#gratuitous dress description | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

steddio · 2 years ago

Text

steddie vegas au part 3

part 1; part 2

–

“YOU WHAT?” Robin shrieks, nearly smacking Steve in the shoulder with her water bottle as she whips around to face him. They’re about halfway through their morning hike, struggling uphill, and he’s impressed that she even has the energy for such an outburst. Steve is sweating like a pig and trying not to look like he’s gasping for breath.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “In my defense, I didn’t know who he was! And he looked kind of lost, and you know I have a tendency to adopt strays! He had these big, sad puppy eyes…”

“Eddie freaking Munson is not a stray, Steve! He’s a bona fide rockstar. Like, double platinum, Grammy-winning, cover of Rolling Stone rockstar. And you didn’t recognize him?!” Her voice is rising into a nearly inhuman register and Steve reaches out to try and calm her.

“Why would I recognize him, Robs? I never know who anyone famous is, and I like it that way. And, he seemed to kind of enjoy me not knowing. Like, his whole attitude changed once we walked past his billboard.”

Robin is gaping at him and Steve uses the opportunity to grab the water bottle out of her hand and take a swig. It’s a testament to her astonishment that she doesn’t even yell at him for it. He wipes his mouth with the neck of his t-shirt, and starts walking up the hill. He kind of regrets telling her about last night. After all, he had promised to keep Eddie’s secret. But telling Robin doesn’t really feel like telling another person. Just like having an internal conversation with the louder half of his brain.

“Besides,” he calls out over his shoulder, “it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s just another hotel guest. I’ll probably barely see him.”

Robin jogs to catch up and grabs the bottle back with a huff. “Steve. You escorted Eddie Munson to an AA meeting. That’s like, intimate.”

Steve shakes his head, “No, Rob, it wasn’t like that. I’m sure he just wants to forget about it. He probably flirts with everyone.”

“He was flirting with you?!” Robin is back to screeching.

“Well yeah, I think so,” he shrugs. “It was hard to tell, but he called me nicknames and complimented my arms.” Robin looks about ready to combust, and he tries to change the subject. “Did you see the photos of Max and Lucas from last night? I can’t believe how much she’s grown up.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do! We’re not done here!” But Robin’s eyes are soft, and she nudges his shoulder, “did you go all papa bear on Lucas?”

Steve laughs. “No, if anything I was trying to encourage Max to go for it. She called me in hysterics freaking out about whether Lucas liked her. As if that boy hasn’t been in love with her for half a decade.”

They spend the rest of the hike going over every detail he knows of his daughter’s romantic life. Robin is equally invested despite having never met Max, and he loves her for it. Even if he can’t be there every day, being a dad is the most important thing in his life. And he can’t help it, he likes to indulge in a little gossip and teenage love lives are nothing if not dramatic.

As they say goodbye in the parking lot, Robin sternly meets his gaze. “Don’t let me down, dingus. If Eddie Munson is flirting with you, you better flirt back, or I swear to god I’ll come down there and do it myself.”

“And lose your gold star status?” he teases, and then dodges her halfhearted punch to his arm.

“Alright, alright, Robs. If he talks to me, and I really don’t think he will after last night so that’s a big if, I’ll pull out the Harrington charm.” Robin gags a little at that and waves him away. He gets into his car, eager for a shower and maybe even a little bit eager to go to work.

–

When he gets into work at 2 pm, the concierge desk is a shitshow. Some beauty influencer retreat is happening in the hotel, and the person on the morning shift is completely incompetent (they’re new, Steve tries to be generous, everyone is new at some point, but goddammit he’s pretty sure Max could do the job better than this Tammy person), and so Steve spends most of the afternoon canceling and rescheduling incorrectly made spa appointments while reassuring a seemingly endless parade of 19-year-old blonde girls that yes, absolutely, they will be able to accommodate the new time, and he’s so sorry for the misunderstanding. As if that’s not enough, they all seem to be trying to one-up each other for the title of Most Ridiculous Flirt, and if Steve hears “he’s such a daddy” stage-whispered across the lobby one more time, he’s going to pull out baby pictures of Max and start waving them around.

Of course it’s in the midst of this chaos that Eddie happens to show up, leaning over the counter, finger hovering over the bell.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve whispers to him with a glare that quickly dissolves into a grin. Eddie reaches out and boops his nose instead, and Steve can’t help but laugh as he swats him away.

The spell is broken by the loud pop of gum and a whispered “holy shit, is that-?” The girls swarm to their shiny new toy, asking for autographs and selfies. Steve bemusedly watches as Eddie handles it all with grace, posing for pictures and signing t-shirts.

He extricates himself with a slight bow and an “excuse me, darlings” that nearly causes several teenagers to go into cardiac arrest, and comes back to Steve’s counter.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Steve replies. “What can I help you with today?”

“The question, Steve-o, is what I can help you with.” Eddie looks mischievous and before Steve can clarify what he means, Eddie is asking when his break is.

Steve replies without thinking. “It was supposed to be at 5.”

“Well, sugar, it’s 5:30 so I think you’re overdue. Can I buy you a coffee?”

Eddie is definitely flirting, Steve is certain of it. He momentarily debates whether he should refuse, but he already broke any semblance of a boundary last night, and today Eddie looks, well, delicious. His hair is pulled up in a messy bun and he’s wearing a cardigan thrown over a tight black sleeveless undershirt and joggers and… studded crocs, Steve realizes. Eddie must catch him staring because he raises one eyebrow and gestures behind him, towards the food court. Steve puts his trusty “Be right back” sign on the desk and ponders flipping the bird at the group of teenagers still staring open-mouthed at them, but decides that he can afford to take the moral high ground.

They weave their way past slot machines and several bars before getting in line at Starbucks. “I know this is basic,” Eddie whispers, his breath hot on Steve’s cheek. “But nothing hypes me up on performance days more than their cold brew. It’s better than cocaine.”

He pulls away with a wink, and Steve isn’t sure he should be laughing at that joke coming from someone who attends daily AA meetings, but he can’t help letting out a giggle. And it’s worth it for the brief look of joyful surprise on Eddie’s face.

They order their coffee and take a seat. Eddie is attracting a few stares, Steve notices, but Vegas is a live and let live kind of place and so people mostly leave them alone. Their knees touch under the small table, and Steve finds himself mirroring Eddie, leaning in close to talk.

Eddie asks Steve about his job, about living in Vegas, about who he was talking to on the phone yesterday. He listens patiently while Steve regales him with stories about Mad Max. Tells Steve about touring, about songwriting, about Chrissy, his childhood best friend-turned-manager.

Steve finds himself smiling more than he has in months. Eddie is magnetic, equal parts charismatic and attentive. Steve hasn’t had a date (is he allowed to call this a date?) go this well in years and twinges with regret when he glances at his watch and realizes that they’ve been talking for way longer than his allotted break time and he needs to get back.

Eddie escorts him to the lobby, and once again leans over the counter, chin on one hand. Steve meets his eyes and blushes at the intensity there.

“Thank you,” he tells Eddie. “I had… a lot of fun.”

“The pleasure was mine, sugar,” Eddie replies softly. Steve tries to think of anything other than the heat that curls low in his belly at the pet name. Eddie starts to walk away, but Steve calls him back.

“Eddie!”

Eddie turns, something earnest and eager in his face.

“Good luck tonight. Or, er, break a leg.” Steve blushes fully at that, feeling awkward under Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie nods, smiles, and then treats Steve to yet another view of his ass, and Steve is on fire, jittery from what he tells himself is the caffeine.

–

Eddie’s pre-show routine has been pretty much the same for a decade. He chugs a giant coffee—today’s had been extra delicious with its side of hunk—throws on eyeliner, and puts on whatever outfit he imagines would horrify his homophobic high school principal the most. Today it’s low rise leather pants with lacing on each hip and an unbuttoned black cowboy shirt. He hairsprays the shit out of his hair, back-combs it a little to get that sex-mussed look, and voila, he’s done.

From there he normally goes and bugs all the other guys. As the frontman, Eddie gets his own dressing room, which can come in handy for post-show escapades but normally leaves him a little lonely. So he wanders down the green room hallway until he finds the rest of the band. Jeff and Gareth greet him with a fist bump, and he nods politely to their new bassist Ray, who’s drawing on terrifyingly huge eyeliner wings.

They shoot the shit for a while, Gareth telling them about a cute girl who was totally hitting on him at the bar and who was definitely not a hooker. Eddie and Jeff are understandably skeptical, but Gareth doubles down until their increasingly agitated debate is settled by Ray, who calmly states that the girl was indeed a hooker because she saw her counting cash in the bathroom.

When the opener goes on, Chrissy swoops in and they run through their set list one last time before huddling up together in a tight circle. This little ritual has been their good luck charm since their first ever set in their hometown dive bar.

Eddie starts them off: “Come! This is the hour we draw swords together!”

Gareth continues: “For glory!”

Jeff adds: “For death!”

“For the babes,” Ray adds, getting a chuckle out of them all.

And Eddie finishes, solemnly, “For Frodo.” They press their foreheads together and jump back with a holler before running down the hallway and into the wings. As they step out onstage and the familiar adrenaline rush fills Eddie’s veins, he can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness, like someone who should be in the audience isn’t there.

–

For the next few weeks, Eddie makes a point of stopping by the concierge desk every day. Sometimes he brings Steve coffee or takes him out during his breaks. Sometimes he just stands there and flirts over the counter, making more and more of a fool of himself just to see Steve blush. He learns that Steve has Mondays and Thursdays off. That he hates cinnamon gum. That he’s an expert at being just bitchy enough to shut people down but not so bitchy that people realize what he’s doing. Eddie gets a secret thrill of satisfaction when he watches Steve very firmly decline outrageous requests and people who think that full service means more than it does.

He finds himself looking forward to their daily conversations, unexpectedly captivated by how ordinary Steve’s life is. Because Steve loves to complain. But his complaints are about someone taking forever in line at the grocery store, or the Audi driver who cut him off in traffic, or how he can’t stand the stay-at-home moms who clog up the trailhead parking lots. All these benign moments that Eddie never gets to experience, instead worrying about ticket sales and tour dates and, in his darker moments, whether anyone actually wants to be close to him or if they just want to be close to the spotlight.

Eddie feels like they’re on the cusp of something, waiting to be pushed off the edge. This routine of flirting is fun, and it’s safe, and Eddie’s enjoying it. Steve is hot, and he treats Eddie like a real person, and their banter is sexy but harmless. They could be suspended in this mutual attraction without consequence until the end of Eddie’s residency and that would be that. But the little demon on Eddie’s shoulder that always wants, needs, begs for more tells him to take the plunge, consequences be damned.

He’s mulling this over during breakfast one morning, sipping coffee across from Chrissy.

“What’s on your mind, Didi?” she asks quietly, always observant.

He sighs dramatically and throws one hand over his forehead. “I pine, Chrissy! I yearn!”

She chuckles. “Steve? Again? Why don’t you just ask him out already?”

“I have been!” Eddie insists. “I’ve bought him, like, a hundred coffees.” At her exasperated look, he gets more serious. “Can I, Chrissy? I don’t–. I can’t afford to crash and burn again. What if I ask him out for real and the worst happens? What if it’s Adrian all over again?”

He tries to avoid her eyes, not wanting to see the pity there, but when he finally looks up she’s hiding a grin behind her hand.

“Chrissy!” he admonishes. “It’s not funny!”

“Alright, alright,” she concedes, still smiling. “It’s not funny, but Eddie, hon, you have to put yourself out there sometime if you want something real. And from everything you’ve told me about Steve, I think he’s a good bet.”

Eddie takes a moment to ponder this. Unlike most of the people he’s courted, Steve is markedly unfazed by the whole famous rockstar thing. He’s been meticulously checking his Instagram follow requests every day and hasn’t seen one from Steve so he’s pretty sure the guy’s not on social media. Plus he has that dorky dad vibe going for him, and Eddie is a sucker for a DILF.

“But what do I do next, Chris? I’ve already been flirting my little ass off, and sure he flirts back but it’s not like he’s made any moves to get more serious. Where do I go from here?”

“Leave that to me,” she tells him, and reaches for her phone. A minute later he gets a text notification.

“Chrissy, doll, why are you sending me backstage passes to my own show?” She just looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Oh. Oh. You think he’d really go?”

“Eddie. Think about it. How many people throw their underwear on stage during your performances? He’ll go crazy.” She comes to stand behind him and throws her arm around his neck. “Plus, I think it’s time he sees you at work instead of the other way around.”

