Queen Of The Night

queen of the night

frost on the windows, flowers in the bed - part one

Epiphyllum oxypetalum (queen of the night) blooms nocturnally, and its flowers wilt before dawn.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI wc: 7k summary: a stranger far away from home brings you unexpected comfort as you maneuver your new life. tags: smut, angst, descriptions of feeling lonely in a new place, emotional unavailability, a few vague mentions of PTSD, french and spanish, public make out, fucking in a bar bathroom bc it’s NYE, mirror sex as a little treat, calling frankie by his full name bc I want to, oral (f and m!receiving), protected PIV a/n: happy new year! thank you all for supporting me so much the last couple months, and reading all of your fics and chatting with everyone here was one of the brightest spots of my year. I hope you all enjoy a little bit of angsty, smutty NYE frankie 🤍 thank you, @chloeangelic ilysm and to my bestie @adamantiumspy for help with the spanish ily forever | divider by @saradika-graphics

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This wasn’t quite how you imagined it. Taking a job so far from home had been an easy decision; too easy maybe. As soon as you saw the job posting, saw how perfectly it seemed to fit everything you had been looking for, you’d made up your mind in minutes. You could teach anywhere. The whole world needed teachers.

Besides, you had needed to get out. Your hometown was too steeped in memories, like trying to fit into a sweatshirt that you wore when you were a child. You couldn’t drive to the grocery store without being reminded of the countless other times you had driven the same route, wandered the same aisles, whether it was when you were sixteen or six months ago. The road past your mom’s work, the faded street sign at the corner of Cherry and Sycamore, the same diner that you used to drink milkshakes at with your best friend in sixth grade, the Walmart that’s been there since before you were born, all of it is tainted with something. Good memories, bad memories, or sometimes just a general feeling of nostalgia, and not usually the good kind; rather, the kind of nostalgia that settles deep in your body and turns you into little more than a fixture of the town – just as grey and low as the streets that get re-paved every summer.

Then there was him. You’d been together a few years, having met via a mutual friend. He’d gone to your college, the same college you both grew up a 5-minute drive away from. It was easy to like him, easy to laugh at the goofy things he would say and get lost in his smile. You hadn’t really gotten into anything serious before him, just casual hook ups and never-ending talking phases, but with him, it was real. It kept being real, being something good and comfortable and easy, until it wasn’t.

As much as you had changed, grown, shifted into something independent and smart and strong over the course of your early twenties, he had not. He was still just a kid in many ways, he just now had the body of a 25-year-old. As the days started feeling more and more grey, you knew something had to change.

He resents you, and you know that. You’ve made your peace with it. You left him one night in a fit of choked sobs and shaking limbs, knowing that what you were doing was the right thing even when it felt like the entire world was crashing down around you. You looked around at the apartment you shared, at the stacks of books on the floor, the art on the walls, the couch you picked out together at IKEA, and you said I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to come with me.

Now, here you are. A stranger in a strange world, an anonymous face on the street in a city twice the size and not even half as familiar as the one you’d known all your life. Maybe you had gone too far. You studied abroad in college, one of the things that changed you, but that was different. Group bus rides, distributed tickets, class on the steps of the Louvre, professors that handled the details. Now, there was no one else to handle the details. Only you.

It isn’t like you to get homesick, always grateful for any time away that you have ever gotten, but there’s something about this place, as beautiful as it undeniably is. It’s the anonymity, the impartiality, the feeling that if you drop dead in your tiny apartment on the Rue des Fraises, no one will ever know that you’re missing from the cobblestone streets. It almost makes you miss that stupid little diner and their strawberry marshmallow milkshakes. Almost makes you miss him. Almost.

You still have a couple weeks until your job starts in the new year, relying solely now on what little savings you have to carry you until the first paycheck. With one teacher leaving part-way through the year, they needed someone to fill out the semester before you can start on your own classes next fall. You’re not even entirely sure how you’re going to get that first paycheck, since the method for getting a bank account had so far evaded you. It was weird not to have anyone to ask, to not be able to call your mom and say, “how do I do this? Which account do I pick? Does it matter that I don’t have any credit over here?” You can certainly ask her those questions, but this time she doesn’t have the answers.

The air is cold, but not cold enough to snow, the temperatures teetering on the edge of freezing. You wish it would snow, maybe that would make you happier. You always did love the winter, loved going out and standing in the driveway on the night of the first big snowstorm, listening to the absolute silence that only a freshly fallen blanket of snow creates. Maybe some snow would make this place start to feel like a home.

You turn the key in the lock, burying your nose in your scarf, the big door covered in chipped blue paint swinging open into the foyer of your apartment building. You climb the stairs, and relish in the familiarity of at least this. These stairs, the way they curve upwards and the way you always take the outside as to not have to balance on the tiny marble wedges that nearly meet around the bend. You know that when you step inside your barely furnished apartment, you will be somewhere almost normal.

When you finally collapse into bed, shivering under the duvet and staring at the blank walls of your bedroom, your brain is too tired to fight with you. It’s been another day of elbowing your way through the language, of looking up vocabulary words on your phone as you stand in line at the boulangerie, of working up the courage to say avez-vous instead of qu’est-ce que vous avez like you had learned first, of trying to recall all of the French numbers as the man at the supermarché tells you your total in a quick and low voice. You can rehearse your own lines all you want, but you can’t rehearse what they’ll say back to you. You have a minor in French, should surely be able to handle this, but it turns out that an hour of class three days a week for four years is no match for living on your own in the country where everyone is born speaking it.

Christmas had come and gone. Without enough savings to fly back home, you’d spent part of the holiday on a video call to your parents and sister, watching as your family talked and laughed together on the other side of the world. It became too much too quickly, so you lied and said that you lost internet to justify hanging up the call. You let your head fall into your hands, phone screen going dark, and you thought that nothing had ever felt lonelier than that.

You got through it, half a bottle of wine and two watches of The Holiday later, your head throbbing from the alcohol and from the tears. Honestly now you were just glad it was over. Hopefully next year it won’t be like this again.

Now it was December 31st. New Year’s Eve. You had never really been one to go out and celebrate, spending most of your New Year’s Eves laying on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. Your now ex-boyfriend would stay up with you usually, placing a soft peck to your lips at midnight. Sometimes your dad would stay up and watch the ball drop, but usually he’d end up snoring in his chair well before the countdown. Spending New Year’s alone was much easier, and after the week you’d had, hell, after the year you had, it felt like nothing.

Still, as you stand at your window and hear the whooping and hollering emanating from the brightly lit streets, you can’t help but feel left out. Like someone forgot to send you an invitation but you accidently happen across the party anyway, watching your friends laugh and dance without you through the window. Maybe it was just residual loneliness from Christmas spent by yourself, or maybe it was the heavy weight of constantly feeling like you don’t belong here, but as you pour a glass of wine for yourself to the tune of crackling fireworks outside, you think this might be your new low.

Qui embrassez-vous à minuit? No one, probably. Though you kind of like to picture it. Who are you kissing at midnight now? Now that you’ve left everything and everyone behind? Is this what you wanted? Is this better? It hadn’t been that long since you’d been with your ex; your body still remembers the way he felt, the feeling of his skin on yours, the way he touched you. It hadn’t been a long time since you’d been held, kissed, fucked, but it had been a long time since you’d enjoyed it. At night, when you let yourself fall into that dark pit of longing, you distinctly feel the empty space around your body, devoid of someone else’s presence. The absence like a ghost, the ghost of someone you haven’t met lies beside you just out of reach.

You peer out the window, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of your wine glass, and take another sip as your gaze wanders to the bar on the far corner of your street. A group of three friends sit at a table outside and laugh, and the woman of the group gets particularly animated as she talks, accidently knocking her cider glass off the table with her waving hand, and you can hear the glass shatter from where you stand at the window. The three go silent, before erupting into another fit of laughter. You chuckle along with them, watching as she gets up from the table and disappears inside the bar, presumably telling someone about the spill. Your gaze shifts to a couple tucked in the corner under the awning, both leaning against the stone wall, lost to each other. They stand impossibly close, her hand holding a half-empty wine glass against his back. His forearm rests on her shoulder, his glass of beer just behind her head. You watch as she tilts her head to the side, resting her temple on his arm. As he leans in to kiss her, you look away.

You know what? Fuck this.

You set your glass down on the side table by the couch and disappear into your bedroom, filtering through the few outfit choices you have before settling on something vaguely more presentable than your sweats and t-shirt. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, grab your coat, and disappear into the night.

--

The bar is loud, too loud, the warm humid air around Frankie filling with a cacophony of French conversation, none of which he can quite understand. He can pick up pieces, bits that are close enough to Spanish to make some sense to him, but after a drink or two he lets it all fade into white noise. Still, the music and the talking and the light is beginning to get to him. He never used to get overstimulated, being able to handle seemingly infinite inputs all at one time, juggling them all without a problem. That was part of the job, focusing under intense pressure, a million things happening at once and being required to function at the highest level anyway. Now though, things become too much a lot of the time. He hears something shatter against the cobblestone outside and jumps, his fingers instinctively tightening around his sweating pint glass. He turns his head to the door, sees a woman head for the counter next to where he sits. She says something about mon verre and un accident before the bartender disappears into the back room and comes back out with a broom and dustpan. Frankie watches it all with random fascination, the way that it is sometimes so easy to dissolve your attention into someone else’s life for a few minutes, forgetting your own and morphing into nothing but a fly on the wall.

What the hell was he doing here? In one of those random bursts of awareness, he remembers leaning against the check-in desk at the airport, the words when’s the next international flight? tumbling from his lips before he can even really think them through. Valerie hadn’t taken him back. He turned up at her doorstep, their doorstep, after disappearing for two weeks into the jungle with absolutely nothing to show for it but several more notches on his gun and several more regrets. He had fallen into his old role so easily, in the way that you slip on a worn pair of sneakers, all of his quiet reservations staying tamped down by his sense of duty to his friends. They were brothers. They’d been through hell together so many other times already, what was one more time? The money was a nice motivator, not that it mattered in the end.

His eyes focus and unfocus on the dripping condensation as it glitters down his glass in the warm light of the bar. Every crack of fireworks makes him want to jump out of his skin. It’s not until he hears something unexpected, French that doesn’t fit, French with a halting cadence that doesn’t quite flow like the sea of lyrical words that have been cascading around him all night, that awareness crowds his senses again. His eyes snap up to meet the sound just as you slide onto an empty barstool across the corner of the bar. His breath catches in his throat as he watches your lips form around your words, watches the way your eyes catch the light.

--

“Je voudrais un whisky-coca, s’il vous plaît,” you say to the bartender as you slide into the seat. He nods once before turning to take a bottle of Four Roses off the clear shelf behind the bar, and you think to yourself how strange it is to be drinking a whiskey that’s distilled so close to home in a place that feels so far away.

You run your hand over your forehead, your elbow coming to meet the sticky table. It’s gotta be almost eleven now. You look around, taking in your surroundings as you wait on your drink. That’s when you see him. He’s looking at you already, and he quickly shifts his gaze when you meet his eyes. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a navy-blue Standard Oil cap, wild curls spilling out around the edges. He’s broad and big, his hand making the pint glass look comically small. Salt and pepper scruff accents his jaw, and you drag your eyes down his nose and to the little cleft in his bottom lip. God.

You thank the bartender in a haze with a quick merci when he sets your drink down in front of you on a flimsy paper coaster. He responds with “you’re welcome,” in accented English, and you sigh. That always seems to happen.

“Are you American?” someone asks you, and you lift your eyes to see that the voice belongs to him. It’s low, raspy, and it fits him perfectly. His unaccented English surprises you. He sounds American too.

“Is it that obvious?” you sigh, chuckling lightly as you bring your drink to your lips.

“Less obvious than me,” he smiles, taking a sip of his beer.

“Mmm,” you hum, eyeing his hat again. “Not a lot of Standard Oil hats around here, I’ve noticed.”

He laughs at that, his eyes glimmering in the low light. You could drink him in forever, and you try to take in as many of his features as you can without being too obvious about it.

“So, what brings you here then, American?” he asks, scooting his barstool a little closer to you, to hear you better over the music and the white noise of the bar. You still talk across the corner of the sticky wooden surface.

“I moved here for work,” you explain, tracing the rim of your glass with your fingertips. He watches them for a second, before ticking his eyes back to your face.

“Wow, that’s a big move,” he marvels, already thinking that in some ways you’re a lot braver than he would be.

“Feels kinda like it right now,” you admit. “What about you?”

“Just here on vacation,” he says, and it isn’t untrue.

“Alone?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” You try to search his eyes, and you think you see something like loneliness, like pain, behind the little pools of dark honey, something that almost seems to mirror your own. There’s more there, though. Definitely more. “Why France?”

“To be honest, I just asked the lady at the check-in counter what the next flight out was,” he sighs, taking another drink.

“Wow,” you huff a laugh out of your nose. “That’s quite a ballsy move.”

“Yeah, well,” he chuckles. “Not as glamorous as it may seem, as you can clearly tell.” He laughs as he gestures at the empty space around him, signaling that he might be feeling as isolated as you are. “Frankie,” he offers, extending his glass to clink against your own. You smile at that. It’s so cute, boyish almost. It’s an interesting contrast to the deep lines that cut into the skin beneath his eyes. You change the subject before he can ask for yours.

You keep talking, falling into easy conversation. You learn that he’s an ex-pilot, he learns that you’re a teacher. You learn that his best friend’s name is Santiago, he learns that your sister is a lawyer. It’s easy to talk to him, and it’s hard to overstate the comfortable ease that you feel at getting to speak your native language, for once in the last few weeks not having to worry about trying to find the words. You talk for what feels like forever, though it’s really only an hour or so. You talk about random things, trying to keep too much of your life story from spilling out on the table. He seems to do the same.

As midnight approaches, you wonder what it might be like to kiss him when the ball drops. Of course, the ball is miles away in a city you don’t know, hours behind you, but talking to this man who knows your language, who is so easy to talk to, brings home a little closer anyway. After all, what is there to lose? Wouldn’t it be nice just to feel the touch of someone else? Feel the warmth of another person, someone’s lips on your lonely skin?

There’s cheering as the bartender holds up ten fingers, announcing that the new year is only seconds away.

Dix!

Neuf!

You look at Frankie, and his eyes dart around the room at the sea of cheering strangers. You’re only looking at him – his curls, wild and splayed around his ears under his hat, his wide brown eyes, the cleft in his bottom lip as he parts his lips ever so slightly, tiny hint of his pink tongue ghosting the backs of his lips.

Huit!

You take another sip of your drink, letting the warm, sugary taste coat your tongue. He might be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.

Sept!

He looks at you then, meeting your eyes. You search his face, for what you’re not sure, but he doesn’t break your gaze as he brings his glass to his lips.

Six!

