax a bit, baby, there you go — I want to fuck you slow so I can feel you. And I swear to Christ, I'll make it good for you."

There's no coherent words you can make, only gurgles and sighs. A laugh against the soft skin of your neck is strained, tightly wound.

"Baby, you can't squeeze me like that the whole time. I can't fucking move when you're doing that."

Speech somehow returns to you and you fling out your words in a gasp. "Fuck, Marcus, okay, I'm trying —,"

You've never been submerged like this. Stuffed full. His body, extended like a blanket over you, is nearly suffocating. And you like that, usually, but you know your body is panicking. Rammed this full of his cock and it thinks you're dying. And fuck, what a way to go . . .

Something in your lower body uncouples and your legs go loose. Miraculously, you can breathe again, despite feeling like his cock is somewhere around your guts.

"There you go," he murmurs. You can barely make it out he's so quiet.

You open your eyes and sensation nearly buckles you again. Marcus holds himself above you, gaze fixated on your face, and he's gently stroking your clit.

Oh. That's what that was.

You breathe out, slowly, deeply and he grins.

"Like a fuckin' bear trap down there . . ." He wets his lips, then sucks his teeth. Before you are even remotely aware of what he's doing, spit drops in a thick glob right above your pussy. He smears his own spit against your clit with his thumb and you shoot towards your peak.

"Saw that in a porno once," he mutters vaguely. "Wasn't sure if I'd like that but shit . . ."

"Please, please move, Marcus."

He blinks at you like he's surprised to see your face beneath him. "Yeah. Y-yeah. Okay. Tell me if you need me to stop."

He rocks into you and your sanity is tilted off its axis.

You can feel every inch, every slick push and pull, hear every slippery suck from between your legs. Just him being inside you has made you boneless — the best you can do is to hold on.

You chant his name, over and over and over again, his back muscles flexing beneath your flat palms, his shoulders solid beneath the roll of his hips. The bed rocks and you're pulled under.

"Open your eyes," he says. Groaning your eyes flutter open just as his thumb slides into your mouth, a reward. He compresses against your tongue and this time your eyes stay open.

Marcus is red-faced and grunting, but he stays true to his word; he goes slow. This helps, but only enough for you to find a grip around the hair near the nap of his neck and tug.

He shudders, burying his face into your throat. The next two thrusts are a beat faster and it's like you can prick your fingers on the edge of your bottomless finish. You hold him tighter to you, your legs curling up around his sides, knees pressing into his ribs. His ear is pink near your mouth.

"Faster, a little faster, please —,"

The bed officially starts to creak. His hand goes against the headboard, roughly pushing into it instead of your pussy or your throat. You claw at his forearm and he moans, long and loud.

Pleasure spins hot and fast from where his cock splits you apart, desire dancing like fireworks in your veins. Sweat drips from his throat onto your sternum and you wish he'd lick it up. The heat from the friction of your wet skin against his has reached a boiling point.

You release the grip on his bicep, register the thudding sound as the bed beating against the wall behind you, and slide your fingers under his open palm on the mattress. Half-aware you have basically put your hand in a disposal if anything goes wrong, you intertwine your fingers and squeeze as hard as you can.

Like you touched a sensitive area, Marcus groans and you feel teeth in the wet tendons of your neck.

Yes, yes, Marcus, bite me. Bruise me. Do it.

The pounding has dulled to crunching and you cannot fathom what that means for your headboard, but you nose his cheek — the bed is swaying now — and immediately he drops wet, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses onto whereever he can reach without faltering in his rthyme.

His hair smells divine, in spite of the dripping sweat and twisted grip you have on his curls.

You're set to burst.

"Marcus," you gasp, "please, I'm gonna come!"

"I know,"he whines, muffled against your throat. "I can feel it — don't hold back, baby, come for me—,"

One thrust, then another, a loud cracking sound above your head, and you gush — all over the insides of your thighs, up over your mound, against his stomach — screaming, rent apart, spilling, dripping, release like the salty breach of an ocean wave, and pleasure so infinite you can't find your body.

He makes a noise like he's been scalded, hips jerking back and out of you, cock already coated cream, and just as he escapes you, hot viscosity erupts against the curve of your ass, between the creases of your thighs, splashing and soaking your bedsheets, down to the mattress.

His subsequent whine is one of surprise and Marcus tries to lift himself up off you, but his entire arm shakes violently. He is also soft as a rabbit.

"S-sorry — I know I said — more than once — but I think —," he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the spinning, pinwheeling, neon shapes in front of his eyes, "I think I just blacked out for a second —,"

You shake your head, mouth dry, sweat and come and tears making your skin glisten.

"Don't— don't care —" you flap a loose hand at him, beckoning him back down. "Just — c'mere."

He tucks his head against your right cheek because he's pretty sure there's his come on the other.

"Just — for a second — we gotta —,"

His lungs are on fire. His head is swimming. His fucking fingers are tingling. You could have told him right now that the sky was green and he would have agreed.

"Yeah, just, just for a second, baby—,"

You're already asleep and never one to disagree with you, he follows you soon after.

You wake up to warm sunlight and a low rumbling.

Your dryer, thudding away in the minuscule laundry room off your kitchen. You, no, someone started a load of laundry.

The drowsy ache in your limbs suggests a night of cheap, box wine, but there's no headache. No puffy eyes. You don't remember drinking last night. In fact, you made it a point not to drink your break-up sorrows away because there hadn't been an actual break up —

You bolt upright. "Marcus!"

The sun in your eyes is from the open window in your living room. You are not wearing the sweatshirt or bottoms you were wearing last night, but where is he?

Everything is out of sync. Maybe you're still dreaming. What the fuck is happening and where is —

"MARCUS!"

"Sorry, yeah, I'm right here."

A large bundle of your bed sheets answers you from the hallway to your bedroom. Am I having a stroke?

He pats down the pillows and his sparkling brown eyes meet yours. He grins, waving with his fingers.

"Sorry, I wanted to be next to you when you woke up, but I couldn't in good conscious let your bedroom stay like that —,"

"What happened to my bedroom?"

The grin slides off his face. "You don't remember?"

Oh, you remember. You remember everything he said and did to you last night, and even if you didn't, that little monster between your legs definitely does. You spot a hickey on his neck and your pussy stirs. No, bad girl.

"Marcus, I know we slept together last night and it was by far the best sex I've ever had in my entire existence, but what the fuck happened to my bedroom?"

Taken entirely by surprise, he doesn't try to stop you as you wind your way towards your room.

"Best sex of your life — ever? Oh, wait, no, don't go in there. It's kinda —,"

It would have been cleaner if a bomb had gone off.

