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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year ago

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Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {5}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: The most anticipated race of the year is here, and the most controversial, Las Vegas GP. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, fluff, angst, injury WC: 3.5k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six

Round Twenty Two - Las Vegas

Kristian sat on a weight bench, flipping through the pages of the motherhood magazine he was reading. Every so often he would look up and give some guidance until the tips became a nuisance.

“I should have fired you,” you muttered as you rose up from the last lunge.

“You say that a lot but you should keep your back straight,” he shot back, grating you further with the slow scrape of the page turning. “And keep your feet in line with your hips.”

“Can we play some decent music at least?” you whined between the gulps of water you swallowed down. The training was far less intensive than they used to be with everything focused on just maintaining fitness and health rather than a goal weight or strength like before.

“Nope,” he chuckled, clearly enjoying being able to boss you around the gym again. “Baroque is good for the baby.”

“Bullshit.” There was no way the classical music meant anything to her, she was only the size of an avocado - or so Lando said. He had an app that he checked daily and uploaded photos onto as a keepsake.

Kristian turned back to the start of the magazine and turned it around, tapping the title of the article. “So you think you know more than Harvard scholars now, Spitfire?”

He took your silence for defeat and pointed to the pool door. “Twenty lap cool down and then it’s breakfast.”

Your stomach grumbled at the mention of food and you grabbed a towel as you passed the door to the changing room. Breakfast didn’t feel like the right term since it was well past lunchtime. The whole Las Vegas schedule had screwed your body clock with the late night practices and qualifying rounds but you were grateful it was the last night of it.

Lando and Charles had been fast asleep when you slipped out of the room. Something had disturbed you from the dream you were having and despite the room being pitch black with the thick blockout curtains your body could tell it was daytime. Thankfully Kristian was already awake and happy to move your fitness session up a few hours.

Cool water washed over you as you dove into the tepid pool and started to glide along the surface. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. The monotony was therapeutic and you didn’t even bother to keep count of the laps - your mind was elsewhere.

You had been dead on your feet in the wee hours of the morning after you finally left the track with Lando and Charles after qualifying finished. They still had adrenaline flooding their systems and had no hope of sleeping when they sunk into the couch cushions and pulled your exhausted body over their legs.

You were in a drowsy state, half asleep but half aware of the other two chatting quietly together. Their hands had softly caressed your skin, brushing your shirt up so they could feel the warmth of your abdomen beneath their palms.

“She’s so beautiful, Cha, and she’s carrying our kid. I don’t think I have ever been this happy in my life,” Lando hummed as he rested his head on Charles’ shoulder and smiled at their hands.

“We are very lucky to have her,” he agreed as he kissed Lando softly.

“So…” You tasted the mischief in Lando’s drawn out tone and it stirred some energy back into your body. “When can I start calling you daddy?”

Charles’ legs shifted beneath you with a groan and you willed your eyes to open as his cheeks flushed pink. “Mon cher...”

“You can call me papi chulo,” Lando smirked. “It means-”

“I know what it means,” Charles choked, knowing exactly who had taught him that too. “Carlos is a menace, but if anyone is going to be papi chulo it’s me.”

You nearly swallowed a mouthful of water as the memory of what had happened next led to a lapse in your count and you pulled yourself out of the pool with a splutter. Those two had a lot to answer for.

“Here,” Kristian said as he tossed a bottle of water to you. “Try not to drink from the pool.”

“What would I do without you?” you asked dryly.

“I don’t dare to think about that,” he joked before he said your favourite words. “Let’s go eat.”

You stared at the egg on your plate before pushing it away with disinterest. Charles looked up from his own plate and frowned at the rare sight of the food that remained on yours.

“Would you like something else, mamie?”

You smiled at the new endearment and watched Lando cut an avocado in half before passing one part over to you. The vibrant green flesh did look delicious but when you held it in your hand you could only think about the bump that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. You hadn’t noticed it before changing into your swimsuit but when you peeled the tight layer off in the gym's changing room you had frozen. The mirrored wall caught your side profile under glaring fluorescent lights and there, just below your belly button it swelled ever so slightly.

A hand waved in front of your face and you broke away from the memory to see both your boyfriends watching you with worried frowns. One of them had obviously spoken to you but you couldn’t recall hearing them as you stared at the avocado.

“You’re crying,” Lando murmured as he swiped away the tear on your cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s this big already. Our baby is the size of an avocado. She’s so tiny,” you said with a small laugh, raising the fruit higher for inspection. They looked at you like you were a little crazy and it wouldn’t have been the first time that was suspected but you pushed the chair out and placed the avocado back on the table. “Come, I want to show you something.”

You led them to the bedroom and Charles opened his mouth to break the bad news that they didn’t have time for even a quickie. The thought had crossed your mind when you found them still naked and splayed across the bed before breakfast was ready, but they needed to get to the track soon for media duties and to prepare for the race.

“That’s a shame but also not what I came here for,” you admitted as you started to remove your shirt.

“I’m getting mixed messages here,” Lando chuckled as he reached for his own shirt. “But I don’t mind being late.”

“Stop, before I really do make you stay,” you chuckled knowing they would do anything for you. You dropped your shirt and turned sideways while you stared at the reflection in the mirror. “Look…”

Their eyes followed the wave of your hand, the way your palm drifted over your hip to cradle the small bump, and Lando gasped along with Charles soft praise. Knees hit the soft carpet below your feet and warm lips replaced your hand, teasing your skin with kisses. Two heads of dark hair bowed against your stomach and whispered words of promise you couldn’t quite hear, but they weren’t for your ears. Finally they looked up, emerald and azure eyes filled with enough love that you were certain your chest was going to crack open.

You reached for their cheeks and felt the same dampness that coated yours. “She’s real,” you whispered. It had taken a few weeks but finally it all felt real. She wasn’t just a picture on a piece of paper or measurements of a hormone in a blood test. She was real, and she was yours.

“You look like a twat,” you greeted Max with a grin, flapping the collar of his race suit made to replicate Elvis Presley. “You’re just missing the blue suede shoes.”

Max rolled his eyes and ducked his head when you tried to mess his gelled hair up. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

“Oh I am,” you laughed, slipping back into Charles’ side. “I’m actually happy to sit out this circus act.”

Max narrowed his eyes as he scanned your face for a lie or bitterness but all he saw was a bright smile and genuine amusement sparkling in your eyes. A sense of relief washed over him as for the first time since losing your seat you looked completely content and happy.

“I don’t blame you,” he finally replied and looked down at the costume he had been given. He would be glad when all this was over too. “I’ll see you at Omnia?”

The sun had already set on the strip and the temperature was quickly dropping as the hour grew late, and closer to the start of the race. “Maybe, if it’s a boring race I might not even be awake to see the end of it.”

“Fair enough.” He hoped you would be there to celebrate whatever the results were but he knew you were more exhausted in your current state and wouldn’t hold it against you. Christian waved at Max from across the street that divided the hospitality area from the garages and he gave you a quick hug, clapping Charles in the shoulder as he passed. “The Ring Master calls.”

“Drive safe!” He threw a thumbs up over his shoulder in answer and you laced your fingers with Charles’ before continuing to the McLaren garage.

It was strangely quiet for a race that had been hyped up so much over the last year, but you were kind of relieved that there were less people to weave between. It was great that the sport was growing in popularity but it was a pain in the ass trying to get anywhere when you are squashed like sardines in the paddock.

Somehow you still managed to bump into someone.

“Shit, sorry, Logan.”

“That was my bad,” he apologised as he turned to face the direction he was walking, waving back to the fan who had stopped him. His eyes widened when he saw who he had collided with and regret painted on his face. “Shit, are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I, or the, um…” he waved a hand to your stomach and you tilted your head wondering who had told him.

“I’m fine, but you knew?”

Logan scratched the back of his neck nervously and shrugged. “The walls were thin in the medical centre.”

You were dumbfounded and the sound that bubbled from your chest confirmed it. “Huh.”

“I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t,” he promised before his name was called and he waved to his PT. “Oh, congratulations though, I probably should have started with that.”

Charles laughed and shook the American’s hand. “Thanks, mate.”

You smiled and accepted the half hug he offered, probably thinking a handshake would be even more awkward. “Thanks, and congrats on your first point too.”

“Not as exciting as a baby.”

“Yeah it is,” you laughed, remembering your first point for Alpha Tauri. “That’s your baby right now.”

His smile grew as he set off to his PT and you carried on your way to see Lando before the race. There was still over an hour until lights out but every minute had been scheduled for media duties, meet and greets, and the driver parade. You wanted to have a few moments of their time before releasing them to the wild.

Charles’ hand slipped from yours as you reached McLaren and he cradled your cheek before kissing you. “Are you alright to get back on your own?”

You rolled your eyes before looking at the Ferrari space four garages down. “I don’t know, it’s pretty far…I might get lost and end up in the Bellagio.”

“If you do, bet it all on Red for me,” he joked. The smile on his face dimmed as he saw the magician and Carlos waiting for him. “I’ll see you after the race, mamie. Je t’aime.”

“Love you too.”

“And Lando too.” He would have preferred to tell Lando himself but he just ran out of time with all the activities his team had planned for race day.

“I’ll let him know, and I’ll even give him a kiss from you,” you teased as you stole another kiss for good measure.

“Any advice from the current world champion?” he asked as he started to back away.

You shook your head. “It’s Vegas, baby, just give them one hell of a show.”

To say the atmosphere in Ferrari was charged was an understatement. There was resentment for Carlos’ car being destroyed and his mechanics gritted their teeth as they walked to the middle of the grid thanks to the penalties for fixing the car. On the other side of the garage, the side where you sat with Joris, excitement permeated the air as you watched Charles’ walk to his car parked in pole position.

You were torn between that excitement and the sadness that had followed you since leaving McLaren. Lando was being too hard on himself again for the bad luck he had qualifying 15th, but he was determined to make his way to the front of the pack. If anyone was going to be called Spitfire in the race, it was going to be him. He was going to dogfight his way forward from the moment the lights went out.

One of the cameras panned the crowd and you spotted him walking up from his spot three quarters of the way down the grid, all the way to the front where Charles was talking to Max. For a moment you were once again hit with the sense of longing to be out there but the feeling washed away as quick as it came.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Joris asked as he looked up from his phone. You chuckled knowing Charles would have sent the reminder text but you shook your head.

“I’m fine, thank you. And you can tell Charles I am keeping hydrated too,” you said with a smile, shaking your water bottle for him to see.

“You can always trust him to worry more about others, even when he’s meant to be focusing on the race,” he laughed as he sent the reply. “Have you thought any more about where you want to go for the maternity shoot?”

Charles had been eager to lock his friend in as the official bump photographer but there was still another four months until it was the best time to have them taken. He was also open to taking photos while you were in labour but you weren't too sure how you felt about that yet.

“Somewhere warm.”

“So no alpine backdrops then,” he chuckled, probably remembering how much you had complained about hiking in the snow last winter.

You scoffed at the idea, an adamant refusal to it. “Not if you’re expecting me to wear something that shows the bump.”

The action around the garages stilled as the guests on the grid were guided away for the formation lap to begin and you breathed a sigh of relief when Charles made it back to the first box without drama. Even Joris released a nervous laugh beside you.

“That’s a better start,” he murmured so the engineers around him didn’t hear.

“Couldn’t get any worse than the last one,” you replied just as quietly.

You held your breath and felt the same rush of adrenalin fill you as if you were right out there in front of the lights with them. Your fingers twitched at your sides, the muscle memory begging them to prepare for action as each red light appeared, then all five were gone. The keen whines of twenty engines accelerating to their limit screamed into the night and you grinned at the sound even though it was muted by the headset.

“Oh, fuck off, Max,” you screamed as he pushed Charles wide and they both went off track before pulling back on with your brother taking the lead. Suddenly your attention was brought to the back of the pack where multiple cars had been involved in an incident, but Lando had managed to avoid it and slip ahead a few places too. “Come on, baby, you can do it.”

Although there had been a lot of complaints about the showy nature of racing in Las Vegas, there was no denying it was a track that offered a lot of entertainment with long straights to overtake and high risk high reward corners too. You could barely sit still with your eyes glued to the many screens around the garage offering almost every angle of the race.

“Ok, I think this race has just redeemed itself,” you commented with a smile as you watched the battles taking place around the track.

“It is pretty amazing,” Joris said with his own excited grin, but shock fell over him and you snapped your head back to screen dreading seeing Charles out of the race again. But it wasn’t Charles.

Sparks flew as the floor hit the asphalt and your brain couldn’t seem to understand why Lando’s car was facing the wrong way. Still it kept skidding along the straight at full speed, spinning back around just before it collided with the barrier at the end of the runoff. Your breath left your lungs with the force of the collision and your entire body stiffened as your ears began to ring loudly. Your stomach lurched as you desperately hit the keys on the screen to select the driver view and you saw Lando’s shaking hands pull his steering console out.

“I, I need to go,” you whispered as you stood up on weak legs. “Can you tell Charles?”

“Xavi can do that, I’ll walk with you,” he said with a shake of his head. His arm looped with yours and stabilised you as you tried to rush out of the garage. They weren’t even stopping the race because he wasn’t on track and that made you feel even sicker. What if someone else went into the runoff?

“Mr Norris,” Joris called out, waving the worried man down. You blinked as you realised you were already in the McLaren garage, but you couldn’t remember the walk there.