–

Steve is in the midst of his Wednesday evening routine of making weekend dinner reservations at every upscale restaurant in Vegas, held under the hotel’s name at first so they can offer them to guests who call at the last minute. He’s just hanging up with Koi when he makes eye contact with Eddie across the lobby. Steve leans onto the counter and watches Eddie’s approach, lets his gaze trace the man from head (curly hair loose and slightly damp from a shower) to toe (the studded crocs, again), and everything in between (slim waist tapering into slinky hips, white t-shirt that clings deliciously, low slung plaid trousers). He knows Eddie can see him staring, and his cheeks heat slightly, but he looks anyway.

This tension between them has only escalated since that first night. He can’t get Eddie out of his head, he wants him so badly, and even more dangerous, he honest-to-god likes spending time with him. He’s funny, and insightful, and he seems to genuinely care when Steve tells him about Max, and not in that fake way of so many of his dates who were clearly just trying to get in his pants and had no interest in a family man.

Part of him wants to throw caution to the wind and ask Eddie out to dinner. But who is he to ask a world famous rockstar out. He’s nobody. Just a divorced guy ostracized from his hometown working in the service industry.

He’s torn out of this morose line of thought by the familiar greeting of, “Hey sugar,” this time followed by “I got something for you.”

Steve meets Eddie’s eyes, and is surprised to see uncertainty there. But Eddie is smiling as he extends his arm, phone in hand. “Here, put your number in.”

Steve does. Wants to make a joke about Eddie finally asking for his digits after the tenth date but stops himself when he sees Eddie’s telltale signs of nerves (rocking on the balls of his feet, chewing his hair). He hands the phone back and waits while Eddie does something with it.

“Okay, sugar, there you go.”

Steve checks his phone, clicks on a text from an unknown number. “What–. Eddie, what are these?”

“VIP tickets to my show tomorrow.” Steve meets Eddie’s expectant gaze with wide eyes. “Will you come?”

Steve takes in a breath. As if he would ever, ever turn this down with the way Eddie is looking at him as if he’s just placed his heart in Steve’s hands.

“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll come! I’ll bring Rob.” Steve sees Eddie’s face fall, looking every bit a wounded puppy, and Steve hurries to correct himself. “Robin. I’ll bring Robin. My lesbian best friend. She’s kind of my platonic soulmate. Crazy, but you’ll like her.”

Eddie’s face brightens at the word “lesbian” and Steve feels his cheeks warm, pleased that Eddie is pleased that he’s not bringing a man.

Eddie “oohs” dramatically. “A lesbian? I’ll have to introduce her to Chrissy. Christ knows that girl needs to get laid.” Suddenly he leans in close, right in Steve’s space, mouth close to his ear. Steve can feel goosebumps where Eddie’s breath hits his neck, and he blushes even deeper.

“Those tickets include backstage passes. I expect to see you there after the show, big boy.” With that, he smacks a wet kiss on Steve’s cheek, turns, and walks away.

Steve is left standing there, red-faced, awestruck, slightly horny, and full of anticipation.

continue to part 4.

read on ao3.

tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed!): @knightofthieves @exhibit-no-restraint @zerokrox-blog @nelotegreitic @samthemissfit @impeachy @mentallyundone @n0-1-important @xxbottlecapx @ameliajwho1993 @abstractnaturaldisaster @hellomynameismoo @epiclazershark @dogswithforks @i-less-than-three-you @aveys6 @anaibis @sofadofax @sunswathe

#steddie #stranger things #steddie vegas au #this is... a lot of exposition ha #i will try not to apologize for my gratuitous descriptions of eddies outfits #hes my barbie doll and im dressing him up #also i genuinely believe cc would have the cringiest pre show routine ever #theyre a bunch of nerds #this one is a combo of lotr book and movie lines #as always ur nice comments keep me going #also tumblr eats some of the tags sometime so if you see this and ur tag didnt go through im so sorry!#A writes

238 notes · View notes

solarissantaella · 2 years ago

Text

I honestly don't trust writers who say that you should never spend that much time describing characters' appearances or how they dress... tell me you don't respect fashion as a form of worldbuilding without telling me you don't respect fashion as a form of worldbuilding.

#worldbuilding #this is mostly for sff where you really get to go wild coming up with new fashions #and even if you're using very old fashion trends you can ascribe new meaning to them in the world you've created #but in ANY work of writing fashion can still be used to provide insight about characters #obviously you don't need to be throwing gratuitous chunks of my immortal-esque text in there describing every outfit every time #BUT how characters dress can say so much about their culture! how they perceive themselves! how they want others to see them!#and if they're dressed in a way that DOESN'T really tie into any of that- why?#imo the problem people have with these descriptions is mostly that they're incorporated clumsily and can kill the pacing #but there are WAYS to do it subtly! you don't HAVE to grind the story to a halt to get a few details in there!#(I'm yelling at myself here while crying)

12 notes · View notes

oflights · 1 year ago

Note

for the fic ask game how about 17??

enjoy your foncé conférençe i hope the coffee is copious and tasty

ooh i love this one lol i have so many answers for this. and yesss i'm psyched for Midtown Life, we're getting ess-a-bagel catered for at least one breakfast that i know of!!

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

i do so much research for fics it's kind of embarrassing lol. probably the biggest one here is like, how to run a restaurant. i know entirely too much about this now. i have never worked in a restaurant! The Bear had not yet come out! all i had to go on for Make This Leap were my friends' crazy server stories and research!!! so much research. i also learned everything there is to know about sourdough starters and used almost none of it ✨

ask me fic writer things!

#asks #elskanellis #for the star splitter i now know more than anyone needs to know about roman fashion #and still debating cutting down the gratuitous descriptions of draco in full ancient roman festival dress that research was in service of

3 notes · View notes

lost-to-stardust · 2 years ago

Text

My super spicy hot take is that wolfwood deserves nice things.

Summary:

While visiting Meryl in December, Wolfwood chooses something for himself.

Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Trigun Stampede (Anime 2023)

Relationship:

Meryl Stryfe & Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Characters:

Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Meryl Stryfe

Additional Tags:

Post-Episode: e12 High Noon at July (Trigun Stampede)

Post-Season/Series 01

Slice of Life

Gratuitous Decriptions of Clothing

Dress Up

Clothing as Self-Expression

Introspection

Self-Worth Issues

Self-Acceptance

Language: English

Words:2,463

Chapters:1/1

#jinx talks a lot #fanfic #tristamp #trigun #trigun stampede #nicholas d wolfwood #meryl stryfe #post tristamp season 1 #tristamp spoilers #Slice of Life #Gratuitous Descriptions of Clothing #i just noticed the typo in the tags but its too late now imma just commit sudoku instead #dress up #Clothing as Self-Expression #Introspection #Self-Worth Issues #ww is a wet paper bag man #*slaps his ass* there's so much fucked up shit in this guy #Self-Acceptance

6 notes · View notes

tinypandacakes · 3 months ago

Text

Trapper, Keeper — Ch. 16: Always

Tags: dubious consent, dark romance, power imbalance, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, Stockholm syndrome, injury recovery, fluff and smut, slice of life, implied non-consensual drug use, size difference, gratuitous use of pet names, metaphors, and descriptions of König's eyes

Wc: 16k [172k total]

When it was time for König to prepare dinner, you hovered at his elbow like a nosy housecat, tail wrapped around his calf as you signaled a need for attention. You were close enough that your hand brushed against the side of his sweatpants, and your clammy fingers instinctively gripped at the material. Eventually, he glanced over his shoulder at you, head tilting in question.

“Do you need something, Hase?”

You blinked, chastised, even though his tone was gentle. “No,” you replied, unsure. “I dunno.”

König let out a soft sigh. It was an affectionate sound, airy and light, not annoyed — otherwise, you might have burst into tears on the spot, as fragile as you felt — but like the kind of noise he might have uttered to a lamb, bleating sadly with its tiny hoof caught in a fence.

He lifted you onto the counter beside him, and you settled in, hands retreating into your too-long sleeves. Sitting there might have been awkward, but he pressed a cookbook into your lap, offering you something to do. You kept a thumb between the pages he needed and flipped through while your sock-covered feet dangled over the cabinets, lightly tapping the wood. Some of the age-yellowed pages were moisture-damaged from spills or speckled with spattered sauces. The corners were discolored from spice-dusted fingers, evidence of recipes well-loved, cooked again and again until they were committed to memory.

König tucked up his hood and brought a spoonful of sauce up to his pursed lips, blowing gently over the steaming surface. He tasted thoughtfully then licked away a stray droplet at the corner of his mouth, swiping his lips clean, leaving them soft and damp.

You realized you were staring and looked away quickly, busying yourself by flicking through to the dessert section of the cookbook. But your eyes soon drifted from the cakes and pastries back to König, hunched over the stove. His forearms flexed as he slid a pan back and forth across the flame, skin and scar shifting enticingly over muscle and bone. The swell of his pecs and softness of his belly were faintly outlined by his shirt, soft cotton clinging, offering a preview of what lay below. Something deep inside of you heated up just like the pad of butter he added to the skillet, melting and sizzling across the surface.

This was dangerous.

His hood fell back over his mouth and beard, excess fabric pooling around his shoulders. You squeezed your thighs together, subtly chasing relief. He didn’t get fully undressed before you often — or ever, had he? No, only bits and pieces here and there, other than the time you'd spied on him as he got dressed after his shower. You felt just as lecherous now as you did then, eyes drifting lower, below the waistband of his sweatpants where the curve of his ass was unmistakable through the fleece.

“See anything you like?” König asked, eyes darting to you in a sideways glance.

“Oh, I—” You jolted at his words, eyes snapping up. Your mouth dried in an instant, coherent thought evaporating just as quickly. “Sorry?”

He nodded toward the book in your hands. “The recipes,” he offered. “Did you find one you like?”

“Um, yeah,” you replied absently, realizing you were at the index now, not even on a recipe anymore. You swiped back a few pages before he noticed, landing on a carefully decorated cake. “Well. They…all sound good.” You cringed inside, sure you looked as foolish as you sounded.

“I should have known you would go right to dessert.” His eyes flicked from the page to your face. “Craving something sweet, little one?” His eyes narrowed with an unseen smile, but you could hear the mirth in his voice, a gentle tease that brought heat to life across your cheeks like stoked coals.

You stared numbly down at the cake recipe you’d landed on, then back up at him. He leaned forward, just barely invading your space. Your chin was already tilting of its own accord, eager to agree with him — yes, yes — pleasant and tame under his gaze.

“Mm,” he hummed knowingly, his eyes fixed on yours instead of the dips and swirls of chocolate icing and glossy red cherries printed on the page. He leaned closer yet, voice dropping as if he was letting you in on a secret. “That’s alright. I am too.”

You can the entire chapter on AO3 ☺️ please consider leaving a kudos and comment if you enjoyed it. If you’d like to support my writing and fuel my caffeine habit, here’s my kofi >:3 https://ko-fi.com/tinypandacakes

#könig x you #trapper keeper #könig x y/n #könig x reader #könig #call of duty #könig smut #könig mw2 #könig fanfiction #konig x you #konig x reader #konig x y/n #könig cod #könig call of duty #dark romance #yandere

171 notes · View notes

almostempty · 3 months ago

Text

What’s Love Got to Do with It

(oberyn x f!reader) wc: 4.6k | other fics

note: hey y’all it’s me ya gurl, here to defile another prompt with a silly idea <3 Sooo, from the three brain cells that brought you fuckboy!joel and divorced dad rock dilf!joel 🫡i now humbly present …. Frat bro Oberyn, Aka The Red Viper, aka the Prince of Pong, aka the Slut of Delta Psi (i did steal the frat name from the film Neighbors—in which they do sing a line from Creed in their frat chant, so in some twisted way, they’re kind of all connected right??)

I fear this may have just been funny to me so feel free to skip, but thank you to everyone who tolerates my shenanigans <3.

ANYWAY, The lovely @baronessvonglitter bestowed upon me Oberyn x What’s Love Got to Do with It for fucktober (happy belated bday babe) but naturally, i made it weird. Thanks to @sunshinehaze1 for reminding me that modern AUs exist when I got scared of the GOT universe and to @auterdelabre for reminding me that the answer is always fuckboy. Don’t blame them for anything else.