The plaster above the bed is cracked along the wall, indented and splitting where the headboard used to be. The headboard itself has been snapped in two, splinters poking out, and your entire bed caves inward, the mattress bare, as if the base had collapsed. Your metal alarm clock is stuck halfway in the wall across the room and the mirror over your dresser is shattered, its metal frame crunched and mangled. And perhaps, most surprising of it all, all of your jewelry floats against the ceiling, the metal slowly churning as if beneath an ocean current.

"— Messy."

"Yep. That just about covers it," you reply, still staring at your jewelry twirling feet above your head. He must see what you're looking at because they start to shimmer, then swirl as if sucked down a drain, where they all float neatly into your jewelry box that had been tipped on its side. Marcus closes the box with his hand and tries with some dignity to straighten it amongst the glass shards on your dresser.

"Sorry, I'm anxious and doing that helped me think all of this through."

The tone of his voice taps on the surface of your silent shock.

You don't like how he sounds at all, because it sounds like he's decided something. Something you're fairly certain you won't like.

He opens his mouth and you have your fingers pressed against lips before a single sound escapes.

"Before you fall gallantly on your sword, you need to know last night was the best night of my life." His mustache tickles your fingers, but you press on. "I love you, Marcus, so goddamn much, I hated waking up alone this morning." His eyes flash but you shake your head. "No, listen to me. I meant what I said, everything in this house is replaceable. I didn't think we'd put most of it to the test in one night but — buuut, listen, Marcus, you can't get rid of me. I'd buy a thousand more beds and dressers and mirrors before I might decide it's not worth being with you. But I won't. Ever. This is it for me, Sparky. All of my love, for you. If you want it."

He huffs against the pads of your fingers, a smile splitting across his face. He takes you by the wrist and raises his eyebrow.

May I?

You nod and he pulls his mouth free. Adoration, joy — you hope you don't need super strength to carry the weight of his gaze.

"Of course, I want it, baby." He hums. "I want all of you. Every part of you. But . . . this doesn't scare you?"

He glances helpless around the room and you take the chance to curl up to his chest. The sweet smell of his cologne is grounding, a tree taken root.

"Actually," you murmur into his throat, "I find it kinda hot."

He laughs in a way that means you know he's blushing, if you could see him. He presses gently to your lower back, his arm wrapping around you and tucking you in even tighter. He really meant it — he wants, and must have, all of you. You loop your middle finger around in a circle on his shirt.

"I'd find it even hotter if you went with me to find a replacement bed."

"You just want me there to carry it up the stairs for —," Marcus goes stiff. You pull out of his arms, frowning.

"What? What's wrong?"

Something passes over his eyes and he swallows, another decision made with finality.

"Don't buy another bed. I'll just break it again."

You roll your eyes. "Wow, what a super ego. Okay, then Sparky. What do you expect me to do? Sleep on my couch?"

"No." His gaze slips to yours as easily his hand slips between your fingers. "Move in with me."

No laugh. No punchline. But that was never Marcus's style. He never, ever did things without being intensely genuine.

"You're serious?"

"Of course, I am. I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't. Besides, this way, you won't ever wake up alone again."

As if he held a tuning fork to your skin, something inside of you ripples, expands, tries to stifle your breathing. But it only brings tears to your eyes.

"And Missy, your daughter," you sniff wetly, "she won't have a problem with it? With a complete stranger taking up room in her dad's bed?"

"One, I don't think an eleven year old actually understands what adults do in bed, much less share one." He spots something on the floor and picks it up. It's his glasses. The lenses are cracked, most of the glass missing entirely in one eye, and the frame is bent to hell. Marcus frowns. "And two, she was the one who suggested you live with us in the first place. Guess she was getting sick of all of our late nights."

With the flick of his finger against the frame, the rest of the glass shatters and spills out to the floor.

"And she knows . . ." you inhale, knowing he's inspecting his broken glasses so diligently for your benefit entirely. "And she knows I'm not trying to replace her mom. Right?"

That gets his attention. Clearly, that's not what he expected you to have reservations about. You let the silent tears roll down your cheeks as he holds you by the hands. You should get an award for this. Do they make Pulitzer's for not completely breaking down in front of your absolutely perfect boyfriend?

"What we had with Isabelle was a family." Fondly, he follows the line of your hair down your temple, twisting loose hair around his finger once before guiding it back behind your ear. To your immense surprise, he smiles. "What we could have together, with Missy, is just another family. That's all she wants and that's all I want. But what do you want, baby?"

"I want —,"

An all-too familiar siren. A faint spotlight fighting through the sun's rays. He holds you firm, frowning, a silent countdown going off in his head.

"Go, hero," you nod with your chin towards the window. But you're smiling. "Duty calls."

"But you matter more —,"

"No, I don't. And that's okay. That's probably better even. Gives me time to try to put this place back together. But honestly," your gaze flickers to the large cracked seam in the wall, "it seems unlikely I'll get my deposit back. Especially since I'm breaking my lease."

The hairs on your cheek and neck flutter, static humming in the air.

"Your deposit — you mean —?"

You laugh in his bewildered face, string him along by his sleeve and push him towards the door. "Go, get out of here. Someone needs you to save them."

And you already got me.

He touches your door frame and swings back around, as if you hadn't been shoving with all your might.

"So, when I come back home tonight — to my home, for clarification — you'll be —,"

"I'll be there, Sparky." Forget powers. His smile alone could outshine the sun. "Just come back to us, okay? All in once piece."

There's a bristle of electrical charge against your lips, a white noise buzzing in your ear, and he's gone.

Okay, now you're going to do the superhero girlfriend thing — you touch your lips and smile, glancing out into the sunlight.

It's not until you unload your first drawer — with only a little dusting of plaster crumbles in between your bra and your socks that you clear away with a rough shake — when that whisper of white noise stabilizes between the bones behind your ears.

I'll see you soon, my Chrysanthemum. I'm coming home to you.

series masterlist | part i | the end!

[iloveenya]

Would be a shame if the witches got out their cauldrons...

These men just stole the personal information of everyone in America AND control the Treasury. Link to article.

Akash Bobba

Edward Coristine

Luke Farritor

Gautier Cole Killian

Gavin Kliger

Ethan Shaotran

Spread their names!

[iloveenya]

My portrait of Desmond the ginger cat with the Disney eyes!

[iloveenya]

🪻Pedro Boys & Flowers.

It's no secret that I love flowers, so pairing the Pedro Boys with florals that represent them, is something that's not only fun, but super interesting trying to pick out meanings that match their personalities.