“He’s alright,” Adam assured you as he pulled you into his side and thanked Joris for the escort. “I spoke to him after he got out of the car. They are going to the medical centre. Come on, darling, we can go together.”

“He’s alright?” you double checked, your vision blurring with tears.

Adam gave a sure nod as he started back the way you came, except he went towards the medical centre instead of the other garages. “His ribs hurt but he’s tough.”

Max said that when he was a child he would sleep walk, Vicki too. You imagined this was how they felt. Detached. Moving through darkness. Closing your eyes and waking in a new place. You blinked and the concrete path you were on was suddenly linoleum.

“Lando…” you sighed as you found him on a gurney, white blankets tucked in close around him.

“Heeeey,” he slurred happily, wincing as he snaked a hand out of his swaddle to reach for you. “It’s my girls.”

“You’re on the strong stuff, aren’t you, my love?” You faked a smile for him and took his hand, tilting your head towards Adam and the doctor explaining what was happening. You carefully leaned over the bed and kissed Lando until he broke out in giggles and his head lolled lazily back against the pillow.

“They’re taking him to the hospital for some scans just in case there’s any broken ribs,” Adam relayed when he reached your side and gave Lando a kiss on his forehead. “How are you feeling, son?”

“It hurts to breathe, but this is good,” he said, holding up his hand that was connected to the IV bag filled with strong painkillers.

A nurse came and unlocked the wheels on the gurney before asking who was going to ride in the ambulance with Lando. Adam looked at you and nodded, and though you knew he would have wanted to go with his son himself you were selfish and couldn’t leave his side.

“I’ll follow behind,” Adam promised before Lando was wheeled away.

You walked at Lando’s side out of the medical centre and found tv crews waiting, their cameras zoomed in on Lando and capturing his almost drunken state. A little loopy from the drugs in his system, he waved his fingers at the camera. “This will be on Netflix next year,” he laughed before wincing at the pain that flared. “So it’s safe to tell them, ‘I’M GOING TO BE A FATHER!’ and they can’t say a thing.”

Adam froze at his son’s outburst, though it was no secret that he was eager to shout to the world his joy. “Lando…” he growled, looking at your wide eyes.

“What? They aren’t allowed to use the footage for months,” he huffed.

“That’s not Netflix,” you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat as you watched the tv crew almost tremble with excitement. “That’s Sky TV.”

Click here for the next part.

#charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #charles leclerc x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula one imagine #formula one fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you

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miguelhugger2099 · 9 months ago

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God, I can imagine the situation with Punk! Miguel when he became a father. It’s just that he can literally get a drawing of his daughter on his body, and it will look like some kind of blot, but he will be literally proud of this tattoo, just like a tattoo that is a print his daughter's finger.

But here's the situation. Let’s imagine that some person looks at Miguel’s tattoo and says, “What kind of weakling can give you the number of the artist who will cover it up?” Miguel is literally torn to strike the person opposite but then says “This is my daughter’s drawing”

Punk Dad!Miguel with his family out on the beach.

Punk Dad!Miguel with his two favorite girls: his wife in a cute baby blue lacy bikini and his little girl in an adorable pink tankini with flowers.

Punk Dad!Miguel who looks out of place with his bright sunshine girls while he’s covered in tatts and piercings, tall and strong and very clearly watching out for the two most important people in his life.

Punk Dad!Miguel who keeps an eye on you two while you play with Gabriella in the water. His shades covering his sensitive eyes while he sips on a coca cola under the umbrella, legs spread apart comfortably.

Punk Dad!Miguel who groans internally when the father beside him tries to talk to him again. A family of four where his wife is also juggling with two toddlers. The husband? Sitting on his ass.

“Gotta say man, I wish I could do all that but my wife, y’know how it is.” He chuckles.

“No, I don’t.” Miguel says plainly. He loves his wife.

The man takes a closer look at Miguel arm and snorts. “What the hell is that?” He points to a small flower bouquet that wrapped around his bicep. The bouquet was terribly drawn, stems thick and uneven, petals that varied from round to sharp, colors blended in like it was done with crayon. It was a stark difference to the other well done pieces around his body.

“Now what asshole decided to screw you over that badly?” He cackles. “Oh, man you have got to get that shit covered up.”

Punk Dad!Miguel who chugs the last drop of his soda and smashes the can in his grip. His brows are hard and lips holding back a snarl. He turns to the man slowly.

“My daughter drew it.” He hisses, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose bridge to hide the rage burning in his eyes.

The man gulps. “Oh…I’m—I didn’t mean—“ He’s luckily saved by Miguel’s little girl calling out to him. “Papi! Papi!”

Gabriella struggles to march up the hill of sand, quickly hurrying in the shade to protect her feet from the scorching hot ground. She falls on the towel on her stomach and grin up at him, her hair more curled than usual and drenched from the sea water.

Punk Dad!Miguel who melts and instantly forgets about whatever he was angry at. “Hi Gabi.” He smiles.

Gabriella lifts herself on her knees. “Hi.” She giggles. “Mami said to call you because I wanted to go deeper in the water but Mami said that you know how to swim better.” She recounts her story to him and you slowly come up behind. You sit on the towel with a huff, your hair equally drenched from Gabriella’s play.

He knows you’re just tired and it’s time to switch shifts. He tosses the crushed can inside the cooler of the husband next to him and picks Gabriella up, placing her on his shoulders. “Okay, mija! Let’s go!” Gabriella squeals, lifting her arms high in the air.

#lowk a beach episode hah #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel x you #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #punk!migs

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multifariousqueer · 2 years ago

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hey baby, i hope you ok! if u are accepting requests i thinking reader sit on miles face, i know 1610!miles would be so sweet, now 42!miles... idk just late night intrusive thoughts 😩

OMG YESS I’VE BEEN THINKING OF THIS!!!

A/n: Hey y’all. Keep requesting smut fics and as always: IF YOU DON��T LIKE IT, SCROLL TF AWAY. Lmk if I should do more of these

Warnings: smut obvi, cunnilingus, imma try not to put so many warnings so y’all can actually see this post

Sitting on the Miles’ faces headcannons

Our Miles(1610)

Earth 1610

Definitely loves it fr

At first, you’re scared you’re gonna choke him but he’s adamant you won't

“Miles what if I crush you” “You won’t, I promise"

Those spider genes are strong fr. You feel light as a feather to him but you’re still scared

Makes sure you’re comfortable and willing to stop if needed

That being said, this man is a MUNCH

but he’s a soft munch, yk? He doesn’t do it often but when he does, he ain’t letting up

Contributed his mustache growth to you

Will tongue fuck you fr

holds your hand occasionally when he wants to be closer to you

When you lay back and rest your hands on his thighs let him do his thing as he’s full on eating you out>>>>

Will have you cumming in minutes

I feel like he’s gentle and watches your facial expressions to know if he’s doing good

Will close his eyes and just enjoy your pretty pussy and bask in how lucky he is to have you

“Mmmmm you’re this wet for me, mami?”

Is hard as a rock and he’s dripping precum but he’s so in love with you its worth it

If he feels you get up, he’ll think he did something wrong

“Did I do something wrong?” “No its just I’m close"

His ultimate goal in life is to have his head in between your Lucious thighs

cums at the thought

Thinks you taste like candy

your pussy is his paradise fr.

Will suck on your clit until you’re close and he’ll tongue fuck you

If you reach back and stroke him, he’s in love(more than usual)

When you cum, he swallows it and gulps it loud so you hear

“Mmmmm fuck mami, sabes a caramelo"

Will speak Spanish into your pussy

Goes feral if you run your fingers through his hair

Will def kiss you after and fuck you

Earth 42

“siéntate en mi cara, mami” “I’m scared that imma drown you or something” “I ain't made of glass. It’s okay"

I feel like he isn’t very good at it at first so you have to guide him

“Mmmmm right there, papi” “fuck, eres tan buena, mi corazón"

Once you tell him where to go and how to do it, you’re hooked

His face is basically made for your face atp

Will speak Spanish into your pussy, just like our miles

Teases you by licking circles around your clit and flicking over it occasionally and when you jump and whimper, he chuckles

"muy sensible, mi vida” “mmm you’re making me feel so good”

you smile and run your hand on his braids and he smirks into your pussy before returning his lips to your clit

when you cum, he will savor that shit

like he will act like he’s eating the best meal ever

“mmmm fuck, mami no puedo vivir sin este coño” “mmm fuckkk papi, you always put it down right

knows he’s the only one who can make you feel this way

will leave your legs shaking 100000%

makes your vision blur once he gets good at eating

has a long tongue and will literally lick your g spot until youre cumming

Doesn’t stop there tho, he will still suck your clit like a ring pop even after you cum

“Papi, I finished” “I didn’t"

Will get pissed if you get up and he will grab your thighs and pull you back down

“Don’t stop me when I’m eating, mami"

You’re a stuttering mess when he’s done

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luxurychristmaspudding · 7 months ago

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On Call | On Call

part ii

summary: sometimes, frankie wonders what he'd do without you. without your help, your laughter, your friendship, the lunches you pack him. and sometimes, when he's alone, he wonders what he'd do with you.

pairing: neighbour!frankie x f!babysitter!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. idiots in love, reader is good with kids. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. if that’s a problem for you, keep scrolling. fluff, plenty smutty thoughts, f&m masturbation. mentions of grief/dead parent, heartbreak, and biphobia/homophobia. brief competency kink, makin' a man some lunch (in a neighbourly way). drinking.

reader is a teacher, has hair, and there are some descriptions of outfits, but she is otherwise a blank slate :)

wc: 13.1k (normal length fic, my ass)

an: eternal love to @schnarfer for being a constant guiding light and the most wonderful friend. and further eternal love to @din-jarring and @toomanytookas who each make every day a little sunnier.

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

She said call me now baby and I'd come a running If you'd call me now baby I'd come running

- on call, kings of leon

series masterlist | main masterlist

When Frankie gets home Thursday night, weeks later, you’re working at his dining table.

He checks his watch as he closes the front door gently behind him, looking back at the glimpse of you in the kitchen, brows furrowed. It’s late. Surely you should be in front of the TV, fighting sleep.

His footsteps are quiet down the hall, and he pauses in the doorway. You glance up at his soft hey, and he can feel how tired you are.

‘Hey, buddy.’

Your smile is quiet, kind. You watch as he moves to the sink, collecting two glasses, filling them with water.

‘How’d it go?’

You say it at the same time, and it breaks some of the stillness, both pairs of lips lifting in mirrored grins.

‘Good,’ he says, ‘Glad to be home.’

He moves closer and takes a sip from his water, placing yours next to you, gesturing for you to go next.

‘Fine. Totally fine. She was out like a light after the second read. Best kid ever.’

You take a gulp of your water as he raises his eyebrows.

‘Second?’

Mhm.

‘I usually have to do at least four.’

You giggle, fluttering your fingers at him.

‘Magic touch,’ you whisper, ‘Plenty of practice reading kids to sleep.’

He shakes his head at you.

‘That’s not true.’

‘Mm. I’m sure my ninth graders would disagree.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, sitting down heavily next to you. He rubs his face, huffs a deep yawn as he slouches further down into the seat. You try not to stare, but he just looks so soft. You want to wrap him up in a blanket and lead him up to bed. Lay him down and press kisses to his cheeks.

‘She drew this,’ you say, pulling out a sheet of paper from beneath your piles of books. ‘Personally, I think it’s a good likeness.’

He laughs, properly, as he takes in the flourish of crayon across the page. It’s obvious where you’ve helped her - sketching the outlines of people, houses - and obvious where she took over - a mess of scribbles, rainbows of colour. The two houses, the fence, him and Lucia - Papi and me - and then the colourful tangle of you next door - Bug.

He traces the lines with his finger, gaze softening, heart swelling in his chest.

‘She hold you up, doing this?’

You smile at him, shaking your head. You fumble below the books again, pulling out a second sheet.

‘No. Looked so cute I drew one myself.’

You watch Frankie’s eyes light as he takes in your drawing. His and Lucia’s curls, the books under your arm, the oversized caterpillar in the grass. A tidier version of Lucia’s, one where you’re stood closer together. Like a family.

He bites his lip, a sparkling swell of joy flooding his chest.

‘Masterpiece.’ He says. You shake your head at him, bashful. ‘Wanna put it on my fridge.’

You scoff at him.

‘Put Luc’s on the fridge.’

He holds your drawing away from you, pushing Luc’s over your papers.

‘Put Luc’s on your fridge,’ he says, ‘And I’ll keep this one. Deal?’

You suck your teeth, grinning.

‘Deal.’

He stands from the table, moving further into the kitchen. When he reaches the fridge, he takes an alligator magnet and pins your drawing to the metal. He steps back, folding his arms. You watch him.

‘Perfect.’ He says. You giggle.

‘You’re a soft bastard, Frankie Morales.’

He laughs, turning back to face you.

‘Don’t tell anyone.’

You hold out your pinky, and he links it with his.

‘Promise.’

The heat from his hand, so close to yours, is almost irresistible. Your chest heats, and you want to pull him closer, see if he’s that warm everywhere.

You drop his hand, standing on heavy legs. Your I should get going is muffled through a yawn, and he nods, helping you to gather your things. When you’re ready, he follows you to the door.

This time, he pulls you into his chest. And he is warm, warm all over, and you could sleep here, suddenly, wrapped in his arms.