Summary: You attend a fraternity toga party, and you catch the eye of Delta Psi’s notorious Red Viper. He shows you how he got the nickname and then he shows you something else he’s known for.

tags/warnings: explicit 18+ smut, alcohol/partying, gratuitous flirting, piv, fuckboy behavior aka on to the next one, infidelity, i couldn’t bring myself to write his dialogue in frat bro™ –aka i didn’t fully commit to the bit bc that man just had to be smooth and had to fuck no matter what universe i put him in, apologies if that ruins your immersion in my pwp, per usual: no y/n, f!reader is able bodied otherwise no specifics, unprotected piv as if it’s no biggie because it’s fiction (don’t do that irl), no beta/limited proofreading sorry for all mistakes

“Oh my god, that’s him!” Your best friend shouts into your ear as you walk down the sidewalk. You blend into the sea of toga-clad college kids, sandals slapping against the pavement. Liv leans on you, pointing out the guy she’s talking about. You can hear the music pouring out into the street and people inside yelling and chanting over someone doing a keg stand or something equally as exciting and alcohol-related, you assume.

The guy she pointed out is leaning casually against the banister, letting some ripped blond dude entertain him on the porch. “That’s the guy your roommate was talking about?” you question your friend. Liv agrees with a smile as you walk towards the front steps.

Everyone else on the porch looks like a frat bro wrapped in a wrinkly bedsheet, but for some reason, he seems almost godlike. He’s luminous under the warm lights. As if he knew you were checking him out, he turns his head just as you walk past, and his eyes sweep over you, making your face hot. Something sparks between you before he turns away, taking a swig of his drink.

Liv had given you a rundown on what to expect at your first Delta Psi party. You had argued that you knew what college parties were like. You transferred this quarter as a senior, and you just didn’t have Greek life at your other school or your best friend to convince you to go out. But now, you’re here, dressed up and entering a party that really does feel a little more intense than the ones back at your small-town university.

Liv’s roommate had given you the rundown on the guys she knew in the fraternity, but you didn’t pay much attention to her descriptions. You figured there was no way a Brad, Dylan, Connor, or a Brent would actually be hot. And then, when she started with the ones with nicknames, you completely checked out after Viper and Rooster. It has to defy the laws of nature for a frat bro that goes by Rooster to be able to find your clit—even if he IS hot.

Yet, now you realize you might be eating your words because you get it. You were too quick to judge, whoops. “Which one was that?” you ask in Liv’s ear as you both make your way through the people sloshing drinks and dancing.

“Viper!”

You can’t help the immediate grimace that emerges on your face. “That’s so douchey!” you shout back over the noise before she pulls you down a hall toward that kitchen. She leans in close to your ear, telling you that her roommate swears she got the best head of her life from him. “No fucking way,” you argue.

“Way,” she smirks back. “He’s got a girlfriend now, though. They’re, like, totally in love, it’s all over social media.” She mocks puking at the idea, and you share a laugh.

You explore the party together. The house is huge; one room on the main floor is blasting EDM, and another is blasting top 40 hits. There are a couple of beer pong tables in the backyard and a detached garage filled with stoners on old couches giggling to themselves. You know that Liv is itching to park her ass on one of those sofas and find a girl or guy to whom she can woo with her French inhale and makeout with for the rest of the night.

But, she’s a loyal ass bitch who wouldn’t abandon you. You circle back through the house. You spend a little while dancing together and taking your time to see if there’s anyone else who catches your eye. Nobody really sticks out to you in the first room until you catch his eyes again. You have to do a double-take as you circle your waist and roll your body against Liv.

He’s semi-shrouded in the corner; with the dim lighting and the packed house, it would be easy to miss the two of them altogether. But when the girl clinging to him turns around to grind her ass against him, he locks eyes with you, and you swear that fucker winks at you before a group of girls prance into the room, shouting oh my god, it’s our song! You try to shake it off. You were definitely just seeing things with the lights.

You signal to Liv, and she follows you into the other room. You dance together a bit longer. She offers you a swig from her rhinestone-encrusted flask, but you turn her down, staying sober tonight. You feel euphoric enough with the strobe lights and the thrumming bass from the EDM remixes blasting in the room.

You turn down a few wasted white dudes who try to dance up on the two of you. Too drunk. Not your type. Too handsy. You’re not afraid to punch a man in the throat or the nuts if they don’t get the hint, but they back off when you give them a gentle shove and a shake of your head. The most recent suitor is turning and scoping for another girl to approach when you see him again.

He’s moving towards you, looking right at you, but there’s no girl on his arm–or crotch, now. For some reason, it makes you feel too hot. You’re sweating from the dancing anyway, so you ignore the electric look in his eye that makes your clit twitch and grab Liv’s arm to make a dash for the backyard to get some fresh air.

You debrief with each other and come to an agreement. You tell Liv to do her thing, urging her to head towards the couch with the skater dude wearing the toga made from a dinosaur patterned sheet and the high-top vans. She agrees to text you if she plans to relocate or wants to leave before you finish taking another lap around the party.

You sort of lie to her, claiming someone inside caught your eye. They did, but you aren’t planning to do anything about it. Instead, you part ways and head back through the house, past the pledge posing as a bouncer at the front door, and onto the front porch. The music is still loud, but it’s quieter out front. People still trickle in and out of the party. You stare out at the night sky, searching for the moon. In your own little world, you’re basking in your own peace.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” a rich, velvety voice washes over your shoulder. It should make you jerk away, give you goosebumps, and raise your hackles. But, instead, the interruption stirs liquid heat in your core and makes your nipples hard. Because it’s him.

You turn your head and confirm. He’s so close to you.

“You know every girl here?” you challenge him.

“I know the ladies and gentlemen that pique my curiosity,” his voice is so smooth. He’s a charmer, for sure. He offers you a drink, holding out two plastic cups in one hand. The size of his hand does make you tingly, but his smile falters when you shoot him one of your signature dirty looks.

Before he can ask about the look, you take one of the cups, give him a cloyingly sweet smile, and pour it out over the railing into the grass below. The tail of his brow quirks, and he gives you a sly smile that widens into a grin and a full-chested laugh. “Oops,” you mock.

“You’re a bold woman,” he muses, “I like that.”

He doesn’t back down after you toss out his drink. He doesn’t take it as a rejection. He understands when you explain you don’t take open drinks from strangers at a frat party, but you roll your eyes hard when he gloats about not needing tricks or drugs to find a lover.

He banters with you as he downs the remaining drink. He’s quick, with sharp wit and a devious smile. You can’t keep your eyes off his exposed chest, his arms, his neck, his eyes. It’s still confusing how he can look so regal, whereas everyone else in the party looks a little…goofy? Cliche? He pulls you back to the present, asking for your name before he gives you his.

“They call me ‘the Red Viper,’” he gives you a provocative grin like he knows exactly how hot he looks, even with a bedsheet draped over his shoulder.

You play into his hand, “Is that some kinda of euphemism?” Feeding his ego with a suggestive arch of your brow. Maybe you’re bold, but you don’t think he’s the type to be deterred by a confident woman. In fact, it seems to make him glow even brighter.

His voice lowers, dripping with an enticing challenge, “Are you looking to find out?” he asks.

His jaw quirks, and you’re mesmerized watching him suck at his lower lip. It looks so perfectly plump and kissable, curling into a smirk as his eyes gleam with mischief. “Come,” he beckons for you to follow him deeper into the party.

“I thought you had a girlfriend,” you say stiffly, remembering what Liv had said as you walked in. He looks at you curiously before shaking his head lightly.

“You mean Cora? From earlier? She’s not my girlfriend. We were just dancing.”

“No,” you shake your head, “I heard it’s all over social media. That you’re loved up.”

“Oh, so you’ve heard of me?” he gives you that cocky smile that absolutely shouldn’t work but somehow makes you feel warm like you’re laying on the warm sand on a beach listening to the waves crashing. You don’t say anything else, and he leans in a little closer, “What’s love got to do with it?” he asks huskily. Dangerously.

It makes you shudder with something warm and twisted.

“Now,” he guides you gently but firmly, “Come.” You need him to stop saying it like an order before you do.

You let him walk you through the party. Weaving through the boisterous crowds. They part easily for him, clearing a path like he’s royalty.

“They call me ‘the Red Viper’ because I’m lethal at any game involving a red Solo cup.” He murmurs it into your ear like it’s a sexy secret.

You laugh brightly at that, giving him a gentle shove. “That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever heard!”

He gives you a coy shrug. “It’s the truth.” He leads you into the backyard, towards the beer pong tables. “I’ll show you,” he says just for you to hear. The string lights illuminate the yard in soft light; however, the mood is anything but romantic, with the drunk cheering college kids taking their drinking games very seriously.

You watch, amused, as one team high-fives each other over their trick shot. At another table, both teams heatedly argue about “house rules.”

“It’s the prince of pong!” one of his fraternity brothers shouts across the lawn. He gives you the most dramatic I told you so glance, and you mouth “lame” back at him. He calls ‘next game,’ and as if he were their lord, one table immediately clears out, forfeiting in a demonstration of fealty.

“Ladies first,” he offers once he’s set up all the cups to his liking. He’s so arrogant about it, and it shouldn’t turn you on, but it absolutely does.

You grin across the table at him. “You’re on.”

He’s merciful at first. You land a few cups, giving you enough confidence to talk shit and tease him. But it rapidly becomes apparent that he’s a man of his word as he easily picks off every cup on your end of the table with precision.

Despite your rapid descent towards a loss, you eat up his charm. His magnetic energy. He makes the rest of the party disappear when he looks at you. It makes your heart tingle and your pussy flutter. He’s a gracious winner, only gloating a little as he reracks the table and offers it up to other party-goers.

“Alright, Viper, you won. You can retain your title.” You admit defeat as he slinks up close to you, ushering you along to the side of the house, only a few steps away but more secluded from the rest of the party.

“And now, will you allow me to claim my prize?” he asks in his smoky, deep voice.

Despite his clear intentions, you feign confusion as he wraps one wide hand around your waist and tilts your chin towards his face with the other. “I didn’t know we were playing for stakes,” you smile brashly. Your skin blazes under his touch and his seductive gaze as his eyes drop to your mouth.

He starts to dip towards you, but you swerve away from him. It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask again if he’s in a relationship. He growls softly, almost a purr, next to your ear. “What’s wrong, my lady?” he murmurs. The intimacy of it is heady, and your surroundings fade.

You want to take whatever he’s offering, no questions, so instead you whisper, “Tell me your real name.”

He sighs softly before giving in and telling you his name.

“Oberyn,” you repeat back, “that’s unique.”

He starts muttering about how he’s an international student, but you’ve got all the info you needed. Now you don’t have to add a guy named Viper to your mental list of hookups.

“I like it,” you cut him off before slotting your mouth against his and making up for ducking out of his last attempt at a kiss with your eagerness. He wraps his arm around you, and you’re transported. One large hand presses against your lower back, urging your hips toward his, and the other cradles your jaw, giving you a sense of stability as he matches your ferocity.

You briefly wonder if you’d have melted if he wasn’t holding you so tightly before your thoughts are consumed by the sensation of his lips against yours and his tongue running along yours. It’s not a kiss you would’ve expected from a frat guy. It’s romantic and passionate, and you feel your body rolling against his, caught up in the sensation and intensity.

You keep going, letting yourself enjoy the moment, eating up the flavor of him, the scent of him, and the throbbing intensifying between your legs. You slip one of your hands along the back of his neck into his soft hair, and he groans into your mouth. It makes your knees weak.

You chase his mouth as he pulls back and looks into your heavy-lidded eyes. Sharing the hot air between you, it feels like a current is looping through your bodies, buzzing with need.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he urges in a gravelly whisper. You can feel him hardening against you. His hand on your back is firm, keeping you flush, pelvis to pelvis, making you nearly dizzy. However, his hand on your jaw is gentle, brushing his thumb along your cheek sweetly. You still can’t help goading just a little.

“What for?” you ask playfully.

“To fuck.”

It makes your cheeks hot. Maybe there should be red flags popping up in your mind, but you don’t care. He likes a bold woman, and you like a direct man.

“Unless you’d rather do it in the grass here,” he tilts his head toward the ground. You act like you’re considering the option seriously, making him laugh before he releases you from his arms. “Don’t tease,” he says with a severe look, “It wouldn’t bother me.”

Me either, you consider before deciding not to say that part aloud. You tell him to take you to a real bed, and he does. Swiftly guiding you into the house and up the stairs, past the pledge guarding the rooms, and into his bedroom. He spins around, pinning you against the door for another searing kiss. It’s more urgent this time. He’s quickly moving to your neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your tender skin as you both greedily run your hands along each other’s bodies.