🪻This is a re-creation of my original post, with new Pedro Boys added to the garden. Originally requested by lovely @doughmonkey

Enjoy! 🖤

PEDRO BOYS RAMBLES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

🪻Javi Gutierrez - Sunflower The sunniest flower for our sunniest Pedro Boy, Javi! Sunflowers often represent the sun and Javi just beams like it, doesn't he? Sunflowers also bring good fortune, and represent a long life and lasting happiness. It's often seen as a symbol of faith and devotion, radiating positivity and hope. In some Eastern religions, such as Buddhism, Sunflowers are considered sacred and represent spiritual enlightenment. Or, "divine inspiration", as Javi would say...

🪻Ezra - Passion Flower Passion flowers, not only look a little alien in their bloom, they also have healing properties, which Ezra could do with in abundance, right? Roman Catholic priests of the late 1500's named it for the Passion (suffering and death) of Jesus Christ. And Kevva, has this prospector suffered... Passion Flowers can incite love and passion and help you attract companionship. And a lonely Prospector will greatly relish companionship of the talkative kind. A perfect flower to represent my main man, Ezra.

🪻Joel Miller - Sweet Pea Sweet Peas represent goodbyes and yearning. In Victorian England, for example, Sweet Peas were often given as a sign of departure or goodbye to a loved one. Considering Joel has lost Sarah, Tess and most people in his life, I'd say a Sweet Pea would be a good representation of a flower for Joel. Sweet Peas also mean blissful pleasure, friendship and gratitude. They come in all sorts of colours too, such as shades of white, pink, coral, red, violet and blue, and some combining two colours.

🪻Frankie Morales - Red Poppy Red Poppies are worn as a symbol of support for the Armed Forces community, and to remember our fallen military personnel. The Poppy is a common symbol that has been used to represent everything from peace to death, and even simply sleep. Seeing as Frankie worked in the forces, he would probably tuck a red Poppy flower behind your ear then kiss you sweetly, as he walks hand-in-hand with you through the local Veteran's Day Parade.

🪻Marcus Acacius - Geranium Romans grew many flowers in their gardens, including Roses, Violets, Geraniums, Buttercups, Irises, Lilies and Daisies, to name a few. They also brought exotic flowers in across their empire, and would use many flowers in garlands, crowns and wreaths, as well as in medicines and in food. I chose Geraniums for Marcus as they are considered a protective flower, and as Marcus is a General, he would be a protector of the people and his soldiers alike. (He mentions about not wanting to send his soldiers to die for the emperor's vanity.)

🪻Reed Richards - Clematis In both Victorian and Greek mythology, the Clematis flower often represents mental acuity and cleverness. Considering Reed is a scientist fluent in mechanical, aerospace and electrical engineering, chemistry, all levels of physics, and human and alien biology, I'd say this flower is a perfect representation of him. The Clematis is also known for its slow growth, with an old saying that goes, "The first year they sleep, the second year they creep, and the third year they leap". Whilst Mr Fantastic can certainly "stretch", so too do these pretty florals, as their growth stretches out over time.

🪻Javier Peña - Anemone Anemones are my most favourite flower. It was believed that the flower sprang from the blood of the slain Adonis, who was a lover of the goddess Aphrodite. As such, Anemones are often seen as a symbol of love and passion. And there's no-one more passionate a lover than Javi P, right? Anemone flowers are available in many colors with each symbolizing a different meaning. White Anemone flowers symbolize sincerity due to their delicate appearance. Red and pink Anemone flowers symbolize death or forsaken love. Purple Anemone flowers symbolize protection from evil. I think Javi would be a purple Anemone, due to the job he has... he'd definitely protect you.

🪻Marcus Pike - Pink Rose More subtle than the bold traditional Red Rose, Pink Roses typically symbolise admiration, happiness, and love. Pink Roses also symbolise sweetness, femininity, appreciation, and admiration - all traits that this handsome agent showers in abundance towards his love interest. I think receiving a bunch of beautiful pink, velvety Roses from Marcus Pike would sweep you off your feet - and totally convince you to go to Washington D.C. with him.

🪻Dieter Bravo - Gerbera Daisy Colourful, fun and a little kooky looking, Gerbera daisies are just flowers that make me smile in abundance. And so does Dieter Bravo. Yellow Gerbera daisies tend to symbolize cheerfulness and celebration. Orange Gerberas convey that the person you present it to is the sunshine of your life. Red Gerberas represent an unconscious love or to be fully immersed in love. White Gerberas symbolise innocence and purity. Pink Gerberas are a symbol of admiration, adoration, or high esteem for someone. I imagine Dieter would love these because he would be attracted to the variety of colours and they would make him smile, even when high.

🪻Agent Whiskey - Wild Heliotrope In the language of flowers, Wild Heliotrope symbolises devotion and an everlasting love, which when you think about Whiskey losing his sweetheart and baby boy, this flower couldn't be more suitable for him. It has a delicious scent and the flowers follow the sun as it tracks across a winters day, hence the name "Heliotrope" which is derived from the Greek Helios meaning sun and tropos meaning 'turn' or 'direction'. Everlasting love is a journey that you rarely falter from the path, so I imagine Whiskey would choose this flower to place on the grave of his sweetheart and baby boy.

🪻Lucien Flores - Azalea Although we don't know much about Lucien (as of posting this) in some cultures, Azaleas symbolize taking care of yourself and others, making them a good gift for someone who needs a quick recovery or to express your affection for a loved one. In the film clips we've seen, Lucien mentions he no longer drinks, and clearly still harbours some longing for his ex-partner, so I feel this flower is spot on for him. Not to mention how stunning how it is, and delicate, traits I feel Lucien has deep down.

🪻Dave York - Black Dahlia Black Dahlias aren't truly black, but rather a very deep shade of crimson that appear black. They symbolise betrayal and sadness, so shouldn't be gifted lightly. It also represents inner strength, likely due to the plant's ability to tolerate such harsh conditions. Although a stunning flower to behold, the symbolism doesn't come without it's notoriety; they're associated with the infamous murder of Elizabeth Short (The Black Dahlia Murder) in 1947 in Los Angeles. Dave is definitely a strong, resilient character, regardless if you feel he was justified in his actions or not. Black Dahlias and Dave York? Nuff' said.

🪻Max Phillips - White Trumpet Pitcher A flower with a bite, just like Max. A carnivorous plant, this flower eats insects. They have simple nodding flowers and leaves modified as hollow pitchers, which function to passively trap insects, luring them with nectar, then digesting them or drowning them with fluids, later to be absorbed by the plant. So, although it looks pretty and alluring on the outside, beware whats hidden underneath - just like our feisty vampire, Max. Nom.