You’re lost in his gaze, suddenly feeling nervous under it. He offers you a soft smile, just a little tick of the corner of his mouth, and you return it. The moment seems to last forever, the chaos around you fading into nondescript noise. It feels strange, to have never known this man before tonight. Something about him makes him feel familiar, like you’ve known him before, in another life perhaps. The soft honeyed tones of his eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly as he looks at you…you’re intoxicated by him. More than any swig of Four Roses.

Deux!

Your attention snaps back, and you look around one last time before the clock ticks over.

Un! Bonne année!

The bar erupts into cheers, and before you can think about it you stand on the bottom bar of the stool, lean over the corner of the counter, and press your lips to his. His hand finds the back of your head instantly, his other grabbing at your arm. The brim of his hat hits your head and starts to fall back off his curls, and you quickly grab for it as you chuckle into his mouth. He smiles against your lips and takes the hat from you, placing it on the counter hurriedly before his hand is back on you. All the while he barely takes his lips away, seemingly unable to stop kissing you already. He tastes like beer, like freedom, like finding yourself. Your loneliness dissolves against his skin. With a swipe of his tongue, he drinks in your solitude and swallows it whole. For a moment, this moment, you have it all. On your lips he finds the same – a time to be someone else, a chance to forget.

As you lick into each other’s mouths, you hear a whoop from somewhere behind you, and heat floods your cheeks at the thought of the people around you starting to notice. You’re practically kneeling on the seat now, one hand bracing yourself on the counter and the other splayed over the delicate place where his neck meets his shoulder, fingertips curling at his nape. You pull away reluctantly, placing a soft kiss over his lips. When he looks at you with doe-eyes and plump, parted lips, you smile. “Bathroom,” you murmur, dragging your fingers over the scruff on his jaw. His lips tick up into a smirk, and you climb down from the chair as you take his hand in yours. He quickly grabs his hat, arranging it loosely over his curls. A couple people eye the two of you over the rims of their glasses as you guide him back towards the back of the bar. You hurriedly try the bathroom door, but it’s locked. The thrumming of your heart in your chest and the fluttering heat in your belly is making you feel dizzy, and so is the way his large hand envelops yours. You swear under your breath when the handle doesn’t turn.

“Eager, are we?” he smirks as he catches up with you, yanking your arm gently to bring you to his chest.

“Shut up,” you retort, but the words die in your mouth as he pushes on your hip until your back meets the wall. He crowds you against it, his broad frame encompassing yours easily. He chuckles.

“Is that any way to talk to a kind stranger, cariño?” he smirks into your neck, trailing kisses up to your jaw before grazing his teeth over the skin there. You let out a soft groan, before tilting your head to see that a few people are peering down the short dark hallway at the two of you. They look away and start chatting to each other again when you meet their gaze.

“Don’t look at them,” he coos, bringing his index finger to the side of your face to push on your cheek. “Look at me.”

You can’t stop touching him, smoothing your palms over his chest and his sides and his back, reveling in the way his body is so firm but so soft, strong but still gentle. You feel enraptured by him; your body has been starving for this for so long. He slides his hands up your sides, ghosting the soft swell of your breasts over his thumbs, but not crossing the line just yet. You lean into the crook of his neck, taking your turn tasting the skin there. “Is Frankie short for something?” you murmur into him, ghosting your lips over the little bare patch in his beard.

“Francisco,” he breathes, wrapping an arm around the expanse of your back, pulling you off the wall and into his chest.

“Mmm,” you hum. “I like that.”

“I’ll like it more when it’s the only thing you can say,” he chuckles as he smooths a palm over your cheek and behind your head, pulling you back and off of his neck before he plunges his lips back into yours. Your breath hitches at his words, at the possessiveness of his movements.

“That’s big talk, Francisco,” you tease, but you can tell by the way he kisses you that he’s undeniably right. He’s tasting behind your teeth when you hear the door unlock from behind him, and you push him to the side a little as a man exits the bathroom, eyeing the two of you quickly before walking back into the crowd, undeniably sussing out the entire situation. You both look drunk on each other, lips swollen and shining as your limbs stay entangled. You take Frankie’s hand in yours again and pull him into the room. He kicks the door closed behind him, latching his mouth to your neck as soon as he turns the lock on the doorknob.

The anonymity brings you comfort, solace, because it doesn’t matter how fucked up you are, how sad you are, how desperate you are. None of it matters as this gorgeous stranger crowds you against the porcelain sink, the edges digging into your hips. You almost wish you didn’t even know his name, because knowing it makes him more real, locking him in your memory forever. Frankie, Francisco. You’re a little glad you know it, if only so you can moan it into the sticky air of the night, just like he said you would. It’s cold out there in the dead of winter, so cold, and yet your body is coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Look at you, cariño,” he marvels as he tilts your head up so you can meet your own eyes in the mirror. You can’t though, you can’t yank your eyes away from him, from his reflection. The way his broad frame presses against your back, his wild curls, his dark eyes clouded over with lust, his big hands splaying across your belly as he presses opened-mouth kiss after open-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin behind your ear. “Can I touch you?” he asks, licking the question into the shell of your ear, palms smoothing over your hips and down your thighs.

“Please, Francisco,” you moan, leaning your head back against his shoulder. His hands quickly find your breasts over your shirt, palming them in his hands as he groans into your ear. He handles them greedily, seemingly trying to get them both in one of his hands as his other finds the button on your jeans. He undoes it quickly with the flick of his wrist, pulling down the zipper hurriedly. He hooks his fingers over the waistband, pulling your jeans and underwear down in one fluid motion. His warm palm presses into the small of your back, bending you over the cool porcelain.

“Mierda,” he swears, kneading the flesh of your ass between his fingers. “Knew you’d be fucking perfect.”

He drops to his knees, disappearing from the mirror, dragging his hands down your legs before using them to spread you open. He takes off his hat, folding it into the back pocket of his pants. Pressing kisses into the crease of your thigh in a mess of tongue and teeth, he groans into your flesh. He wastes no time, latching his mouth over your cunt, licking your folds into his mouth. A ragged groan claws its way out of your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this, an eternity since it felt this good. He licks into you expertly, sucking and nibbling until you’re a writhing mess against the sink, your hand folded over the faucet to pad your forehead as you let it drop. His nose teases the skin around your asshole, and with every swipe of his tongue, every greedy kiss, you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. You’re panting his name into the bowl of the sink, just like that smug fucker said you would be.

You can still hear the faint roar of French from the bar, but in this room the only sounds are the lewd smacking of Frankie’s mouth and your choked breaths in response. He pulls you apart easily, your orgasm wracking through you in waves of electricity, and that lonely girl on the Rue des Fraises feels so, so far away. He moans into your cunt as you let go, licking all of you into his mouth and not letting any of your desire go to waste. He loves this, you realize. He loves this a lot. When he pulls off of you and begins to stand, he licks a broad stripe up the length of your cunt before spreading his tongue over your asshole, and you jolt forward at the sensation. He chuckles darkly as he stands.

You twist around to face him, kicking your jeans off the rest of the way in the process. Normally you would care about your clothes being in a heap on this nasty floor, but right now you couldn’t give less of a fuck. When you slot your lips into his, you taste yourself on his tongue and your moans tangle into one another through desperate sloppy kisses. You fumble with his belt, but he doesn’t help you, just smirks as his tongue finds your teeth. Soon, you get his pants undone, and when you slide your palm against his pelvis and under the waistband of his pants, you moan into him when you feel what waits for you there.

“What’d I tell ya, huh?” he chides, placing his warm palm over the back of your hand to guide your movements as you both free him from his pants.

“Got quite the ego on ya, don’t you, Francisco?” You roll your eyes, but you’re not fooling anyone.

“You can see why though, can’t you?” he murmurs with a smirk, bringing your hand to wrap around his length, swearing under his breath. He pumps over it with you, still guiding your hand.

You hum and click your tongue. “Size isn’t everything, you know,” you say as you pump him a little faster. He lets his hand go from yours, bringing it to push the hair out of your face.

“No,” he smirks, trailing his palm down the side of your face, down your neck, until it rests on your shoulder. “It isn’t.” At that, he pushes you down, your knees buckling beneath you until they hit the floor. Face-to-face with his cock, you look up at him through fluttering lashes.

“Get it wet for me, baby, and I’ll show you what it can do.”

He doesn’t have to fucking tell you twice. You lift him up in your hand and bring your mouth to the base, licking a broad stripe up the length of him. He swears in tumbling Spanish as you circle your tongue around the tip, dipping your tongue in the slit and reveling in the salty precum that you find there. When you slide him past your lips and over your tongue, his hand finds your hair as he lets his head fall back with a ragged groan. You briefly remember where you are, that there is undoubtedly someone waiting on the only available bathroom, but the way he lies heavily on your tongue and crowds your mouth makes you quickly forget again.

“Fuck, cariño,” he swears as he lolls his head forward, his eyes coming to meet the reflection of the two of you in the mirror. You bury your nose in his coarse hair, eyes watering at the effort it takes not to gag around his length. “Perfect fucking mouth, mierda.”

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, smiling up at him as you hook your finger over the hem of his boxers, dragging them down a little so you can lick and kiss at the crease between his thigh and his groin, continuing to glide over the length of him in your other hand, your fist a mess of spit and precum. He lets out a choked groan at the feeling of your lips and tongue on his skin there, not remembering the last time someone kissed that spot. You lick another stripe up his length before plunging him back into your mouth, relishing in the sounds he lets fly into the muggy air. His grip tightens on your hair as he begins fucking into your mouth, and you dig your fingernails into your palm to keep from gagging around him. He drags in and out against your tongue with tumbling words of so perfect—fuck—mierda, cariño, how did I get so lucky tonight? He pulls you off of him and tugs you to your feet, not giving you time to process the loss of him before he’s licking into your mouth again, tasting himself this time on your lips.

There are three heavy raps on the door and you both jump at the sound. You’re too lust-drunk to translate the French, but you’re sure they’re yelling at you about taking too long. “Don’t have much time, baby,” he says, turning you in his arms to press you back against the sink.

“I don’t give a fuck about them,” you rasp, reaching behind you to tangle your fingers in his curls. “Let them pee outside for all I care.”

You watch him in the mirror as he chuckles, reaching into the back pocket of his pants for his wallet. He pulls a condom out from among the euros, tearing the package open with his teeth before slipping his wallet back where it came from.

“Don’t wanna get between you and a fat cock,” he chides as he spits the edge of the packaging onto the floor. He reaches between your bodies to slide the condom over his length, tossing the rest of the empty package to the floor. You roll your eyes dramatically.

“Don’t wanna fuck a litterer,” you say, eyeing the condom wrapper.

“Yeah, yeah.” He slides the tip between your folds, his hand firmly wrapped around your hip. “Just shut up and let me fuck you.” His eyes are dark, wrecked, but there’s a playful glint behind the blown-out lust.

“Now who’s eager?”

He shuts you up with the searing sting of the head breaching your entrance, his knees bending to push up into the soft heat of your body. You groan, catching yourself on the sink in front of you. He wraps his arms around your torso, his palm splaying out over the skin beneath your breast. With nibbles onto your jaw, his tongue on your skin, he pushes the rest of his way in, and your cunt flutters and drools around his impossible size. The sting is overwhelming, and you hurriedly reach around to grab his hip with shaking fingers, stilling him inside you before he has the chance to move.

“What was that about my ego?” he murmurs, kneading the flesh of your breast and your tummy in his palms over your shirt. He reaches under the collar, pulling your chest free and exposing you to his hungry gaze in the mirror. He bunches the rest of your shirt up under your breasts, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your stomach.

“Shut up, Francisco,” you hiss, breaths coming in short pants as you try and adjust to him, but it feels like he takes up your entire body. He just chuckles as he continues to knead your flesh, pulling and pushing and pinching it between his perfect fingers. When your breath evens out, he drags himself out of your wet heat, and the groan that escapes your mouth is loud. Too loud. He claps a hand over your mouth, pulling your body to his chest and your head to his shoulder.

“Shhh, cariño, those sounds are only for me, huh?” He punctuates his words with the long push of his cock back into your body, and you mewl around his fingers. His other arm still encompasses you, holding you impossibly close. You can still smell the alcohol on his breath, smell the cologne he likely put on before he came. It’s so much, the all-encompassing feeling of this man around you. He presses your hips into the sink with his own, fucking up into you now and picking up speed. All you can do is whine and take it, every drag of his cock pushing against the top wall of your cunt before it kisses your cervix, rubbing against that rough spot that makes your eyes roll back in your skull with every stroke. You chant his name again and again, the only words you remember, just like he promised. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, surrendering to a stranger in this sticky bathroom. It’s not the time for a relationship, not now, not after so much; however, as he drags his heavy cock through your folds and into the deepest parts of your body again and again, you don’t want to ever imagine a time where you don’t feel him inside of you.

“Look how incredibly beautiful you are, baby,” he coos, turning your head so you see yourself in the mirror. Instead, you look at the way he’s holding your head by your mouth, the corded muscle of his forearm braced against your stomach, the sweaty ringlet curls drooped in front of his forehead. He drops a hand down to rub tight circles around your clit, and it’s not two swipes of his fingers before you’re coming undone in his arms. He fucks you through it, licking lyrical Spanish into the skin of your neck, holding your head to the side with his hand over your mouth. When your body stops convulsing, he pushes you down with murmurs of mierda, mierda, fuck, until your hand meets the faucet, leaning your head against it just in time for him to slam into you again and again, the porcelain threatening to push bruises into your skin. With a few more thrusts he’s there, folding his body over yours and burying his head between your shoulder blades as his muscles jerk, spurting hot ropes of cum into your body through the condom. You stupidly wish you could feel it, feel it spill into you, watch it ooze out of you. Another time, maybe, though probably not.

You crane your neck back to kiss him, and he smiles into your lips. “Feliz año, baby.”

“Bonne année, Frankie.”

Maybe it was all worth it, he thinks as he pulls himself out of you, gripping the edge of the condom at his base to keep it from sliding off too soon. Maybe the withdrawals, the Delta Force, the jungle, the murder, was all worth it if those things led to him taking you apart in this bathroom. You don’t know any of that about him, not really, only knowing that he was once a pilot and some other random plot points of his life that he’d offered you. In this dark and hazy bathroom, he doesn’t have to be that man. He doesn’t have to be the man that dug stacks of cash out of Lorea’s walls, the man that watched his friend die on that mountainside. He doesn’t have to be Catfish; he can just be Frankie. Francisco, he thinks, after hearing how perfect his full name sounded when it tumbled out of your mouth again and again.

This can’t happen again, you think as you steady yourself on the counter. If you let him into your life, you’ll never let him go. You can’t jump into something now, you can’t. It’s not the right time. You’ve been alone all of a few weeks, no…no, not yet, not yet.

“Let’s get you dressed, huh? We’ve kept those poor fuckers waiting long enough.” He chuckles as he drops the condom in the trash can, making a point to wave the condom wrapper at you before dropping it in too. He zips himself back into his pants before grabbing your jeans off the floor. He smooths your underwear up over your legs before helping you into your pants, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance.