Before you can get your hands under his toga, he’s detaching from you and sinking to his knees. He moves efficiently, bunching up your toga and asking you to hold it. Then he’s hovering his hot mouth over your mound before kissing you over your lacey panties.

“Mmm,” he hums into you and traces the crease of your thighs with one hand, following the line until he’s softly running his fingers along the edge of your panties, the tips of his fingers barely dipping beneath the hem as he moves towards your core. You watch, staring down with your mouth parted as he holds your gaze.

He teases you, running his fingertips along your seam over the soaked fabric, tapping and teasing at your swollen clit through the fabric as he watches your needy expression morph into frustration. You shift, spreading your legs wider, but he stops you with a large hand on each thigh.

“Hold still,” he orders, and you feel compelled to listen. He pulls your underwear down and off of you, then hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, spreading your cunt open. “That’s better.”

You can’t tell if he’s talking to himself or to you. You don’t have a chance to ask before he’s burying his face into your soft, wet pussy. Your breath hitches at the sensation and one of your hands flies out to grab at the door frame to steady you, while the other one digs into Oberyn’s hair.

He’s unbothered by your dramatics. Oberyn moves with enthusiasm, drawing his tongue along your slit and pressing into your sex with his jaw. His facial hair tickles at your tender skin deliciously and his nose grazes over your clit as if his face were molded to maximize your pleasure. He changes his strategy, mouthing at your clit and sweeping his tongue over it like he’s making out with it, with the same passion that he kissed you with outside and a moment ago.

You can feel it starting to build. Your hip flexors straining and thighs starting to tremble as your breathing gets quicker and more shallow. Closer and closer and closer. He’s perceptive and diligent. Repeating the same tricks that make you moan and dig your fingers into his hair.

You’re stuck on the precipice, so close but not quite there. Your eyes roam around the dimly lit room, the bed, the bookshelf, the tapestry pinned to the wall, the collection of cologne bottles lined up on the desk, the mirror on top of the desk–pointing right at the bed.

It starts to frustrate you. Not the decor choices, but the tension and the building pressure. You squirm slightly, hoping the smallest adjustment will somehow bring everything into a sharper focus. You let your eyes close, letting the roar of the party downstairs fade, focusing on the pressure and warmth of Oberyn’s mouth.

More, more, more.

It’s all you can think as Oberyn stays dedicated to getting you off on his tongue. He sucks firmly at your clit before releasing you with a slick sound. He hovers, mouth fanning warm air over your core looking up at you. His eyes are lit with hunger.

“More?” he asks in his deep, rich voice.

You can’t tell if you were chanting out loud or if he’s somehow reading your mind. “Please,” you respond with a needy edge, “more.” You catch the sparkle in his eye and the flash of a grin. He works you up again, towards the brink, relishing in your responses as you whine with need as he resumes holding you in a purgatory of pleasure.

Mercifully, he does give you more. Oberyn grips your thigh with one hand, steadying you, while he swipes two fingers along the length of your pussy once, twice, coating them in your arousal before plunging them inside of you. The increased pressure and friction from his fingers pumping into you causes you to moan. It’s a lower register than your breathy panting from earlier, layered with satisfaction as you can feel the anticipation starting to crest.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, “I’m so close.”

He doesn’t stop, groaning at your words, rumbling against you. That snaps the tension and you cry out his name and a string of curses as your orgasm hits. He doesn’t slow down when your cunt contracts around his fingers and he doesn’t lose focus when you shake and writhe against mouth. Not until you’re pulling him off of you, oversensitive and wrung out.

Oberyn stands, wiping at his chin before pulling you in close for another breathtaking kiss. He walks you back toward the bed and you fall into it, pulling him with you. You tangle together, frantically, you want him inside of you now. He laughs softly against your hot neck, sensing your frustration.

“Shh,” he murmurs as you huff with defeat. He moves deftly, braced over you with one arm, and freeing his cock with the other. Your hands stroke up and down his shoulders and back, and you hook one leg around his hip, encouraging him. “You want me to fuck you now?” he asks and you whisper a yes that turns into a gasp as he runs his tip through your soaked center. “And how do you want it?”

“Hard.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, sinking into you deeper and deeper, and pulling back, all the way out, then all the way in. “Fuck,” he says to himself as he sets a quick pace, slaming his hips into yours making the bedframe creak with every thrust. If the noise from the party didn’t drown everything else out, you might be embarrassed to have strangers over hear, but you would be surprised if anyone could hear a thing. And, even if you were louder than the party, you could care less about being caught as Oberyn fucks you into the mattress.

“Harder,” you goad him, hoping for more. To your horror he pulls out of you completely, but you swiftly find yourself flipped onto your stomach as he lifts your hips and enters you from behind. You press back, meeting his thrusts, bouncing off of his hips until he presses his palm between your shoulder blades. He forces your chest into the mattress, holding you still so he can fuck you like he means it, with enough force that all you can do brace yourself and ball your fists, twisting the bedding between your fingers.

With your cheek against the bed you can watch your reflection in the mirror. It’s hot, even with your togas draped and bunched up, you look good together. It makes you grin. He catches you looking and turns, meeting your eyes in the mirror before watching your bodies. He grips your hips firmly and you can barely keep your eyes open to watch as he continues.

He overwhelms you with his stamina, keeping up a pace that has your mind feeling blissfully fuzzy. He says something else before folding over you and slipping his hand around towards your clit, determined to feel you come around his cock. You’re so close already, it’s only a moment, a few more thrusts, before shuddering beneath him. He tries to fuck you through it, but you clench and constrict around him so tightly that he pulls out while you’re still moaning.

You can hear the slick wet sounds as he strokes himself, cursing under his breath again, before you feel the warmth as he comes across the swell of your ass and your fluttering cunt. You sink, dropping your hips and relaxing onto the bed while he catches his breath. Oberyn squeezes at your thighs, offering praise you don’t quite hear, then he’s slipping off the bed. He cleans you up with a towel, but you remain still for a little longer, enjoying the satisfaction and the sweet ache from the intensity.

“Take your time,” he tells you, leaning down to press a kiss to your shoulder. It’s gentle. You murmur a thanks at him before breaking into an airy giggle. It makes your ribcage shake, bouncing slightly on the mattress, realizing that Liv is going to die when you tell her you can confirm her roommates story. Oberyn doesn’t question your reaction.

He pauses to readjust his toga and his hair in the mirror. Once seemingly satisfied, he turns back towards you, watching you sit up. “I’ll see you out there,” he says with a smile before he slips out of the room.

You linger for just a little. Allowing yourself the privacy to revel in the sweet satisfaction of the post-sex chemicals flowing through your body. You let yourself grin while you check your phone to see where Liv is at.

You take another minute, using the mirror to fix your own appearance, aiming for a slightly less obvious version of I just got railed, before meeting your own eyes. For a sobering second you remember you didn’t get a real answer about if he has a girlfriend. He sure as fuck doesn’t act like it, you decide. You shake off the thought.

He might be a frat bro, he might be a piece of shit, all you know for sure is that he is hot, a good kisser, and he knew how to make you come. Three things you didn’t think you’d find in one guy under this roof. You give yourself a final onceover before heading out of the room and down the stairs.

You don’t see Oberyn in the first few rooms you pass. You keep looking; he couldn’t have gone far. You’re barely finished that thought when you spot him in the kitchen. The sight makes you stumble, shooting a hand out to the wall to catch your balance.

He’s leaning casually, with his hip against the counter, as a starry-eyed girl looks up at him, giggling flirtatiously, as she lays a hand along his bicep.

It’s in slow motion. The way he looks at her hand, the way his eyes trail along her arm, over the curve of her breasts, and down her legs before flitting back to her face with that same sinful smirk you just fell for.

Your shoulders drop. It’s not like you were planning your wedding or that you even thought a date was on the table—but you didn’t think he’d be on to the next girl before you made it down the stairs.

You start to recenter yourself, reaching to check your phone again before you look for Liv.

He sees you before you can mind your business and plan your next move. Catching your eye through the doorway. Before you can formulate a reaction, you’re stuck, held in his gaze. He winks at you again, only this time there’s no question if you were making it up. He winked at you and despite everything, it makes your whole body tingle.

“I saw that!” Liv shouts into your ear, wrapping an arm around you. “You have to tell me what the fuck that was about. But first can we please get pancakes or cheese fries?”

You don’t bother turning back for a second glance as you follow Liv toward the front door.

You must understand though the touch of your hand

Makes my pulse react

That it's only the thrill of boy meeting girl

Opposites attract

It's physical

Only logical

You must try to ignore that it means more than that

Oh, oh, oh

What's love got to do, got to do with it?

…..

tags for babes, but no presh:

@lovely-vamp-princess

@gothcsz

@auteurdelabre

@adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange

@itwasntimethatdidit40

@ivoryandflame

@magneticecstasy

#fucktober #birthday baroness #oberyn x f!reader #oberyn martell x f!reader #oberyn martell smut #posting at 3 in the morning my time as per usual

117 notes · View notes

lovelyunholyc · 2 years ago

Text

starving, darling

!!nsfw, minors and blank/ageless blogs dni - will be blocked :)!!

fem!reader, names (sweetheart, baby, darling, my love, reader calls him good boy). praise, spitting, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected sex. gratuitous descriptions of making out...bc who doesn't want to eat choso whole.... ',:|

you have no measure of the power you hold.

to bring a strong, towering curse to its knees, to make him feel something he had never felt before, had been missing for a millenia, an eternity, it seems, sometimes. choso himself cannot fathom the power you hold over him, cannot seem to comprehend why he so willingly lays himself at your feet - you, a delightful little beauty, a simple little human.

choso likes to be held like this, you had learned quickly. in quiet moments, in the safety of your bed, he buries his face in your bosom, arms secure around your waist, and you brush through the tangles of his hair with your fingers, soothing his scalp; just that morning you'd helped him brush them into those unruly buns he likes, that endear him to you so much. his weight across your bottom half is comforting, his warmth seeping into you.

he's still a little shy to ask for what he wants, but already you've learned him and can glean from the tired droop of his eyes (though they shine just a bit when he sees you), the pout pulling at his lips, and you open your arms and pull him into you.

he'd known he loved you when he watched you dress his brother's wounds that first time. your touches were tender, yet firm and sure, unwavering.

and then you had turned to him, that adorable pinch of concern to your brow, giving him a once over to ensure he was unharmed, before wrapping him in a bone crushing embrace. he'd laughed at the contrast of your gentleness with yuuji to the strength you displayed when you squeezed him.

you're full of contradictions: soft yet hard, tender yet tough, loving yet - when necessary, ruthless. he wants to unravel every single one of them until he has you figured out completely, and then memorize every aspect of you until he can think of nothing else.

he still hasn't had the courage to tell you.

when you hold him like this, so soft and warm and adoring, soothing the aches in his muscles, the cloudiness in his mind, he thinks he doesn't have to.

choso looks up just to be able to admire your beauty, cheek to your chest, ear pressed to the steady thrum of your heartbeat, and you pause stroking his hair to smile softly down at him. "hi, handsome," you purr.

heat rises to his face; he'll never get used to your praise, would rather sing yours instead. still, it makes his heart flutter every time, makes a giddy feeling take over his chest.

he hides his face back in the fabric of your shirt, suddenly shy. it was bad enough for his heart that he'd found you lounging in bed in nothing but one of his undershirts and your underwear, warm and smelling fresh and faintly like your favorite perfume.

you giggle, a sound so lovely that he swears he could listen to it forever, and revels in how it vibrates through your chest and seeps into him. "choso," you call so sweetly, he has no choice but to turn to you once more, cheeks burning. "can i kiss you, sweetheart?"

the nickname makes him blush even harder, though a zip of pleasure buzzes through his body at the confident way you address him, knowing he wouldn't ever refuse.

choso just nods, raises himself up gently to meet your lips.

though you're below him, you dominate the kiss. with a soft nibble to his bottom lip, he parts them easily, lets you slip your tongue into his mouth to coax his out for you to suck on. you lick at his lips, slow and purposeful with your movements, intent on getting him to moan sweetly against you (which he does quickly), on making the back of his neck prickle with pleasure, his fingers to twitch at your sides.

he loves the way you taste, how quickly you can make him fall apart on your tongue. the way you tug lightly at his hair to maneuver his head the way you like, to delve even deeper and take over his mouth. he loves letting you take control of him, his pleasure; you take such good care of him, let his thoughts and worries fade away and allow him to just (feel).

when you pull back, you leave him breathless, panting lightly but smiling because you continue to trail your lips up the line of his jaw, across his cheek and over the bridge of his nose to follow the inky black line bisecting his face. he closes his eyes and revels in your careful attention, your soothing touch. he hums in satisfaction, like a cat purring low and lovely, and the sound makes you giggle softly against his skin.

you touch your noses together and grin, kissing him once more before beckoning him to lie next to you. you sling your arm around his neck and lean over him, your faces still barely a breath apart, basking in the closeness, the comfort.