🪻Oberyn Martell - Marigold With their vibrant orange, yellow and red petals, naturally Marigolds are symbols of positive emotions, like joy and excitement. Marigolds also represent energy, good luck, warmth, creativity, prosperity and more importantly - passion. Oberyn exudes passion in abundance, whether indulging in sex or plotting revenge, so this flower would be prefect for him. Their vibrant colors and strong fragrance make them an essential part of various traditions, festivals, and rituals worldwide, such as Día de Los Muertos. A perfect flower to represent Oberyn, in both life and death.

🪻Din Djarin - Ghost Orchid The Ghost Orchid earned its name due to its ghostly white petals and the illusion of floating in mid-air when attached to trees, with no visible roots or leaves. The Ghost Orchid is considered one of the most elusive orchids in existence. Its scarcity and remote habitat have contributed to its mythical status among plant enthusiasts. Due to its unique growth habits and specific environmental requirements, sightings of the Ghost Orchid in the wild are extremely rare. A little like our Mandalorian here in the sense you never see his face. He, like the flower, is elusive and a rare specimen indeed. And when you do get an eventual glimpse of it, it's absolutely breathtaking.

🪻Marcus Moreno - Strawflower Holding on to their shape and color long after being cut, Strawflowers are said to symbolize immortality and are commonly known as 'Everlasting' flowers. Their endurance and strength is notable, and we can compare this to our original resident hero of the Pedro Boys, Marcus Moreno. Everlasting flowers symbolize eternal love, hope, and remembrance. They're often used in wedding bouquets, funeral arrangements, and other special occasions to express enduring sentiments and commemorate cherished memories. Considering Marcus is also a widower, this flower is a great choice to represent him.

🪻Tim Rockford - Bird Of Paradise The Bird Of Paradise flower symbolizes joyfulness, freedom, anticipation, and excitement. Furthermore, it represents faithfulness, love and thoughtfulness while being the official flower of the ninth wedding anniversary. As someone who is often bogged down in the the dark gloom of investigations, a colourful, peppy flower such as this would brighten Tim's mood instantly after coming home from a long day of work.

🪻Pero Tovar - Tiger Lily Tiger Lilies represent courage, strength, and confidence. The main red Tiger Lily meaning is passion. White Tiger Lily can be described as purity. Pero would be of the red variety, considering he wields such strength, courage and confidence on the battlefield. Tiger Lilies also have healing properties and the Lance Leaf Tiger Lily is native to China. Apt, considering Pero fights there.

🪻Maxwell Lord - Forget-Me-Not Giving someone one of these small blossoms is a pledge that you will never forget them and that you'll think of them often. For this reason, they're also considered a symbol of fidelity and faithfulness. Forget-Me-Nots represent true love, and giving someone this flower means you truly love and respect them. Similarly to making a wish, if Max gifts you with these flowers, he's not likely to forget you in a hurry.

🪻Silva - Red Rose The most classic of them all, a Red Rose is a perfect choice for a significant other. This stunning shade most popularly stands for passion and communicates love. It's the rose of romance and deep feelings, but can also relay desire, beauty, victory, harmony, joy, luck, pride and martyrdom. Which if you're familiar with Silva and his traits, this flower is the perfect choice for him.

🪻Veracruz - Petunia Petunias display feelings of deep resentment and anger. Despite their amazingly striking appearance, they take people by surprise because of their shocking underlying meanings. And if you know a thing or two about Veracruz, you know he's just like a Petunia - beautiful on the outside, but sinister and resentful on the inside.

🪻Dio Morrissey - Hellebore Some cultures believe the Hellebore represents scandal - and we all know the type of scandal Dio landed himself in, right? In Victorian times, the flowers signified delirium, and we can probably all agree that Dio lives in his own little world of delirium. That being said, these flowers are just stunning, but all parts of the flower contain toxic compounds. Just like Dio, they're gorgeous, but can be deadly.

What are your favourite flower and Pedro Boy combinations? Would you pick something different? Let me know in the comments. 🖤

🪻 PEDRO BOY RAMBLES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

[iloveenya]

he is indeed babygirl

[iloveenya]

[iloveenya]

My special prompt is for Javier Peña Ranch with a special combo for fluff and smut! If you're up for it! 😍💜

Fluff prompt: #6

Smut prompt:#6

Can't wait to see what you bring us!! Happy Sunday and happy writing!!! 🥰❤️

xoxo

SKYEEEEEEEEE ohhohohohoh let me tell you I saw ‘ranch” and then I saw those prompts and my brain said LET’S FUCKING GO. going back to the ranch is always so much fun for me, and this was the perfect opportunity for something delicious, sexy, and deliciously sexy 😍 I hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting my love!! xoxoxo

strawberry shortcake - the ranch - javier peña x fem!reader

word count: 3k

warnings: explicit smut, lots of teasing, shower sex, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), I regret NOTHING

It all starts in the morning.

As usual, Javi’s out the door with the sun, getting done the few things that need doing on the weekends, the Saturday sun beating down on his back with every step. By ten o’clock, he’s heading back to the house, the animals fed and watered. Getting closer to the house, he can hear music on the radio, and when he steps up the porch, he can see you through the screen door, dancing around the kitchen.

Every little thing she does is magic, everything she do just turns me on

Javier chuckles under his breath, pulling the door open and stepping inside, tossing his hat and his gloves onto the bench beside the door. You don’t notice at first, preoccupied with whatever it is you’re baking. There’s a bowl of cut strawberries on the counter, and the heat lingering in the air tells him the oven is on. He leans against the kitchen doorway, crossing his arms over his chest, one boot propped over the other, just watching as you unhook a bowl from under the stand mixer. The whisk attached to the mixer drips with whipped cream.

You curse, wiping the white off the counter with your finger and sucking it between your lips. Javier inhales sharply, watching your tongue dart out when some cream lingers at the corner of your mouth. It takes everything in him not to stick his hand down the front of his suddenly too-tight jeans.

“You’re up early,” he calls, announcing his presence. It makes you jump anyway, nearly dropping the bowl as you turn to set it on the island. You smack a hand to your chest, eyes going wide.

“Christ, Javi!” you half-shout, but there’s a smile on your face. “That whipped cream was nearly all over the floor.”

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, stepping forward until he can twine his arms around your waist, leaning down to fit his face into your neck. You hum happily as he does it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I was hoping you’d still be in bed when I came back.”

“Well, we have to leave for Connie and Steve’s in an hour or so,” you reply, “and this shortcake isn’t gonna make itself.”

Javi groans into your throat. Right. The party. He’d partially forgotten. 

Connie and Steve moved to Laredo recently — further into the slowly-growing suburbs than the ranch was — and were throwing a house-warming party of sorts. You’d gone into the city one night this week to pick out a gift, returning with a few tasteful picture frames and a stuffed bunny for Olivia, and had reminded him last night you wanted to stop at a florist on the way there to get flowers for Connie.