‘Goodnight, baby.’ he says, as you step out of his house.

He’s warm, and he’s so sweet. Baby, baby, baby running through your head as you make your way across the grass, smiling to yourself, still smiling when you turn on your porch, facing him stood on his own. Half of his body dimly lit by the glow within his house, shadows across his face as he makes sure you unlock the door and turn the light on safely. You raise an arm to him, and he does the same. You turn it into a flash of your middle finger, and he does the same - grinning to himself at the sound of your giggle across the lawn, cut off only as you close your door behind you. Goodnight, baby.

It still echoes in your mind as you’re pulled from the silken depths of sleep on Saturday morning by the whirring of a lawn mower. You huff, grumble, roll onto your back and press your forearm against your eyes. You have no idea what time it is, but you know for sure that it is too early for whatever this shit is.

Through the dim light behind your arm, you grimace. Your toes are a little cold, body achy like it needs to be stretched out. All fixed with more time spent asleep, except the buzz from outside comes louder now, more incessant. You roll yourself sideways, squinting in the sharper light coming from the window, mumbling to yourself as you sit and push up off the mattress. When you shuffle to the window and pull the curtain aside, you’re surprised. Frankie is up and out already - his front lawn cut into neat stripes - and now he’s gliding up and down yours doing the same. T-shirt clinging to his body, arms and neck shining with sweat. Cap on to keep the sun from his eyes, the curls at the base of his neck damp and dripping. He’s a sight.

And there’s something about the way he does it, how easy he makes it look. The stripes, the handling of the machine. How he changes the oil of your car, how he can change the tire on his. The way he drives, hand at your headrest when reversing. How he lifts Lucia, how he chops and slices while cooking. So goddamn easy, brow barely even knotted, just his thick fingers working through any problem they come across.

Heat stirs in your cunt.

It’s not that you haven’t thought about it. Him. It’s just that doing so feels… weird. You try not to have detailed fantasies about your best friend next door, feeling disingenuous when you call your good mornings, but certain flashes of thoughts just aren’t so easy to ignore. Stupid ones, like licking his skin when he’s covered in grease, him eating you out over the bed of your truck. Stupid ones like him knocking on your door when he’s done with the grass, coming in to find you reaching for something at the perfect angle in a little summer dress. Thoughts like him bending you over the counter and fucking you stupid, sweat mixing on your skin, the smell of grass flooding your head, tits bouncing in his hands.

Idle thoughts.

Ones that have you flopped back onto your bed, legs spread, one hand between your slick folds as you work yourself. Moaning and gasping into the heat of the morning, brief flashes of Frankie bursting behind your eyelids. The glimpse of skin and coarse hair you’ve seen when he reaches up to lift something, the shy look he gives you from below his lashes. How soft his mouth looks - what it would feel like on yours, what it would feel like to have him whisper against your thighs right now, telling you how pretty you look, watching your hands before he catches them in his and replaces them with his tongue.

It doesn’t take long before you’re cresting in an easy, all-consuming orgasm. Your back arches against the mattress, eyes squeezing shut as your cunt flutters and pulses, fresh slick gushing from between your fingers. Your thighs twitch as your circles ease, heart beat slowing in its thrumming as you swallow and pant. The mower is still whirring outside. He must be nearly done.

Frankie cuts the machine as he trims the very last patch of your grass to a lighter shade of green.

He peels his shirt away from his skin, flapping it in an effort to cool down. The cap comes off next, one hand swiped across his forehead, the other running air through his damp curls.

It’s warm. Unseasonably warm, and if he had any sense he wouldn’t have cut any grass today. But this Saturday suited him, and once he’s done his lawn, he may as well do yours. You don’t accept nearly as much as you should for looking after Lucia, so he’s taken to sneaking in more favours when he can. An oil change, lightbulbs you can’t reach, an Ikea chair you couldn’t find the time to set up. He knows you’ve noticed. Scowling slightly at how you can’t say no, quick to find a way to repay him. It’s become a welcome game of tag over the last six weeks. You won’t be outdone. In fact, if Frankie was a betting man -

‘Gotcha something.’

When he turns his gaze from the street, squinting slightly, he finds you bounding towards him. Barefoot, glowing with the remnants of sleep, and fucking poured into the most sinful sundress he’s ever seen. Like a teenager, he feels his cock twitch in his jeans, and he scolds himself for it.

‘It’s hot out.’ You grin, holding out a tall glass of something clinking with ice. His own answering smile speaks something of his relief, his gratitude.

‘Sure is.’

He takes the glass from you, giving it a sniff. You roll your eyes.

‘It’s lemonade. I’m not trying to poison you.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Yet, anyway.’

He nods, as though you’ve confirmed what he’s long suspected.

‘’S the thought that counts. I don’t get a straw?’

You smack his bicep with the back of your hand as he takes a sip.

‘Dick,’ you grin, ‘I’ll piss in it next time.’

Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up, but he manages to swallow without spluttering it all over you. He considers for a moment, clearing his throat.

‘Nice piss.’

Your mouth pops open, feigning disgust.

‘I said next time, freak.’

He laughs, flashing you a cheesy wink.

‘You love it really.’

You giggle, spinning on your toes like a schoolgirl. He laughs with you, sipping the lemonade, eyes crinkly and affectionate, tracing your lips, the hem of your skirt.

You look up and down the lawn, impressed with his craft. Quiet satisfaction blooms in Frankie’s gut.

‘Looks great,’ you say, pressing his arm. ‘Thank you. You know, you don’t have to do this.’

He shrugs.

‘Was out here anyway. Just helping my favourite neighbour.’

You chuckle.

‘Whatever. But you still don’t have to.’

‘Fine,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘I’ll never, ever do it again. I’ll leave you to mow your own lawn, build your own furniture, set your car on fire…’

‘I’m not that bad,’ you laugh, giddy as you step around him.

‘Bug,’ he says, fixing you in place with a firm hand on each of your shoulders. ‘Baby. I’m not convinced you even know what a wrench is.’

You gasp, genuinely offended this time, and he laughs.

‘Of course I know what a fucking wrench is, asshole. I’ll give you a fucking wrench.’

He laughs harder, and you reach up to swipe his sweaty cap from his head. Before he can grab at it, you’re off, flying in circles across the lawn. He sets his glass down and chases after you, hands slipping through the fabric of your dress. He’s not looking at the plush flesh of your thighs revealed at each stride. Not noticing the way your chest moves, definitely doesn’t see a peek of your ass as you whirl in front of him. He doesn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. Certainly not on purpose.

He blames the heat, his earlier exertion for why he can’t catch you. Can’t even try to grab you when you zoom by and scoop up his empty glass, when you round the curve of his fence and wait for him to follow you. He’s barely jogging now, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. He’s almost at you, cap almost within reach, and then you plant the hand with it in on one of the pickets of the fence, jump, and swing your legs over.

‘That is playing so fucking dirty!’ He pouts, and you cackle at him.

If there’s one thing you’ve mastered over the last year, it’s hopping the dividing fence. If there's one thing Frankie swears he will not do, it’s swing himself over. Something about his joints, something about his back. Yada, yada as far as you’re concerned.

‘What’d they teach you in Delta Force?’ You tease, ‘Surely it can’t have been any harder than that.’

He flips you off, hands on his knees.

‘You learn to do that in college? How many fences were you jumping?’

You throw his cap to him, waggling your eyebrows.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.’

‘Weather boy?’ He wheezes, shaking his head. ‘Not even gonna ask. Christ, you make me feel old.’

You snicker at him again, hopping from foot to foot. He holds out his empty hand.

‘Good game.’

You step forwards, full of faux-graciousness. You take his hand, opening your mouth to snipe something back, but he’s pulling you in too fast for you to process.

And god, he’s wet. Slimy and gross and warm -

‘Get off me, Frankie!’ You howl, and he chuckles, nuzzling his soaked cheek against your forehead.

‘Come over for dinner tonight,’ he says as you squirm in his arms, ‘We’re making pizza.’

You jerk yourself free, and he lets you go, so fucking pleased with himself. You shake your limbs out, trying to erase the sweaty feeling of him.

‘Only if you have a shower first. You fucking stink, dude.’

He begins to back towards his house, and you do the same.

‘I’ll have a shower,’ he says, ‘If you bring a wrench.’

You snort at the bottom of your porch steps.

‘Fuck you, Fish. I ain’t bringing a wrench. And get your goddamn mower off my grass.’

He giggles, a boyish sound so unlike the burly man it comes from. It makes you giggle, too.

‘See you later, Bug.’

‘If you’re lucky, Morales!’

You never do produce a wrench, but Frankie is always thrilled by the other magic tricks you have up your sleeve. He looks forward to the surprise when he comes home from flying - whole Lego cities in his living room, wonky origami in the kitchen, hama beads you’ve dug up from God knows where. The hama beads, he decides, he could live without. He found one in his sock the other day.

He’s home from work earlier than he thought he'd be tonight. Lucia tucked up in bed, he’d tiptoed upstairs to crack her bedroom door open, watching the rise and fall of her back before stepping in and pressing a kiss to her plump, toasty cheek.

He’s just finishing making coffee when he glances across the kitchen to a mixing bowl that hadn’t been out this morning. Curious as the coffee brews, he moves closer to the pale blob inside, and pulls back the clingwrap. He sniffs the dough-like mass, but comes up empty for clues.

He pokes a finger into it, grimacing at the damp sponginess before covering it again and wiping the digit on his jeans. He pours the coffee, adding creamer and sugar, before shouting over his shoulder.

‘Bug,’ he calls, ‘Were you making bread today?’

‘What?’ he hears you answer from the living room, and he smiles as he carries the coffee through to you.

‘I said, were you making bread?’

You’re still where he left you, tucked up on the sofa. You reach for the mug he offers with greedy hands, and he laughs.

‘Bread?’ you ask, taking it, brow furrowing before the confusion clears and you beam up at him. ‘Oh! No. I made playdough.’

‘Made playdough?’ He says, plopping down beside you.

‘Hell yeah, baby. Easy as fuck. Do you know it’s edible?’

‘Edible? You feeding my daughter playdough?’

You roll your eyes.

‘Obviously not. You’re a regular comedian, you know that?’

He chuckles into his coffee, blowing at the steam.

‘Did she eat it anyway?’

‘Not while I was looking.’

He hums at your answer, swinging your legs onto his lap and squeezing your calf.

‘What you watching?’ he asks. You shrug.

‘Some movie. This guy’s a detective tryna take down a drug ring. She,’ you say, flapping a pointed finger at the screen, ‘Is like, a burlesque dancer who’s actually an undercover agent, and he just found out. He’s feeling some type of way about it because he thought he was saving her from some kind of terrible fate, but it turns out she’s totally fine and is actually saving his ass.’

Frankie grins at you, and when you turn your head and catch his eye, you grin back.

‘What?’

‘Nothin’.’

You snort at him. He turns his attention back to the TV.

‘What’s the deal with the monkey?’

You jiggle your legs in his lap in excitement.

‘Oh! You’ll love this. He’s the gang leader. Everyone understands what he’s saying apart from the detective and this one guy who thinks he’s having the worst trip of his life.’

He belly laughs this time, tipping his head against the back of the couch, and you watch, eyes sparkling, as the hoots of laughter leave his mouth. You lean forward and smack his arm, giggling too.

‘Shh, you’ll wake Luc up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he splutters, still snickering, ‘I’m sorry. Oh my god. If there was ever a movie written for you, it’d be this one.’

You gasp.

‘I know. It’s insane. And the soundtrack is amazing. So many cool songs. And -’ you pause, waiting for the actress to pop back up on screen, ‘She wrote some for it. Can’t remember what her name is right now, but she’s in a band in real life.’

Frankie watches as the woman welcomes the detective into her dark apartment - pin boards full of pictures and maps, a wall that falls away to reveal all kinds of hidden weapons. She turns to face the other actor, and Frankie cocks his head.

‘She kinda looks like you,’ he says, and you make a noncommittal noise. ‘Sure you don’t have a long-lost sister?’

You chuckle, and the camera pans back to the man.

‘I don’t think so. But he looks like you. Just - maybe… a few years older.’

He drops his jaw, staring at you.

‘Just a few?’

You snort.

‘Yeah, Fish. Don’t worry. Old age comes for us all.’

He makes a hurt noise, fingers scrabbling for the bottom of your feet, and you shriek, holding your coffee far away from you as he tickles.

‘Stop!’ you cry, ‘Stop! Okay, I’m sorry! You’re so much younger than him. You barely even look thirty.’

‘Barely - even - thirty -’ he laughs, wrestling with you as he tries to stop from spilling his own drink. ‘Not only did you call me old, you’re a liar, too.’ he stops only briefly to put his coffee down, and you manage to do the same before he launches at you with renewed vigour. His hands are all over you now, finding any sensitive spot he can. You grab and dig your nails into his arms, kicking your legs against his lap, planting a foot against his belly to hold him away.

You speak only in squeaks, hacking coughs and muffled laughter. There’s a pressure building in your bladder, and it only makes your movements more desperate, more uncoordinated. You’re begging, pleading, almost in tears through your yelping, and then your heel digs lower than it should. Frankie’s movements cease as he doubles over your legs, grunting out a pained noise as you whip your feet away from him.

‘My - fuckin’ - balls.’ He gasps.