"how are you today, baby?" your words are simple, soft against his skin as they brush along the strong line of his jaw, but they make his chest warm.

before you, who else outside of his brothers had cared enough about him to know?

choso takes comfort in the warm weight of you settling across his chest, soft hands cradling his face, the pads of your thumbs smoothing absently over his cheeks, and the intensity of the day that had worn away at him so forcefully, instantly dulls and melts away beneath your touch. he relaxes completely in your hold, a bliss he'd never known and from now on would never let go to the best of his ability.

"fine," is all he says, though watching his expression change, knowing all his tells, you know he means much more. "i missed you." and that, you know he means tenfold by the emotion in his voice, the tender hold of his hands on your hips, long fingers drifting up along your lower back beneath the hem of your top, chasing the warmth of your skin.

for someone so skilled in blood manipulation, he never seemed to be warm enough without touching you.

the constant little reminders he gives you that in his overabundance of time on earth, you're something completely new to him, entirely different and extraordinary, somehow - it never fails to make your heart race.

"mm, missed you, too, my love."

you grin almost sheepishly when you say it, though he knows that doesn't take any sincerity away from the sentiment, especially when it brings heat to your cheeks, makes your smile so lovely.

my love. your love. his love.

choso can't help but smile with you, tilting up almost imperceptibly in search of your pretty lips again, yet you indulge him so easily, as if on instinct, as if you can read his mind as naturally as breathing.

you kiss him soft and slow, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him, as if you were memorizing his mouth all over again. the quiet moan he lets out, that you swallow up without hesitation, coaxing out more, more, more, makes you shiver inexplicably. you only let him go for mere fractions of a second to breathe, and neither of you could be happier to drown in each other, in the deep, passionate movements of your lips, your tongues, sharing breaths until you're lightheaded.

it's dizzying, how much he wants you. now, more than ever, but always. now, most, because it's the present - later he knows he'll want you even more than he ever has.

when you pull away a final time you're grinning devilishly, cheeks full with it and a shade darker with the rush of blood, lips wet and bitten an irresistible red that makes his mouth water even more. you've somehow migrated into his lap, legs on either side of him, fingers woven into his soft hair, his own hands caressing your back beneath your shirt and squeezing appreciatively at the thick of your thighs.

you see the lovesick look in his pretty eyes, clouded with desire and syrupy sweet, and can't help but chuckle quietly to yourself, though you must know you're not much better off.

"what do you want, darling?" you ask from mere centimeters away, tracing his plump bottom lip with your thumb, leaning in to kitten lick at it and swipe your combined spit away from the smooth skin.

choso nearly whimpers, his tongue darting out on instinct to follow the trace of where yours had been, his eyes glazing over even further. you know, of course you know.

you pull back a bit further, sitting up on his hips, hands propping you up on his chest. you had felt his cock stir a long, breathless moment before, and it ached now, hard and heavy against the heat of your center, confined beneath both your layers of clothing, twitching and throbbing for attention.

"you look like you want something, sweetheart," you purr, teasing, and the difference in your tone presently from when you'd first spoken, the dangerous gleam in your eyes now, is enough to make his head spin.

choso wets his lips again, desperation coating every syllable. "i want you."

you smile wide, satisfied, reward him with a slow roll of your hips that makes his jaw drop just a little. "yeah?"

"yes, i-" he cuts himself off with a gasp when you do it again, "-i want to make you feel good."

the sincerity, the wholeheartedness that floods his voice and the look in his eyes, how eager he always is to please you, always makes your heart melt. you pause, leaning back down to kiss him again, short and sweet, a small reminder of your overwhelming affection.

"you will, choso," you murmur against his lips, feel his whole body tremor with excitement and anticipation beneath you. "as long as it's you."

when you pull away again, he follows you, holds you close to his chest with big arms winding across your back, fingertips traversing over the smooth expanse of your skin. you smile when you capture his lips again, reluctant to part until he finally asks, "may i pleasure you?"

you can't help but giggle quietly at his politeness, charmed as you always are by how earnest he is in everything he does, a sort of genuine innocence in his actions and the way he carries himself that opposes his physicality and age. it never fails to send you reeling, heat blooming in your gut.

you nod easily, kiss him as if in answer. you nip at his perfectly petal-soft lips, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth before releasing it with a satisfied hum, grazing your teeth along the skin just to make him shiver. your fingers drift back up to his jaw, caress at the edges of it as you shift carefully up his body, straddling his stomach instead so you can stare down at him from a higher angle with a wanton smile.

"can i give you something first, darling?"

the hazy lust gleaming in his eyes intensifies as he blinks slowly, eyelids heavy under your own hungry gaze. he's breathing heavy from your kisses and the anticipation, chest heaving beneath one of your palms.

"please," choso breathes, ever so polite, the movement of his lips tickling the pad of your thumb when you trace over them again, hand gliding down to pinch his chin gently between your thumb and forefinger. there is no pressure behind your touch, merely a guide - support, because his body knows instinctively what to do, poised and ready.

your grin is nothing short of wicked. you can't help but lean down for a moment to peck at his lips again, before rising back up and pursing your own.

choso clutches at your waist with lightly trembling fingers, pretty lips parting so nicely as he opens up for you, tongue resting dutifully on his bottom lip. you splay your fingers out across his throat in a loose grip as he bares it just for you, thumb tracing over the edge of his jaw. the hand on his chest moves to tangle through his soft, soft hair, like silk between your fingers, and he looks up at you expectantly, eagerly, eyes shining with the thrill of it, the silent plea for you to take care of him.

it doesn't take you long to gather enough saliva. you watch him carefully, releasing it slowly to drip like syrup down onto his waiting tongue, stroking lovingly at his jaw with your thumb.

"good boy," you whisper sweetly when he swallows you down like it's nectar, and you feel his adam's apple bob beneath your palm. he shivers at the praise, tilts his chin up in that way again, hearts in his eyes and all across those pretty lips, slick with your spit and his own, searching for more of you, so you giggle softly and shift again to kiss him deeply.

when you render him breathless again, he speaks through soft pants. "i want you to-" -there's that hesitation, the pause before he can say what he truly wants, encouraged to continue when you peck lovingly at his pretty face- "-can you cum on my face?"

and who are you to deny him?

you nudge your nose against his fondly, already shoving at the flimsy waistband of your panties, giddy at his promise. "of course, darling," you breathe against his lips, swallow down his low groan as he helps you wriggle out of your underwear and slides his fingers up between your folds.

you're soaked - his long, elegant fingers glide easily along your slit, his thumb practically slipping over your clit and making you jolt.

choso doesn't bother much more after the initial touch - he's impatient, and feeling your sweetness on his hand isn't nearly enough to satiate him and only further delays what he really wants. you huff a little when he grabs at your thighs and hoists you up to nudge your pussy closer to his face, laughing softly at his eagerness and petting at his hair before positioning yourself properly, his head below you and between your knees.

before you can ask if he's even ready, choso pulls you down, kissing at the crease between your inner thigh before diving into your sweet, dripping cunt.

he groans appreciatively, deep and guttural, after giving your slit one long, slow lick, from your hole to your clit, punctuating it with a swirl of the tip of his tongue at the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it to flick at it until you're whining and trying to squirm out of his hold from the intensity. choso holds you firm with those strong fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, a smile playing at his lips when he finally releases your clit to lap up your sweet nectar instead.

he takes his time, savoring you, sliding his tongue smoothly along your folds and relishing how you mewl for him, at each gush of arousal he coaxes out only to lick up and moan with satisfaction. the vibrations of his deep voice against where you're most sensitive leaves you reeling, clutching at the headboard and his soft hair below you, back arching when he delves his tongue deeper, dipping into your entrance as far as he can go, his nose nudging at your clit in tandem.

"oh, fuck, baby," you whimper when he thrusts his tongue into you, shameless in his open enjoyment, whining along with you as you spout random praise, and bucking his hips into the air inadvertently.

he snakes one hand down to relieve some of the ache, squeezing desperately at his straining cock, your breathy cries of his name and the obscene, wet sound of him lapping up your slick like music to his ears. he could swear he sees heaven when you tug at his hair, when he withdraws his hand from himself in favor of urging you to start grinding on his face, two of his fingers slipping easily into your entrance.

your hips stutter first in uncertainty, concerned about him, like always, but choso doesn't loosen his hold, one hand clutching at your bottom and pushing you forward onto his flattened tongue. soon enough, with his fingers pumping in rhythm, it feels too good for you to resist, and you lose yourself on his hunger to taste you, to take from you until he's satisfied. your hips are moving wildly, chasing the sweet friction of his smooth tongue, the tip of his nose, the tremor his voice elicits when he moans so deeply, pleased at what he can do for you, how much pure pleasure only he can give you.

he knows your body so well, he can tell instantly when you're close - the choked up gasps, your muscles beginning to tense - he sucks ruefully on your clit once more, curling his fingers in just the right way to press into that sensitive spot inside you. he doesn't relent even when you throw your head back with a sharp cry of his name, hips shoving down on him and undoubtedly complicating his ability to breathe - no, instead, he doubles down, pulls his fingers back and forces his tongue as deep into your fluttering hole as he's able, just so he can feel your walls spasm around his tongue and greedily swallow down everything you gush out as you orgasm, completely lost in his brand of euphoria.

choso loses himself too, forgets about his own aching cock begging for release still confined in his pants - he could care less about breathing properly either - he licks into you with vigor, mesmerized by your sweet, pretty little pussy, until you're wriggling away from sensitivity, thighs quivering, weakly pushing at his fingers still gripping tightly at your cheeks (where he's surely left bruises in the shape of his fingertips, and the thought makes him shiver in delight).

when he finally lets you go, you collapse into bed beside him, rolling on your side to sling a shaking leg possessively over his waist, grinning gleefully up at him; the sight of his face, reddened with exertion, tainted all across with a mix of your arousal and his spit, hair mussed and sticking to his dampened forehead - gives you a whole new rush of giddiness. you're both breathing heavy, but despite that, you bring him closer with a hand on the nape of his neck. you run your tongue along the seam of his wet, red lips, shades darker and swollen with use, moaning softly at the taste of yourself, before licking into his mouth, sucking that capable, lovely tongue into your own mouth.

"oh, you're so sweet to me, aren't you?" you coo when you pull back, laughing breathlessly and swiping at the mess on his face with your fingers. "so lovely." you pepper kisses across his cheeks and nose as you go, nosing at his heated skin and delighting at his soft smile and the gooey look shining in his eyes, clearly lovestruck.

choso preens under your attention and praise, fingers twitching on the small of your back when you trail yours down the solid plane of his abdomen. "my love," you continue quietly with your nose pressed to his cheek, your tone so gentle yet palpable, your breath tickling his skin, making him shiver, "you're so good to me, so handsome too." he closes his eyes and can't help but whine helplessly when your hand slides under his waistband and fists his cock.

you thumb at the glistening head before pulling it out fully, glancing down just to catch a glimpse of how pretty you know it to be, thick and heavy in your hand, throbbing with need and already so wet with his excitement. you squeeze tighter at the base then, cooing at him once more when his whole body jolts at the sweet pressure. "oh, my poor baby." you kiss him again, pumping his cock simultaneously, eager to swallow up all the pleased little sounds he makes. "i'll take care of you, too, okay?"

choso just nods vigorously, eyebrows scrunching up adorably as you swirl your thumb over the tip of his cock again, flicking at the frenulum and toying with his sensitivity. he gasps out your name when you twist your hand on your downstroke, and you nip at his jaw playfully, so charmed by his reactions.