“You agreed, Jav,” you laugh, tipping your head back while he lets his mustache scrape along your pulse. “Besides, it’ll only be a couple hours, then we can come home and you can have me all to yourself all night long.”

The mere idea of it makes his jeans tighter still, and he nips at your skin, earning himself a smack to the shoulder.

“Watch it! You know Connie’ll give me hell if I show up covered in hickies.”

“Love bites,” he corrects, pulling his head up, meeting your eyes. A strand of hair falls in your face, and he brushes it away, leans in to kiss your mouth, tasting the cream on your lips. “Mmm, sweet.”

“Love bites, sure,” you repeat, rolling your eyes. “Go get in a shower, cowboy.”

He pulls away from you reluctantly. “Does that mean you’re not joining me?”

“If the cake is done before you’re out, then maybe.”

“Querida,” he pouts and you push him in the direction of the stairs.

“Enough with the puppy dog eyes!” you laugh, still grinning. “Go!”

Ten minutes later, the cake is cooling on the counter and he has you pressed against the shower wall. The wet rope of your hair curls around his wrist as he holds you in place, your feet outside of his, your back arched and your moans filling the bathroom. His other hand is curled around your hip, grunting with every snap of his hips, the smack of your ass against the tops of his thighs.

He cums fast, driving his cock deep, and then yanks you up, banding his arm beneath your tits, his other hand moving to your clit, drawing fast circles that have you keening in his arms. You shower fast after that, taking turns beneath the spray, and you slink out first after kissing him soundly.

The bathroom is still full of steam when he gets out, and Javi takes his time, checking his discarded watch to see how much time he has. He brushes his teeth, combs his hair, shaves the bit of stubble from his jaw. When he walks back to the bedroom, towel wrapped around his hips, you are nowhere to be found, but you’ve laid out his red plaid shirt on the bed, along with a dark pair of jeans and his black leather belt.

Half an hour, and he’s walking down the stairs, fingers hooked into his belt as he turns down the hall to the kitchen.

His jaw nearly hits the floor, and his jeans are tight all over again.

You look absolutely edible.

Javier is pretty sure he’s never seen this dress before. His mind is a rolodex when it comes to you, full of details and moments and lists. Among those lists is his favourite outfits of yours — most of which are for bedroom use only, but there are a good few others that are outside-friendly. But this dress…he’s never seen this dress before.

It hangs off you perfectly, accentuating every curve of your body. It’s a pale turquoise colour, with little peach flowers all over it. There are buttons down the front, and the straps are thin, thin enough for him to know you’re not wearing a bra underneath.

Javi wolf-whistles, and you jump again, tilting your head back with a laugh as he walks into the kitchen, stepping toward you. “Don’t you look at me like that, Javier Peña,” you chide, pointing a finger in his direction. “You already had your way in the shower.”

“My way?” he repeats, lifting a brow as he moves behind you, letting his hands rest on your hips. The fabric of the dress is impossibly soft. “Pretty sure we both got our way, didn’t we?”

“We did,” you say, giggling as he presses his chest to your back. “I’m just saying, you got what you wanted, and we don’t have time—” The end of your sentence cuts off with a gasp as he slides his hand between your legs, pushing the heel of his palm against your cunt.

“Time for what, querida?” he asks, dragging the tip of his nose along your neck. “You know as well as I do I could make you cum right here and now.”

“Javi.” Your fingers curl around his wrist, and for a moment he thinks you’re going to pull his hand away, but you don’t. “You’re gonna make us late.”

“And Steve can give me hell about it all afternoon if he likes,” he replies, stepping away from the counter and the half-finished cake, taking you with him. You go willingly, melting into his arms.

Two minutes later, and he has you bent over the arm of the couch, eating your pussy from behind, the skirt of your dress bunched in his fists. Your thighs quake against his face, your underwear hooked around one ankle, and Javi lets one hand glance down the back of your leg as you cum with a shout, one arm reaching around to bury your hand in his hair.

Satisfied, Javier leans back on his feet, leaving a wet kiss on one cheek and delivering a quick spank to the other. It makes you moan and he grins, helping you back into your underwear, letting your skirt fall back down over your ass. You straighten slowly, still catching your breath, and Javi grabs your chin, kissing you hard, enough that he hopes you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“Ready to go, baby?”

Twenty minutes later, and you’re both in the truck, the gifts in the backseat, the strawberry shortcake boxed and resting at your feet. You turn up the radio as Javier drives, rolling down the windows to let the summer breeze waft through the truck cab.

Before you make it into the busier streets of the city, you pull your feet up under you, loosening your belt slightly so you can lean over the middle console of the truck. Javi lifts his brow as your hand curls around his bicep, skimming up and down his arm.

“I really love this shirt on you,” you mutter, leaning closer until you can press your lips beneath his ear. “Looks so fucking good, baby.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out, only a low groan as your hand moves down between his legs, cupping him through his jeans, the heat of your hand seeping through the material.

“Cariño,” he mutters, gritting his teeth as the blood rushes south, cock twitching in his pants. “I will pull this truck over, I swear to god.”

Just as the words are past his lips, the streets grow busier, the countryside giving way to the suburbs, and you sink back into your seat, returning your feet to the floor, resting your hand over his on the gearshift.

“Are you okay, Javi, sweetheart?” you ask, your voice falsely sweet as you lace your fingers through his. “You look a little flushed.”

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and presses the gas a little harder. You just laugh.

Connie and Steve are excited to see you both, and Olivia doubly so. You’ve seen them a few times since you and Javi became an official item, and while Livvy loves her Uncle Javi, she loves you even more. The afternoon is spent in the Murphys’ large backyard, filled to bursting with lawn chairs and tables, a little inflatable pool for the kids, overflowing coolers filled with beer and soda for the adults. Steve pulls Javier in every direction, introducing him to their new neighbours, Steve’s new colleagues and the like. A few are familiar faces to Javi, and there’s the inevitable conversation of how it’s such a small world, inquiries about Javier’s parents, the ranch, etcetera.

And the whole time, Javi keeps an eye on you.

Connie has commandeered you as much as Steve has Javier, introducing you to all her friends and the neighbours. He’s watched as you’ve done the rounds, chatting with people, offering Connie help with refilling the coolers or setting out snacks. Olivia has most of your attention, however, and Javi watches more than once how she wobbles over to wherever you’re standing, wraps her little fingers around yours and pulls you over to the blanket of toys Connie laid out for her. You go willingly each time, a beaming smile on your face.