You try to suck your laughter back through your teeth, but it’s futile. You lean forwards towards him, your palm firm on his back.

‘I’m sorry,’ you wheeze, ‘God, I really - I swear I didn’t mean to do that.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ he groans, cradling his crotch, ‘There was feeling behind it.’

You snort, pulling his shoulder back so he relaxes into the couch.

‘Come on. It was barely a tap. Lucia could still have a brother or sister.’

He groans anew.

‘I’m in no fit shape for any of that now.’

You giggle and pout at him.

‘Aw. Want me to kiss it better?’

The flush that reddens Frankie’s face is almost immediate, the same heat flashing through your cheeks. Your mouth works to find some kind of joke, something to take it back with, but you flounder.

‘Keep dreamin’, bug.’

A ha! escapes your lips, and Frankie manages a bashful smile, a shake of his head. But your heart is lumbering in your chest, stomach gooey, and the tips of his ears are glowing.

He’s not thinking about it. He’s not.

And neither are you.

So he says something stupid about the monkey, and you say something stupid back. Layers on layers of silliness until the giggles return and the nerves are tucked away.

You love this kid. You really do. But it’s been a shitty fucking day.

You’ve not cried in the staff toilets since your training, but today every vibe was off, as the kids say. You’d been about ready to head home, forget about any work you needed to do, pull on your pyjamas and crawl into bed. Instead, you’re trying to blink back stupid tears on your way to the elementary school across town.

You’re not mad at Frankie, not even upset. When he’d called to say there’d been a fire at work and he needed to stay to provide first aid, your stomach had dropped through the floor. Your are you okay? felt clumsy, rushed, pushed against his panicked panting through the line. But he was just as quick to reassure you - he wasn’t even close, but one guy had burns and they might need him to cover the last flight out.

And it wasn’t a problem - isn’t a problem. You love spending time with Lucia, want to be as much help as possible, but man. You just wish it wasn’t today.

When you pull up to the school gates, Lucia is waiting for you. Her tiny backpack clutched in her fists, bright smile as she chatters away to her teacher stood beside her. Miss Lopez, Frankie had texted you, just in case.

The car door is barely open before the curly-haired whirlwind is launching herself in your direction with an excited squeal, crashing into your legs. You laugh, squeezing her shoulders before dropping down to her level.

‘Hey, baby bean!’

‘Papi said you’d come!’ She beams as you stroke her hair back from her face.

‘He sure did. You gonna come and hang out with me ‘til he gets home?’

She nods like her head’s on springs, and over her shoulder you look to Miss Lopez. She has the sweetest face, a lovely smile. You straighten out and offer her your hand. She takes it, palm soft and dry.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ You offer, and she shakes her head.

‘Not at all. You must be Mrs Morales.’ She says.

You choke on a laugh.

‘Oh - I - I’m not, actually. Family friend.’

Miss Lopez claps a hand to her forehead, grimacing.

‘Of course,’ she says, ‘The office did tell me. I’m so sorry. It’s just been one of those days.’

You chuckle, feeling Luc link her fingers with yours.

‘I know the feeling.’ You smile, and she smiles back. Miss Lopez crouches to Luc's level and gives her a gentle boop on the nose.

‘Be good, be safe.’ She says, and Lucia giggles, starting to pull you back to your car. Her teacher waves to you. ‘See you soon!’

You make sure to return it, ushering Luc to the car.

When she’s buckled in, she gently tugs the chain of your necklace.

‘I missed you.’ She says, eyes wide and earnest. Heat pricks behind your eyes again.

‘Missed you too, bean.’

It’s been a shitty fucking day, so you make cookies.

It’s easy to do, and mostly for you, but Luc is fucking delighted. You make sure to dig out her little chef’s hat, and she whizzes around the lower cupboards grabbing a mixing bowl for you. She loves it, more than anything. She’s a star with shaping, mixing, tasting. On the same page as you about eating the dough, and very content to sit by the oven door to watch them melt and bake in front of her. Easy entertainment, and she’s in your sights as you grade your essays at Frankie's kitchen table.

You know you’re not being fun. Not mustering the same kind of sunshine you usually do so effortlessly for her, not that she seems to notice. You try to keep a smile going when the cookies are done, packing a small box of them into your bag and eating two each before dinner. She might not finish the whole meal, but she looks at you like you hung the moon.

When you settle down to watch Frozen again later, her head starts to bob half an hour in. You let her fall asleep cuddled up next to you, and when another half hour passes, you extract yourself, gather her tiny body in your arms, and carry her to bed.

You set her down gently, pull the covers up to her chin, and watch her snuggle down in the blankets, nuzzling into their softness. You feel so weak, so goddamn tired, so disappointed in yourself for not playing like you usually do, for not encouraging her to sing and dance with you, for not reading her her usual bedtime story. It’s important for development at her age, a nasty little voice reminds you, and it just feels like something else you’ve failed at.

You swallow the lump in your throat, turn on her nightlight, and lean down to kiss her cheek. Her skin is so warm, so soft. You gently swipe the curls from her face.

‘Night night, little love.’

You’re still marking your essays when Frankie comes home.

You know you shouldn’t be. You know you should have curled up on the sofa or in the guest room like he’s told you to before. Know you should be asleep, barely managing to keep your eyes open, but you feel so fucking miserable, and you’ll be damned if Frankie comes home to you crying wrapped in his duvet.

Your coffee is cold, and a sip of its chill only serves to spark irritation in your stomach. You begin gulping it down, wishing it gone, before spilling some on the sheet of paper in front of you. You curse quietly just as you hear his keys in the door, dabbing at the blotch on the page as he toes off his boots in the hall. Your pressing only seems to be making it worse, little flakes of paper coming off on your sleeve as he enters the kitchen.

‘Hey,’ he says quietly, ‘I thought you’d be asleep.’

You give up, leaning back in your chair to look at him.

‘How’d it go?’ You ask, throat tight.

He shrugs.

‘Okay. Dylan has some burns and Eddie is pretty shaken up, but they’ll both be okay. Ended up taking Dylan’s last flight.’

You take a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry, Fish.’

‘Why? You didn’t set fire to it.’

You know it’s one of his usual quips. You know he’s not trying to be smart, not trying to rile you up. But you can feel it happening, all the same.

‘Are you okay?’

He looks at you, assessing. It’s not like you to not snipe something back, not like you to not take the joke further.

‘I’m fine. Just took me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve seen worse.’

You nod. He frowns. He doesn’t like it when you’re quiet.

‘Sorry I was gone so long.’

It hangs in the air for a moment. You clench your teeth, frustrated at yourself for the undeserved irritation.

‘You were at work. ‘S not a problem.’

He’s staring at you. You can feel it as you lean forwards again, pen in your hand. The words in front of you blur.

‘Whatcha reading?’

You should go. You should really pack up before this ridiculous anger bubbles over. It’s not Frankie who deserves it, not the kids who deserve it. You should sleep on it, get some perspective. Fuck, do some mindfulness or something.

Frankie drums his fingers on the wood when you make no reply, and you glower at him as he moves around the table, eyes fixed on your pile of marked essays. He thumbs the corners, and you bristle.

‘Oof,’ he says, picking up the last paper you graded. ‘F for Fail?’

‘No,’ you bite, ‘F for fuck off, Frankie.’

His eyes flick to yours, surprised, and he’s greeted with a wall of fury which he’s never seen before. It shocks him enough to put him on the back foot. Show his belly. He whistles lowly, dropping the paper back onto the pile, and is rewarded with something akin to the gnashing of teeth. The pieces slot together in his head. The bags under your eyes. How short you’re being.

‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I think that’s enough for tonight.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ You hiss, and it’s like you’re an open book for him to read. The flame in your stomach roars to life at the look he gives you. You need to take a nap.

He pulls the rest of the papers away from you, and you try to claw them back, outraged. He grabs your hands, holding them away from your work, and your wrists twist in his grip.

‘Frankie,’ you seethe, ‘Let me go. I’m not fucking around.’

But he doesn’t. He’s seen you worked up before, knows you better than you think. Knows this isn’t just the result of a few bad essays, knows this is because of something more. Knows how to make you feel better. ‘Francisco Morales,’ you start, ‘Get your fucking hands off me -’

He tightens his fingers again and tugs you up off the chair. It squeaks across the floor as you stand. Something about your attitude sparks a flame south of Frankie’s stomach, and he swallows sharply. Nothing a good hard fuck couldn’t fix, and he blinks at himself, surprised. He drops your hands. Where the fuck did that come from?

‘Get off -’ you growl, and he points at you.

‘Sit your ass on the couch. I’ll be there in a minute.’

You set your jaw and glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow. He watches as your mouth twists into a scowl before you turn on your heel and stomp through to the living room.

He takes his cap off, scrubbing a hand through his hair and exhaling through his nose before adjusting himself in his jeans. He tidies your papers, puts pens and markers back into your pencil case, closes your laptop, packs your bag. Moves to the cupboard for two mugs, busying himself with tea and coffee as he tries to push thoughts of your furious eyes from his mind. How he could kiss the frown from your forehead, the scowl from your lips, how he could take you apart with his mouth, his cock, make you forget, make you feel better -

When he steps into the living room, you’re sat with your back to him, crowded into a corner of the couch. He places your tea on the table behind you, and his coffee on the other at his end. He lowers himself onto the cushions, relaxing against the leather, watching you. Your shoulders are almost up to your ears, fingers picking at the skin around your nails, eyes on your lap. He waits, chewing his cheek, hands twitching at the way your nails dig into skin.

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you.’

Your voice is small, quiet. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

‘It’s okay, baby. I know you didn’t mean it,’ he pauses. ‘I’m sorry for - manhandling you.’

You huff a breath through your nose, scratch at your knuckle. Frankie feels the worried pit in his stomach start to yawn.

‘Bug,’ he says, softly, ‘Talk to me.’

You wipe your hands over your thighs, and Frankie wonders whether it’s him. Something he’s said or done. He knows he’s not been looking hard enough for another sitter - maybe you’ve just had enough. His gut twists.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing - just. A bad day, is all.’

Too fast. He can feel his eyebrows lift.

‘Because of the tests?’

You shake your head.

‘All of it. The whole day was wrong.’

Frankie waits again, resisting the urge to move closer to you. You need a moment, though everything in his body wants you near right now. The scratching at your knuckle is incessant, and Frankie observes the movement with his own growing anxiety. You clear your throat.

‘All my lessons were shit. Everything was shit. I forgot reports and data drops, and the kids wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and I yelled at my favourite class, and almost everyone in my tenth grade group failed their assignment, and I just - couldn’t smile enough, wasn’t good enough for Lucia, and I’m so tired,’ you rush out, pressure building behind your eyes and at the back of your throat. ‘I’m tired, Frankie.’ You whisper.

He’s nodding, hands clasping and unclasping over his lap.

‘Bug, baby,’ he says, so gentle, ‘Please don’t worry about Luc. Don’t ever worry about not being good enough. You know she thinks the sun shines out your ass,’ he pauses, but there’s no giggle. ‘And I bet your lessons weren’t shit. You had a bad day - that’s all. That does not make them shit.’ He can see your head quirk minutely, hear the thought as though you’d spoken it aloud. Wrong. He keeps going. ‘And things get forgotten, but they’ll get done. Did anyone say anything?’

You shake your head.

‘No. Helen just said they need to be done as soon as possible.’

‘So no one was upset? No one yelled?’

You shake your head again.

‘So it’s fine. You won’t be the only one, bug. And kids never shut the fuck up. It’s annoying as fuck. You know how long I’d last in that classroom?’

‘Five minutes?’ You say, a tiny curl of amusement in your words.

‘Twenty fucking seconds. You’re a saint.’

He hears it, though faint. A small huh of a laugh. He continues, smiling a little.

‘And fuck the tenth graders. If they shut the fuck up, they’d have done it properly. They wouldn’t have fucked it up. They wouldn’t be making my best pal upset, here on my couch.’

You breathe out, shoulders sagging.

‘Maybe they found it hard, though. Maybe I didn’t do a good enough job of explaining it all -’

‘Ah,’ Frankie interrupts, ‘Maybe. But were they concentrating when you explained it? Or were they talking football teams and weekend plans?’

The scratching stops. Frankie counts the seconds by the tick of his heart beat as you pop your knuckles and sigh again. You still haven’t looked at him.

You suck air through your teeth.

‘Football teams and weekend plans. But they still - the results are awful, Frankie. They’re gonna think I can’t do my job.’

‘They’re not gonna think that. They’re not. This is one bad day, one bad result. You’re doing all you can. But you can only do so much, bug. Today was just not your day.’

Your body is vibrating with tension. You link your fingers together, watching the way the skin shifts between the joints.

‘It just - it wouldn’t be so hard if they fucking listened to me,’ you say, still quiet, but angry again now. Upset in a way that makes Frankie’s chest swell. ‘And then I get to thinking - maybe it is me. Maybe I’m just shit at my job and nobody’s bothered to tell me yet -’

‘Enough. You’re not doing this. Of course someone would have told you. Bug, they’re kids. They don’t even listen to their parents when they’re told to defrost the chicken when they get home from school. You’re not doing anything wrong.’

In the low light, Frankie can see you bite your lip, chin wobbling.

‘Hey,’ he says, softly. ‘Hey. Don’t cry. If anyone should be crying, it’s them. You’re doing your best. The least they could do is meet you halfway.’