"you wanna cum inside me, baby?" you're back at his lips, biting lightly at them as you wait for him to compose himself enough to answer between heavy breaths, his fingers kneading restlessly at your waist. "i want you, choso, want you to fill me up nice and deep, like only you can."

he bucks up into your hand at that involuntarily, and it takes all his strength not to keep going lest he spill into your fist before he can even get between your legs again. "y-yes, please," he nearly whimpers, spurred on by another passionate kiss you grace him with, to switch positions and hover above you, on his knees between yours.

you pull at his top until he tugs it off and tosses it away carelessly, your fingers immediately tracing over the ridges of muscle along his chest, his abdomen, nearly purring with satisfaction when they flex and jump beneath your touch as he moves. you trace along his scars, too, etched into his otherwise smooth skin, cruel imperfections that you've already memorized, continuing your trail even when he bends to get closer to you, capturing your lips again like he can't bear to be even that far from you.

he moans so deliciously into your mouth when you find his dick again, wasting no time and pressing him against your pussy to coat him in your slick. he ruts against your folds, he can't help it, you're so warm and wet and heavenly, and he didn't know he could be so impatient.

"inside, baby," you murmur against his lips, breaking him out of his trance only to put him in another spell when you guide him to your entrance.

your back arches as he pushes into you, agonizingly slow despite how wet and wanting you already are, your muscles barely offering any sort of resistance. choso splits you open in every way, you think, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in just as deeply as he feeds into you, stretching you wide on the swollen crown of his dick and pinning you in place, hands fisting the sheets beside your head, his elbows locked behind your knees. you're taking him so nicely it's like your cunt is sucking him in, walls clutching so sweetly at his cock, as if you're made perfectly for him.

you sigh happily when he pulls back just a bit to thrust back in to the hilt, when he finally fills you so completely you think you can feel him lodged in your throat, throbbing with desire for you and hot, hot, hot. your eyelids droop with pleasure, watery with your blissful little smile as he pauses right there where you can feel the most of him, just to hold you even closer until you're sure there's not any possible space between you.

and there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

"feels good, love?" your words are heavy, thick with emotion and the overwhelming pleasure you're feeling, nearly slurred together with your adoration for him.

choso nods again, kisses at your cheeks and nose, nips at your pretty lips. when he looks at you again, you think his eyes hold stars in them for you, sparkling in his irises and falling across his cheeks. "s'good, darling, so good." he sounds just as intoxicated as you, raw and vulnerable, and you giggle softly and bring him back to your lips then, swiping tenderly at the skin just below those pretty eyes, at the tiny droplets of diamonds that escape them, at the stark black mark across his face.

"you're so beautiful, choso," you whisper, and his cheeks burn so furiously you wonder how your palms haven't been scorched by them, laughing quietly to yourself at the thought. it seems silly, but you can't be bothered to believe it is, not when he feels so good inside you, so snug and warm and lovely, and he's enveloping you so wholly in his embrace, and his heart beating erratically against your own feels all too much like you're home. safe, blissful.

choso wants to hold you forever. he wants to mold you to himself so that he never has to let you go, doesn't care in the least how irrational it may be, he loves how you feel, how you make him feel, just by being this close. he wants to tell you you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, he'll ever see all his life, and if he were to live another millennia, that your eyes may just hold all the answers in the universe - but he chokes on his words when your walls flutter around him, when you claw at his back and wordlessly urge him to start moving.

instead, he whispers, too, a broken, breathless confession, dripping with emotion, "i- i love you."

you gasp, whether from his revelation or the slow roll of his hips he isn't sure, but he is sure you heard him and know how sincere he is, breathing out a stuttered response just as ardently.

choso thinks he loses himself again, in the sweet clasp of your pussy, in your low moans and how your body moves for him, only pulling him closer, until he all but drowns in you, happily.

his pace is unhurried but undeniably deep, balls squishing up against your ass, savoring the tight heat of your walls around him, the sharp, fleeting pain of your nails raking across his back - he loves the sting, is too lost to wonder whether it seems wrong to. the wet sound as he pounds into you, so deep it takes your breath every time, nearly drives him into a frenzy, makes him want to make a bigger mess of the both of you.

he doesn't stray too long from your face, he loves your sultry, blissed out expressions just as much, loves every little reaction you give when he nips and pinches lightly at where he knows you're most sensitive, when the head of his cock hits undeniably deeper, teasing at that spot that drives you wild. he doesn't even pull back far enough to remove the shirt you're still wearing, instead rucking the hem up with rough fingers just so he can lick and suck at your nipples and make your back arch off the mattress.

"so pretty," he murmurs into your skin, almost to himself, but the deep cadence of his voice against you gives him away, makes you shiver. "my love, my love." he repeats it like he can't help himself, carves into you like he's trying to shape your perfect cunt to his dick, like he wants to forget how it feels so he can keep doing it for the first time again and again and again. you all but squeak when his pelvis grinds up against your swollen clit on every downstroke, breath caught in your throat when he licks at your pulse, squeezes at your thighs. he's everywhere, devouring every part of you, it seems, and you couldn't be happier to let him, to trust him so thoroughly with the softest, most vulnerable parts of you.

choso groans so deeply, it vibrates through your entire body, makes you shudder pleasantly. he finds your lips again, swivels his hips a little quicker, and you're panting lightly into his mouth, that little smirk shining through.

"close, baby?" you lick at his lips, fingers tugging at his hair. his pupils are blown charmingly wide, eyelids heavy as he only grunts in response, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you - you laugh lightly, nibble at his bottom lip. "cum for me, handsome, i wanna feel you."

his next moan is so resonant, it shakes through him - and you by extension. he pulls out until only the flared head of his cock stays inside you, shifts a little higher on the bed, gravity stretching your legs even wider, hips lifting up along with his. when he plunges back in all the way in one smooth thrust, you nearly scream. the angle somehow makes him hit even deeper, the tip of his cock nudging at your cervix. you're mewling, grasping desperately at his shoulders, his biceps flexing with you trapped between them as he drives his cock deep into the sweet clutch of your cunt.

you're rendered speechless by the force of his thrusts, your whole body jostled by it, your insides undoubtedly battered.

the reminder of his silent strength makes you whine a little higher, like wordless praise spilling from your lips.

choso whispers out your name like it pains him, over and over as he chases his high, his dick spasming inside you within just a few more heavy, gut-wrenching thrusts. you reach up to weave your fingers into the roots of his soft hair and tug, back arching, and he gasps, pretty eyes rolling back in his head. in one startlingly deep stroke he's spilling inside you, pumping you full just as he'd promised, wave after wave pulsing into you, the feel of it making your walls clench and squeeze in turn. you whine along with him, hold him as close to you as you can, choso clutching onto you just as desperately, almost as if he's melting into you, until you're molded into one.

he ruts into you lazily until it's too much for him, until he feels raw with oversensitivity. he comes down panting heavily into your sweat-dampened skin, just as you start to languidly chase the sweet grind of the base of his cock against your swollen clit.

you're still stroking his hair, praising him softly, "good boy, so sweet to me," trailing gentle fingers across the planes of his back, almost as if in apology for where your nails had dug bright red lines into.

choso shivers blissfully with the aftershocks of pleasure, with the soft tickle of your fingers on his skin, and he feels insatiable. he presses wet lips onto wherever he can reach, up the line of your neck, your jaw, your pretty lips, and pulls back just for a moment to look at you. just as dazed as he feels, warm and rosy with love, eyes droopy and shiny with it, fluttering along your lashes and in the playful little smile on your lips.

oh, how he adores you.

he kisses you again, licking at your lips and sucking on your pretty pink tongue before drifting back down the way he came, dropping kisses all along your body with reverence. he spends precious time at your chest, finally sliding your shirt off and kneading at your breasts and sucking and nipping at each pert nipple until he's satisfied, until your voice catches in your throat from moaning.

when he has to pull out to continue down further where he truly wants to be, he bites his lip in displeasure at the loss of your warmth. but he's immediately appeased by the view before him, by the lewdness of his seed spilling forth from your hole, the way it leaks out and catches on your folds, the inside of your thighs.

choso almost instinctively slides his fingers through your pussy, scooping up what he can and pushing it back into you, plunging his fingers into your entrance in a futile attempt to keep it in. your fingers tighten almost painfully where they're woven in his hair, and wordlessly, he continues his trail of kisses down your stomach. he's handsome even in the mess of you, in the wreck you've both left of each other, and especially when he's down between your legs.

he presses his lips against your hip, nips at the supple flesh of your thighs.

"darling?" you question breathlessly, but he's so thoroughly lost in you he barely registers it as he suddenly laps at your swollen clit, his fingers still plugged up in the sweet clutch of your cunt.

your reaction is immediate, back arching and voice breaking on his name as he kisses and licks at your sweet pussy. his tongue flicks at your sensitive bud, teeth grazing at the hood of it before his lips wrap around it and he sucks, and you nearly scream his name. your hips start to buck up against his face, and he holds you down with a strong hand splayed across your hip, the other still occupied, fingers now pumping into you.

choso takes his time. his lips are laden with worship, his tongue reverent, gratuitous. he eats you out like he'd rather be doing nothing else for the rest of his life (he thinks that's true), like nothing makes him happier than feeling your walls hug at him, sucking him in so sweetly, your sweet nectar leaking out just for him to swallow up and savor. he licks his release clean from you just to mess you up again, just to make you whine and cry from pure pleasure, tears dripping from your eyes because your body can barely comprehend so much of it.

he hardly realizes it when he's rutting against the bed, hard once more just from eating you out again, his fingers now replaced with his tongue because he wants to taste from you directly, wants to feel it on his tongue when you clench up and cum just because of him.

and he hardly realizes when he cums too, almost instantly after you do, until his vision goes white and he whines against your pussy just as your velvet walls pulse and squeeze around his tongue, your release spilling into his greedy mouth, lips smacking lewdly as he laps it all up through both of your orgasms, filling him just as he'd filled you with his seed.

he loves giving to you, receiving from you. he's so tired of taking, weary of seeing destruction at his own hands.

when he sees the wreck he's made of you, your entire body trembling with the force of what only he can give you, he thinks he's found the measure of his own power.

and when you still reach out for him, kissing him like nothing else matters to you, he knows you have much more of it than he.

1K notes · View notes

fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years ago

Text

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man.

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots.

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy.

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down.

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon.

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about.

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen.

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first.

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger.

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger.

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears.

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you.

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks.

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind.

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar.

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs.

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up.

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside.

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs.

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself?

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close.

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him.

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man.

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face.

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe -

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this.

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat.

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway.

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

#fuckyeahgrays2 #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales smut #frankie morales twoshot #frankie catfish morales fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales #frankie friday

2K notes · View notes

taintandviolent · 1 year ago

Text

feed my Frankenstein ; Frankenkyle x reader

summary: stripper!reader decides to dress up like a zombie for Halloween, and when the girls bring Kyle to the strip club…. He makes the decision for himself that he’s going to be with his kind. w a r n i n g s: 5k words! stripper!reader, female reader, cunnilingus, rough sex, violence, mentions of blood, biting, graphic descriptions. kyle being a big, horny zombie who doesn't understand his strength. a/n: [🎃 part of lizzie's halloween fics! 🎃] probably some errors, whoops. I didn't want to label this as dead dove don't eat, but Kyle literally tries to eat reader, so be warned, I guess??? also my ending is very... cliff-hangery. don't come for me, this fic took on a life of its own very quickly. thank you for reading if you did!!! full fic & taglist under cut!↓ / ao3 link here! / ♪ recommended playlist here! ♪

You dab a stippling sponge against your neck, hiding an edge with a speckle of grey makeup. You’d put a lot of effort into your silly little zombie look - but it was Halloween after all, and hardly any of the other girls had dressed up. Sure, they’d started out in low-effort costumes of Dorothy Gale and Snow White, but as soon as those came off, they were just their normal selves again. You… not so much. You went the extra mile. You’d spent hours applying prosthetics on your limbs, and painting your flesh to mimic the rotting corpses seen in cult classic horror films. Specks of blood around your perfectly lined lips, uneven skin, stitches from your neck down the front of your body.

It wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, you knew. Some of them would lose their boners at the sight. It was time for your first shift. The club was rowdy, you heard it from behind the door. You lean against it, gulp down the last of your water, and fluff your hair before spinning on your red, patent leather heels and pulling open the door.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Madison…” Zoe confesses, nervously. She holds onto Kyle’s arm tightly, guiding him around a booth like an elderly man. He was already entranced by the vibrant lights that swept back and forth in shades of orange and green. It reminded him of his show. Colours….

“Oh, please.” With a roll of her eyes, Madison flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. “This is the best place to put a braindead man… look, they’re everywhere.”