You let him lead you out of the bathroom, too satiated and happy to give a shit about what everyone on the other side of the door thinks. There are a few people standing there, angry looks on their faces, and one of them spits something at you as you pass. You give them a soft smile, one that says you can’t fucking touch me.

He lets go of your hand as he brings you to the bar, and you take a long look at him – the flush of his cheeks, the wildness of his hair before he tamps the hat back down over top of the curls, the plumpness of his lips. You sear it into your memory…because that’s all it can be.

He turns to look at the bartender, readying himself to get his attention. Your name. Fuck. He doesn’t know your name. Mierda, he’s an asshole. He whips around to face you, saying, “Shit, cariño, I didn’t get your—” but when he turns to look at you, you’re gone.

wet nights | joel miller

pairing/AU: bfd!joel miller x female!reader – no outbreak

summary: getting beer spilled down your dress at your best friend sarah’s birthday party might not have been so bad– not when her dad can help you clean up.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so mdni! reader is 25 and joel is 47, reader is described as wearing a dress, swearing, use of pet names, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, exhibitionism, praise with a dash of degradation kink, one small touch of your clit, soft dom!joel, use of sir, cum play, no use of y/n

a/n: mom said it was my turn to write bfd!joel lol. basically this is just me wanting to write joel getting his cock and balls sucked bc it's what he deserves 😌 as always thank you to @dustydaddyyy for reading through this for me! and happy reading <3

main masterlist / ao3

Nodding your head to the beat of the music you gulped down a cooling sip of beer. The bar was stuffed to the brim tonight for Sarah’s birthday. Every chair and booth occupied, large groups huddled together against the walls, and a growing crowd of brave, seemingly deep enough down their drinks, dancers moved across the makeshift dance floor. Leaning against the bar right at the end, you were shielded from the continuous line of people looking for a drink to sate their thirst on this hot summer night.

You’d missed Sarah since graduation. She’d moved back to Austin to be closer to her father – a man you had still to meet even after all these years of knowing Sarah. You’d met in undergrad where you’d had a couple of overlapping classes the first year. She’d been one of those people where you’d just clicked, like a hand in a glove, you two just fit together.

Now you had moved to Austin. It wasn’t exactly planned, but you’d applied to a postgraduate program at the University of Texas, not necessarily thinking you’d get in– but then you had. Sarah had been ecstatic when you’d told her. You hadn’t seen her in person in over a year, but you couldn’t wait to live in the same city as your best friend again.

But first, her 25th birthday party.

Tonight would be your first night out as a new Austinite. Sarah had invited all her closest friends and family to her favorite bar to celebrate. You’d dreaded it a little, you weren’t gonna lie. That nagging anxiety had bubbled under your skin all week at the prospect of being the only one at the party who didn’t know anyone already. Sarah had told you not to worry though when you’d voiced your concern to her a few days ago – she’d introduce you to everyone – nothing to worry about, and she’d been right.

All Sarah’s friends had been extremely friendly and nice, and you’d been taken under their wing immediately. Quickly, your anxiety had melted away, condensing into nothing as you’d started to have a good time.

It was deep into the summer, and Austin had shown itself from its hotter side the last few days. Inside the bar everything ran hot, even with the AC on blast and with the amount of people who’d made their way inside in the last hour, looking for a good time on a Saturday night, it never stood a chance.

Trying to cool off you’d excused yourself from your new group of friends to order yourself a cold beer. One of the ACs blew cold air directly towards the bar, keeping the frantic bartenders cool as they pushed out order after order of drinks. You watched them from where you stood perfectly in the wind of the AC, glass raised to your lips when you felt a hard bump against your shoulder.

“Fuck,” you cursed as your full glass of beer spilled all down your front, staining your white summer dress.

“Shit– sorry, sweetheart.” You didn’t have time to react as your beer was lifted out of your wet hand and placed on the rough wood of the bar.

Looking up from your ruined dress you took in your beer thief as he reached across the bar for some napkins. He was older, forties maybe, maybe older if you were to take the sprinkle of salt and pepper in his hair into consideration, but he was gorgeous. A strong jaw and sculptured nose. Clad in a t-shirt and a dark pair of jeans, you thought he looked casual– not like he belonged to the rest of the birthday party. The material of his t-shirt strained against his bicep as he leaned back from over the bar – a stack of napkins now in his hand. Standing to his full height before you, you noticed just how broad he was, and it made a drop of desire pool in your core. 

The man’s previous frantic movements came to a halt as he took you in for the first time; his dark brown eyes rolling down your body and leaving a trail of heat. His fist full of napkins stalled when his eyes landed on your dress, quickly diverting them with a loud clearing of his throat.

“Um– here,” he said, voice strained as he handed you the napkins.

Pulling your eyebrows together in a frown, you looked down at yourself again. The fabric was completely soaked through, and you felt a prickling heat tickle your cheeks as you realized you now looked like a walking ad for a wet t-shirt competition.

“Oh shit,” you muttered, taking the napkins from the man as you tried your best to cover yourself.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart– bumpin’ into ya like that.”

Pressing the napkins to your dress you shook your head at him, “It’s fine– eh,” you looked up from your body.

“Joel,” he introduced himself.

“It’s fine, Joel. It was an accident. I’ll just go to the restroom and try to get the stain out,” you said with a grimace, and reached for more napkins.

“Let me help ya,” he offered as he placed a friendly hand on your elbow.

As Joel guided you through the crowd towards the toilets, hand hovering at a polite distance behind your back, he continued to apologize.

“I feel terrible– let me at least pay for it if it ends up needin’ replacin’.”

Inside the bar’s toilets, you jumped up on the stone countertop lining the wall, turning the closest sink on.

“It’s okay,” you repeated as you busied yourself with trying to clean yourself up, “This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten beer spilled all over me,” you said with a teasing laugh, trying to lighten the mood a little.

Standing beside you with his hip leaning against the stone and a knee popped, Joel huffed out a strained laugh, a laugh somewhere between embarrassment and relief.

“Yeah?” He questioned, eyes falling to your working hands.

“Tell you this much– I’ve had plenty of wet nights.”

A sound escaped Joel at your words, one he quickly tried to cover up with a cough, and you realize your innuendo a second too late. When you looked up from your hands, eyes wide, you noticed that Joel’s cheeks had flushed slightly, like he was embarrassed that he’d even caught onto the innuendo you hadn’t meant to make. 

“Oh! No, not like that–” you rushed, tone slightly mortified as your eyes met his, trying very hard not to stutter through the rest of your sentence, “I–uh... I only meant that I uh–... I‘ve had plenty of situations in which I’ve gotten wet–” 

At this sentence, Joel raised his eyebrows in a look that seemed half-surprised, half-amused, and your stomach dropped even further into your ass in embarrassment. 

“–with water!” you clarified quickly, before you scrunched up your nose in embarrassment, closing your eyes as you huffed out a laughing sigh, “There’s no way I’m getting out of this gracefully, is there?” 

You heard Joel’s chuckle to your side, deep and syrupy, like the stuff you’d liked to pour over your pancakes in buckets when you were a kid.

“You’d have gotten away with it if you hadn’t started explainin’, I think,” Joel told you, his tone joking, and you chuckled bashfully, nodding before you looked up at him. 

There was a moment in which you exchanged a look, before you felt the smile break over your face and you dissolved into embarrassed laughter, shaking your head as Joel laughed, too. 

“Off to a great start,” you muttered in between chuckles, “First week in Austin and I’m already making passes at handsome strangers in bar bathrooms.” 

“I never said I was complainin’,” Joel said jokingly, and you let out a chuckle, “First week in Austin, hm?” 

“Yeah,” you said with a nod, “Here for a postgrad.” 

“Smart and beautiful,” he mused, “Reckon I should spill beers more often if this is what I get in return.” 

Delicate wings fluttered in your tummy at his words as a feeling of excitement filled your chest. Looking up at him with a raised teasing eyebrow you said, “Not sure spilling beer on someone is the tried and tested formula.”  

“Well, that depends, really,” Joel answered back in a teasingly contemplating voice, “‘s it workin’ on you?” 

Your stomach dropped slightly at his words, and when your eyes moved to meet his, he was looking at you with a look that made your insides burn. 

“Maybe,” you told him with a teasing smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. 

You were never usually this bold, but there was something in the way he was looking at you and the syrup-y tone of his voice. You could tell he knew what he was doing, knew exactly what to say, and you wanted more. Biting down on your bottom lip coquettishly, you leaned backwards on your arms, giving Joel a full view of the soaked front of your dress, and more specifically, everything he could see underneath. 

“And what works on you, Joel?” 

You watched with some satisfaction as Joel's eyes ran over the length of your chest, before he quickly redirected them to your eyes.

“You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman here, sweetheart,” he almost whispered, his eyes as dark as the Austin summer night sky. You gave a noncommitted shrug as a teasing smile tugged at your lips. Then, you leaned forward so that you were closer to him, feet dangling slightly.

“I never asked you to be,” you told him, your voice low but not quite a whisper as you looked up at him through your lashes. 

Behind your rib cage your heart quickened with excitement as Joel’s darkening gaze bored into yours, and you knew you him right where you wanted him. His eyes danced over your face for a moment, before they flickered down to your lips. It almost made you stop breathing for a second, the tension in the air between you so thick you could cut it with a knife. There was just something about this man, something about Joel – and in this moment you wanted him more than you’d ever wanted anyone before. 

Maybe it should’ve scared you, the speed at which you’d fallen under his spell (or was it the other way around?), but right now, with Joel’s darkening eyes staring into yours, you couldn't bring yourself to feel any fear. You could only look at him, could only feel his breath fanning over your lips and the intensity of his gaze on your face.

“You’re trouble, aren’t ya?” Joel’s voice was low, not quite a whisper, but full of deep bass. 

You felt the expanse of his hand fall on your bare knee, rough and calloused over where your sundress had ridden up. 

“Nothing you can’t handle.” You batted your eyelashes semi-innocently, spreading your thighs slightly, which made Joel’s mouth twitch in amusement. 

“’s that so, darlin’?” He asked, taking his place between your legs, your face now only inches from his as he looked down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Mhm,” you nodded slightly, your hand falling over his to guide it slowly up your thigh, “Don’t you wanna find out?”

As Joel’s index finger made contact with the side seam of your underwear, he closed the space between you and pressed his lips against yours. The hairs of his mustache tickled your cupid’s bow as he dove deeper, lips rolling over yours. You sat up slightly when his other hand wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to him, your core rubbing up against his growing bulge. You whimpered against his lips at the contact, and Joel inhaled it, consuming every breathy moan and whimper.

His hand slid slowly downwards to your ass where he gave it a nice squeeze, pulling you even closer when your legs came up to wrap around his waist. He licked at your lower lip hungrily, and you opened yourself up to him to allow him to deepen the kiss. It was hot, and suffocating, and all-consuming, all at the same time. He was a great kisser, probably the best you’d kissed. His lips moved expertly over yours, soft and firm at the same time as he guided you through it.

The grip on your ass tightened again and soon you were half-way to hanging off the counter as he rocked his front steadily against your core, where your arousal had started to pool. The kisses turned needier then, shorter and desperate between quiet whines. You could feel the shape of him against you, hard and thick, and big. A wave of tickling arousal washed over you as you imagined yourself on your knees before him, the weight and taste of him on your tongue. He was so fucking hot, and you wanted him so fucking badly.

“Can I suck your cock?” you panted through frantic kisses.

Joel pulled back slightly, head tipped back to find your eyes. 

“You wanna suck my cock?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. You only nodded, head tipping slowly with the bite of your lip.

Joel tsk-ed, “Dirty girl,” he said and rocked his hard bulge against your core, which earned him a moan. It made a wicked grin spread across his face, like he’d just proved a point.

His hands left your body as he slowly stepped backwards – that same cocky grin adorning his features as he nodded towards one of the stalls. Jumping off the countertop, you almost tripped over your feet to follow him inside.

“Relax, baby– ain’t no need to get on your knees until after we’re inside,” he teased, holding the door open for you, bicep bulging against the fabric of his t-shirt. Fuck, he looked so hot.

“Ha-ha,” you fake-laughed at him with a teasing roll of your eyes as you stepped past him and into the bathroom stall. When the door clicked behind him, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning, you felt a pair of strong hands land on your hips as he pressed his body against your back.

“I’m only teasin’,” he reassured you in your ear, his breath fanning over the shell and sending a tingle down your spine. Turning around in his hold, your own teasing smile spread across your face as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Yeah?” you queried with the raise of an eyebrow, “Well two can play that game, sir” you teased as you slowly sunk to your knees, missing the way Joel reacted to the title you’d assigned him.

From above Joel watched you, body relaxed and composed like he wasn’t about to get his dick sucked, but the lust in his eyes gave him away. Your teeth caught on your bottom lip as you fumbled with his belt, the sound of metal clinking bouncing off the tiles as you focused on popping the button on his jeans and pulling the zipper down. You couldn’t take your eyes off the shape of him hidden behind the denim, and it made your mouth water, your thighs squeezing together. You were mesmerized as you let your pointer finger run over the covered length of him, the cotton fabric of his boxer briefs soft under your fingertips.

For a moment, you couldn’t believe what you were about to do – suck a man you’d just met less than an hour ago off in the bathroom stall of some dingy bar? But then again, something excited you about it. 

Maybe it was Joel? Or maybe it was the thrill of it all– of maybe getting caught?

“Go on, darlin’, it’s okay– be a good girl n’ take it out f’me,” Joel ordered from above, his voice dropping an octave. You looked up at him, caught the way he studied you, gauging your every move and reaction.

Then something shifted in his eyes, a flash of insecurity making its presence known, “Or don’t– we can stop f’you want– if you ain’t feelin’ it anymore.”

You shook your head before he’d even finished his sentence. God, no! You sure as hell didn’t want to stop.

“I wanna keep going, Joel,” you smiled, your fingers hooking into the elastic band of his boxer briefs.

A genuine smile bloomed across his face then, his rough hand coming down to cup your chin, “That’s good, baby,” he said, swiping his thumb slowly over your skin, before he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Know you’ll be good f’me, won’t you?” he whispered against your lips, drawing a breathy whine from you at the praise.

“Yes,” you sighed, almost breathless as he kissed you again quickly before he murmured against your lips, “Yes, you will, darlin’– you’re gonna choke on my cock ‘n thank me for it, won’t ya?”

He was driving you mad with all these questions. In just a few minutes, this man had turned you inside out, pushed every button to turn you on– you were practically swimming in your panties, your mind clouded in hazy arousal. 

You didn’t know what to do, and not thinking clearly, you chased his lips.

“Nuh-uh,” Joel chuckled, pulling away slightly, “lemme hear you say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you sighed again, “thank you for giving me your cock.”

“Thank you for giving me your cock, what?”

This manwas relentless.

“Thank you for giving me your cock, sir?” you tried, teeth nibbling on your bottom lip.

Pleased, a satisfied grin pulled at Joel’s lips. He rewarded you with a quick kiss before he pulled away, standing to his full height again.

