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shirks-all-responsibilities · 7 months ago

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Saw this on my dash and started reading, and the moment I got to the part with Frankie struggling with the doorknob I was INSTA-TRANSPORTED to a memory of reading this a looooong time back when I first found pedro boy fics, and the JOY I tell you, the JOYYYY in re-discovering this??? This creme de la creme piece about Frankie at his MOST NEEDY AND FERAL, awash with SO much loving established-relationship goodness and softness that I am just a mess after reading it??

I love his progression at the start--the aggression of that car door slam and that fiesty lock fumbling, and then how the second he hears her voice he shifts into much more subdued defeat, that "catch of tearful frustration in his voice," poooor bbbbyyy!!

And then you proceed to write a fkn masterpiece--the 😺👅👑 with such desperation and genuine need for praise and reassurance, in such a loving relationship? WHAT A COMBINATION!!!

"'Baby,' he murmurs, lips dragging against your clit. It’s pitched up and plaintive like he’s begging, but he can’t find the words to fit what he needs." PITCHED UP AND PLAINTIVE????? This detail???

"'Querida.' The epithet leaves him in a whine." - The EPITHET. I am obsessed with this, pondered it. Love it.

AND THENNNNN, THERE IS THISSSS: "His shout is almost as loud as yours, and he muffles his cries against your still-twitching cunt." Total jaw drop. Licherally jaw dropping allllll the way to the floor. Is there a more perfect Needy!Frankie way of describing this moment, what he can't help but do? I think NOTTTTT. Jesus...

And you sprinkle little details throughout that are just enough to convey the scene and sensory info that add so much with so little…like those breaths through his nose "like an agitated bull," his hair "rough with the salt of dried sweat as your work your fingers into it," the description of his signature scent after a hard day?

This is just...perfect. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

not to come yell at you or anything but i saw those frankie tags 👀 and i am in *need*

Lord, that is a whole-ass mood. Needy!Frankie lives rent-free in my brain 24/7. Like this exact scenario has been in my head for w e e k s and I just haven’t had the braincells to get it down. But hey, no time like the present, right? *cracks knuckles*

1.5k of unbeta’d and unedited Needy!Frankie smut, f!receiving oral, with a side of frankie x floor (I kid, mostly).

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As soon as Frankie pulls in the drive, you know something’s wrong. He takes the turn just a little too sharp, engine running too hot and too loud before he kills it. There’s a long beat of silence, long enough that you begin to think that maybe you were just overthinking things. But then there’s the unmistakable sound of the driver side door slamming shut, and your feet are already carrying you towards the front door.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear his keys rattling in the door – and they keep rattling, the doorknob twisting as far as the lock will allow before releasing back. Either he can’t get the key in the lock, or he can’t quite make it catch. The mechanism clicks, straining, and for a second you’re afraid he’ll break the thing out of pure frustration.

“Ease up, Frankie,” you call through the door. “I’m here, baby, I got it.”

The rattling ceases, and you hear the unmistakable thump of Frankie’s head coming to rest against the wood.

“Querida,” he says. “I can’t...I can’t get the fucking door.” It’s muffled through the wood, but there is a catch of tearful frustration in his voice that makes your heart beat a little faster as you undo the locks.

When the door swings open you’ve only got a second to take in the look of him – his eyes strained under the shadow of his crooked ball cap – before he’s pushing against you, crowding you back into the hall. He catches the door with a heel and kicks it shut so hard the windows rattle in their frames.

“Hey, hey,” you try to soothe, pushing his hat off to smooth his hair back. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

He only shakes his head, breathing hard and quick through his nose like an agitated bull. His throat works, fighting to swallow or to speak, you’re not sure. His hands fall heavy against your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans and tugging. “Please, baby,” he mutters in a voice so strained it’s on the verge of breaking. His fingers slide around until his thumb rests on the button of your fly. “I need it. I need you. I–”

You nod, stroking your thumbs over the overgrown stubble on his jaw. This isn’t the first time you’ve been here. Something's gone wrong today. It might be something big, it might be nothing, but whatever it was was enough to shake him down and leave him feeling like he can’t do anything right. He’ll explain it to you later when he can breathe again, when his shoulders aren’t pulled up in one solid knot and his jaw has finally unclenched. He always does. But right now, more than anything else, he needs to prove that he can do something right.

And that’s you.

“I’m right here, Frankie,” you tell him with a willing nod. “You got me.”