‘But it’s my job, Frankie. And I care.’

‘I know you do, baby,’ he says, finally leaning forward, squeezing your thigh, ‘I know you do. So - what can we do? You’re tired. Lots of sleep. Long lie in on the weekend. But there’ll be lots of things you can do to turn things around. What can you do for tenth grade?’

You look up, finally. He gets a glimpse of your eyes, panicked, worried, before you turn them away again. You swallow, nod.

‘I guess I could… break it down for them. When I give their marks back. We could write an answer together. And Lucy showed me a really good feedback grid I can print for them all so they know what to work on.’

‘Good. That’s good. Make ‘em write it again?’

You twist your fingers.

‘Yeah. I guess so. There’s time. And they could do with the practice.’

Frankie squeezes your thigh again, stroking his thumb against your pants. You huff.

‘There. See? Already fixin’ it. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy.’

You quirk your head.

‘You’d think. More like - fuckin’ - difficult, difficult, lemon difficult.’

A slow smile spreads across his lips, despite himself. And when you look up, catch it, you fight to keep your mouth from doing the same.

‘You can laugh, bug,’ he says, ‘That was funny.’

A small giggle floats from between your lips, but it’s still watery. He can taste the salt in the air.

‘What else?’ he says.

You shake your head, retreating back into yourself again.

‘Bug?’

Your eyes are back down on your hands, fingers twisting, twisting, twisting.

Frankie holds his breath, heart aching in his chest. He can feel it radiating off of you, something deeper, painful.

‘I just - it made me think maybe I’m not cut out for it. Maybe I’m not as good as I hoped I’d be, and -’ you cut yourself off, throat tight. You swallow, and Frankie leans towards you. One of his huge hands reaches out to yours, and he gently pries his fingers between your palms, thumb stroking over your knuckles. The tears come without you realising, hot and quick, so many of them you’re startled. ‘And maybe - not as good as dad said I would be.’ You shrug again, wounded, vulnerable. Frankie shifts, the arm closest to you wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest. Your voice catches, fear and guilt straining against sound. ‘That was the worst part. I felt like I was letting him down.’

‘Letting him down?’ He says into your hair. You feel his lips against your scalp as he speaks. ‘My god, bug. How could you ever think that?’ He squeezes you tighter, and you fight the sobs clawing up your throat. ‘Every day, you go in there and you kill it. No one in that school has ever said a bad thing against you. And you come home with notes, drawings, emails from kids and staff and parents who tell you that you’re making a difference. That you’re helping them learn, you’re making them feel safe, feel like they’re worth the time you give them. Do you know how special that is? Do you know how many of those kids come to you for that?’

A broken noise escapes your mouth, and Frankie begins to rock you gently.

‘I’m proud of you,’ he says, ‘And I know if I’m proud of you, your dad is watching you with his heart about to burst. You could never let him down. Look at you. You are so special.’

You hiccup against him, and Frankie nuzzles his face into your hair. Your tears are hot, damp through his t-shirt, but you can’t stop. You hold to his arms, breathing him in as holds you close. Your legs are going numb, head aching, and you don’t know how long you sit there like that with him holding you. He soothes you with quiet whispers, waves rushing in and out, and once your breathing is back to normal you pull away from him with a great sniff. You laugh at yourself, wiping at your face. He smiles gently back, little crow's feet ceasing the corners of his eyes.

‘You okay?’ He asks.

You nod.

‘Yeah. Just gross. Need to blow my nose.’

He shakes his head at you.

‘You’re never gross.’

You roll your eyes at him, and he chuckles.

‘There she is.’

You shift on the sofa, stretching and popping your joints before hauling yourself up to go to the bathroom.

‘Do you want anything?’ You ask shyly. He shakes his head.

‘Nope. Take your time.’

You shut the door quietly behind you in the bathroom, stepping to press your head against the cool tile. You try to empty your mind, but your chest is heavy. Everything that Frankie said, everything that was so easy to share with him. You’d thanked your lucky stars many a time over the last year that he’d bounded out his front door the evening you’d moved in, but now there was something more to it. You roll your head against the cool ceramic and press your fists to your chest. Your dad was a man who believed in fate, in things happening for a reason. Here, in the quiet calm of Frankie’s house, you have a feeling that he pulled some strings. That he knew who you’d need.

Lips almost pressed to the tile, you whisper to him.

‘Thanks, dad.’

The words hang in the air, slung out the universe, met with warm silence. Your throat tightens again, and if you close your eyes tight, you’d swear he was at your shoulder. Like you could turn around and he’d be there.

When the tightness passes, you inhale deeply and turn to the sink. You splash your face with cold water, blow your nose, and make your way back to Frankie.

He’s right where you left him, the TV on quietly. You flop down into your usual position, and he makes motions for you. You swing your legs onto his lap, and he runs his hands up your shins. Gentle, tender care again. You tip your head back and speak to the ceiling.

‘Thank you.’

He’s quiet for a moment.

‘You don’t need to thank me, bug.’

You make a noise of dissent.

‘You should know. You should know how much I appreciate you. How much I love you.’

You blink at the lights and shadows above you. How easily that slipped off your tongue. It’s never been difficult for you to tell your friends you love them. Hell, you even said it to the lady who served you at the store the other day. But something about saying it to Frankie feels… different.

Your breath gets caught in your chest, and then Frankie’s thumbs dig into the flesh of your calves.

‘Love you too, bug.’

You inflate your lungs at the same time as he kneads a particularly tense spot on your leg, and you loose a quiet groan. You’re not sure if you imagine the minute pause of Frankie’s hands before he thumbs the same spot again.

‘Fuck.’ You hiss.

This time, he does pause. He pauses and prays you don’t feel the way his cock twitched.

‘Does that hurt?’

You pull your head back up and find him watching you with dark eyes.

‘No,’ you say quietly, ‘Not really.’

He nods, studying your face at the next pass of his fingers. Your wince at the tension, but the relief that follows makes your eyes close. This time, he runs his knuckles over your muscles, and you bite your lip, eyes flickering open to meet his. You sigh.

‘That good?’ He asks.

You can’t say anything, nothing that wouldn’t betray the flood of warmth sparking in your cunt.

Mhm.

He nods, kneading further down your leg. Your head flops backwards again, lip clamped between your teeth, brow furrowed as you will your body not to betray you. You almost have it, almost, fingers flexing against the couch cushions, until he presses his thumbs into the arch of your foot and you moan. You fucking moan.

You freeze, teeth releasing your lip as you gasp, but he keeps going. Running his thumbs over and over the sore muscles as you let out quiet little gasps, squirming against the couch, soaking your panties.

‘Jesus Christ, Frankie.’

‘Relax,’ he says, ‘You’re fine.’

You are not fine. Every synapse in your body is firing, every nerve ending alight. You begin to panic, begin to wonder whether you could come from a foot massage alone. Your eyes find his face again, and he turns his head slowly to look back at you, digging firmly into a particularly sore spot. You whine, more pain than pleasure this time, and he presses harder. Hot hurt shoots up your spine, and you whip your foot away from him, breathing heavily. Like dawn breaking, Frankie’s face clears.

‘Fuck,’ he rasps, ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

You wince, flexing your foot against the carpet.

‘’S okay,’ you murmur, trying not to pant, ‘Just a little too deep.’

You can’t look at him. You’re so sure that this man does everything from the good of his heart, with the express intention of making you feel better, but you can’t ignore how your body is buzzing. He can’t possibly know how turned on you are right now. Just a friend comforting a friend. Just a friend. Jesus Christ.

You glance at your watch and curse, all but leaping off the sofa. Frankie stares after you, panicked.

‘Bug -’

You whirl around to smile at him, realising just how wet you are with your thighs pressed together.

‘It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me. I should just - I should really get going.’

He hasn’t moved from the couch, hands crossed in his lap like he’s afraid to move.

‘I’m sorry.’ He whispers.

‘Don’t be,’ you say - too brightly, too quickly. ‘Don’t be. I - thank you. For everything. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

And you’re gone. Bag grabbed, barefoot, shoes in hand, flying out the front door, across your lawns, into your own house. Dumping the shoes and peeling off your clothes in the safety of your bedroom. You flick the bedside lamp on and yank open your bedside draw, rummaging around for your vibrator, pressing it to your throbbing clit before you’re even on your bed.

Your body jerks at the sensation, knees giving out as you moan, long and loud, free hand fisting the sheets as you rock back and forth on your hands and knees. Something clatters through your mind, something confusing and guilty, some mix of emotions that stirs in your chest and in your gut, something that tells you you shouldn’t be doing this - again. Shouldn’t be this close to coming already, shouldn’t be so wet, shouldn’t be shaking this hard. Shouldn’t be moaning so loud, so desperately, shouldn’t be thinking of the way Frankie’s dark eyes bored into yours, the way he worked his fingers over your sore muscles, how he’d held you there so you couldn’t escape. What he’d think of you dripping all over his couch from just touching you through clothes.

You tilt your ass up further, resting your forehead on your arm, feeling sweat gather on your hairline. In your mind, Frankie’s hands are climbing up further than they were before, kneading up your thighs, squeezing and rubbing, all the way until his thumb grazes the edge of your panties. You can imagine how his eyes would get darker as he felt the slick there, so wet it made the closest press of your thighs damp through the fabric. How you’d hold your breath and his gaze as he slipped two fingers beneath the gusset, how he’d sweep them through the wetness there, just spreading it, teasing, enjoying how wet and ready for him you were before slipping both digits inside, easy, so easy -

You clench your teeth against the cry that seeks to force its way past your lips, breath stuttering in your lungs as your body seizes and pulls, cunt clenching and pulsing with your orgasm. Your head slips off your forearm onto the sheets and you curse quietly, betrayed by how easy it had been to come.

You stand on shaky legs, turning the vibrator off with a click before leaving it on the duvet. You kneel and survey your room, the unread books, the pile of laundry, the freshly ironed shirt ready to wear tomorrow. The window across from you, bare of curtains, looking straight through to - fuck. For fuck’s sake.

Frankie’s bathroom light is on across the dark expanse of midnight grass. You freeze, naked, terrified for a moment that you will see him step into frame and catch you red handed. As if he’d know. As if he’d be able to tell, just from the look on your face, that you’d come so quickly, so easily, to the thought of him slipping his hand beneath your panties.

But he doesn’t. With an arm over your chest, you whip the curtains over the gaping glass, and get ready for bed.

Frankie can taste blood.

He barely even registers it, lip clamped between his teeth as he fists his dripping cock in the bathroom mirror.

He’d sat for a few minutes on the couch after you’d left, trying to will his arousal away, terrified you might have forgotten something and come flying back through the door. Terrified Lucia might be rattled awake and find him to ask what the noise was about.

When neither had happened, he’d unzipped his fly to relieve some of the aching pressure. He’d turned off the TV and all the lights, something swelling in his chest at the sight of the plate of cookies on the counter, piled high, and hauled his ass upstairs. The movement had made it worse.

The friction against his cock at every step of his tired feet made him ache fiercely, and he’d forgone his bed, heading straight to the en-suite, where he’d whipped his t-shirt off and pulled himself out.

He’s trying to be quiet. Trying so hard as he draws his fist over his tip, spreading the precum down his length, as he twists and tightens his hand. His heart is racing, body thrumming with desire. He’s trying not to think of them, but those sweet, desperate little sounds you made are flooding his mind. He’s fucked. So fucked.

And he’s weak.

Weak at the knees at the thought of you laid out on his couch. At the thought of his hands drifting higher, at maybe finding your panties soaked. With his eyes closed, he can imagine your face - shocked, desperate, aching for him the way he is for you. He’d swipe his fingers along your slick slit, and he’d taste them - fuck, he’d give anything to know what you taste like. And when you begged, he’d strip you down and spread you out. He’d lower himself between your legs and kiss every inch of skin he could find. He’d breathe in the scent of you, nose the crease between your thigh and cunt, and he’d eat you. He wants to know what other sounds you make as he takes you apart, wants to lick you from your hole to your clit. Wants to hold you down as you squirm, wants his fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. And he wants to make you come. Wants to drink you down as he feels you twitch and pulse beneath him, and then he wants to fill you with his cock.

He tightens his fist again, barely muffling his groan. He wants to feel you stretched out, gasping as he pushes in. Wants to lean his forehead against yours as he whispers how beautiful you are, how good you’re being, letting him take care of you like this. Wants to see you cry for a different reason, wants to taste the salt on your skin and know it’s him who’s making you feel this good, that it’s only him who can fuck you like this.

Wants to make you his, wants to feel you come around him, watch your eyes roll into the back of your head -

He moans as he spills into his fist, cock kicking and jerking with every spurt of milky release that escapes him. Blood roars in his ears and he strokes himself until he whimpers at the sensitivity, panting hotly.

His mouth is bloody and raw in the glass, eyes wide and guilty. He turns from his reflection in shame, ripping toilet paper and cleaning himself gently, trying not to think of your hands, your mouth, how you might look with his spend leaking from between your legs.

He throws the paper in the toilet, tucking himself in and pushing the lever.

He turns after flushing the evidence of his fantasies away, and is fixed with the disapproving eyes of the Star Wars duck on the edge of the bathtub. He pulls a face at it and flips it off.

‘Don’t look at me like that. I bet you do it when she’s not watching, too.’ He says, pointing to the sparkly gold one beside it.