You couldn’t wait any longer, you needed to touch him. Hooking your fingers into the elastic band of his boxer briefs again, you slowly pulled them down, revealing inch by inch of the base of his fat cock.

He was big, and the sight made your mouth water, but what excited you the most was the weight of his heavy balls.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes wide with fascination.

His hand found the back of your neck in a grounding hold as he guided you closer, your lips bumping against his tip. “Give it a kiss, baby… just like that,” he praised as you did exactly what he wanted, placing a kiss to his cock the same way you’d kissed his lips.

Over you, you could hear Joel release a content breathy chuckle, “That’s so good, baby, such a good girl.”

Egged on by his praises, you shifted a little on your knees, steadying your hands on his thighs as you pooled a blob of spit in your mouth that you let drip down the head. Joel watched you intensely as you used your dominant hand to slowly work the spit over his length, earning yourself a strained grunt. He grew even harder in your hand as you familiarized yourself with the weight and size of him in your hand. 

“Wanna taste it, sir,” you said and placed another soft kiss to the head, swiping your tongue over the slit to taste the precum that had started to pearl.

“Yeah?” he taunted, almost degrading, “You wanna taste my cock that badly?”

“Y-yes,” you whined, looking up at him through your lashes.

Joel watched you for a beat before he tapped at the hand wrapped around him, shooing it away as he fisted himself. “Open wide then, honey, ‘f you want it that bad,” he said, slapping his cock against the side of your face.

Your mouth dropped open in an instance as Joel stuffed his cock inside your mouth slowly. You opened up as wide as you possibly could, relaxing your jaw to accommodate the size of him in your mouth. It was a wide stretch, and the tip touched the back of your throat far too soon, making you gag around the head.

He pulled back to let you breathe for a moment, before he sunk back down your throat again, a large and grounding hand resting at the back of your head. The second time you were more prepared to take him, holding him in your throat for a few moments longer before you started to gag. Over you, Joel let out a strained grunt; the noise sending a bolt of arousal straight to your core.

After that, Joel let you take the lead.

You started out slow, taking the head into your mouth as you let your spit-covered fingers glide over his shaft in an experimental tug. Under your fist, a slick sound echoed off the tiles with every jerk of his cock. You made sure his cock was thoroughly coated in your spit as you set a steady rhythm. You let your tongue glide over the underside of his tip, his hips bucking when you dipped your tongue into the slit.

It was sloppy, and wet, and the noises coming from your throat were entirely too obscene as you started bobbing your head, taking him down your throat.

“That’s a good girl,” Joel praised you, helping guide his cock down your throat with the hand resting at the back of your head. “You love suckin’ cock, don’t you? Love havin’ a big cock fill up that tight throat?”

Suddenly, you heard the muted music coming from the bar grow louder before dying again at the sound of the door slamming shut. You stilled your movements in panic as you heard someone slip into the stall to your right. Your eyes met Joel as you slipped his cock out your mouth, but to your surprise he looked far from concerned about the new audience. 

Stretching his neck he turned his head in the direction of the occupied stall, while he wrapped his fist around the base of his cock. Even in his hands it looked big, and you started to wonder how you’d ever managed to fit it down your throat. A beat passed before he turned his head to look at you again, a wicked grin coating his lips as he bobbed his cock in your face, rubbing the head over your closed lips before he slapped it lightly against your cheek.

“Open up,” he mouthed with another light slap to your cheek. His actions made a tingle of arousal spread throughout your body, and you realized in shock how much the thought of getting caught turned you on.

You did as Joel said and opened your mouth for him to feed you his cock again. He watched you very closely this time, letting you ease yourself down his cock at your own pace, trying your best to be quiet. When the very tip of your nose made contact with the thatch of coarse dark hair at the base and your lips were snug around his cock, Joel couldn’t help himself. The grounding hand at the back of your head held you down as he shoved himself as deep as he possibly could down your throat, his balls bouncing against your chin at the movement.

To your right you heard the unmistakable sound of a toilet being flushed and a lock being twisted. Your eyes welled up with tears, your vision fogging over as you tried your best to fight against your gag reflex. Over you, Joel watched you with a proud smirk on his lips. When the sound of the sink turning on echoed through the restroom, you allowed a whimpering gag to escape you as you squeezed your eyes shut.

It shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but the thrill of getting caught choking on an older man’s cock, a man who was essentially a stranger, made you wonder if you could come untouched. You were so close already, just a flick of your clit would send you off the edge of bliss.

Your eyes were about to roll back into your head when Joel finally pulled back. You gasped violently for air at the exact moment the door opened, filling the toilets with loud music for a moment before you and Joel were locked away again in your own little world. Like you were on autopilot, your hand slipped between your thighs to find your clit, and soon you were withering with your orgasm.

“Oh, there you go, honey, come all over those fingers f’me, just like that,” you heard Joel say, though the force of your orgasm made it seem like he was far away, like your ears were filled with cotton.

When you finally calmed down, you steadied yourself with a tug at Joel’s jeans – the fabric rough under your fingertips. Over you Joel fisted his cock as he watched you with a wild look in his eyes.

“Goddamn, baby, you’re so fuckin’ hot comin’ like that just from gettin’ your throat fucked.”

“Thank you, sir,” you managed to let out, your voice strained and hoarse.

Realizing he must’ve been close, you sat up straighter on your knees, ready to pull him off the edge too. Leaning forward, you stuck out your tongue, licking a fat strip up the seam of his balls to the underside of his shaft. His cock jumped in his hand as Joel let out a breathy laugh.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, “Look me in the eyes honey– look me in the eyes when you lick my balls.” Joel jerked his cock above your face as you continued to lick at his heavy balls – your eyes locked with his.

“Look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he choked out through groans, “Suck on ‘em, baby, suck on my balls.”

Blinking up at him you tried your best to fit one of them in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking greedily and lapping at the skin, before you moved on to treat the other with the same amount of love.

Joel’s mouth dropped open in a gape, his breath coming out quicker and more staggered. He squeezed himself harder at the base with each jerk before skating his thumb over the swollen head, massaging it. 

“Fuck,” he panted, “I’m gonna come, baby, I’m gonna fuckin’ come.”

Popping his balls from your mouth you hurriedly sat up in front of him, the tip off his cock brushing over the plump of your bottom lip with every thug of his cock.

“Please, sir,” you begged, “Please, come in my mouth.”

Joel wasn’t one to deny your request, especially not when you were sat so pretty in front of him with your tongue sticking out.

A second later, Joel shoved his cock in your mouth and came – balls drawn tight as he shot his load down your throat. The force of it made you gag a little at first, the restriction around his sensitive cock only making him come harder. He groaned above you as you sucked him dry, before he pulled back when it was too much, and caught his breath.

“Say Ah,” he said, a gentle but firm hand cupping your jaw. The squeeze of his fingers made your mouth drop open to reveal the cum coated on your tongue and where it pooled at the back of your throat. “Don’t swallow– Let me see, darlin’.”

Your smile fought against his grip. Sticking your tongue out the best you could, you let him see the state he’d left you in; chin coated in saliva, tears starting to dry on your cheeks, mouth puffy and fucked, and marked in this stranger’s cum.

“Pretty as a picture,” he tutted before he let go of your jaw, and with a pat to your cheek finally gave you permission to swallow.

After that it was like the spell had broken between you. Joel helped you to your feet, both of you giggling when your legs wobbled like a foal unsteady on its feet. He held you upright with a strong hand to your waist, while the other one traveled up the length of your body to cup your face, and bring it closer to place a slow and sensual kiss to your lips.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’d never done anything like that before?” You asked him a moment later as he helped you clean your face by the sink.

Joel gave you a look in the mirror.

“You don’t?” you exclaimed.

Joel gave you an infuriatingly casual shrug, “It ain’t your first time suckin’ dick that’s for sure,” he teased with a pinch to your side which made you jump.

Giving him a playful shove, you said, “I’m not lying! I’ve never had a one-night stand.”

“Well, the night’s still young,” Joel joked, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and dipping his head to place a soft kiss to the column of your neck.

You leaned into his touch, feeling the soft grip of his hands on your body, and the soft presses of his kisses as you watched the two of you in the mirror. You found that you liked the reflection looking back at you, and if you were lucky, you hoped he liked it too; maybe enough to want to see you again.

“I can’t go back out there like this,” you said after a moment.

Your dress had finally dried, but so had the beer – staining it yellow.

Joel lifted his head from your neck to rest his chin on your shoulder as his eyes scanned your body in the mirror. 

“I have a flannel in my truck I can borrow you?”

“More layers in this heat?” you questioned, already sweating at the thought.

A wide grin spread across Joel’s face, full of mischief, “I guess I’ll just have to take ‘em off of you later, then.”

Turning around in his hold, you wrapped your hands around his neck, your fingers toying with the hair curling at his neck as you met his eyes. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” you whispered, painfully aware of the wet stain of arousal soiling your panties and sticking to your cunt.

“No, it doesn’t,” Joel hummed, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. 

“Wanna get out of here?” you asked and brushed your lips over his.

A moment later Joel guided you out the restrooms with a protective hand resting at the small of your back. Weaving through the crowd, you’d made your way almost to the exit when you heard a shout of your name over the music.

“There you are!” Sarah shouted again as she moved through the crowd towards you and Joel, arms reached out to the sky.

“Oh! And you’ve finally met my dad!”

i hope this was okay and that someone liked this? as always feedback as a comment, in the tags, as an ask or reply is very much appreciated, and they make me super happy! <3 i'm very curious to hear your thoughts about this! <3

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Swimming instructor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: 18+ Series masterlist

Series summary: Hoping to blame the devil for your fall from grace, you learn that he is only a man - one who is just as lost as you are.

Chapter summary: In an effort to feel more like yourself and less like the sheltered girl you always were, you take up swimming lessons, unaware of the temptations that are placed in front of you by a man you think might be the devil himself.

Warnings: Smut, non-TF AU, implied age gap, the touching is dubcon/almost noncon at first but she’s really into it so idk, infidelity, reader is married to John Smith, Christianity, sleazy!Frankie, dom!Frankie, oral (f, m receiving), face fucking, cringe protected PIV with reader’s husband, semi-protected PIV with Frankie, creampie, reader was raised Christian and is still practicing, doubting one’s own faith etc, blasphemy, praise kink, religious references, taking the Lord’s name in vain, rough sex, double dipping??, ass play, come play, brief reference to abortion, inappropriate student teacher relationships, weed, possessiveness, mention of doodee in a public pool.

A/N: Special shoutout to @5oh5 for giving me so many fantastic ideas for this!! I'm treating this as my 4k followers celebration, so thank you four thousand times over for following me, for reading my fever dreams put into words, for your comments and messages and everything else. This has been such a fun hobby for me and I hope to give you all even better stories in 2024 🤍

“Damn he really about to give her the father, the son, and the holy semen.” - @atticrissfinch

Word count: 10.9k

The smell of chlorine penetrates your nostrils while the sound of children yelling and screaming and hollering and splashing grates your ears. The community pool is a place that shouldn’t scare you but somehow does, making your eyes shift side to side, looking at the big blue rectangle and the small blue rectangle, one with people swimming laps and the other with kids floating around with those puffy, plastic, floaty things around their arms.

You grab the cross that rests against your chest, wind the thin gold chain around your finger and swallow around a lump in your throat, looking down at your black swimsuit, wondering if it might have been a little too low cut after all, leaving little to the imagination. You would love to turn on your heel right now, to sprint out of here, and find an activity less daunting to start off your year of taking up hobbies to become more independent, to learn how to trust in God and spend time with Him while learning something new. 

You've always been told what to do and yet, sometimes, it feels as though you don’t know how to do much of anything. It was time for you to do something for yourself, everyone at church agreed, and you’re not sure who suggested it but something lit up within you when swimming lessons were suggested. It offers independence and self-sufficiency, they said. It’s a survival skill too, really, if you think about it, not just a hobby. But the deep water is so daunting, the tiled bottom you can barely see from where you stand, and the chemical filled, blue water sloshing against the drains. 

Learning how to swim, a baptism — what’s the difference, at the end of the day? They both involve dipping your head under the water to become something, at the hands of someone who has done this many times, who hardly sees the novelty anymore while you go through your transformation. It must become routine for them, and you hope it does for you too, that you’ll be able to dive into the lake by John’s family cabin and go for a swim in the mornings when you head down there for the summer. You never knew why your parents never taught you, whether it was your mother’s neuroticism and firm boundary that the beach water could never surpass your knees, or your father’s insistence you went to choir when your friends went to the pool. None of it matters now. 

You dip your head and whisper a quick prayer, holding onto your cross, asking God for courage to do something so out of your comfort zone, thanking him for the confidence to come here today in the first place. It wasn’t an easy decision, praying over it with John, then deciding to tell your parents that you would be skipping family dinner on Sundays to take swimming lessons, ensuring them that of course you’d still come to church, and of course you’d join them for coffee and of course you’d go to Bible study with the girls on Thursdays instead. It surely wasn’t a coincidence that the only lessons were available on the Lord’s day - you thank him also for the opportunity to spend time with him one on one for eight weeks, hoping that you can bring something new to the table when you return to your family dinners. 

You jump at the sound of your name, snapping out of your moment of recollection, your attention directed up to a man standing in front of you, holding his hand out to introduce himself. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light colored shirt with some sort of birds on it, and a pair of awful looking flip flops — bright red and frayed at the edges, probably a decade old. 

“Frankie,” he says with a smile on his face, a smile that deepens the crows feet above his cheeks, that warms his stunning brown eyes, “I’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks, we exchanged a few texts earlier.” The fluorescent lights behind him illuminate his messy hair, the halo of golden brown curls that point in all different directions, that he pushes his other hand through while he raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes, right, Frankie,” you say, nodding and smiling back. Your mouth is dry, hands beginning to tremble. What is this strange feeling? Your face feels hot all of a sudden, heat flashing over your cheeks and your temples. Your chest feels like it’s about to break out into hives or something. But he looks so… Scruffy. There are silver threads in his mustache and in the patchy beard covering his jaw — he looks nothing like John and yet you remember feeling something similar to this the first time your now-husband took you out on a date. 

“You ready?”, he asks, and you don’t miss the way his dark eyes sweep over your bathing suit, how it hugs your hips, your waist, your chest, how his gaze lands on the golden cross you’re playing with and the rings on your finger, the gold band and the silver one next to it the one with the sparkling diamond. You don’t miss the little smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, señora,” he says, tipping his chin towards the large pool, “Let’s go.” 

You bite back a smile at his words, at being called anything but sweetie. 

“We’re gonna start off pretty easy,” Frankie says as he walks you towards the shallow end of the big pool. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the side, revealing a set of broad shoulders, his brown curls dipping into his neck and the width of his back as he climbs down the ladder into the water and motions for you to follow. “Come down here and we’ll have you just walk a little, back and forth, nothin’ crazy.” 