Now, Javier watches with a grin on his own mouth as Olivia giggles wildly, her little feet kicking while you blow raspberries on her little belly. Connie sits beside you on the blanket, the two of you chatting between Olivia’s requests to stack blocks or give voices to her stuffed animals.

“So, when are you gonna put a ring on that girl’s finger, Jav?” Steve asks, the words almost too loud, handing Javier another beer. He feels his ears go red as he takes the bottle, taking a long sip before Steve touches his boot to Javi’s. “Seriously, man. She’s an angel.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Javi quips, glancing at Steve before his eyes dart back to you. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Think less,” Steve tells him, tipping his bottle toward Javi. “It’ll just get you into more trouble. Just ask her. Honestly, Javi, I’ve never seen you this happy.” His ex-partner lifts a brow. “Or is the sex just that good?”

Javier chokes on his beer. He sputters, instantly wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. “Shut the fuck up, Murphy.”

More conversations are had, more of Steve’s friends joining the circle to talk shop, football games and the new sports bar that opened downtown. It all sort of fades into the background for Javier as his gaze continually returns to you. Eventually, Connie pulls Steve away to help with something, the others go to make conversation elsewhere, and Javi is left alone in his chair.

He’s not lonely for long, however, because just as he’s setting his empty beer bottle down on the ground beside him, you materialize in front of him, dangling a fresh beer in front of his nose, the condensation dripping down the glass.

“Querida,” he grins, taking the beer before reaching for you, curling an arm around your waist. “Come here, you hot little thing.”

You throw your head back and laugh, falling into his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. He leans in and kisses the hinge of your jaw, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin, the flowery smell of your hair. It’s intoxicating. You sink fully into his lap, leaning against his chest, moaning as you go.

“Ugh, that feels good,” you groan, tilting your head back so the sun pours over your face. “These shoes are killing me.”

Javier nips at your earlobe. “Moan for me again; it sounded nice.”

You smack his chest, straightening slightly. “Javi.”

“I’m just teasing.”

“Aren’t you always?”

He just chuckles, shaking his head as you lean back against his chest again. Javi rubs his hand up and down your back, drawing circles on the bare skin between your shoulders, letting his fingers dip beneath the fabric of the dress just a bit.

You hum quietly, resting your head on his shoulder. “Honestly, Jav, how are you so comfy? I could sit on you all day.”

Javi presses his lips together, feeling your face grow hot as you realize what you’ve said. He tightens his arm around your waist, squeezes your hip through the fabric of your dress. “You know you have an open invitation for that, querida.”

He can almost see the goosebumps rise across your skin, and you wiggle your hips slightly, adjusting yourself in his lap. His cock twitches at the friction and you drape both arms around his neck, leveling your face with his. You peck the tip of his nose, but then your mouth slips south, kissing his top lip softly. He can tell you’re restraining yourself, and it only makes him harder.

The hand not curled around your hip starts rubbing up and down your legs, and when your knees part slightly, he finds his opening, glancing around to make sure no one’s paying you any mind before he lets his hand slide right up your skirt, fingers skimming up the inside of your knee.

“Javier.”

He pushes his face into your neck again, making it look like he’s whispering something to you, a secret for your ears only. “You think anyone would notice if I started fingering you right now?” he asks, and you don’t reply, but he hears the quiet gasp, the hitch in your breath. “You can be good for me, can’t you, querida? Let me play with that pretty pussy, but don’t let anybody know what we’re doing. Hmm?”

You twine your fingers in the back of his hair and tug, hard enough that his head lifts from your throat. “Javier Peña, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace, cariño,” he responds, raising his brows. “Who gave you the right to look so fucking delicious in that dress, hmm? I oughta teach you a lesson.”

The corner of your mouth quirks. “Mm, I think I’d enjoy that lesson.”

He gives you a quick peck. “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Your grin turns full-blown. “And speaking of delicious, my shortcake was a hit, but I really think we should get home soon, Javi. There’s lots more whipped cream in the fridge, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

An hour and a half later, and you’re home. You’re home, and you barely made it through the door, a trail of clothes leading from the front porch and into the kitchen. The tile floor is cool against Javi’s bare skin, but he feels like he’s on fire all at the same time.

The bowl of whipped cream sits off to the side. You’re as naked as he is, sitting astride his face, your knees pressing against his shoulders. Javi’s got his hands on your hips again, holding onto you tightly, groaning into the inside of your thigh as you drop another dollop of whipped cream at the base of his cock. It’s cold — almost too cold — but the coolness turns to heat as you close your mouth around him again, the warmth of your mouth almost too much to bear. Your tongue rides the veins of his cock, laving at the base while the tip hits the back of your throat, cleaning the whipped cream from his skin.

He yanks you down hard, sealing his mouth around your cunt, pushing his tongue into your dripping hole. You keen, moaning around his cock, and the vibration makes him moan right back into you. You don’t let up, not until he’s cumming hot down your throat, and even then, you pull off him with a quiet pop, instantly dropping your head to lick the rest of the whipped cream up. It sends chills through his whole body, leaves him writhing on the floor, and he taps your thighs, signaling you to get off.

Javier doesn’t let you go far, pulling you back against him as soon as you’re upright, both of you on your knees on the kitchen tile. With one hand, he smears whipped cream around your nipple, mouth lowering to lick it up a moment later, and the other finds its way between your legs, thumb circling your clit, two fingers sinking into you.

“Javi,” you groan, your head dropping back on your shoulders, one hand diving into his hair as he scrapes his teeth against your nipple, reaching for more whipped cream before moving to the other. “Oh my fucking god.”

He drags his tongue against you before flicking his eyes up to your face. “Moan my name again, querida,” he grins. “It sounded nice.”

“Javier.”

[iloveenya]

The Empyrean Dragon Chart; With all known dragons, tails, ancestral line, riders and their signets. Made by me (auraisereigh). I hope you like it <3

This is fully made by me (except the background paper, credit goes to pintrest) . i put the time and effort in it. If you see a mistake please tell me!

Masterlist ☆ Dragon guide ☆ Star's story ☆ Empyrean guide ☆ Support me

[iloveenya]

no thoughts just his thighs

[iloveenya]

[iloveenya]

He even tucks the thumb

oh boy

Welcome to the Fourth Reich dickheads. This is what you wanted. This is what you get.