The duck glares back at him, accusatory, and he sticks his tongue out at it as he swings the door open, flicking off the light before stepping out. He closes the door firmly behind him, and leaves the ducks to their domestic.

Frankie snoozes his alarm the next morning, eyelids fluttering against his pillow as he wraps his arms around his tangle of duvet. He’s warm, limbs languid, still in the haze of a sweet dream, a familiar scent hiding behind the edges of sleep.

He’s almost passed out again when he jerks awake, adrenaline flashing through his veins as he stumbles out of bed and into Lucia’s room. She’s asleep still, groggy as he gently stirs her, mumbling into her teddy about not wanting to go to school. And despite his best efforts, they’re both sluggish, slow, running late as he dresses her and then himself, as he makes breakfast, as he packs her bag, as he reaches into the refrigerator to grab her lunch -

Shit. Her lunch.

He throws a frantic glance at the clock, muttering a fuck too quiet for his daughter to hear as she waits behind him with her shoes, ready for him to put them on. He turns and kneels in front of her, placing one foot on his thigh so he can finish getting her ready. He makes a calculation that includes stopping to get her something from the store on the way to school, but there’s just not enough time -

He whips the door open so quickly it startles you, your hand flying from where it was about to knock. Your stomach is churning, heat crawling up your spine with how fucking weird you must have been last night.

Frankie looks just as surprised to see you as you are him.

‘Bug?’ He says, paused in the doorway with Lucia hitched on his hip.

‘Bug!’ She crows, delighted with the early morning visit, oblivious to her father’s rush. You beam back at her, greeting her with a mornin’, mini Morales, before looking back at Frankie. Something in his chest goes gooey.

‘I made lunch for you both,’ you say shyly, quickly. Frankie’s eyes drop to the two bags you have held out. ‘I didn’t think you’d have time last night. And I wanted to apologise. I didn’t mean to give you shi- a hard time when you got home. And I’m sorry I ran out so fast.’

Frankie sucks a breath through his teeth, heart rate settling.

‘You’re a goddamn angel,’ he says, ‘You know that?’

You chuckle a little, looking down at your feet. His heart swoops, and he knows he shouldn’t, knows he won’t, but he wants to ask.

He wants to ask you why you flew out the way you did. Wants to know why your bedroom light was on so late. Wants to know if there’s some wild possibility you were caught up the same way he was. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you in for a one armed hug, and with all the gratefulness he can muster, says -

‘Thank you, baby. Luc, what do you say?’

Lucia grins at you with all her teeth.

‘Thank you, bug.’

You giggle.

‘I packed you extra cookies.’ You whisper conspiratorially, and Luc claps her tiny hands.

You smile up at her, and she reaches out for the bags. You make sure she’s got them handled before turning your smile to Frankie, and he’s sure his heart stops. There’s worry in your eyes still, and it takes everything in him to not swipe a thumb along your cheek, to not press the fullness of his mouth against yours.

‘We’re going to the beach on Sunday,’ he says, ‘Do you wanna come?’

Your smile brightens, widens. Relief washes over your features.

‘Please!’ Lucia joins, ‘Pleasecometothebeach - we're gonna build sand castles and bury Papi and swim and eat ice cream -’

Frankie clasps his hand over her mouth, and she cackles against it, legs swinging against his hip.

‘I’d love to.’ You say.

The beach is a raging success.

From the moment you’d felt the silky sand brushing between your toes, it was like the stress of the week had melted away.

Lucia had grabbed your hand as soon as Frankie had dropped the cooler in the best spot he could find, squealing and running all the way to the ocean with you beside her. Frankie had laughed as he ran to catch up, hitting the waves just after you, sweeping Lucia up in his arms as she shrieked with laughter, swooping her low so her toes swept through the water. You swam and paddled together for a while, Frankie only leaving to grab a ball so you could play piggy in the middle in the shallowest shallows.

Now, laid out on the blanket you’d brought, with the sun warming your skin, you close your eyes.

Everything feels slow - the tick of your heart, the carousel of your thoughts, the way you drag your fingers through the sand at your side. You’re drifting into the arms of sleep when there’s the soft snick-crack-fizz of a can beside you, and then you’re suddenly thirsty.

You peek through one eye at Frankie beside you, and like he feels it, his eyes flick to yours. He offers you the open soda before reaching into the cooler for another. You sit up, groaning a little, twisting to look for Lucia.

She’s still slumped on the sand throne you and Frankie had built her, now fast asleep. Legs planted, arms settled on the armrests like a stately little Lord. Her head tilted back, tiny sunglasses and flowery sun hat on. You can’t look at her for too long before you get the giggles, it’s so fucking cute.

Frankie follows your eyes, mouth lifting in amusement, raising his eyebrows at you.

‘We should take a picture. One for her 18th.’

You giggle, and he takes a sip of his drink before flopping down beside you. You take a long pull from your own can before doing the same, turning on your side to face him. Frankies fights to keep his gaze steady, something he’s been trying to do all day. Trying to avoid the skin that had been revealed to him today, trying to avoid how soft you look, how comfortable, how gorgeous. How your skin would taste, how it would feel against his. He closes his eyes.

You watch him. The strong sweep of his nose, the fullness of his mouth. The scruff of his beard, the bare heart-shaped patch before the line of his jaw. Your eyes sweep lower - the wide expanse of his chest, golden skin that seems to go on for miles and miles. It makes your mouth run dry.

It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless before in the hot Florida summer, but up this close, it’s different. The soft band of his belly, the smattering of hair above the waistband of his trunks. The silvery bud of a scar above his hip.

When you glance back to his face, he’s watching you. Your eyes dart down again.

‘Mexico,’ he says, ‘2016.’

You nod, and reach out your hand. Slowly, softly. Frankie holds his breath, stomach tensing.

You run the tip of your finger along the puckered edge of the scar, and he shudders. You pause, untacking your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ he reassures, ‘Just - tickles.’

It’s a half truth.

It doesn’t hurt. It does tickle. And there’s a burst of heat beneath his skin where your fingers graze him.

‘Was it bad?’

He smiles slightly.

‘Just a scratch.’

You hum quietly, swiping your thumb against it tenderly. He watches you, mouth parted, heart burning. It doesn’t look like a scratch, but you’re not one to pry.

The moment is broken by a soft coo behind you, and Frankie’s eyes lift to it. You roll onto your back.

A woman flashes you and Frankie an apologetic smile.

‘Sorry,’ she says quietly, gesturing to Lucia, ‘She just looks so cute.’

You smile breathlessly, a little flustered. She’s gorgeous. So tan and smiley and stunning.

‘Gets all her looks from me.’ Frankie jokes, and you roll your eyes. The woman smiles.

‘I think you mean her mama.’ She says, nodding to you before continuing on her stroll. You’re still too taken aback to correct her, trying to loosen your tongue before Frankie takes any offence. He laughs beside you, and you roll back to him to apologise -

‘You are literally no better than a man.’

It’s not what you were expecting, and the shock of it makes you laugh, too. You land a soft punch to his arm, a grumbled shut up shot from where you bury your face in the sandy blanket.. But it feels good, the ease at which the jokes come.

To think, there’d been a night on your porch not long after you’d moved in when you’d mentioned the name Annie and clammed up, panicking about what questions would follow next. The name of your ex-girlfriend - ex-fiancee - had been something which only really existed in your mind at the time. Known, of course, to the friends you’d left back home; friends who had loved her, loved the two of you together. But soured by the reaction of your extended family, the people who had voiced their disgust at who you'd loved, who had been so quick to turn their backs in the face of your happiness, the first you’d found since your dad’s passing. It had made your stomach twist.

You’d been worried about Frankie’s reaction, couldn’t bear to think of the first friend you’d made - your neighbour - having the same look of distaste - or worse - intense curiosity.

But he’d done neither of those things. Had marked it with a quiet oh before asking what she was like, where she was, what had happened. You’d told him how you met in college but weren’t brave enough to ask her out until after graduation. How she was an engineer on the east coast - kind and funny and eager to watch you succeed.

You’d been sparing with the details about how it ended. The breakup had still been a raw nerve, something you had no real desire to discuss. Something which you only found to be the case more and more the longer you spent around Frankie. And then he gave you further reason to be less afraid of what he’d think, whether he had the want to judge.

‘Sounds like my ex,’ he’d said, ‘We were friends first, too. Benny.’

You’re snapped back to the present by Frankie rustling around in the cooler.

‘Have something to eat,’ he says, ‘You’re looking a little shaky.’

You’ve been asleep for most of the way home.

Hair blowing in the wind of the journey, cheek pressed against your shoulder. You look so peaceful, so beautiful, and something about this - the three of you in Frankie’s truck, Lucia babbling to herself in the back - feels so right.

He’s loathe to wake you. Wishes he could bottle this moment; the sand still clinging to your skin, Luc’s bright smile in the rearview mirror, but you stir all the same when he slows and pulls into his driveway.

You stretch your arms and yawn, smiling sleepily at him before twisting to look back at Lucia.

‘How you doing, bean?’ You ask.

‘You were asleep!’ She chirps back, and Frankie chuckles.

‘Sure was,’ you grin, ‘Can’t keep up with you.’

You insist on carrying the cooler into his house while Frankie unbuckles her. He holds her hand around the side of the car before she pulls free of him, clattering into the house after you in her sparkling sandals. She passes him in the hall, arms full of toys as she speeds back out to the grass out front, and you smirk at him around the doorway of the kitchen. He shakes his head at you.

‘I don’t know how she does it.’ He says. You grin.

‘She’s four. Give her a few more years.’

He chuckles as he swoops in behind you, pinning your body between his and the counter. He digs in the cooler as you close your eyes against his body heat.

‘Want a beer?’ He says against your neck before pulling away.

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

When you’re settled on his porch, Lucia mimicking the sounds of the dinosaurs she has splayed across the lawn, Frankie bumps your shoulder.

‘You should have asked for her number.’ He grins. You turn to him, still a little sleepy.

‘Whose?’

‘The woman. On the beach.’

You roll your eyes at him despite the heat rising in your cheeks.

‘They’ll get stuck like that, you know.’ He says.

You nudge him back, a little harder.

‘You should’ve asked,’ you chuckle. ‘Gets all her looks from me.’

He snorts.

‘Nah. I wasn’t even on the field. Think you mean her mama.’

‘Should have given her the old I’m the babysitter line.’

He laughs.

‘God. Imagine. Maybe that’s what I’ll have to tell the guys the next time they ask if I’m seeing someone.’

Your blood heats, a soft pounding in your ears. Imagine. Imagine.

You roll your head on your shoulders.

‘Are you?’ you ask tentatively, ‘Seeing anyone, I mean.’

Frankie shrugs beside you like it’s no big deal.

‘No,’ he says, ‘I kind of… swore that all off after Benny. Didn’t wanna go through it all again. Wasn’t good for me, wasn’t good for her,’ he says, gesturing towards where Lucia is playing on the grass. He’s quiet for a moment. ‘Just don’t think I’m cut out for it. Getting my heart broken again.’

You know how it ended - before it had really begun. A tentative feeling between friends; Frankie falling hard, Benny unsure about the new step. Caught up with the nerves you remember so well in the new turn of discovering himself, scared by the ripples caused within the tight knot of their group of friends. It had been hard on Frankie. Not made difficult by his brothers in arms, who, to all intents and purposes, had seen it coming - but because he was so clearly a man who loved hard. With all the goodness in his heart. It’s obvious in how he talks about him now, in how he talks about Lucia's mother. Love that lingers, that still sees the light.

You watch him as he speaks. The soft sunlight illuminating his curls, turning them golden, chocolate brown, little streaks of grey peaking through. His eyes are bright and flecked with hazel, his lips soft and full. When he talks, they are shaped with sound, with emotion. Expressive and beautiful, moving with the crinkles at his eyes, the frown lines on his forehead. Something pulls in your chest, and you reach out to hold his wrist just above his beer bottle. He squeezes your hand with his free one, and turns to look at you. So soft, so warm, eyes so kind and yet so sad sometimes it takes your breath away.

You can’t ever imagine breaking Frankie’s heart.

He licks his lips, eyes flitting to your parted mouth before resting back on yours.

‘Are you?’ He asks.

You breathe a laugh, something breathless in the sound. You retract your hand and look away from him, back to Lucia, watching her toddle around with her dinosaurs. He studies you, and it makes something spike at the back of your throat. You hate when he gets you like this; like he can see you better than anyone else ever has.

‘No,’ you say. When you look back at him, his brows curve in a furrow at the sight of your sparkling eyes. You offer him a small smile, take a deep breath. ‘Think I’m the same as you,’ you shrug, ‘Not built to get my heart broken again.’

Frankie dares an arm across your back, squeezing the shoulder furthest away from him. He pulls you into his chest, palm pressing your bicep in comforting sweeps.

‘I’m sorry.’ He says into your hair.

‘Don’t be,’ you reassure him, ‘I’m not - cut up about it like I was.’ You sniff and pull away from him a little to look in his eyes. ‘It just stays with you, like you said before. The hurt and the shock. Everything you had planned. I think it’s just… hard to remember you won’t have that. Hard to not have that future, hard to feel like you’re enough again.’ You smile softly, and he answers with his own. He knows, he understands. ‘Just… really thought I was gonna marry her,’ you whisper, looking down at your hands. ‘Day I asked her, every time I saw that ring on her finger, thought we were gonna spend the rest of our lives together. And it made me so… happy.’ Frankie swallows thickly beside you. The feeling of it, of what you’re telling him, so painful, so raw for both of you. ‘And when it happened, when it fell apart… it wasn’t big. She just told me - real kind, real patient about it - that she didn’t love me anymore.’ Frankie breathes deeply when he hears the catch in your voice, the sting of it.