You nod, hands still trembling and that heat sticking to your chest and cheeks, different from the heat in the dry heat in the room. You curl your hands around the railing and carefully take one step at a time, descending into the blue pool, pausing halfway down, breaths moving a little faster. 

Temptation, temptation. The ladies at church told you that you might meet a handsome man one day who makes all kinds of promises, who sweet talks and says he’s good for you, who makes you stray from the Lord and lets the darkness swallow you whole. He has the devil in him, they said, and he will be sent to test the strength of your relationship to God, to your trust in Him and your faith. 

“What's the holdup?” 

You hear Frankie’s voice from the water and feel the waves crashing against your thighs, snapping out of your frozen state and taking the last step down, the surface of the water reaching your waist as you slowly walk towards him, elbows cautiously lifted in the air. 

He waves towards himself and you take three more steps, closing the distance with a bit of a stumble, tripping before Frankie catches you with his hands around your waist, stabilizing you with a firm grip, with big hands and thick fingers spanning an obscene amount of your skin. You gasp at the sensation and he pulls you closer as he clicks his tongue, playfully scolding you for running in the pool, winking and sending a shiver down your spine that settles in your womb with a low throb. 

But he doesn’t let go of your waist, even when you reluctantly try to squirm out, brushing against his bulge in the process, under the water, wet pieces of fabric dragging over each other while he looks at you with those deep, dark eyes, those mesmerizing, brown orbs that make you swallow around a lump in your throat when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“Promise to be careful?”, he asks. The raspy timbre of his voice turns everything around you into a blur, the screaming and splashing suddenly drowned out by the sound of his breaths as he waits for you to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.” Your face flashes hot at the nickname, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. He leans in, hands still circling your waist, thumbs digging into your bathing suit, and his lips hover right by your ear. “Let’s start with some of that walking, just back and forth,” he says, his tone a little lower now, pulling you even closer for a moment, “Can you do that for me?” 

With goosebumps covering your arms, with desire pulsing in your cunt, you nod, and he releases you, letting you turn and walk away from him, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the waves crashing against your ribs at every step, turning to walk back to him where he stands with his arms folded over his naked chest, smirking like he did earlier, in a way that should irk you and creep you out but instead makes something inside of you fizzle and flutter. 

More praises, perfect, good girl, then you try to listen carefully when he talks about proper breathing technique. It’s so difficult, he makes it difficult, especially when he tells you to bend over, just like that, and touches the small of your back, pushing it slightly. Your common sense couldn’t be further away from this pool, but your eyes flit down to your chest and you see the cross resting there, a few droplets of water surrounding it, skin glistening and nipples hardened under the wet, shiny, black swimsuit. 

You glance back up, and before you know it, your lungs are filled with air and you’re bending over to dunk your head under the water, plunging in and holding there for a few moments, taking in the soothing silence of the pool, before coming back up, breaking the surface and being met with the noise again, looking up at Frankie. 

“You can hold your breath pretty well,” he remarks, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and nodding in approval, “That’s good to know.” He takes a step towards you and looks down at your wet lashes, clumped together, the drops of water sliding down your clavicle and into the suit. 

“Before I forget,” he says then, clearing his throat and gesturing to your swimwear, “You might wanna wear a two piece instead of this, it’s more aerodynamic, you know, under the water? Helps you swim faster, less fabric weighing you down and such.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” you chirp. He’s the expert — who are you to say that he’s wrong? 

“I’m gonna have you floating on your back now,” he says then, and spins his finger, urging you to turn around, then gesturing for you to lean back against his chest. You take in as much air as you can and lean back, letting him catch you with two hands on your back, and your head leaning onto his shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits you, your breath hitches in your throat, and you feel one of his hands sliding down to your asscheek, cupping it and squeezing, forcing a little whimper of your throat, one you’ve never heard yourself. 

You feel the rumble in his chest when he chuckles, and you hope he can’t feel you pushing your ass further into his palm, rubbing against it almost, like a cat in heat or some poor, lost person under the spell of something dark, something twisted and demonic. 

When you look up at him, he’s staring at your chest, and again, you should be so incredibly uncomfortable, you should feel violated and upset and creeped out. But you have never been this aroused in your life, and that sweet pulsing in your cunt, the ache in your clit and the sensitivity of your nipples tells you that you’ve never truly enjoyed your body and what it is capable of — your God-given body, with God-given feelings and sensations you never knew existed, that John has never evoked in you. Both of his hands come to your behind then, holding you up while you rest a little closer to his neck, breathing him in, and he kneads your flesh while you spread your legs, entirely upon instinct, with no thoughts running through your mind other than a want, a need, for him to touch you somewhere else. 

You don’t know how long you float there, or how long you spend holding onto the railing and kick your feet while he has a hand under your lower stomach to hold you up and his eyes on your ass, but your breathing is heavy and your insides are hot and tight until the session is over and he helps you out of the pool, where the cold air hits you along with the reality of what happened in the heat of the water; the sinful reality of your dance on the edge of adultery, of accepting the touch of another man, one who does not value the sanctity of marriage, judging by the way he looked at your rings with mischief in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” you say curtly, a tight lipped smile holding back the storm of emotions in your chest — the guilt, the regret, the arousal, the strange gratitude you feel towards this man for showing you how your body can make you feel. 

“See you next Sunday,” he winks, drying off his chest with a towel. 

—

The drive home is unbearable, the ache between your legs so distracting that you fear you might drive off the road. The guilt should consume you but your primal brain brushes it off, too excited for the carnal desire that has sprung up within you, itching for release, for the touch of that man again. 

You feel possessed almost — this is not attraction, it is not love or comfort, it’s something entirely different and dangerous. It slithers around your limbs and tightens around your throat, and the lightheadedness that should concern and suffocate you, instead feels delicious. It feels like adrenaline and blood coursing through your veins, it feels like your clit swelling and your nipples perking up, like his bulge feeling a little firmer the second time you came near it. 

Lies spill out of your mouth when you arrive home, when John asks how it went and you say it went well but that it was a big step. He seems to understand when you say it was quite scary at first and that you feel the want to pray about it, to debrief almost, with God, that you only need a few minutes to yourself before you can start making dinner for the two of you.

The bedroom door shuts behind you, the lock flipped, and you kneel at the foot of your bed, hands clasped together in prayer, unsure of what exactly you’re about to ask for. 

You try anyway, thanking God for the courage to step out of your comfort zone, for a knowledgeable instructor, but at the mention of Frankie, at the thought of his broad chest, his curls and his eyes, the dull throb behind the fabric of your panties makes a reappearance, an ache between your legs that won’t settle no matter how hard you try to shake it off. 

It feels like an affront to God, truly, being so distracted when you speak to Him, and so you decide to revisit after cooling off. You flop down on the bed with a sigh, noticing after a moment that your legs have spread and the button on your jeans has popped open. The locked door stares at you, reminding you that John will not be barging in, no matter what you do. 

So with the feel of Frankie’s touch still burning your skin, around your waist and hips and asscheeks, you slip a hand into your panties and slowly begin to rub your clit, stifling your moans as they catch in your throat, not moving an inch so as not to evoke suspicion. Your body is so flooded with arousal that you come mere moments later, his name on your tongue, and then the bitter aftertaste of reality. 

Back onto your knees at the edge of the bed, you ask for forgiveness this time too, and for the courage to stick to these lessons, despite your apprehension surrounding your ability to swim. 

—

Sunday, the Lord’s day, another afternoon standing across from Frankie, and you’re wearing a two piece this time, at his suggestion, one that barely holds the flesh of your chest and behind. He suggested a warm-up before today’s session, and so you find yourself doing stretches with your eyes fixated on his shorts, and the massive bulge he has seemingly made no effort at  trying to hide. 

He clears his throat before he speaks with a chuckle, “Checking me out?”

You avert your gaze and brink profusely, feeling that heat in your cheeks again, “No, I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he muses, glancing down at his crotch,  “Probably not every day you see that kinda thing, with the whole, you know—” He gestures towards the cross dangling from your neck and you grab it in response, in defense perhaps, refusing to admit that he’s right. 

Never have you seen this kind of thing, never have you seen this kind of man. You’ve been so sheltered that you’ve barely even seen yourself. Frankie is everything you have been told to fear, and everything that begins to churn inside of you, stirring and bubbling up to the surface, slithering into your trembling arms. 

You should be so afraid of this man, of the spirit within him that draws you in and makes you commit such awful acts of sin against your marriage, against the vows you’ve taken and the promises you’ve made your husband — promises that a little part of your mind reminds you that he has taken as well, but that he does not keep, because he does not keep you with his actions or his words. Rather, he relies on you being kept, out of obligation and loyalty, never suspecting that outside of the four walls of your home lurks a man whose only intention is to take, to steal, to corrupt and to lead astray. 

Frankie tells you to do jumping jacks and he stares at your chest while you do them. 

—

Someone calls his name as you step down the ladder and he tells you he’ll be right back. You carefully descend down into the water again, a little less scared this time, and wave your arms around under the surface, creating little waves with your hands in figure eights while you pass the time. 

“Hey, señora,” he calls out a minute later, and you look up at him as he approaches the pool. He takes a couple steps down and pauses to look at you, to observe how you stare up at him with wide eyes, your nipples giving you away again, thighs clenched together under the water. 

“I could get used to you looking up at me like that,” he mutters, tilting his head, his tongue in his cheek, his brow arched. 

You barely even understand what he means but you can tell it’s something that, again, should drive you straight out of this pool and into your husband’s arms, but you like looking up at him too for some reason. 

Despite your heart being in your throat and your arms trembling a little at Frankie’s attention, you begin to swim with ease, stretching your arms out and pushing the water behind you, kicking your legs and getting a few feet further every time, staying at the shallow end of the pool. 

Then Frankie takes a few steps back, into a deeper section. “Swim towards me,” he winks, holding his arms out and waving towards himself. So you launch forward, kick your legs and wade through the water, and when you get close to him, only an arm’s length away, you feel his fingers brush against your tummy and his hands sliding around to grab your waist. 

He turns you around but doesn’t let you swim away yet, holding you against himself, pushing your ass into his crotch, onto his erection, as he praises you, good girl. 

Your arms fail you when he releases you from his grip, and you splash around, arms waving and legs floundering, convinced you might drown until he grabs your waist and pulls you towards him. You grab his forearm to stay afloat, breathing fast, nearly panting, distracted and horny and frustrated at yourself. 

“You’re unfocused, baby,” he coos into your ear, tracing his fingertips down the muscle that connects your neck to your shoulder, holding onto your waist with his other hand, “That’s dangerous, you know? Need to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“S— sorry,” you whisper, tilting your head to the side to stretch your neck further for him. 

“I know one thing that might help,” he whispers, nibbling on your ear, taking it between his teeth and pulling it slightly, “It’ll relax you, then you can refocus.” 

“Yeah, that— that’s a good idea, whatever it is.”

He releases you from his grip while he whispers, “Just gonna go tell the management that someone shat in the other pool, then we’ll be alone, alright?” before getting out and heading towards the front office. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but before you know it, a lifeguard comes out, blowing a whistle, waving his arms and instructing everyone to get out of the water. Frankie speaks to him for a moment and the lifeguard nods, and then he’s back in the pool with you, watching everyone filter out. 

You stand against the tiled wall, with Frankie in front of you, pretending to make conversation while he submerges his hand and starts to tug at the strings of your bikini bottoms. Your hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, and you eye him as he tugs one final time and the fabric peels away from your mound. The last person leaves the pool, the lifeguard has disappeared already, and he moves to the other side, one firm tug and your bottoms are floating between your legs. He fishes them out and throws them over the edge of the pool, letting them land with a wet smack on the tile, and nudges your legs apart with his foot, bringing his hand to the apex of your thighs, running a single, thick finger through your folds. 

“Think I know what you need, little miss crucifix,” he croons, then looks to his side to see that the coast is clear, puts both hands on your hips and hoists you up onto the edge of the pool, pushes your legs apart as you squeal in surprise and holds them open. He wastes no time, his tongue crashes against your clit and he eats you like a man starved, sloppy and wet and dragging his tongue up and down and side to side, he sucks and releases and nibbles and pulls.

You lay down, only to arch your back and let him spread your legs further, growling into your pussy, pushing his tongue into your opening and rubbing the tip of his nose on your clit so that you’re constantly stimulated, coming back up to lick and suck until you’re coaxed into an earth-shattering orgasm that rings in your ears and rips his moaned name from your throat.

You cover your face with your hands, coming down from your high, your back hitting the tiles while you feel him kiss your folds and your inner thighs. The searing heat of his touch and the biting cold of your indiscretions coalesce into something that sends goosebumps over your arms, and the water on your skin suddenly feels freezing. You sit up and watch him push up on his hands just a little, just enough to get closer. 

“This cannot happen again,” you assert as you close your eyes, holding your hand out in front of you, not touching him, but also not stopping him from pressing kisses to your wet chest, licking up the drops of water sliding down between your tits, “I am not a cheater, Francis.” 

“My name is Francisco,” he mumbles into your neck, sliding his tongue over your skin and biting into it after. The sound of his name, how his voice carries the syllables — it echoes in your mind, it makes you gasp for some reason, sending a new wave of goosebumps over your arms, following the one from his lips on your pulse. 

“Okay, Francisco, well, this is never happening again.” The insistence in your words is rendered useless when you tilt your head to the side, stretching the column of your throat, giving him more space to claim, space that he covers with his lips, one kiss at a time. 

“If you say so,” he whispers, his hand making its way to your jaw now, your ear sliding between his middle and ring finger, tilting your head back so he can raise up and begin to kiss you, angle your face and slide his tongue into your mouth. You moan into his mouth immediately, never having been kissed like this, with determination and lust and the taste of your pussy on his tongue. 

He places both hands down on the tiles on either side of your ass and lifts up fully from the pool, making the water slosh and little waves crash around him he pulls himself out and up over the edge with his lips still on yours, urging you down on your back while he kneels on the drain and lays down on top of you. His hard cock grinds into your naked center and he growls while tasting behind your teeth, then strokes your tongue with his own, takes your leg and hooks it over his hip. 

He overwhelms you with his scent, his weight, his sounds, the size of his cock. He sucks on your tongue and bites your bottom lip, pulls on it and moves to your neck, sucks on your skin and sinks his teeth in. The way he thrusts his hips, the way he humps you, it’s animalistic and wrong and terrible and it turns you on so severely that you can feel your slick dribble out of your opening and slide down between your asscheeks, mixing with the water below. You’ve never heard sounds like the ones coming from his throat and his chest, more masculine and rough than anything John has ever uttered, more hungry and wanting. 

John. 

Shit. 

You tap Frankie’s shoulder just as you feel the head of his clothed cock begin to push into your hole, his wide head barely entering you, and as much as you want to rip down his swim trunks and let him fuck you right here, you get a single moment of clarity when you look up and see the sun shining in through the square window in the ceiling, the rays of sunlight radiating down, reflecting off the shimmering surface of the pool, giving Frankie that halo again, those radiant curls sticking out in every direction. 