[iloveenya]

I couldn’t reboot it for some reason

[iloveenya]

His

Summary: Javi can't get enough of you (aka idk how to summarize this other than it's pwp whoops)

Word Count: 1.8K

Pairing: Husband!Javier Peña x Wife!Reader

Warnings: ... again, this is straight up pwp, unprotected p in v sex, rough(er) sex, breeding kink (I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!! It's physically impossible to not!!), praise kink, big, nasty creampie, cum play, 1 use of daddy and papí (but like, that's the goal), an ass smack, prone bone and the one position from s2e3 of Narcos because I say so!!! also sweet, tooth rotting fluff because I don't know how to write any other way

A/N: She's nothing, if not consistent, your honor 🤠 You'll have to pry Javier Peña and his big, fat breeding kink out of my cold, dead hands before I stop writing about it!!!!!! Figured what better way to break a hiatus than letting the ovulation demons do the lords work for me to post some smut on tumblr dot com, hope y'all enjoy!!!

Never Too Late Masterlist

“Fuck, Javi!” 

The only thing that’s keeping you from waking up your neighbors with the volume of your moans is the way Javi has you pressed against the mattress, muffling the sound of you screaming his name as he pounds into you, over and over. 

You swear he could smell it on you from the second he walked through the door, how you had been craving him all day. Just the thought of him alone was enough to make you ache with unbearable need and want. From the moment he left for work this morning, you were counting down the hours until he got home so you could climb him like a goddamn tree. 

But then again, how can anyone blame you when he’s the one who instigated it in the first place? 

“I swear to god, when I get home, I’m not letting you out of the fucking bed tonight ‘till I knock you up.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise, Javi?” 

“Both.” 

Javi’s always been a man of his word, but with the way he’s fucking you right now, it makes you wonder if he’s ever planning on letting you out of the bed again. 

“That’s it baby girl, let me hear it.” 

You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest, pressed against your back as he fucks into you, deeper and harder with each thrust. The grip around your intertwined fingers tighten, practically melting you into the bed with the weight of his broad body is pinning you down, caging you beneath him. 

Heat is radiating off him, the tacky sheen of sweat pooling where your skin meets, Javi’s hips flushed against the meat of your ass. He’s already got you three orgasms deep, but there’s just something addictive about Javi that always has you begging for more, desperate to cum around his cock over and over again until you have nothing left to give. 

“Oh my god- fuck. Fuck, Javi, I want more baby, please. Fuck me harder- oh fuck-” 

You swear you can feel his smirk creeping into the corners of his cheeks as he kisses your shoulder, relishing in the mess he’s already made you, and yet, you still can’t seem to get enough of him. 

“You want more, hermosa? Let me hear you, baby.” Javi coos, purposely slowing his pace down just enough to make you whimper, quietly laughing to himself at the way he can feel you back your ass up against his hips, trying to keep yourself as full of him as you can. 

“I want it, I want more, baby, please.” You whine, craning your neck behind you just enough to see the devilish grin Javi has plastered across his face. 

“You gonna be a good girl and take everything I have to give you? Let me fill you up until it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ stick?” He groans, the thought of fucking himself so deep inside you that nine months from now, he’ll be the reason for your growing family, igniting something indescribably primal in him. 

“Yes! Yes, please, fuck- I’ll take all of it!” 

It’s borderline pathetic how many octaves your voice has climbed as you beg him for more, a pitch and volume so loud and high you nearly startle yourself with your response. You can hear Javi sigh and curse under his breath. You’re not sure if it’s because having you like this drives him crazy, or if having you like this drives him so crazy, he’s worried he’ll bust right then and there if he doesn’t control himself. 

Your response has him shifting behind you, sitting back on his knees and gripping his fingers into the meat of your sides to force your bottom half up, one hand letting go to smack your ass just hard enough for your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. 

You’re not sure how, but the new position has him feeling even fuller, stretching you out to the point of pleasure filled sobs as he starts to pound against your g-spot, each thrust rougher than the last. 

You’re so wet that the sound of him sliding in and out of your cunt is almost as loud as the noise of his skin slapping against yours. That, combined with the lewd panting and moaning heaving from each of your chests, has the room sounding like you could easily give any porno ever produced a run for its money. 

“Love this pussy so fucking much. Always so fucking wet and tight for me. Whose pussy is this, baby?” Javi asks, his once smug demeanor quickly dissipating as he chokes out his question through gritted teeth, so drunk on you he can barely think straight. 

“Yours! Fuck, fuck fuck- It’s yours, Javi.” You sob, fisting at your bedsheets so tightly, you’re convinced it won’t be long until your knuckles turn white. 

“Fucking right, it is. Fuck you so full of me that I knock you up, make sure- mierda- make sure everyone knows you’re all mine. That what you want, Mami?” 

“Yes, y-yes! Oh fuck- yes! ” 

Javi gets one more smack at your ass before he reaches around to scoop you up from your front, draping his arm across your chest to flush it with his back, never letting the pace of his hips falter. If he wasn’t holding you up, you’re positive you’d be limp, so all consumed by pleasure that it’s engulfed every inch of your body. to keep yourself upright. 

His free arm snakes around to find your clit, whimpering as the pads of his fingers rub tight circles around the bundle of nerves. The undeniable tingle at the base of your spine is beginning to build again, the all too familiar clamping of your cunt around Javi’s cock growing tighter by the second. 

You can all but feel him in your stomach, every inch of him sunk as deep as you can take him, backing your ass into him to counter every snap of his hips. You shoot your hand behind you, digging your nails into whatever part of his thigh you can find to brace yourself on as he fucks into relentlessly, only egged on by the fact he knows how close you are. 

“You got one more for me, baby?” Javi mewls, nipping at your neck while the hot words of his breath dance across your skin. “One more time before I cum so fucking deep inside you?” 

You’re not sure how you even have the capacity to form words, nodding your head in compliance as you try your best to string together something comprehensible as the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. 

“Y-yes, oh fuck- want you to fill me up. Put a baby in me, please, papí.“ 

“Fuck me.” Javi huffs under his breath, furrowing his brow in an intense focus to keep from fulfilling your request preemptively. “Cum for me, Hermosa. Cum all over my cock, and I promise I will.” 

It only takes a few more frantic strokes before you’re collapsing around him, orgasm shooting through your body with such radiating pleasure, you’re not even sure you’re on this earth anymore. The way he’s pinning your nearly limp body to his, pounding into you relentlessly to chase his own high is almost too much, but you’ll take it. You’ll take everything he has to give because it means that you’re his. 

“That’s my girl.” Javi coos, sliding the hand that had been rubbing at your clit up your chest, stopping to wrap around your jaw, just firm enough to dip your head back to rest against his shoulder. “My good fucking girl.” 

His head is buried in the crook of your neck, pants and moans muffled against your skin, growing louder with each snap of his hips, each one more reckless and sloppy than the last. You can barely make out the words he’s mumbling into your ear, his brain just as jumbled as yours as he nears his finish line. 