Your eyes are on Lucia, but you’re so far away that it worries him. He wants you here, safe, having beers with him on his porch, giggling on the steps.

He can’t ever imagine breaking your heart.

You quirk your head, sighing. ‘Spent a long time tryna figure out what I did wrong, but there was never an answer,’ you shrug. ‘I’m glad she ended it, though. Despite it all. I’d have never forgiven her if she’d stayed.’

A strained hum pulls itself from Frankie’s throat as he watches you lean forward to pick at the grass by your feet. He clears his throat, studies your profile carefully.

‘Do you still love her?’ He asks, voice low and hoarse. He finds, to his surprise, that he’s terrified of the answer.

You frown, slowing your pulling.

‘No,’ you say. ‘I have love for her, but we don’t speak. I don’t want her in my life, but I wish her the best. I just found it… hard to rebuild.’

He thinks back to the day you moved in next door, the bright smile that he hadn’t realised didn’t quite reach your eyes, how you’d been a little thinner, looked so tired. How you’ve changed over the year since, so warm, so full of love and light and energy. How you tear around the lawn with Lucia, how you laugh at his kitchen table, how you fit into his side when you’re watching movies.

Something swoops in his gut, something so huge and unbalancing that his breath comes shallow, that his ears buzz and his vision blurs. A feeling that makes so much - too much - sense.

Fuck.

He swallows, closes his eyes.

When he turns to look at you again, it’s with a heart that knows - really knows. He sees everything you are, everything you’ve been, everything you will be. Knows you for all your good days and bad days, has seen you at all hours, could hold every piece of your fractured heart in his hands and meld it back together again if you let him.

Your eyes find his. He watches your brows raise a fraction at his expression, watches them push together in a question.

His mouth is dry, but he speaks.

‘You are,’ he says, ‘You are enough.’

Your eyes don’t leave his.There’s a pressure behind them, a pull in your gut, a skip of your heart. Something on the tip of your tongue.

Frankie’s eyes slip to your mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, and the world stills. The sounds of the evening, Lucia playing, fade to almost nothing.

If you tip your head, you think he might kiss you.

A small, wild ball of energy crashes into Frankie’s chest, and the moment slips through your fingers. Frankie lets out a quiet oof, wrapping his arms around his daughter. A giggle bubbles out of your mouth, and he grins at you, but his eyes linger. Lucia turns her tiny face up to him, and Frankie rolls his eyes goodnaturedly.

‘Whaddya want, mija?’

‘Strawberry laces.’ She whispers, and you both laugh.

‘Strawberry laces, what?’

‘Strawberry laces, please, Papi.’

‘Alright,’ he says, shifting her out of the clutch of his arms and onto the step beside you, ‘Sit tight, mi amor. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The front door isn’t even closed behind him before Lucia is crawling her way into your lap, wrapping her arms around you. You tuck your hands against her back, pulling away to look at her.

‘How’s it going, mini Morales?’

She beams up at you.

‘Good. The bugs are winning.’

‘Winning? Against who?’

‘The dinosaurs.’ She says, gravely. You nod, just as serious, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘That’s good. Bugs have a lot going for them.’

She leans back to consider you for a moment, her face scrunching up in the low lying sun.

‘Miss Lopez called you Mrs Morales the other day,’ she says, ‘Does that mean you and Papi are married now?’

Your heart lurches in your chest, head spinning a little. You laugh, disbelieving. From the mouths of babes.

‘No, baby,’ you say softly, and her face falls.

‘Why not?’

You can feel your heartbeat in your toes. You pray Frankie is struggling to find those strawberry laces.

‘We’re - we’re just friends, Luc. People who get married are usually a bit more than friends.’

Lucia frowns.

‘But you are more than friends,’ she insists, ‘You’re best friends. And you love each other.’

Jesus Christ. You squeak out a hm, trying to remain noncommittal. Lucia begins to fiddle with the charm on your necklace.

‘How do you get married?’

‘Well,’ you swallow, ‘Usually you have a big party. With lots of friends and family there. And you have to ask each other first.’

‘Have you been married?’

You wince. How is she doing it?

‘No, bean. I haven’t.’

She nods, thoughtful.

‘Neither has Papi. He could ask you.’

You choke out a laugh. Frankie’s eyes on yours, on your mouth. The moment caught in time.

Idle thoughts.

‘He could. But I don’t think he wants to.’

Her wide, brown eyes shoot to yours, hands stilling on the chain of your necklace. A feeling creeps up the back of your neck.

‘He does,’ she says quietly. ‘You’re his favourite person, apart from me. He told me s- Papi!’

She cuts herself off in an excitable screech, and you scrunch your face at it. Luc is wriggling in your lap, lips open wide in a toothy grin. Her hands reach out in fists as Frankie rounds your shoulder, the plastic packet of strawberry laces crinkling in his hand.

‘Open your hand,’ he says, and Lucia obeys, her fists flattening to palms face up. Frankie drops a small handful of the sweets onto them, and she dances on top of your thighs, shoving two in her mouth at once so she can chew them up like snakes disappearing between her teeth.

She flashes you another grin, red blended with white, and wriggles backwards, running off back to her dinosaurs.

Frankie settles next to you again, offering you the packet. You take it, fingers scrabbling for sugar as the two of you watch her. For a second, it’s like you’re a family. Like you can feel the weight of a ring on your finger, a ring that was supposed to be there some time in the last six months. You shake your head. A silly thought.

Frankie licks his fingers beside you, and you turn to watch him. The sound of the pop as he releases them from his mouth, the smile that dances across his lips as he watches Lucia, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes. An involuntary smile crawls across your own lips.

‘Got another favour you can do for me,’ you say, still chewing.

‘Hm?’

‘Sink’s a little leaky. Think you can take a look?’

You hold the packet of strawberry laces out to him, and he takes one, lowering it into his mouth. You giggle at the way his tongue curls around it. He grins back at you.

‘Sure can, baby. Luc is at a sleepover Friday night. That work for you?’

‘I think it might, Morales. I think it might.’

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fluff #fic: on call

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jdms-flat-ass · 1 year ago

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The current mood:

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storm-angel989 · 8 months ago

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Papi, I didn't mean it (Valentino x Daughter)

TW: Drugs. Overdose. Valentino.

It was the tracker that cued him into her location.

If he was giving credit where credit was due, he had to hand it to her. Very few beings in this world could successfully hack a Voxtech device and get away with it for as long as she had. But as he lifted her unconscious body out of his club's bathroom, the notion that she was too smart for her own good came to mind.

“One of you fuckwits, check the cameras and find out what she took,” Valentino snarled to one of the demons. “And shut down the entire club. Leave only the ones responsible for this. I want them chained to the bar.”

As the demons scurried off to follow his orders, he carried his daughter to the backroom, typically reserved for dancers and dealers. He bit back the fear that wrapped around his heart. No, he needed to keep himself in check. Treat her like he would any other overdose.

“Stay with me, pequeño amor,” he muttered as he laid her on the couch. “Come on, I need you to wake up.”

He did a quick assessment of her vitals. Shallow breathing, fast heart rate. Pale skin, cold to the touch. Could be anything he sold. Or anything that he sold mixed with something else. He ripped off what little clothing she did have on as he frantically examined her body for any sign of what might be coursing through her veins, but came up with nothing. He had enough power in his own club to get the answers he needed. He just hoped they came in time.

“Dragonsvein, sir. Given to her by these three.” A demon yelled, waving a photo as he entered the room. “They laced it with LSD and Cocaine.”

He recognized their faces instantly. Friends, she had told him. Friends from school she was studying with tonight. Or what she was supposed to be doing anyway.

“Did she smoke it, swallow it, inject it, snort it, what?” He snarled. Forget that all three of those drugs were meant only to be one of those options. He had enough at his disposal to ensure she survived this.

“Swallowed it, sir.”

“Fuck.” He pulled open a drawer and dug through until he found the correct drugs to counteract what was in her system. She wasn’t going to die on his watch, but she wasn’t going to like what was going to happen when she came to.

“Come on bebita, I really need you to wake up now,” he muttered as he slid a needle into her vein. He slowly pushed the plunger down.

He heard her gasp and watched her eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded through his chest.

“That’s right, come to Papi,” he muttered as he smoothed back her hair. He looked at the demon as he took off his jacket and carefully placed his daughter inside, closing it tightly to be sure she was covered. “Call the on duty nurse and tell her she has a patient coming in twenty minutes. Have the doctor on standby.” He bent over and checked her pulse again. Good. Stronger now. He carefully sat her up and held her against him.

“Bebita, I need you to drink this,” he said gently. “Come on, get it all in your tummy.” He pushed the straw to her lips. “If you can’t, Daddy is going to have to get it down your throat another way. And you won’t like it, bebita.”

To his immense relief, she gulped it down. Her eyes closed and he carefully laid her on her side.

That was the most he could do for at least ten minutes. He didn’t want to move her if he could avoid it, and ten minutes was more than enough time to deal with the situation outside.

“Watch her and call me if anything changes,” he ordered as he stood up. “Don’t let her roll on her back and if anything happens to her, consider yourself dead.”

The demon bowed. He strode out the door, his overlord self taking hold, transforming him from an intimidating club owner to downright terrifying demon. His crimson wings sprang forth from his back, his teeth sharpened and he could feel his body become something stronger, something less controllable. Anger pulsed through him. Someone would pay for the state his daughter was currently in.

He stood in front of the three three demons and glowered. To their credit, terror played on all their features.

“She called you her friends,” he said in a low growl. “She called you her friends and you betrayed her. Tell me, what exactly did you think would happen after she slipped into unconsciousness? That you would have a good fuck with an almost corpse?”

He took a step forward. Of course they wouldn’t respond. Cowards. The lot of them. He pulled his pistol from its holster.

One. Two. Three.

The echoes of the bullets rang through the empty club. Silence. And then a small voice.

“Daddy?”

He turned around. Shit, not in all her life had she seen her Daddy in this state. His wings retracted and he transformed back into his usual self. Her Papito.

That’s when he noticed the expression on her face. A look he knew all too well.

“Daddy? My tummy hurts.”

His hands barely wrapped around her hair before she unloaded the contents of her stomach on the club floor.

“Come on, let’s get you home, niñita,” he muttered. With any luck, she was still too out of it to remember any of this. He lifted her into his arms and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. He would get a new one anyway, he never wanted to think of this night again.

She fell asleep in his arms on the ride home and he carried her up into his studio. Vox and Velvette met him at the door.

“Did you call my wife?” He asked as he carried her through the studio, down to the nurses office. “Did you tell her what the fuck our daughter has gotten into?”

“I left a message on her phone. But she’s probably with Lucifer, dealing with some shit.” Velvette said. “But we’re here.”

“Her vitals are more stable now, what did you give her?” Vox asked, checking his phone as the nurse rushed over.

Valentino laid her on the hospital bed on her side as he filled the nurse in on what was in her system. She left to go pull supplies and Valentino set to work on getting a catheter in her arm.

He felt her shake under his touch. “Daddy? Daddy, I don’t feel good.”

“I know, baby girl. Daddy’s trying,” he replied soothingly. “Daddy’s here.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Vox gently pulled him back.

“Val? Let the doctor step in and do his job.”

“It’s my daughter.”

“Yeah, and unless you’re about to put a tube down her throat, you need to step back and let him work on her. You’ve done everything you can at this point. She’ll be okay because of you.”

“That’s my baby,” he growled.

“Val,” Vox said with a warning in his voice. His eye began to swirl. “Val, look at me.”

Valentino knew better, but he looked to Vox. A false sense of calm washed over him. “Vox, that’s my daughter.”

“Yeah, and that’s our niece about to have her stomach pumped. We’re upset too, Val. But you’ve done all you can right now. Who did this?”

“I killed the friends that slipped it to her.”

Vox sighed. “Of course you did. Then all you can do is wait. Doc thinks she’ll be fine.”

Waiting wasn’t Valentinos strong point. He paced back and forth, anxiety washing over him. This was bad, almost as bad as when he had to wait for his wife to bring her into the world. No, worse, because at the heart of this he caused it- he caused something that he would derive no joy from.

After what felt like too long, the doctor walked out of the back room.

“She’s alright. She’s awake. She’s asking for you, Valentino. And you two,” he nodded to Vox and Velvette.

“Here, fill me in while Val and Vel go back.” Vox said as he pulled the doctor off to the side.

Valentino followed Velvette as he tried to keep himself in check. Now that he knew she was okay, anger washed over him.

“Val? Not the time,” Velvette said quietly outside her door. “Be angry later. Love her and Let her talk now.”

Valentino took a deep breath and exhaled as he pushed the door open.

“Daddy, I’m sorry I didn’t know,” her raspy voice choked out and she burst into tears. “Daddy, don’t be mad I’m so sorry.”

“Beibita. Babygirl. Shush, it’s okay. Daddy is here. Daddy isn’t mad at you. Shush,” he sat on the bed next to her. “Babygirl, calm down. You’re going to be okay and that’s all that matters.”