“What?”, he murmurs, and you wonder if that’s how he would sound if you woke him up from his sleep. It makes your insides twist but you can’t think about the implications of any of that now. 

“I— I have to go, sorry,” you say, wriggling out from under him, grabbing your wet bikini bottoms, already gone cold. 

“Alright,” he sighs, but before he lets you out from under him, he wraps his paw around your neck and anchors you right there as he leans down to kiss you again, with barely any tongue this time, only a light sweep across your swollen bottom lip, before he plants a kiss to your mouth and then whispers, “See you on Sunday.” 

He raises up and climbs off, heads over to the rack with towels and picks one up, coming back to hand it to you — one that you unfold and realize is incredibly small, clearly meant for children, and he smirks at how your struggle to cover your chest and your naked center as you stumble to the showers. 

—

Thursday Bible study feels like pulling teeth. 

Of course marriage is the topic of the day, and you would’ve known, had you checked the schedule before leaving the house. You’d fake any illness necessary to avoid sitting in Betty’s living room, around her dining table, hearing about how much your friends value their godly marriages, how much they feel like they’ve been brought together by God, destined to meet and be with one another. 

Betty says that Cameron was placed in front of her one day, that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and you think of Frankie in half a second. You think of the ad you came across, the availability only on Sundays, how quickly he spotted your cross, your ring, how he immediately knew how to push your buttons. 

What would your life look like if this was not how you spent your evening? What does Frankie do with his free time? 

Questions you shouldn’t want the answer to, and yet you still wonder. 

Somehow, the topic of sex is brought up. The other women giggle, one of them flushes pink and red in the face, another fans herself. 

“It’s a part of marriage,” Betty says, sing-songy in her tone, “We shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.” Reassuring nods around the table encourage her to keep going, and she looks down at her notes, then begins to talk about abstinence, the wedding night, about learning and figuring things out with your partner. 

One of the girls shares a story about going away on a trip, and her husband making love to her all night. More stories follow, the girls opening up one by one, but even the most detailed stories leave something to be desired. The more you hear, the more you feel Frankie’s firm grasp, his aggression, his want to take as well as his drive to give. You feel the hardness of his big cock, his hands on your thighs, his voice, low and raspy. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and take a few minutes to cool down, and the pieces begin to fall in place. 

For every saint there is a sinner, for every day there is night, for every angel there is a demon, and for every John there is a Frankie. For every Sunday dinner with your parents, there is an empty hall, a warm pool and Frankie’s head between your legs. 

Frankie has been sent to test your faith and your faithfulness, your loyalty and your dedication.

The only issue is that you’re so incredibly weak in your self concept, your beliefs, your awareness of your needs and your desire for your wants that you don’t stand a fucking chance. 

You might go to Hell, but at least the burning touch of Frankie’s hand will guide you there. 

—

The clock on the wall ticks every second and you find yourself counting to ten, then restarting, counting to then, restarting, letting the sound fill the silence of the dinner table as you sit across from your husband. Neither of you have said much of anything during the entire meal, and while you’re relieved that he doesn’t seem suspicious, you can’t help but feel a little irritated at his inability to notice that you’re being awfully quiet. 

It’s probably best if you don’t talk anyway.

“So, um—”, John clears his throat and offers a sheepish smile as he spins his fork around in his hand, “You wanna get down and dirty tonight? Thought maybe we could try a new position.” 

You smile back, hoping that maybe a new experience with your husband will curb your curiosities about Frankie, that they’ll ground you again and remind you of why you saved yourself for him, why you’ve decided to hide the truth of your indiscretions, not wanting your marriage to dissolve. “Sure,” you say, simultaneously wondering what’s gotten into this man who usually only lasts around ten minutes in the missionary position, never very creative despite the porn you know he has consumed over the years, that he had to seek counseling for at the church, at one point, realizing he was being tempted and seduced by the ways of the flesh, that a Godly man would not consume such materials. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you, real frisky today it seems, cheeks blushing and that sheepish smile returning, “I was thinking about, like, doggy, you know, from behind?” 

You nod, chewing on your last bite of dinner, looking down onto your plate with only a bit of tomato sauce remaining. “Yeah, that— that sounds good, I just have to clean up a bit and then I can meet you in the bedroom?” 

—

When you walk in, John is already undressed, lying under the duvet with his hands folded, eyeing you as you begin to remove your clothes, slipping off your sweater and throwing it over the ottoman in the corner, unbuttoning your pants while you hear him whistle from the bed. Sometimes he takes your clothes off, but most often you find yourself taking them off when he’s already naked in bed. You flash him a glance while you take off your bra and panties, dropping them on the floor and stepping over, lifting up the sheets and getting under. 

You remember all the wonderful things the older ladies at church told you about the marriage bed, about how magical it felt to finally be intimate with their husbands, learning together, finding out what they like. Until now, you’ve found out a little bit about what John likes but not too much about yourself, and he doesn’t seem too interested to find out much more than how he can get himself off. Before the wedding, you had kissed, held hands, hugged, even took a few naps together on your couch. Both of you had felt tempted, but you were proud of having waited, having saved yourself, giving yourselves over to one another on the wedding night, fumbling with the condom, unsure of how to properly arrange your limbs, getting through it in one piece and trying again the next morning. 

But despite the year that has passed since that night, things in the bedroom haven’t changed too much. John is more steady with the condom now, slipping it on despite your birth control pills, never letting you feel his bare skin inside of you, only in between your folds for a few moments before he pulls away to rummage through the nightstand. 

Tonight, the silver packet is already placed next to the pillow when you snuggle into John’s side, tentatively giving him a few kisses on the lips. He’s hard already, but the erection that pushes into your thigh when he turns over feels different this time. Selfishly, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have something bigger grinding into your flesh, something more like— 

You don’t go there. 

After less than a minute of kissing, a few light pinches to your nipple and a full grab to your tit, John nudges your legs open and starts to descend towards the foot of the bed, taking the time to kiss down your torso as he makes his way to your spread legs. It’s been a while since he did this, and for a moment, you fear that he can tell it hasn’t been as long for you. Maybe you can blame it on being stressed, if your responses aren’t what he’s used to when, if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t remember how you responded to his tongue anymore. 

He begins to lick your clit, one stroke of his tongue after another, wedging a finger into your opening, drawing it in and out, unaware that you’re about to crawl out of your skin, feeling the anxiety begin to creep up when you realize that it surely won’t be enough to get you anywhere, and that even after several minutes of slobbering over your sex, you surely won’t be wet enough to take him, or to even take another finger at this rate. And if he notices that something is different, if he asks what’s going on, the all-consuming guilt of your affair will spill out through the cracks and destroy everything in its wake.

So for the sake of your marriage, just this one time, you allow yourself to go somewhere else inside the confines of your own mind — to the edge of the pool, where Frankie pushed your legs open, where he ripped off your bikini bottoms and devoured you, where he nibbled on your folds and sucked on your clit and made you convulse with pleasure. You close your eyes as you think of him, incredibly guilty but turned on nevertheless, believing that this is what she meant when your mother said that marriage is sacrifice. 

You get wetter — wet at all, really — and John pulls away. He never lets you finish when he goes down on you, either with a remark about it taking too long and his boner going down, or noticing you’re close and jokingly pouting that it’s unfair if you get to come now and he has to wait until later. Sometimes you wonder what kind of porn he watched, if his attitudes and beliefs about sex have changed since he was a teenager. He reaches over and grabs the condom, and you can see the tip of his tongue poking out as he slips it out of the foil and finds the right side, rolls it on and climbs between your legs. 

There is something unappealing about the whole ordeal, something about the way he focuses so hard that barely any attention is paid to you, about how disconnected from his own body he seems, not letting his touch guide much of anything, deciding on an action and then following it rather than letting his desire guide him. Not that it would guide him anywhere pleasurable for you, but you think it might be more attractive to see him taking what he wants. 

Not that you’ve seen that more than once. 

“Okay,” he breathes, steading himself on his elbows on either side of your head, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing it in, giving a few preliminary strokes, his back stiff as a board, grunting when he finds a rhythm he’s happy with, not entirely consistent, thrusting fast, not hitting the place inside of you that you’re doing everything in your power not to think about the existence of — the little spot that the tip of Frankie’s finger nudged into and stroked, the spot you should forget about. 

You snake your hand down between your legs and rub at your clit, changing up the direction, the speed, shifting and speeding up and slowing down until you can tell John is close. “Wait, wait,” you say, in an uncharacteristic expression of wanting to get your own before he gets his, “Just— I wanna come, sorry it’s taking some time.”

He groans and pulls out, sits back on his heels and swats your hand away, placing his own fingers on your clit and rubbing in a circular motion, asking if he’s doing it right, getting increasingly agitated as you try to adjust his movements, sighing and giving up at the end of it. “You’re not gonna come anyway,” he groans, moving his hand to his cock to give it a few strokes, trying to get it back to its former state of hardness.  

Something about the visual of him, about the contempt in his voice, makes something flare up inside of you. It makes something start to burn as it coils and weasels its way into your ribcage, turns up the heat of your blood and makes the edges of your vision darken. It’s as if something is taking over you, possessing you, using you as a vessel, reaching its hand out to you to say, enunciate the words I feed you and then take my hand, let me bring you somewhere you are allowed to be selfish and where you no longer need to sacrifice. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you smile and grit through your teeth, the sickening guilt replaced by something new, something devious and wrong and demonic, “How about— you said you wanted to try something?”

He flashes you a grin and you get on all fours, feeling him shift around and enter you again, pulling your hips back in an unstable manner, while you fake a few moans and he thrusts in some sort of jumpy, inconsistent pattern, until he comes silently and flops down on over you. 

You tap your fingers on the sheets and turn your head to smile at him, “I’m just gonna go get cleaned up.” He puts his hand around his dick and pulls out, discarding the condom while you pick up your clothes and snatch your phone off the dresser, heading into the bathroom. 

After locking the door behind you and sitting down on the toilet, you grab your phone and stare at the contact name Frankie Morales for what must be a full minute before you open a text message to him.

“What’s your address?” 

Your phone is silently put on the countertop while you wash your hands and get dressed, the flushing of the toilet covering up the beep of his response being received mere seconds later. 

“i’ll send in a sec. door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so pls be mindful of the rules. they r very strict” 

You roll your eyes and wait until his address follows in a second text, then the wheels start to turn. An excuse and a coverup form in your mind while you pull on your pants and your sweater, a way to get out of this hell for at least one night, to see what it is you’ve been warned about for so long, to see if one person’s abyss is another’s salvation.  

When you come out of the bathroom, your hand is on your lower stomach. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the store, okay? I think my period’s coming soon and I’m out of pads,” you say, nodding towards the door, “I’ll run some errands while I’m at it so just text me if you need anything, I’ll do the whole round.” 

“Okie dokie,” he says, and you turn the corner, stepping out into the hallway before you let the resentment set in any longer. 

—

Frankie’s place is, unsurprisingly, in a dodgy part of town, one with frequent sirens and more than a handful of boarded up storefronts. There’s a chill in the air when you step out of your car, on the other side of the street from a house with a single porchlight on, lighting up the entrance and the wall of the garage next to the door. You slam the car door closed and take a breath, looking up at the full moon and shaking your head at yourself. Of course it would happen on a night like this, of course it would happen on a day you haven’t felt Jesus’s presence, on a day you wonder if he really does care for you after all. 

On a day that you feel the embrace of something else, another shadow wrapping his arms around you and promising you that your desires will be seen, heard, honored, that your wants and needs will all be fulfilled. More than fulfilled, you’ll be allowed to gorge yourself if you go with him, if you turn away from the light and embrace the darkness.

You ring Frankie’s doorbell and take a step back, fidget with the rings on your finger, necklace forgotten despite the cold touch of the gold on your skin as you stand outside and wait. The door opens to a dimly lit house, the smell of weed and cologne permeating your senses. You should be turned off, you should be grossed out, you should be so unimpressed. 

And yet, your pussy is already throbbing at the first inhale of his scent, and at the sight of him as he opens the door, chuckling while he pulls off his baseball hat and runs his fingers through his mess of curls, then puts the hat back on and adjusts it with both hands, and takes a step closer. 

“That was fast,” he muses, leaning into the wooden frame leading the way to his living room. His bicep strains the sleeve of his t-shirt as he leans on his elbow. 

“Shut up,” you quip, your breaths heaving, “You know just as well as I do that I shouldn't be here so don’t push your luck, Francisco.” 

He laughs at that, taps his knuckles against the frame and takes a breath, cocks an eyebrow and looks down at you, at the porchlight drenching you in golden rays as it contrasts with his own figure in the doorway, the shadowy inside of his house. “Who am I in your eyes?”, he asks, taking a step towards you and circling your waist with his hands, pushing you over the threshold of his territory, into his space, “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray? Make you sin?” 

His hands are on your back and the door is still open behind you, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. 

“Maybe...”, you murmur, looking down at his shirt with your hands on his chest, swallowing so hard you hear the gulp in your throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.” 

He cracks a smile and leans over to close the door behind you, stepping closer when the door snicks shut, until your feet are between his. Refocusing on you, he narrows his eyes as he whispers, pushing your hair over your shoulder with one hand, the other on your hip, “What have I done? Tell me.” 

You run your hands up the fabric of his shirt, slide them up along his neck, the patchy scruff on his jaw, up, up, a little further, until you reach his hat and carefully take it off, toss it over to his couch and run your fingers through his hair, separating his curls while he gazes at you in a way that you can feel on your skin, in a way nobody has ever looked at you, not on your wedding day and never since. 

“Tempted me into adultery with—”, you say, your voice as shaky as your breaths, gesturing to his chest, then his face, his hair and then his shoulders, his arms, “All this.” You step back, open up the space between your bodies, and with a sudden wave of courage, nod towards his crotch, “And that.” 

He seems to like that, pulling you back in and curving both hands around your hips, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along yours. “Godly cock wasn't doin’ it for ya?”, he whispers, with his eyes blazing, darker than they’ve ever been. His touch is scalding, heat rolling off the skin of his neck and arms, almost as hot as he makes you. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, convincing no one, not even yourself. 

His lips come to the side of your neck, the bristles of his thick mustache scratching your skin, scruffy and a little unkempt, with hints of gray. Sleazy old man. “You’re going straight to Hell, you know that, right?” He seems to enjoy mumbling terrible things into your skin and pressing the words into your body with a kiss immediately after, sealing it with a lick of his tongue, “No space for girls like you in heaven.” 

“Shut up—”

“Maybe even purgatory, adultery is pretty bad,” he chuckles, arms wrapping tighter around you, his hard cock pushing into your stomach through the fabric of his sweatpants. A drop of arousal seeps out of you at the feeling, into your panties, still wet from the lubricant on the condom from earlier. 