Men cluster around the stage, watching hungrily as women take their clothes off, gyrating their hips close enough to their faces that they could reach out and take bites out of their full asses. The bouncer in the corner makes sure that doesn’t happen, though.

Over the PA, a loud voice says: “Alright! Put your hands together for our resident nerdy girl, our very own reanimated sexpot…”

As though it was on hinges, Kyle’s head swings heavily to face the stage. H

“Look, he’s already fitting in.” Madison nips.

You prance forward, reaching for the pole in the centre of the stage. Men holler your name, the few regulars that came every night you were working. You’d earned yourself a reputation as the nerdy girl because of your penchant for dressing up on the themed nights. Your hips roll to the beat of the song, coming daringly close to the hands that hold dollar bills. When they don’t get the chance to slip them into your outfit, they flutter at your feet, decorating the stage. You undo the tie of your shirt, revealing white bikini with gratuitous blood spatter. You’d done that yourself.

You wrap one leg around the pole, latching onto it. As it spins, you reach behind your back, undoing the tie of your top. Your breasts fall free, nipples hardening in the air conditioning. You hold the bra out proudly, smiling as the hoots and cheers fill the room.

“C’mon,” she starts, taking hold of Kyle’s thick wrist. His skin is always slightly cooler than everyone else’s. She remembers how cold the inside of his mouth was when they first — She blinks away the thoughts, actually disgusted by the idea. After all, she’d never really wanted to fuck a dead guy…

“Hey!” “Watch it, sweetheart!” “Get outta’ the way, you’re blockin’ the view, toots!”

Madison ignores the heckling, and continues to the front, pressing her bony hips against the lip of the stage.

“Hey! Dead bitch!”

Her voice is loud enough that it carries over the music, and you furrow your brow. She wasn’t wrong, but the bitch part seemed unnecessary. Still, you make your way over to the cluster of them, and bend at the waist to hear her.

“Yeah - what?” You ask, still swaying to the song.

“This is our little zombie — ”

“His name is Kyle,” The other girl interrupts pointedly. Madison throws a look towards the other girl, who nods with a fake smile. Truly, she didn’t care what you called him. As long as she didn't have to deal with him, she was happy.

“Kyle — and he needs a babysitter. He’s a little…” she makes a face, stretching her mouth out in a sneer. You knit your brows together again, unsure what that means.

Kyle, you think to yourself. What a frat boy name. In fact, he looks like a frat boy with really really good makeup. Full head of curly blonde hair, dark eyes, strong but soft features… looks like he can absolutely devour a keg.

He’s wearing an open black shirt and jeans, and beneath the black shirt, you can see raised flesh, scars like he was put back together. Funny that you’d chosen to do a dance number to Feed my Frankenstein.

“Do your job and keep him entertained, okay?” She pulls the peeking string of your thong far enough out to freely press a one hundred dollar bill against your hip and lets go. It snaps back against your skin, hard enough to sting. You wince.

Before you have time to protest, the girls are walking back towards the entrance without their little zombie in tow. One of them casts a woeful glance over her shoulder, and you’re left wondering why if she cares so much, why was she still walking away? You fill your lungs with air, exhale and lower yourself down onto your haunches.

“Hey baby,” you coo, wrapping a single blonde curl around your index finger. It’s angel-soft, and bounces back as you let go, straightening up. He seems to melt towards your touch, starved for it. “I like your costume.”

He watches as your ample cleavage sways with the gentle motion of your body. He repeats the word back to you, laboriously. “Cos…tume….”

“That’s right,” you say, running your hands over your thighs as you stand upright. The long heels of the shoes elongate your legs, making you tower over the club’s patrons. “I like it, it’s cute.”

Kyle watches wordlessly as your hands glide over your body, carefully skipping over the stitches at your knees, along your stomach, and finally up to the long stitch around your neck, which to him is holding your head on. Kyle’s eyes blink repeatedly with recognition.

You dip down, reaching for his hand. The crowd woooo’s as you hand him the string of your skirt. He grips it hard before looking at it deeply. You take one step back, flashing a coy expression to the men in the front row. Another step, and the tie begins to slip through the bow, unravelling. Another step and the skirt falls to your feet. A cacophony of approval fills your ears.

You’re in nothing but the blood-spattered bikini bottoms now, and you sink to your knees again, flashing Kyle a bright smile. He blinks, your skirt awkwardly hanging from his hand by the string.

On all fours, you crawl towards him, popping your ass to the beat of the song. Dollar bills shower the stage, and when you slide your knees out to the sides, allowing men a delicious view of your backside, someone tucks another $100 in your bikini.

Kyle is watching you, but his hands drop to his groin where he makes a fist, and rubs it awkwardly over his now-throbbing erection. You immediately notice this, and your eyes widen. That’s a sure fire way to get kicked out, and for whatever reason, you’ve clocked him as too innocent to let that happen. There’s either a) something wrong with him, or b) he’s really committed to acting like a clueless, braindead boy. Both options require action.

“Okay, okay,” you murmur, guiding him to the side of the stage. There’s an empty chair, and with a heel, you push him back into it. Sit. Stay. He does. Good boy.

He never takes his eyes off you though, and every time you’re looking at him, his jaw hangs slack, staring at you with half-lidded eyes. He keeps trying to get up, and you have to slowly shake your head at him, teasingly. He seems to understand that gesture, and stays put.

As you dance, you find yourself watching him, too. Inexplicably drawn to him, for whatever reason. You don’t usually take guys to the back, but $100 is a pretty good tip. Besides, you didn’t want to run into that girl again, and especially not angry.

As your routine comes to an end, Kyle gets up out of his chair, knocking into the edge of the stage. A few guys turn their heads, trying to figure out what this guy’s deal is. You’re too busy picking up your tips, and gathering your clothes to notice. With arms full, you race to the back, throw on a t-shirt and bolt back to the front, praying that Kyle is still where you left him.

He is. He may be trying to climb up on the stage, head craning in the direction of where you exited, but he's still there. You heave a relieved sigh, and saunter up to him, softening your expression.

“Hi, Kyle…” you murmur sweetly. You slip your arm underneath his, linking it with yours and softly pulling him down into a normal standing position again. There’s a small moment of processing and trust before he looks at you and smiles very weakly.

Destinee is next, and while she’s a nice girl, you absolutely loathe her taste in lighting. You enjoy a good rave, sure, but this is like the Electric Daisy Carnival in a much, much smaller space.

You learn very quickly that Kyle doesn’t like it either. At all. In fact, he might dislike it more than you. As soon as the beat is thumping and the bright red and orange lights are washing over the establishment, Kyle wrenches away from you, covering his ears. A low groan starts in his throat, bubbling up through his lips until he’s practically screaming.

“Shhh, shh it’s okay!” You try desperately to console him, but he can’t seem to hear you. Glancing nervously at the guests around you who are starting to take notice of him now, you smile apologetically. “Kyle, it’s okay!”

There’s only one solution - the private dance rooms. They’re quiet, secluded and a perfect spot to store a stressed out zombie boy for a few hours. You looked towards the spiral staircase that led upstairs, and hesitated. You were a dancer who rarely used the private rooms. You had been hard pressed to avoid being alone with any man, especially one that had paid you and felt entitled to whatever he wanted to take. Kyle, however, didn’t seem like the type to… well, do that. Or even articulate that he wanted to do that — did he even understand that you’d been paid to babysit him? Likely not.

You force his hand down as gently as possible, interlacing your fingers with his. “Kyle,” you say. “Kyle, look at me.”

His head moves sluggishly, and his eyes gradually follow. He looks at you with big, black eyes, the surrounding skin darkened and mottled. In the changing lights, he looks so lost, and your heart throbs desperately. Shucking the worries of whispers aside, you lead him through the club towards the wrought iron staircase.

“Hey Lance,” you say. “Private room open?”

“They sure are…” he replies with a large grin, his heavy accent coming through. Lance was one of the bouncers and rotated positions, so you had gotten semi-close with him. He enjoyed your presence and penchant for the strange. “Last door on da’ left.”

With Kyle in tow, you head down the long, red hallway. Each of the doors were painted black, with gold trim. Kyle’s gaze travels from each door, picking up on the various sounds that seeped from behind them.

“Okay…” You say, your voice a touch softer than before as you push open the last door, praying that it’s been cleaned adequately. You cock your head to the side, urging him inside. His concerned eyes swept from you to the door and back to you before he finally decided that it was safe enough for him to enter. “Look, no strobe lights. No loud music. Just you and me.”

“You… and me….” He grumbles. The door clicks shut behind you. His words are painfully slow and slurred, but you can’t help be charmed by the innocence of them. “You…. You’re…. l-like me.”

“That’s right, baby… I’m like you.” In a quiet, joking whisper, you say: “Raaaaauuuuggghhhhhh…. Brains.”

Kyle seems to like this. The tiniest of smiles forms on his mouth. His chest heaves, and without warning, he lunges for you. His strong arms wrap around you in a steely grip that at first terrifies you; your arms are pinned at your sides, locked into place. His tongue slips over your collarbone, wet and cool like he’s just finished eating ice cream. It slips over your neck, along your jawline, and up behind your ear. He’s licking you, devouring you with such pressure that he has to have eaten some of the makeup by this point. You wince as he nips at your ear lobe, his teeth grinding down on the flesh. With some inhuman gurgle, he descends, covering your chest in his saliva.

You were used to men being hungry for you, acting like rabid dogs the second that they caught a glimpse of your plump tits or your juicy ass. It was part of the gig, came with the territory. But not this. This guy was on something. Had to be. Without warning, he yanks your cropped shirt up, and his jaws clamp down on the meat of your exposed breast. You yelp, pushing him off. He looks hurt or confused, or maybe both. Immediately, you scramble, feeling like you’ve just taken candy from a child.

“Hey no.. it’s okay. You can bite me… I like being bit. But not too hard, honey… that hurt.”

He doesn’t understand. Or he doesn’t look like he understands. His brows knit together sadly, while the dark, ink pools he has for eyes glaze over.

“….biiiiiiiiiiiiiite….” He says.

“Softly,” you finished, with your cutest zombie voice. “Biiiiite soft…ly….”

He cranes forward, mouth finding your flesh again. His teeth continue to graze your skin, slightly softer than before though, so maybe he does understand. His tongue lolls out sloppily to taste every inch. He nears the jumbled up mess of liquid latex on your elbow, and you expect him to stop, or skip over it — but he doesn’t. He feels uneven, soft flesh and his front teeth clamp down on it with a guttural sound. He rears his head back far enough for the liquid latex to streeeetch, and snap.

This gorgeous, blonde boy has a chunk of faux flesh hanging from between his teeth. Fake blood dots his pale lips, and he’s looking at you with the most confused expression you’ve ever seen on a man. It’s a grisly sight, really, but it fits the theme of the night. He’s committed to the zombie act, you’ll give him that.

“Hey, hey, take it easy, spit that out…” You reach up, rubbing the fake blood off his bottom lip. flatten your slender fingers on his broad chest, skin smooth like stone except for the deep scars. These are really good prosthetics. You can’t even see the seam. Because there aren’t any…

Like a dog, he drops the wrinkly skin-toned mass from his mouth and frowns. He looks genuinely disappointed, like he expected blood and guts. “B-bad… th-that… didn’t taste….. gooood…” he stammers. "Hun..gry…..”

For a moment, you’re frozen. Your realization clicks into place painfully slowly, slower than his brain seems to move. He’s really too good at the whole zombie act, and a panicked thought writhes its way into your mind, penetrating it the way that a tissue absorbs blood. Just sucks it in, becomes a part of it. No, no way.

Heavily masking the nerves in your voice, you clear your throat and reach for his shoulder. You stroke the smooth roundness of it, raking your nails against his skin. “You want something that tastes good, baby?”

That ‘something good' is your cunt. You’ll let him eat you out so you can think. You assume he’ll eat you out like most men do — boringly — and you can process the realisation that this poor creature in front of you is actually really badly scarred, and possibly, a victim of head trauma, or something. Because there’s no way you’re meeting an actual zombie. Even on Halloween in New Orleans. That’s insane. So, you’re going to let him eat you out while you sort this out in your mind.

That was the plan, anyway.

Except the second you sink into the vinyl chair, he’s on his knees, looking at your pretty cunt with hungry eyes and the visual wipes your brain clean. It was like you put a plate of food in front of a starving man. His mouth opens. You untie both sides of your underwear, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes drop heavily, watching every move.