Frankie makes a soft, desperate little noise in the back of his throat and carries you wordlessly to the floor, unable or unwilling to wait long enough to get you into bed. His mouth is on yours only for a moment, just long enough for a hard, grateful kiss before he moves down your body. He’s too needy to be gentle, too desperate. You’re sure you hear stitches ripping as he yanks your fly open and drags your jeans and underwear both down to your ankles. They bunch up around your sneakers, but Frankie's normally dexterous hands are too unsteady for that, clumsy with need and agitation, so he just pushes your legs up and ducks under them, settling on the floor between your bared thighs.

When his mouth finds you, you sigh and he groans. The sound resonates through his whole body and into you, buzzing against your thighs and the closed seam of your cunt. His hair is rough with the salt of dried sweat as you work your fingers into it, tipping your hips up as you press his head down. His hands slide up between your thighs, pushing them aside, and it takes a little effort to keep your ankles from knocking into the back of his head as he opens you wider.

On a good day Frankie Morales is one of the most patient men you’ve ever met, in bed or out of it. He’ll coax you open slowly, work you over with his hands and mouth – and always his whole mouth, none of that timid tongue-flicking bullshit – until you’re wet and open and ready for whatever he wants to give you. Even if it’s just more of his graciously worshipful mouth.

But this is not a good day, and in place of that gentle patience there is an almost feral hunger. Frankie parts you with his fingers, opening you up to drag the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit over and over in hard, aggressive strokes.

You keep your fingers moving through his hair, breath turning ragged as he fits his mouth to you, lapping and sucking eagerly at your sex.

“Baby,” he murmurs, lips dragging against your clit. It’s pitched up and plaintive like he’s begging, but he can’t find the words to fit what he needs.

“Yes, Frankie,” you answer, shuddering as his teeth press briefly against your tender flesh. “God yes, baby. You’re always so good.”

And there’s that desperate little sound at the back of his throat again as his broad hands grip the soft flesh of your thighs tight. His shoulders shift under you, your legs rocking up and back, and you look down to find him rutting his hips shamelessly against the floor.

There. That’s what he needs. And that’s easy enough to give, praises flowing out of you steadily as you roll your hips against his voracious mouth. “So good, Frankie,” you breathe. “You’re getting me so wet, baby, I can feel it.”

Instantly his tongue trails down, delving into you with a strength that always takes your breath away. He moans deliriously, the taste of your arousal only serving to whet his appetite further. Two thick fingers curl into you, pressing up and drumming insistently as he devours you like a man possessed.

The praises dissolve on your tongue like sugar, your voice gone tight and ragged as he lights you up, the words harder and harder to focus on. And that’s even better. Your broken gasps leave him lurching, grinding down into the floor and moaning against you. It’s good, it’s so good and he can tell how good it is for you, his shoulders rocking into you faster as you begin to quiver and jerk under the assault.

“Querida.” The epithet leaves him in a whine. “Baby, please. I need you to come.”

“Close,” you rasp out, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and guiding him, holding him still while you rock your clit against the wet, yielding heat of his mouth. “Frankie, baby...f-fuck– ”

The motion of his body falters as you use him, the sound of his belt buckle knocking against the floorboards now a hard, syncopated beat. The pressure of his fingers inside you reaches a fever pitch and you shatter, shouting his name and pounding a fist on the floor as you come, shaking and rocking with the spasm.

And that, blessedly, means you get to watch him come right after, his body rigid, feet digging in for purchase as his hips knock stiltedly against the floor. His shout is almost as loud as yours, and he muffles his cries against your still-twitching cunt. You fall back on your elbow, head swimming, and you can feel the hard line of Frankie’s shoulders finally relax under you.

You unclench the fist in his hair, stroke down to cup the back of his neck. “Come up, baby. C’mere.”

Panting, Frankie nods dumbly, and pushes himself forward on his elbows. He kisses you, gentle once more, his heart still beating hard enough to make his breathing falter.

“Hey. I love you,” you breathe into his mouth.

He knocks his forehead into yours, closing his eyes. “Love you, too, baby.”

And then he curls into you, tucking his head into the side of your neck and pressing himself down. His belt buckle digs into your stomach, and you can feel a broad stripe of wet warmth soaking through the front of his jeans under the slowly softening bulge of his cock.

With a contented hum you wrap your arms around him, holding him tight. He smells of hot sun and dried sweat and the lingering sharpness of engine oil. You cradle the back of his head with one hand, rub slowly up and down his back with the other.

“Bad day?” you ask, kissing the corner of his jaw next to his ear.

He nods, scruff scraping along your shoulder. “Yeah. Bad day,” he agrees. You feel the warm press of his lips against the side of your neck, slow and sweet, before he draws in a long, shuddering breath. He holds it for a beat and then releases it slowly; a bone-deep sigh of utter relief. “Better now.”