“Shush, stop—”

He shakes his head and interrupts you with a kiss, finally, dragging you along the floor, through the dim light of his living room, the kitchen, the hallway, to his even darker bedroom, to the unmade bed opposing the reclining chair covered in clothes. With his tongue in your mouth, he undoes your pants and pulls them down, kissing along the edge of your underwear when he’s squatting down, grabbing your ankles and stepping you out of your jeans. 

“I told you no panties,” he whispers, teasing the seam of the fabric, moving further in, licking a stripe over the lace covering your clit, making you gasp, “You’ve been such a good girl until now, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking at his hair and wanting so badly to drag your hand through it again, to feel those thick curls on your fingers. 

“You seem agitated.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” he mocks, pulling your panties slightly to the left, revealing part of your mound, kissing the skin that makes contact with the air. “What happened? Got shitty sex from your husband or something? Came here to get the real thing?” 

You roll your eyes at him, at the reminder of why you’re here, on one hand wanting to say that yes, it’s only because my husband sucks in bed, and on the other, trying not to spill that you make me feel something I couldn’t even conjure up in my dreams and you’ve possessed me like a demon and I don’t want you to leave my body and I love how you feel. 

“How about that,” he marvels as he raises to his feet, moving his hand to your chin and tipping your face up to look into his eyes, “Crawling to the cross… Finally gonna let me fuck that tight ass little pussy? Not reserved for Jesus anymore? Or your husband?” 

“Thought so.” Frankie smells like sweat and cologne and weed, and this is a terrible idea and you really shouldn’t be here but your sweater slips over your arms just as easily as your bra, as easily as his own shirt falls from his body and his sweatpants drop to the floor. 

“You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you,” he coos, and you hate how much his words go to your clit, to your nipples and every other erogenous zone he might discover on the surface of your body, “Gonna smell like my come, my cologne, my spit, my sweat… Like my bed—” 

You whimper and he kisses you, then murmurs into your lips, “But first you’re gonna suck my cock, and then I’m gonna fuck you.” He rips your panties down your legs and forces them off, then pushes you to your knees and tells you to open up, digging his thick fingers into your cheeks to pry your jaw open. 

Your lips part, jaw separating wider as he rubs the tip of his massive, impossibly long cock on your lower lip, sticky with precome as it oozes out from his slit, and he groans at the sight, putting his free hand on the back of your head. John never forces you to your knees, never shoves his cock past your lips — he begs and pleads, lays on the sheets and takes your mouth in silence, tensing up a little before he comes. 

But Frankie, 

“Hope you don’t have a fucking gag reflex,” he mutters, then pries your mouth open a little more and presses his cock in, deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat, placing one large hand under your chin and the other on top of your head, holding you in place while he tips his head back and thrusts. 

Frankie fucks your face, relentlessly and without reprieve, shoves his head down your throat, makes you drool and claw at his thighs, forces little sputtering, choking, gagging sounds from you, ones that spur him on and make him growl and moan, pushing in as far as he can and retracting until only his tip is left within. John would have come by now, you note to yourself, sated and done for the night, but Frankie only gets harder, with your nose buried in the coarse dark curls on his pelvis, inhaling his musk, your eyes sliding back at the scent. So masculine and so fucking hot. 

“That was your warm-up,” he pulls out with a groan, slips both hands under your arms and pulls you up, leaning you over the bed, kicking your feet apart and slotting his dick between your asscheeks. “Know we haven’t gotten to the backstroke section in the lesson plan yet,” he chuckles, thrusting gently, sliding his length over your asshole, “But you can think of this as another type of backstroke, hm?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper, hands fisting in the crumpled sheets beneath you while he pushes you up on the mattress, teasing your entrance with his tip now, bare and dripping, letting your wetness coat him as he feeds you less than an inch at a time, drenching more and more of him before he pushes in, the first time you’ve felt a naked cock inside you, a loss of another type of innocence, an intimacy not awarded to you by your husband. 

“Tight fuckin’ fit here,” he remarks with a low whistle, “Looks like John Smith didn’t do much to stretch you out.”

You whip your head around in absolute horror, “How do you know his name?”, and Frankie looks at you, dumbfounded, mouth open, brows scrunched together as he pauses. 

“His name is John Smith?” He’s on the verge of a laugh now, dragging a hand down his face, through his curls, then coming to scratch at his beard, “Are you serious right now?” 

You roll your eyes at him and concede, “Yes, Frankie, that is his name.”

“That’s your husband’s name — John Smith.” 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Frankie, do I need to remind you of what I said when I showed up here?” He pushes in a little further then, amusement plastered all over his face, his sly smirk doing something to you that you can’t quite place, as if you feel it in your chest somehow. 

“Remind me of what?” He tilts his head, wraps your hair around his fist and sinks all the way into you, bottoms out and watches it punch the air out of your lungs, a pathetic little breath escaping you while your eyes slide into your head and he gives your hair a little tug. “Remind me of what?” 

“That I shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, bordering on delirious already, clenching your walls around him just to feel his size, to feel every curve, every vein, his skin, the burn starting to set in from how you gape around him, fucked open and stretched out. His, now. “I think you might be the Devil or something.” 

“Don’t give me that much credit,” he laughs, sliding out, pressing back in, grinding into your cervix and tugging at your hair, listening to you moan, leaning over to whisper, “I am so much worse.” 

Then he starts to fuck you, deep and almost punishing in its fervor, his hand gripping your hip so hard you swear he could crush your bones, hand fisted in your hair and pulling on it until your head leans back, and he towers over you, forces you to look up at him while he pounds you from behind, while he shows you how a real man fucks you, one who isn’t tied down and restrained by the shackles of a past spent trying to be pure, trying to suppress his instincts. 

Frankie lets go of your hair and purses his lips, lets a glob of saliva fall to your crack and watches it slide down while brings his thumb to his mouth, wets it with spit and reaches down between your cheeks, rubs your tight ring of muscle and gently pushes in while you look back at him, eyes wide with apprehension. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, pushing further in when he feels you relaxing around his finger, “Sodomy in front of the Lord, I get it.” 

You roll your eyes back at him. 

“I can promise he’s not looking in here, baby, he doesn’t wanna see this any more than that little husband of yours does,” he says, then narrows his eyes in that way you hate, “What was his name again?”

“Shut up,” you groan, and the hand on your hip finds your hair again, tugging it back harshly while his wide thumb sinks in fully.

“What was that?” he growls, giving you a hard thrust when you don’t respond, your slick seeping out and smearing over your inner thighs when he withdraws and fucks back into you, makes your flesh shake and jiggle. 

“Forget it,” you mumble, letting your hands slide out in front of you, suspended by his hand in your hair, feeling your ass bouncing against his hips at every thrust, the wet squelch of your pussy taking him and his balls smacking against your clit, sticky and sinful and the best feeling you’ve ever felt. 

“That’s what I thought.” He lets go of your hair, letting you fold in half as your chest hits his sheets and your face is buried in his scent again, and he reaches around to put two fingers to your clit, circling it quickly, bringing on your orgasm in mere seconds. You soften, letting him in even deeper, sucked in by your pussy while your asshole flutters around his thumb, and he chuckles, muttering under his breath, easy to please. 

He keeps rubbing, despite your whines and whimpers, fucking you and playing with your clit until you come for him again, then flips you over onto your back, pulls you to the edge of the bed and slides back in. You glance down at his pelvis, sticky and wet with your arousal, thick hair he hasn’t trimmed in what must be months, dark curls you want to feel against your sensitive little nub. Both of his hands slide under your ass to lift you up, his cock reaching so deeply his name rips from your throat with a loud moan, the first followed by more, forced out one by one, his name in there again somewhere, incoherent almost. 

Then he lays you down, pushes you up on the bed and kneels between your thighs, lays down on top of you and cages you in with his bulging arms. He captures your lips in a kiss as he grinds into you, pushes his pelvis into your clit, lets his sweat smear across your torso, your shoulders getting covered in the concentrated scent of his underarms. 

You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you. 

It’s like you’re being baptized in his scent, drenched in his perspiration, in the saliva covering either side of your neck from his wet kisses, his precome dribbling out inside you, the taste of it still on your lips. 

“Frankie—”, you pant into the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, your other hand on his upper back, holding him close, “Frankie, I’m gonna— I’m gonna come, I—”

He shushes you with another kiss, with a rumbling growl, letting you come before he throws your ankle over his shoulder and he pounds you until the sound of your moans drowns out the sirens outside the window and his snarls, his curses, the wet slap of your bodies and his grunts when he takes your other ankle and folds you in half again, pushes your knees into your chest and shows you how you’re meant to be fucked. 

You can tell he’s close, closer than he wants to be, muttering how fucking tight you are between grunts and moans, both hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, his cock so deep within you that the room is a blur, hazy from the darkness, the air thick with the smell of sex. His thrusts slow, trying to abate his orgasm, failing to when you tighten and whimper his name again, when you arch your back and suck him in further, until your walls suffocate him and he grunts your name, panting with his jaw hanging open, lifting up to look down at how he splits you in half. 

“Hope you’re on the pill or something,” he groans, while his cock pulses and swells inside of you, while ropes of his come fill you and slide down his shaft. Then he chuckles, his voice going low and gravelly, “You know, so you don't have a little demon baby in here you won't let yourself get rid of. That wouldn't be good for business, would it?”

Crushing you with his weight again, he bites and kisses your neck, staying lodged inside your cunt, body pressing you down into his sheets, a drop of his sweat sliding down your chest, your own heat dampening the backs of your knees. His lips find yours, tongues twisting together, heavy breaths filling the silence in the air. You swallow his saliva, you’d drink it if you could, his blood or his spit or his come. 

“You’ve never had that before, huh?”, he murmurs into your mouth, “Never taken a load like that?” 

Your hips squirm in response while you shake your head, and another laugh rumbles in his chest. “You like it, though, you like having my come inside you.” You don’t dare tell him you’ve never had a load inside of you at all, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to own you like this, the first person to risk something. He pulls out and brings his hand to your core, lets some of his spend seep out onto his fingers, and smears it over your folds, your clit, up to coat your nipples, your lips, then back down to rub it into your asshole. 

“You like when I cover you in it,” murmured and low, his eyes dark again, piercing and paralyzing while you raise up on your elbows and look up at how he towers over you again, “Not so Godly anymore when you're covered in the Devil's seed, huh?” 

“No,” your voice is weak, little more than a squeaking sound.

He cranes his neck down to smell your shoulder, your arm, your chest and your neck. “Told you you’d smell like me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into your chest, right above where he marked you, “Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me.” 

His finger comes to your stretched out, gaping entrance. It collects more of his slick, warm load, and he brings it to your chest, one streak across and another down the middle. He crosses you with it, with the evidence of your lust, your sin, your adultery, your submission to darkness and evil, to your own wants and your own primal drive towards this man, the desire for you that you sense in him. 

“Yeah, now you know who you belong to.” 

You look down and see the glistening cross of semen, your nipples still glossy, filthy and revolting and terrible and making your pussy clench so hard another thick drop splashes out of you and onto this bed, your clit beginning to ache again, wanting more and more and more. 

“See that?”, he tilts your chin up with one hand, the other planted on the mattress, muscles bulging out, his wet, semi-hard cock hanging between his legs, come still seeping out of him, dripping from his slit, “Don't need God when I’m here to tell you what to do, baby.” 

 “No?”

“Nah,” he slides his hand around your neck to cradle the base of your skull, moving his knees to the outside of your hips, shifting closer until his cock is in your face. “And now you’re gonna lick up all my come, you’re gonna suck my dick till I’m hard again, and then I’m gonna teach you how to ride me.” 

“Okay,” you whisper, lashes fluttering, lips parting at the sight of his thickness, his length, the flushed red tip. 

“Not just gonna teach you how to swim, sweetheart — gonna teach you how to take my cock. Mine, just mine, until you can’t do without it, until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it, until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.”

You pause for a moment, looking up at his face, eyes adjusted to the darkness now, and then, “Frankie?” 

“Yes, angel?"

"Teach me.”

poolside (sugar daddy!javi gutierrez x f!reader) 18+

kofi | um i literally wrote this in an hour?????? idk where it even came from but basically han @swiftispunk had to walk home in a blizzard today and i felt she deserved something warm to enjoy while she bundles up. who woulda thought this would be my first fic of 2024? anyway this is loosely based off this drabble by han and.. dare i say... exists in the same universe? in my brain lmao summary: just some fun by the pool with sugar daddy!javi rating: 18+ explicit warnings: blowjobs, deepthroating, brief ball worship, daddy kink, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, bad google translate spanish, sweat word count: 1.5k

You've been thinking about it all morning, and that's no exaggeration. The second you'd awoken the thought had been there in the back of your mind, although quieted almost immediately by your alarm and the rush to get ready for the day. It had returned in the bathroom as you'd brushed your teeth, again at breakfast when you'd scarfed down a banana, and now, as you sip your ice-cold cocktail underneath the hot Majorcan sun, the thought is there again.

Only this time, you can't hold it back.

"Can I be honest about something?"

The words tumble past your lips much faster than anticipated, garbled by anxiety and the deafening humidity of the warm summer day. For a few seconds you think - god, he's gonna ask me to repeat it - but thankfully, Javi turns to you from the lounge chair on your right side with a kind smile and those sparkling eyes you've already grown so accustomed to. Your nervousness dissipates almost immediately.

"Of course you can," he says, tilting his head back against the soft cushion, "You can tell me anything, mi amor."

You bite your lip, avoiding eye contact as you softly murmur, "Well I know we haven't really established all our rules yet, but, um -" your eyes fall unconsciously to his striped speedo, "I'd really like to give you a blowjob."

The speed at which his eyebrows go up is almost comical, sunglasses drooping off the end of his nose as his cocktail freezes in mid-air on its way to his mouth. He stares at you for a few seconds with fluttering lashes, words bubbling in his throat but never actually passing his lips. You stifle a giggle.

"Would that be okay?" you ask quietly, shyly, though you already know from his reaction that it's more than okay. You just want to hear him say it.

With an almost shaky hand he places his drink on the table between your chairs and sits up a bit, long tan legs stretching out against the length of the chair. He pushes his glasses up, as if trying to hide his clearly excited expression from you - trying to play it cool, as best he can. Adorable.

"Yes," he finally states, voice cracking slightly, "Yes, that would be okay."

In seconds you've lifted from your spot beside him to kneel down alongside his chair, hand immediately reaching for the waistband of his speedo. His shirt rides up as he positions himself accordingly, and you can see sweat dripping from the hair on his tummy down into his pubic hair. You start to salivate.

His cock is only semi-hard, taken by surprise at your sudden request, but you think it's cute. You tug down the speedo as best you can, exposing him entirely, his heavy balls slipping out of their confinement. With no hesitation you lean down and nuzzle your nose against each one, inhaling his delicious musk and smiling when you feel his hand immediately cup the back of your head. Oh, he likes that.

You open your mouth and carefully tug one of his balls into your mouth as best you can, soft and sensitive against your tongue. He lets out a shaky moan and you peer up to see him tilting his head back again; you can't tell if he's looking at you, eyes covered by his sunglasses, but you don't mind. You start to suckle carefully, tongue swirling all along the tender area before releasing it with a pop and enveloping the second one in the same manner. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair and you smirk.