“I have so much fucking cum for you. Gonna fuck it so deep in you, it’ll- oh fuck- it’ll fucking take. Fill up this pussy with every last- shit- every last fucking drop. Fuck!” 

It’s a low groan that rumbles in his chest first, followed by a strangled whimper that dies somewhere in the back of his throat as his hips stutter, hot ropes of his spend spilling inside of you while he cums. You know he doesn’t dare let a drop go to waste, that he’ll keep his cock stuffed inside your cunt until you’ve milked him of every ounce he has to give. 

And fuck, he wasn’t lying when he said plenty to give. 

You can’t even tell where your body ends and his begins, melded together as one, his length nestled so deep inside you, you can feel all of him pulsing while his seed overflows, leaking out pussy and dripping down your thighs. You know there’s nothing more Javi wants than to keep every last drop inside your cunt, but the best he can do with how much he has to give is to keep fucking it into you, forcing hips to thrust deeper in sync with the heavy heaves of his chest until you’re all but sobbing. 

“It’s- fuck- it’s so much, Javi, fuck-” You whimper, jaw slack at the slick, sticky mess pooling around the base of his cock. 

“Jesus, fuck- I know, baby. I know, but you’re taking me so fucking well.” He coos, softly kissing your neck and shoulder before shifting your body to lay you down, somehow remembering to grab a pillow from his side of the bed to prop under your hips before your back hits the mattress. 

You hiss at the loss of Javi inside you, the sharp breath quickly replaced by a gasp as you the next plop of cum dripping out of your hole caught by Javi’s fingers, sliding up your soaked folds to gently press back into your cunt. He uses the last bit of strength he has to part your legs just enough to make room for his head, leaning down just enough to pepper soft kisses to your clit, trailing up your stomach and chest until he collapses next to you. 

The both of you lay there for a moment in silence, nothing left to fill the room but the post-orgasmic haze you’ve left behind, catching your breath as you try to let your brain sync back up to your body. 

“Javi… Javi, holy fuck.” You huff, the corners of your cheeks turning upwards in a cheeky grin as you roll your head to face him, giggling at the wide eyed, fucked out expression his face still can’t seem to shake. 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Javi sighs, shaking his head in disbelief before running his hand through the sweat-dampened curls of his hair, prying them from the damp mat they’ve made on his forehead.  

“You came so hard, Jav.” You softly giggle, scooting close enough to lay your cheek against his chest, smiling as he drapes his arm across your back to pull you in closer. 

“Yeah, I know. Fuck, I haven’t cum that hard in a long time.” Javi smirks, fingers drawing gentle patterns on the warm skin of your back. 

“Trying to knock me up really turns you on that much, huh?” You tease, the two of you laughing like you didn’t already know the answer, or that he couldn’t say the same for you. “It’s hot.” 

“Yeah?” Javi asks, biting down on the plush of his lower lip as he raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Mhmmm. You’re already about to be the hottest DILF known to man, makes it that much hotter how badly you want to be a daddy.” 

Even though Javi rolls his eyes at you, trying his best to hide the boyish grin stretched between his cheeks. You snicker at the pink flush of his face, leaning over to leave a lingering kiss on his lips, both your smiles meeting each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck me.” Javi sighs, quietly laughing to himself, carefully brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. 

“Again? Already? Hate to break it to ya, but I think it’s safe to say you’ve got nothing left in the tank there, Jav.” 

This eye roll makes him grin even harder, supring on your giggles with the ticklish kisses he pecks across your body as payback for your awful joke. 

“You’re such a fucking dork. God, I love you.” 

“Love you more, idiot.”

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[iloveenya]

[iloveenya]

epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again. 

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. 

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter. 

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too. 

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time. 

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?” 

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out. 

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk? 

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green. 

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all. 

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs. 

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under. 

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again. 

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him. 

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged. 

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow. 

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand. 

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water. 

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before. 

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up. 

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there. 

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good. 

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them. 

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate. 

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his. 

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed. 

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him. 

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable. 

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin. 

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh. 

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh. 

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes. 

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here” 

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.” 

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice. 

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—” 

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip. 

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet. 

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out. 

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace. 

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says. 

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow. 

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

and check out this gorgeous art piece by @millersblud 🫶🏻

[iloveenya]

Winter Solstice Masterpost - Spoonie Witch Friendly

The Winter Solstice typically lands around December 21st in the Northern Hemisphere (June 21st for the Southern Hemisphere).

Celebrates the arrival of the longest night, and the light returning after that. 

The Winter Solstice is celebrated throughout history in many cultures. Traditional customs such as the burning of the symbolic log, the decorated tree, and wassailing.

Correspondences

Colours

Dark Green

Orange

Red

Gold and silver

White

Black

Blue

Herbal

Bay

Blessed Thistle

Frankincense

Chamomile

Peppermint

Rosemary

Lemongrass

Myrrh

Ginger

Cinnamon

Cardamom

Cloves

Nutmeg

Saffron

Pine

Cedar

Holly

Mistletoe

Cypress

Edibles

Citrus Fruits (oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit, etc)

Root Vegetables

Baked goods

Roasted meat

Nuts

Dried Fruit

Stews

Soups

Pomegranates

Gingerbread

Cinnamon or berry breads, cookies, cakes, etc

Solstice log (edible version)

Cranberries

Apples

Eggnog

Hot chocolate

Mulled wine

Wassail

Mead

Spiced apple cider

Tea

Coffee

Animals

Deer

Bear

Goat

Reindeer

Robins

Pig

Cow

Goose

Owl

Fox

Squirrel

Any animal that hibernates

Crystals

Ruby

Orange calcite

Garnet

Amethyst

Clear quartz

Gold

Emerald

Diamond

Bloodstone

Green Calcite

Spiritual meanings & intentions  

Rest

Goal setting

Gratitude

Peace

Beginning

Renewal

Kindness

Ritual

shadow work

Rumination and reflection

Self-care

Personal development

Divination work

Rejuvenation

Healing

Embracing the darkness

Solitude

Slumber

Celebrating with family and loved ones

Need some suggestions to celebrate? I got you covered.

High energy celebrations

Feasting with the folk

Homestead decoration

Creation of a symbolic log (to eat or burn)

Making a wreath

Volunteer/charity work

Creation of a solstice altar

Decorating a solstice tree

Renewal ritual

Low energy celebrations  

Snow water

Making herbal fire starters

Lighting a candle for ancestors

Singing/humming

Mug cakes or easy bake cookies

No spoon celebrations  

Thanking/writing gratitude 

Company of loved ones

Eating premade desserts

Listening to music 

How you celebrate the holiday does not matter. You can choose to do any activity that feels right. These are only suggestions and remember that you’re enough no matter what.