At first, his tongue juts out, curiously tasting what you’ve put in front of him. It presses between your folds, pauses, before wiggling around. Your eyelids flutter; you were ready to zone out, but Kyle’s inexperience, his curiosity feels so good.

“Good,” he growls, the word vibrating your cunt. His cool breath washes over your core, sending a chill up your spine. He delves deeper, tasting more of you.

His tongue flicks at your clit, flipping the swollen bundle of nerves mercilessly. Your whole body is trembling, and you feel the first of your orgasms rushing towards your centre. Carefully, not wanting to scare him, you grip his angel curls and ride his mouth slightly. Shit. Almost instantly, the throbbing starts and you make a mess of his poor boy’s face, squirting over his lips and chin.

“You like that?” You ask, through uneven pants. The first of the night always feels sooo good.

He nods heavily on your cunt, still lapping up the juices that leak from your slick hole. Your legs start to quiver and a fire burns deep within your cunt. You try to pat his shoulders, wordlessly telling him to stop. His tongue delves in, and he freezes.

“Kyle?” You ask nervously. Unconsciously, you clench around his tongue. He snaps to life, like someone flipped a switch in his brain. His strong arms wrap around the front of your thighs, tightly. Very tightly. He starts to pull you off the chair, lifting you up into his arms. Your ass cheeks are pressed against his chest and the back of your head is on the chair’s cushion now. He’s holding you tightly, upside down, still swallowing mouthfuls of your sopping wet cunt. He can’t seem to hear your desperate, pleading cries to stop.

You blink back tears, your vision throbs. You don’t know if it’s because the blood is very obviously rushing to your head, or because you’re coming again so quickly, but he’s drilling his tongue into your cunt like there’s a cream centre. If there is, he’s found it.

A scream fills your lungs and your body lunges upwards, trying to find leverage — something, anything to hold onto. She clenches again, pulsating around his cold, slippery tongue. Kyle’s practically drinking you with each clench. The overstimulation is crippling, and you can’t help but scream out.

“KYLE! STOP!”

At the shrill sound, he immediately drops you and your body hits the ground with a heavy thud. Your ass aches a little from the fall, but it’s nothing that’s going to ruin the night.

He’s frowning at you, his lips and chin glazed with your cum.

“S-sorry…” he grumbles. “Sorry. Bad.”

“No, no… not bad. Accident. Accident. Kyle?”

You call his name and he’s looking at you with those big, hopeful, dark eyes of his. You can tell — he isn’t sure if you’re going to scold him, or praise him and the uncertainty terrifies him. You get to your knees, crawling towards the sofa. Once you’re up on it, you pat the spot next to you three times.

“Can I see?” You gesture to your own body, tracing the remaining prosthetics with a single finger before pointing to him. He looks down, his bottom lip jutting out. He nods after a few seconds and lumbers over to you, sitting down heavily.

Your fingers dance over his skin. He was literally pieced back together. His head, his arms, his legs, the lower half of his torso… he was sewn back together like Frankenstein. Different parts connected as one. You’re sitting next to an actual zombie.

And then it dawns on you. Those girls. You’d seen them before. You knew their faces. They lived in the massive mansion on Jackson Avenue. They were witches. Witches were a dime a dozen in New Orleans — in fact, it was weirder if you didn’t practice some kind of craft. But zombies… you’d only ever heard stories. You’d never seen one, let alone be eaten out by one.

You stroke Kyle’s broad chest. For being a zombie, he’s surprisingly soft. You’d always imagined them as dried out, crusty creatures, but he only had a few patches of dry skin. In fact, he had more patches where you could see dark blue pooling underneath his skin, where blood had settled after death. He is cold however, and that’s the most jarring part.

You ease him back on the leather sofa, making sure his head goes down softly onto the arm rest.

“It’s okay, Kyle…. I like your body.”

“Costume….” He says. You shake your head.

“Body. Body.”

His hips give the tiniest little buck, and it slips between your ass cheeks. He whimpers, trying to get a visual of what he’s feeling. Gradually, his thrusts increase in pressure, and you adjust for your own pleasure.

When you adjust, forcing his cock to slide in between your cunt instead, he feels the slick warmth, and his feral nature returns, stronger than before. His thrusts pick up, and he seems to realise that you are a living thing, with pulsing blood and a throbbing heartbeat. Something else is throbbing again, too.

You whine and match his thrusts, letting your head loll back.

Kyle has a different idea, and before you can stop him, he has your forearm in his mouth, teeth clamped down on the soft, warm flesh. It only takes a few seconds for you to feel the stinging ache consuming your arm. It hurts… bad. The muscles in your fingers contract, twitching limply. He aggressively shakes his head, and your heart drops. The terror sets in, and you’re suddenly running cold.

“Kyle, no- OW! KYLE!”

He shakes his head again, biting down harder and digging his the ridges of his teeth deeper into your skin. You don’t necessarily feel the flesh tear, somewhere near the top, but you certainly feel the warm flow of blood that drips down your arm, dribbling onto his chest. Your pupils dilate. The blood keeps flowing, and you feel him start to rear his head back. Something pulls back with him. The ache is replaced by a searing burn, and you realise that if he pulls back any further, he’s going to pull off skin. You’re panicking now, and don’t know what else to do but try again. This time though, you roar at him, bringing back your zombie voice. It’s not so cute this time. “Raaaaaaaaauhhhhhh, KYLE. KYLE STOP. STOP!”

You try to rip your arm away from his mouth, while pushing his head. Thankfully, his powerful jaw goes slack and your arm slides out, strings of spit stretching from his lips. Your blood is smeared across his chin and bottom lip, and collects in the corners of his mouth.

With your vision bouncing thanks to Kyle’s furious thrusting, you look at your arm, watching the bright crimson well up in the indentations of the bite mark. Amidst the rest of your makeup, the bite doesn’t look out of place. You hold your arm out further, trying to come up with a story for this one. Maybe the makeup had stained in an absolutely mind-blowing way. And you had a reaction to it, hence the bizarre swelling and scabbing. That sounds good, sounds believable.

“Want… more…” He says, and your stomach drops, praying that he doesn’t mean more flesh. You’re not sure you can handle another one. Mid-thrust, Kyle’s thick, veiny cock angles just right and slips into your cunt. She swallows him easily, still wet from being eaten — a mixture of cum and Kyle’s viscid, slimy saliva. You plant both hands on his chest, letting out a breathy, melodic moan. He feels good enough to make you forget about the bite, and as you begin to ride him, it seems that he forgets too.

You’re taking control, grinding on top of him, using his cock like your own personal toy. It’s hitting every spot you want it to, pressing into your walls with its girth, and you can’t help but whine about it. Pausing to smear your blood across Kyle’s chest with your middle finger, you leave deep, red streaks across pale skin. You shouldn't find that hot, but you do.

Kyle wraps both hands around your waist, pulling you down onto his cock relentlessly, each thrust feeling harder than the last. You lean forward, pressing your tits against his almost bare chest, and allowing him to take control, thrusting his cock up into you. The slightly bent positioning of his cock, head grinding against your spongy insides is enough to make you cum right then. You don’t though, holding back, clenching your pussy as tight as you can.

“You like it, Kyle?” You ask, through shaky pants. “You like that?”

Kyle nods, heavily, his darkened eyes watching the way that your body quivers on top of him, wordlessly marvelling at the way your thigh muscles contract and shake on top of him every time he slips out, and buries himself inside your dripping pussy again. He loves how it feels, even if he can’t articulate it the way he wants to, the sensations are everything he wants. Everything.

He grips you harder, lifting you off his cock and slamming you back down, repeating this violent display of strength over and over again. Your cunt shudders, unable to hold back your orgasm any longer. Kyle feels it first, and the sudden tightness has him growling, snarling and pushing his length into you as deep as he can. Kyle digs his heels into the sofa, lifting his legs. You feel the pressure against your cervix as he bottoms out, and press against his cock, forcing his cock deeper into you, until you feel the ache. You ride out the waves of your own orgasm, feeling his as it comes in thick, sticky ropes.

There’s a gentle knock at the door, and you quickly get to your feet, pulling your shirt over your head. You scramble, trying to find the bikini bottoms and once they’re tied, you throw open the door. It’s Lance, who is looking very concerned. Your legs are pressed tightly together, in fear that Kyle’s load is going to start dripping down your thighs and onto the floor.

“Miss Y/N. The club is closing… are you alright in there?”

Closing? What? It was bareley eleven when you brought him into the room. The seedy, slick realisation that you’d been fucking this zombie for almost four hours made your cheeks blossom with heat. You immediately tuck your bitten arm behind the door, flashing Lance a charming smile.

“Yes! Fine! Just uh, finishing up a dance. Hey - Lance… did two girls ever come back, asking for this blonde guy in here?”

He pauses, thinking. After a few moments, he shakes his head and apologises.

Okay, guess he’s coming home with me, then. “Thank you, Lance. I’ll be down in just a second.”

You shut the door and lean against it, looking at the zombie on the sofa. He’s staring up at the ceiling, a small smile on his face. “Kyle, do you live on Jackson Street? Where do you live?”

He sits up abruptly, turning his head to face you. “Uhm…” He murmurs. “Big…… white.”

“Big white house?” You repeat, making a house shape with your hands. He nods.

“You wanna’ go home?”

After throwing on a pair of dolphin shorts, collecting your duffel bag and giving Lance a generous tip, you have Kyle in tow, fingers laced tightly with his. Jackson Street was maybe a twenty minute walk, something you both could handle.

Despite it going on 3 AM, the streets were still filled with partiers, people in masks, and drinks in their hands. You and Kyle blend in as you walk, heading down the busy roads. Once you arrived at the Mansion, the gates were open, a fine mist spilling into the sprawling yard.

The woman who answers the door is beautiful, graceful and composed. She wears all black, her honey blonde hair cascading graceful over her shoulders.

“Good Evening,” she says.

“Good Evening. Um.. this is going to sound strange, even for Halloween, but, um…” You want to continue. Desperately, but for some reason, you already know the answer. He does belong here. As though she’d said it to you, plain as day, he belonged here, this is where he stayed.

Zoe and Madison must’ve forgotten him.

Your brows furrow, indignantly. How could they?

Cordelia’s plump lips flatten into a knowing smile. You swallow, suddenly feeling uneasy. You scratch at the liquid latex on your neck, fiddling uncomfortably with one of the edges of the prosthetic.

“Well, Kyle… here you go. Go with…?”

“Cordelia.”

“Cordelia. Go with Cordelia, you’re home now.”

Kyle seems somewhat hesitant, but when Cordelia holds out a hand, he obeys and lumbers inside, looking over his shoulder at you one last time.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she says, softly. “Would you like to come inside?”

You consider that for a second. Deep within the wetness of your bones, and the warmth of your blood, you feel like you should. There’s something extremely comforting about this place, but… “No, no thank you. I should be getting home. It’s Halloween. Weird things happen on Halloween.”

She smiles again. “That’s quite a bite you have on your arm… did Kyle do that?”

“Oh, uh… yeah. He got a little excited earlier, I’m a dancer, and uh, y’know. Men.”

“I have something for that.”

You look down at your bite again, it looks nastier than before. You clear your throat, ready to reject and explain that your older sister is a nurse and she’ll help, but instead, and you’re not quite sure how that happened, you’re walking through the doors. Kyle is delighted to see you again, pausing on the grand staircase to look at you.

Cordelia’s hands end up being very, very soft.

t a g l i s t : @kaismanwich / @redwoodghost / @elsamars / @silverzoomies / @kaissweetlamb / @thewolveswithin / @80strashbag / @twinkiemaximoff / @spill-the-t / @stucktothetwo / @evansb1tch / @enchanting-evan / @petersevans / @yesdevineruler / @enchanting-evan / @anonymous0316 / @eventually27 / @violetharmonscupcake/ @my-own-walker / @kai-slut / @evanpetersfansblog / @fuckedbykai / @iluwmycats / @nova-kayne67 / @dewberryobssesed / @the-goblin1 / @dirtyfairy97 / @jellyluvr / @strangerthings420 / @kai-anderson-whore / @piecesofcain / @lilthbunny / @quickandsilvers / @tatelangdonsweater / @ifeeltoofuckingmuch / @howtobesasha / @randodummy / @throwinginmythai / @hyperharlz

Ask to be added to taglist for future fics!!

#AHS Coven #Kyle Spencer #Frankenkyle #Kyle Spencer x reader #Kyle Spencer x you #Kyle Spencer x yn #ahs smut #halloween #zombies #lizzieshalloweenfics #myfics

772 notes · View notes