#frankie morales x f!reader #thanks softanon #for seeing this on my dash #their dynamicccc #so needy and feral and SOFT #all at once #ficrec #god tier

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wisteriasymphony · 7 months ago

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posting this to the tumblr so y'all see it too. also on ao3 tho

There was something addictive to the way he would hold her.

The way his hand held onto her thigh like he was about to die; Looking into her eyes like she was the only cure. Perhaps she was lucky, she supposed, that the person she’d seen look at her like this was someone like him.

Does he even realize that he’s using her? …If she’s the only one who feels that way, is it even real? He sure seemed genuine about it, with every finger that pulled against her skin, every kiss, every chemical. Hell, he probably was entirely genuine about it, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be something fake about it.. Right?

”You really are beautiful,” he said—he would always say—with that strange look in his eyes. Claudia supposed it was a look of adoration. No, that wasn’t all of it. It was worship. Did she really deserve to be worshipped? Did anything?

“Thanks… I guess.” She planted a kiss on his forehead. He didn’t grip onto her the way she deserved to be: He was clinging to her like she was a precious jewel and not… well, what she was. Someone else needed to be filling his hands. Someone else needed to be the person tearing through her with their fingers. …Because he wasn’t tearing, really. Not even close.

Adrien started to place another constellation of kisses all over Claudia’s stomach, hips, legs… “Do you not believe me?” He asked, resting his chin on the pouch of her abdomen right below her navel. “I really do think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, Claudia. Truly.”

Finally, something she could pick apart.

“I don’t know if I could really call myself a ‘woman’,” Claudia sighed, running a lazy hand through Adrien’s hair. She was only 19, really—20 in less than half a year—and she felt that was a word she still needed to grow into; If she ever grew into it, that is. If it was ever the right word to begin with.

Adrien laughed at himself, the sound short and quiet as it passed his lips. “The most beautiful man, then. Or person, or even the most beautiful thing. That’s not the important part. I’m willing to call you whatever you like, because the sentiment will still be true.”

A light touch from Adrien’s hand suddenly caused all the muscles on her back to tense up; She balled up her fist in Adrien’s hair, perhaps even a little too hard.

“You know,” he added, “There’s a word I think you’d like: ‘grotesque’. You’ve heard of it before, haven’t you?”

Claudia nodded. Grotesque meant a lot of things; In English, it carried connotations of the gross and gory, of slime and of mold and the generally unpleasant or unsightly. In French, it instead meant something ludicrous or strange, sometimes even ridiculous.

“What’s interesting about the word is its etymology. It comes from the Italian ‘grottesca’, or ‘of the cave’, and referred to a very particular style of ancient Roman paintings, specifically a style of ornamentation on frescoes.” Adrien kept his other hand still on the back her thigh, perhaps holding on a little tighter now. “For a while, it meant something much closer to ‘extravagant’ or ‘highly detailed’. And, in my own opinion… you could perhaps say even ‘gorgeous’.”

“Are you saying you think I’m grotesque?” Claudia smiled, before Adrien pulled her in closer again.

“Maybe. I’m just wondering if you would prefer I call you that instead. That way you can always interpret the word in the way you like, and I can interpret it in mine.”

Claudia thought for a minute about it. Surely, in some sense of the word, there was something grotesque about all of this. She was ‘grotesque’ as in unpleasant… he was ‘grotesque’ as in extravagant… And together? ‘Grotesque’ as in strange. It was easier to accept the way he looked at her now, though, for some odd reason; Now that it conjured the image of him worshipping a statue of Medusa rather than one of a goddess. Even if it was wrong, she liked the idea that he adored her as a monster than as an idol. That, in her eyes, felt actually genuine. Maybe it was the idea that she inspired a little fear in him, too, that sold it.

claudrien nation tags (like 4 of you have already read it but idc you get it again as a gift for me mwah): @wuhuislandconspiracy @dayochoco @mxacegrey @joshua-the-phoeinx @everything163 @myriadmi @cutepastelstarsalior @xxcresentmoonxx @nocturnal-notes @pyrusinc @moondancer35 @bluesoulblueheart @foxgloveciara

#their dynamic. THEIR DYNAMICCCC #their love *is* grotesque. it is disgusting. it is filthy and putrid and rotting and that makes it so so so so good.#Claudrien nation #claudrien #thewarmembraceofshadow #miraculous fanfic #fic writing #ficlet #writing stuff #writeblr #writers on tumblr #creative writing #canon x oc #oc x canon

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