“Daddy, I didn’t know,” she sobbed.

Valentino felt his heart begin to break. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest. “Tell us what happen, beibita.”

“I went to Lucia’s house to study and then, Emila showed up and she suggested we go to Jax’s house and I know I’m not allowed at Jax‘s house so I went but instead Jax’s brother took us here and I wanted to go home but all the sudden I didn’t feel good and, and,” she burst into harder tears. “Daddy I’m sorry.”

“Baby I’m not mad. It isn’t your fault,” he said soothingly as he cradled her. “I’m just not sure how it got into you. Did you get a drink at the bar? Tell me true, I’m going to review the footage with Uncle Vox later.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, Daddy I know better.”

Velvette looked up from her phone. “Her water bottle,” she said, showing them both the video clip. Together they watched as one of them turned her to talk to them. Behind her, the other lifted the lid of her water bottle. Valentino watched as they poured something into it, gave it a good shake and slid it back. Velvette closed the phone. He could imagine the rest.

“I’m just glad I got to you before it was too late,” Valentino said quietly. “But why did you go in in the bathroom and call me to come get you right away? You knew where you were. You knew you didn’t belong there.”

“Val…” Velvette said in a warning voice.

“I didn’t want to get into trouble, Daddy. I just wanted them to take me home.” She replied quietly.

“Bebita, you will never get into trouble for calling one of us to come get you. I promise, okay?” He pressed her head to his chest. “I would rather come get you and you be safe than ever see you in this situation again. You could have died, Princessa.”

“But she didn’t,” Vox said as he walked into the room. “Doc said the bloodwork they pulled looks good and she can go home tonight as long as we keep a close eye on her.”

“Please, Daddy, can I go home?” She pleaded. “I promise I’ll never, ever…”

“Baby. Stop, you’re not in trouble. Deep breath, inhale. Exhale,” Valentino said gently. “Come on, let’s get you home in your own bed. Come to Daddy.”

Valentino lifted her up effortlessly and carried her up the elevator. As she laid against him, a new fear knotted inside of him.

How was he going to protect his teenage daughter from the world he worked in?

#the vees #valentino x reader #hazbin fluff #hazbin hotel #valentino x you #the vees x reader #vox x reader #valentino #valentino hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin hotel valentino #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel velvette #hazbin velvette

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 3 months ago

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Risk

Joe Velasco x Y/N - drabble - 1.3K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: undercover, attempted assault, injury to reader (not sexual), Joe being protective af, violence, hospital, medical stuff (stitches), flirty ending (barely)

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Joe shoved you forward forcefully, fully embracing his role as your pimp. This wasn’t his first undercover job but it was yours. Your heartbeat was ringing in your ears but you remained focused on the mission. You stumbled a bit before a few sleazy looking men noticed you. They all sat on different chairs and couches in the midst of the loud party. You saw dozens of young girls, no way even half of them were 18.

“Hey sweetheart, who do you belong to?” one hispanic man, Tony Marco, your prime suspect asked as he grabbed your hand.

You wanted to recoil but you knew you couldn’t “Papi!” you yelled, smiling sweetly at the man.

Joe walked up behind you, “Aww did my girl catch your eye?” he asked the man.

“In a dress like that she’s hard to miss.” the man said, pulling you towards him.”What colors do you run with?” the man said, looking Velasco up and down, unable to identify what gang he was a part of.

“Bloods, Crips, North side, West side - The only color I care about is the green that lines my pockets. My girls are loaned out to everyone, as long as they can pay.” Joe said, giving you a slight shove so you landed on the man's lap.

The man nodded, letting a smack land on your ass as your already short dress rode up even higher. “I can respect a man who has his priorities straight. Think I can take shorty here upstairs for a minute?” he asked, rubbing his hand up and down your side.

You let your finger trace over his jaw, seducing him just like you were told to.

“Just don’t tear her up too bad, she’s my top girl. $800 an hour.” Velasco said. He pulled you up as the man gulped down the last of his drink. He leaned in close whispering in your ear, “Be careful, I’ll be close by.” he said.

The man slapped a wad of cash into Velasco’s hands before he grabbed the back of your arm, dragging you up the stairs. He slammed the door shut as you sat on the bed with your legs crossed. The man smiled at you flashing a few golden teeth in his mouth as he slid his hand between your knees pushing your legs apart. “Why don’t you lean back so I can show you a good time baby?” he said, pushing you onto your back.

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, starting to panic. He pulled the skirt of the dress up, tearing at your panties. You prayed Olivia and Fin saw what was going on through the spy cam that was the button on your dress. “W-wait…” you squeaked out.

“You don’t tell me to wait bitch - I paid your man, now I get you for an hour to do whatever I want.” he said, slapping you across the face.

You groaned, the fat rings on his fingers stung against your face. You pushed against him, trying to make him back up.

“Oh you’re gonna be difficult?” he said, holding your wrists down before pulling a knife, he held it near your throat, shutting you up entirely. You felt tears leaking out the sides of your eyes. You prepared for the absolute worst, looking up at the ceiling as you tried to dissociate.

The man ran his hand up your leg before the door shot open. The man quickly straightened up, slicing your leg open on accident as he pulled away. You shrieked at the searing pain.

Velasco stood in the doorway, nothing but hate on his face. “What you want papi? I paid, now fuck off!” The man pulled you by your ankle so your hips were at the edge of the bed.

“Tony Marco put your hands up - you’re under arrest for sex trafficking, possession of narcotics with intent to distribute, and a whole bunch of other shit.” Velasco punched him twice - hard. You could hear the bones in his face crack with each hit. He cuffed him and shoved him towards the first cop who entered the room. “Get whoever you can downstairs, see if you can get any of them to flip on him.” Velasco said, trying to shield your body from the other police who flooded into the house.

“Baby…” he rushed to the bed. Your hands were held up, trembling. Velasco gently pulled your skirt down to try and make you feel more comfortable. You flinched away from him and as much as he knew it wasn’t because of him, his heart still felt a pang of sadness. When Valsco pulled his hand back up he couldn’t ignore the bright red blood on his hand. He pulled your dress to the side, noticing the large gash. Whatever knife he used was sharp as could be. He didn’t see bone but he did see muscle, it needed stitches ASAP. He took his top shirt on, remaining in his muscle shirt. He pressed the fabric to the gash, asking you to sit up.

You were so overwhelmed and had lost a good amount of blood all you heard before the world went black was Velasco calling for a bus.

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You heard rhythmic beeping before you were able to open your eyes. When you finally did you saw Joe sitting in the chair next to the hospital bed, his hand in yours as he slept.

“You’re up.” you heard from the doorway, Olivia shutting the door quietly.

You nodded at her, the memories from the night before were still fresh. You moved the covers slightly to look at your leg, it was wrapped from the knee to the upper thigh in white gauze. “How bad is it?” you asked.

“He got you good, 30 stitches. I’m sorry we didn’t get there sooner, the guys downstairs put up a fight.” she sighed.

You shrugged, “I knew the risk going in there.”

Olivia gave you a tight-lipped smile, recognizing that you needed time to process. “Take a few days. You and Velasco. He hasn’t left your side since you got here.”

You looked at him, watching his peaceful face.

“You picked a good one.” Olivia said, looking between the two of you before she smiled and closed the door.

You smiled; you and Joe had been together for almost a year but kept it from the squad, wanting work to remain work and private life to remain private. You shook Joe’s hand slightly.

He jolted awake, eyes landing on you immediately before he stood up, sitting on the edge of the bed. He held your hand between his, using the other to stroke your cheek gently. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What happened wasn’t your fault.” you said, holding his wrist as his thumb rubbed over your cheek.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad. I never should have let you go up there.” he sighed, eyes glancing down at your wrapped leg.

“Hey,” you said, sitting up and tilting his face towards you, “you are the one who got up there and got that bastard away from me. You are the one who arrested that absolute scum. And you are the one who’s here for me.” you said, pecking his lips.

Joe leaned his forehead against yours, taking in your presence. “I love you, I’m never putting you in that position again.” he said.

You kissed him again, “I can think of a few different positions we could be in…” you chided with a smirk.

Joe laughed, “You couldn’t wait ten minutes without being an absolute freak?”

“You have that effect, let's go home.” you said.

Joe nodded, going to flag down a nurse to get your discharge paperwork ready.

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Naboo's Note:

Hello! First SVU fic :D will probably also write for Carisi because I love that Italian fuck. Would LOVE requests for either him or Joe. Send them my way ASAP!!!!!! XOXOXOXOXO

#law and order svu #writing #svu #l&o svu #svu fanfiction #olivia benson #mariska hargitay #joe velasco #joe velasco x reader #velasco x reader #joe velasco x y/n #law and order svu fanfiction #svu fic

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weirdo09 · 2 years ago

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algo tan dulce como tu

a prowler! miles x baker! reader oneshot

requested by anonymous

y/n decided to make a special treat for miles since he’d be home late anyways. they’d gotten a few pointers from rio on miles’ favorite dessert, tres leches. this would be their first time attempting something like this but they were confident they’d get it right, rio had sent them a copy of her recipe so they were positive.

the ingredients were easy to find since they were everywhere. once y/n started preparing, they were certain they were forgetting something but couldn’t remember what. ‘probably just my gut playing tricks on me.’ y/n thought as they began cracking 5 eggs. little did they know, they forgot the most important thing specifically written on the recipe.

as the cake was cooking, y/n thought to take a little break. they decided to watch their favorite telenovela and chill on the couch. y/n changed into some more comfortable clothes and got the party started. after about 30 minutes or so, they decided to take the cake out and let it sit. after even more waiting, y/n got the cake ready as they heard keys jingling, a sign that miles was already back. ‘damn, how much time went by?’ y/n thought, putting on some finishing touches.

“hey, mami, estas haciendo?” miles asked, placing kisses on y/n’s cheeks. they smiled, “it’s a surprise.” y/n said, miles frowned. “really, ma?” miles said, wrapping a arm around their waist. “yes, now go take a shower, you smell.” y/n said, shooing miles away. “ok, ok!” miles exclaimed, leaving the kitchen. y/n chuckled, admiring their handiwork.

“ok, now you have to tell me what you made.” miles insisted, y/n scoffed playfully. “yeah? why don’t you try it and tell me what you think it is, papi.” y/n said playfully, offering miles a piece of tres leches. miles stood there stiff for a minute before rolling his eyes, he got a fork and dug in. “so, do you like it?” y/n asked, dragging out the o in so. miles keep chewing, it tasted ok but it could’ve been better. besides, one little lie couldn’t hurt them, right?

“this is delicious, mami, gracias.” miles said, stealing a kiss off y/n’s lips. “you don’t like it, do you?” y/n said, suspicious. ‘damn, i forgot she could read me like a book.’ mikes cursed at himself. “no, no, baby, i do serious.” he said quickly, getting a second piece. “miles…” y/n said, miles gulped. unknowingly, y/n shed a few tears. miles frowned deeply.

‘damn it, damn it.’ he thought on repeat. “hey, mami, esta bien me gusto mucho!” miles tried to comfort them by squeezing them. y/n wetly laughed, “i don’t even know why i’m crying,” y/n confessed under a whisper, “you must think i’m pretty pathetic.” y/n whispered in miles’ neck. miles got an idea, he picked y/n up by the legs and waddled over to the couch.

“no more moping, ‘k, ma?” miles said, y/n sighed. “i wanna hear you say it.” miles said, staring into their eyes. “ok, ok, i’ll stop moping.” y/n said stubbornly. miles smiled softly, “good, now you wanna cuddle?” he asked, y/n nodded their head.

turns out the surprise was bad but it was made up with a cuddle session.

translations -

estas haciendo? - what are you making?

gracias - thank you

mami - mommy

tres leches - sponge cake soaked in three types of milks

algo tan dulce como tu - something as sweet as you

hope you enjoyed it!

#cade’s writing ✍🏾#prowler!miles #prowler miles x reader #gender neutral reader #astv #across the spiderverse #miles morales 42 #earth 42 miles morales x reader

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emeraldbabygirl · 1 year ago

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WHY IS HIGHER SO FUCKING HOTTTTTTT ESP RYUJI’S ‘my phoenix rising’ PART UGH I TWERK TO THAT SONG UGH. ALSO FOUND OUT THERES A WHOLE FUCKING ALBUM FOR THE HIGH & LOW MOVIE 🥵🥵🥵🥵 UGH THEM EXILE MEN JUST HIT DIFFERENT ITS LIKE A WHOLE BUFFET OF ENDLESS DESERTS 😫 LIKE NO ONE DOING IT LIKE THEM JDH YUM YUMS 🥺

#simping for every exile tribe papi gulp gulp #the rampage from exile tribe #generations from exile tribe #fantastics from exile tribe #sandaime j soul brothers #exile tribe #I should make a list of my favs just for fun uwu #jpop #high & low #high & low the worst #high & low the worst x

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valscigarette · 4 months ago

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Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing.

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind.

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away.

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces.

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it.

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge.

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself.

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place.

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth.

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it.

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course.

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action.

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances.

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.”

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him.

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest.

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge.

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday.

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her.

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries.

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more.

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal.

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds.

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs.

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob.

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own.

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him.

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh.

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need.

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp.

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm..

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks.

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days.

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs.

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems.

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat.

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole.

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks.

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection.

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body. Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences.

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one.

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence.

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours.

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

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