"Do you like getting your balls sucked, daddy?" you ask quietly after freeing your mouth again.

"Y-yes," he says through another moan as you begin to lap at them with your tongue, wet with your saliva and his sweat, "Yes, mi amor. D-daddy likes that."

You pull your face back and feel yourself throb when you see how much his cock has grown, already at full size just from having his balls played with. You nudge the base with your nose, closing your eyes as you let it trail up and down, up and down, and then repeating the same pattern with your tongue. He tastes like saltwater and you salivate even more.

"Oh, fuck," he groans somewhere above you, thumb stroking the spot behind your ear, "Así, corazón."

His Spanish - its meaning still mostly unbeknownst to you - spurs you on, and you reach your hand down to carefully lift his cock from his belly and slip it past your lips. His mushroom head is soft and already leaking, salty-sweet on your tongue as you moan around its width and take it further into your mouth. Already dying to have him in your throat, you push downwards and allow almost his entire length to fill you up, your eyes rolling back at the sensation.

"Oh," he whimpers out, thighs trembling beneath you, "Mi amor..." His nails dig lightly into your scalp and you feel your pussy throb again.

Breathing carefully through your nose, you sink your mouth down until your lips kiss the base of his cock, his pubic hair crowding your face. You inhale deeply and moan again, thighs rubbing together as he pulses in your throat. After a few seconds you pull off, spluttering a bit but wiping your mouth and going back in for more almost immediately. He groans above you, watching as you deepthroat his thick cock with barely any inhibitions whatsoever.

"N-need to be inside you," he murmurs suddenly, fingers brushing through your hair with an urgency that wasn't there before.

"You are inside me," you whisper as you pull off his cock, only to capture it in your mouth a few seconds later and stuff your throat with his length again.

"No, eso no es lo que quiero decir," his words are already mush, and you wouldn't understand even if he'd spoken them in English. When you don't respond, only suckle around the warm appendage in your throat, he finally manages to groan, "Up here, hermosa, please. Daddy needs your pussy."

Fuck.

If he'd asked you any other way, you might not have listened, especially when the rules for your dynamic still have yet to be completely laid out. But just hearing him say that again...

"Okay, daddy," you mumble around the head of his cock, letting it plop from your lips and smack wetly against his belly. You stand up and waste no time in tugging your bikini bottoms down, tossing them to the side and climbing into his lap. Your pussy is warm and sticky against his bare skin, throbbing above his belly button in quick pulses.

"Lift up," he practically hisses through his teeth, reaching down and holding his cock at attention while you do as he says. A moment later you're sheathing his thick length inside your heat, soft whimpers escaping your lips as you sink down. "That's it, mi amor," he groans, "Perfecta."

You already know you're not going to last, and he seems to feel the same. The humidity of the air pushes down on your sweaty bodies, your hands coming down to press firmly against his chest as you start to ride his cock up and down. You finger the buttons of his shirt, pulling them apart to access the skin beneath; in turn, he reaches up and pulls your bikini top down under your breasts with one finger, exposing them to him as you start to bounce.

He's so fucking thick, so deep and hot and wet and perfect. Your brow furrows as you quicken your pace, eyes coming up to meet his sunglasses, and - without asking - you reach forward and take them off. He's looking right at you, eyes still sparkling, watching your every movement - watching you bounce up and down on his cock. It's enough to make you come.

And you do, a high keening sound falling from your mouth as you fall forward against his chest and let your orgasm take over, limbs loose and shaky. His arms wrap around you, hold you firm against his body as he takes your hips and lifts you up and down without any effort, keeping your pace steady on his cock.

"That's it, mi amor," he murmurs to you softly, movements frantic now, fast and desperate, "Hold on to me."

He doesn't need to ask - you're already wrapping your arms around his neck and breathing haggardly against the warmth of his chest as he fucks into you. It only takes a few more lifts of your hips for him to explode inside of you, cum hot and thick against your walls, filling you up. You squeak out another breathless moan and bury your face in his sun-kissed skin.

He keeps you there on his cock for a few moments, both of you catching your breaths as he strokes your bare skin up and down, up and down, listening to the chirps of birds in nearby trees and the faint splash of pool water. It's so peaceful.

"Thank you, daddy," you tell him softly.

"No, hermosa," he pants out, nose brushing the crown of your head as he presses a kiss to your hair, "Thank you."

Incase more proof was needed.

https://x.com/pookiepascal/status/1768351709066104917?s=46&t=ryrt9E5Y9rFm2rjgO3lGDg

It’s a Pedro thing! 😄

𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄

summary | you're his best-friend's daughter and he's at a party he can't be bothered to care about, luckily you're the one thing that catches his attention. [5k]

pairing | lucien flores x fem!reader (best-friend's daughter!reader and/or alternatively, dad's best friend!lucien)

content warning | 18+ content, as always: no use of y/n, age gap (not specified, but it's girthy) smoking, semi-public sex, daddy kink, f!oral, unprotected piv, light choking, mentions of reader having hair that can be grabbed (to some degree), lucien is a major dilf and divorced, if i missed anything lmk!

author’s note | so, we know next to nothing about lucien but i have been sitting with this idea in my head and i wrote it. sue me. characterization could be completely off by the time the movie comes out but let's just enjoy the pwp and be hornknee, xoxo. also i hc that lucien does use some spanish. it's very minimal but it's there!

Lucien couldn’t give anyone a valid reason why he was here. Unwelcome and well, uninvited. At least, by the people who owned the house—his ex-wife and her new husband who referred to him as a leech who liked to mooch off the enjoyment of others because really, who was he to turn down an invite? He had a few close mutual friends who insisted that he be there, demanded it, even. He was personable enough, he could charm anyone, the other party-goers and it wouldn’t disrupt a damn thing.

Until he spots you.

He knows you from a distance—polite looks, short greeting and small talk, it never stretches beyond that. Maybe a few one off dinners here and there. You were his friend's daughter—best friend, but that didn’t matter.

And you know him well enough—through stories from your dad and pictures sent while he was away on vacation or work. He had a certain…aura to him that felt charged, overwhelming, and it provoked you to keep a distance when he was around. A charming smile and a wink in your direction never fails to make you weak in the knees and you know there’s no meaning behind, but it never fails to make you throb, something deep and primal in your gut.

You were half his age and clueless—he’s well-beyond your years, more experienced. In all aspects of life, but he can’t be that oblivious to the effect he has on you. Not within the handful of years he’s gotten to know you.

It’s the first time he’s seen you since you graduated college, a bright smile on your face as you sip on the flute of champagne in your hand, conversing lightly as he pops a cheese cube into his mouth, taking the freshly opened beer from your father and turning in the direction of the masses, sipping greedily as he leaned against the counter.

And given you’re a few glasses in, you feel a gentle buzz in your head that has you smiling when you set eyes on him. 

Lucien was fine to remain unassuming all night, but the moment your eyes track him he’s perking up. Subtly, but you arms are outstretched as you approach him and he pulls you in like it was a regular greeting,

It wasn’t. Hardly at all.

Rough palms over warm skin, large and dexterous fingers pressing into your shoulder blades as you bury your face into his chest, the cold press of a chain against your temple. He says your name softly, a kind greeting as you smile into his chest and whisper his name in return.

When you pull back, he’s flashing a quick wink. Something he has done a million times before, but it feels electric, and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but you feel his fingers lingering against your skin before your father is cutting in—

“Told you he’d show up.” He speaks indifferently, outing your obvious want and hopefulness for him to show up—which yeah, you perked up at the mention of it being a possibility. But, you didn’t expect your father to throw it back in your face. You grumble something low and Lucien can’t help but smile, cheek dimpling on one side like it always did—a sign of a true and genuine smile.

“Missin’ me, are you?” Lucien teases, watching as you crossed your arms over your chest in frustration, ignoring his question. “That’s…sweet.”

Your eyes roll slightly, watching as your father melted away easily into the crowd, knowing he’d disturbed the peace and left you to clean up the mess. Not that you minded, but it didn’t help that Lucien had your body riddled with nerves, noticing the way he clocked every single movement—even the most subtle.

You kept rubbing at a spot behind your ear, uncomfortable with the crowd as you shifted from foot to foot and Lucien took note, tapping your elbow as he nodded toward the back door.

And you nearly talk yourself out of it, but he’s flashing that sweet smile your way and it’s hypnotic, feet moving before you can deny him the opportunity.

Luckily, the backyard was empty and that provided some peace. And privacy, at the very least. 

-

You follow Lucien silently, feet shifting against the gravel as you follow him around to the side of the house, noting as he looks around curiously—he’s never been here either, clearly. He chews at his lip and nods again before finding a quiet spot, leaning against the side of the house, solid cement pressing into his back as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“So, college?” He asks idly, struggling slightly as he opens the fresh pack. Lucien knew enough about you, through small talk with you and your father and he seemed genuinely interested, like he wanted you to elaborate, so you did.

“Just graduated,” You tell him honestly, fiddling with a thin, decorative bow on your sleeve, complimenting the intricate flowery design of your dress, flowy and trimmed high at your thigh, a muted yellow that he knows is your favorite color, “how’s business—you know, with my dad and everything?”

Which you couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about, but Lucien appreciates the gestures and chuckles, cigarette slipping between his lips as flicks open the lighter and burns the end of the cigarette until it flashes a deep amber before stowing away the pack and lighter into his pocket. 

“Good,” He says gruffly through a deep inhale, exhaling jaggedly as he offers you the cigarette hesitantly, eyebrow raised in question, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell your dad.”

You shoot him a look of annoyance, nose scrunching up as you pluck the cigarette from his fingers. You’ve never smoked a day in your life, but he didn’t need to know that.

He did. But, it doesn’t stop him from letting you take a puff, struggling to hide the grimace as you pass it back.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” You retort flippantly, “It’s been, like, eight years. You can drop that already.”

Lucien huffs out a short breath through his nose as his eyes track the ground, puffing at the cigarette robotically, moving through the motions as he flicks the ash away.

You notice his change in demeanor, subtle but there.

“What?” You ask curiously, a tinge of amusement in your tone as you tilt your head to meet his eyes, hands resting loosely against your hips as you leaned against an opposing half-wall, ass hitting the edge as you backed into it. “If you have something to say just say it. You never have a problem making fun of me any other time.”

“Not makin’ fun,” He responds calmly, shaking his head—he puffs a few more times before the cigarette sits lonely between his index and middle at his side, “I know you’re not a kid anymore, that’s pretty damn obvious.”

Your chest rattles with a gentle laugh, feeling slightly relaxed now that he didn’t throw another easy jab your way, but you feel the heated implication behind his tone, the way his eyes drag along your body but he doesn’t act—he wouldn’t, right?

He seems fearful, hesitant. So, you play into it.

“What gave it away?” You tease. “I mean, I would flash off my degree but I don’t have that with me.”

Your arms cross over your chest again, tighter this time as your breasts shift obviously, nearly spilling out of the top of your dress and Lucien swallows with irritation, throat burning with the sting of nicotine but also a deep, deep want for…something. 

He thinks, has a line locked and loaded in his head but he decides against it, laughing at the absurdity and knowing you would laugh about it too. But, the quiet chuckle and lack of response has you pressing him. You take a few steps forward, still a comfortable distance but he follows it, eyes tracking and following the line of your body as you question him.

“What?” You ask, “What's so funny?”

Lucien wants to bite his tongue, but he can’t resist.

“Just, uh—“ He shakes his head abashedly, a grin breaking out on his face, “was gonna suggest you flash somethin’ else but that’s—it’s stupid. Just a joke, that’s—“

And you hate how he’s looking at you now.

It’s desire—insatiable and needy and he blindly stubs out the cigarette into the wall behind him before he’s discarding it on the ground.

Fuck it, you’ll bite.

“Tell me,” You urge, “tell me what you wanna see.”

He releases a shaky breath, a small cloud of smoke passing his lips as he turns his head away and you take the chance to invade his space completely, fingers running along the outside of his now empty hand, guiding it along your hip slowly—he follows the movement intently as you speak, “I’ll listen, I swear.”

His hand squeezes gently at your hip, the gradual guide toward your breasts nearly killing him before he’s finally speaking, “Your tits,” He breathes, thumb brushing over a clothed nipple, hardened under the fabric and he can feel it, knowing it’s the only layer that’s keeping him from a bare touch of your skin, “show me.”

And it should worry you that you’re only a few feet from the back door, but you weren’t worried—these types of people, they never lingered outside. They chain smoked and filled the house with a haze, the house littered with empty cans of booze and idle chit chat. The low hum was a comforting ambience, a reminder that you had each other to yourself. 

You anticipated the feeling of being riddled with nerves, but his words spark a surge of pride through you, seeing how he gives into your plea to command—you want him to want it too, to demand it. You bite your bottom lip through a smile that has him cracking one similar, looking around briefly before you’re pulling the straps of your dress down in unison, his fingers cautiously catching the falling fabric as he helps keep your dress just under the valley of your breasts, allow the wide expanse of his hands to cup the soft tissue, your fingers curling around his own as he squeezes and admires in awe, bottom lip parted and wet from his tongue peeking out to soothe his chapped skin. 

“Fuck, they’re—“

You cut him off with a snarky comment, “Just like you imagined?” You smirk subtly, catching the guilty look he flashes at you, eyes admiring as he flicks a thumb over the nipple of your left breast, the other one squeezed gently in his hand. Your pussy throbs between your thighs and it makes your heart swell, the soft groan he releases as he watches the skin pebble and goosebump under his touch. “It’s okay, I know you’ve thought about it.”

It’s not right. It never was. But, you’ve caught him red-handed. He nods slightly, a quick jerk of his head that you would miss if you weren’t locked on his face, mouth falling open in a soft sigh as his thumb and index finger pull and twist at your nipple, experimenting with your reaction. “Better than I imagined, if that’s possible.” He admits wholeheartedly, before his hands are leaving your breasts and curling around the back of your thighs, carrying you the short distance to the perch on the half-wall, resting your ass against the cold slab of concrete before his mouth is assailing your breasts without warning, fingers fisting into his beautiful and messy coiffed curls, full of product and smelling faintly of citrus—he groans, his wide tongue flattening over the skin before he’s sucking a pert nipple into his mouth.

You gasp sharply, palm slapping into the concrete at the sudden shot of pleasure it strikes to you core, knowing you were soaking through your panties with every passing second and his free hand was only a few inches away, lingering against your thigh as he squeezes, blunt nails digging into the skin as you mumbled mindlessly. 

“Please,” You whine softly, “please—“

You’re not sure what you’re asking for, but Lucien feels the charge, the want you crave with his demanding nature and he pulls away briefly, hands leaving the other parts of your body to attach to your face, cradling your head momentarily as he examines your face, the slow drag of your teeth over your bottom lip as you dare to keep the eye contact, a glint of feral desire in your eye.

“Have you ever had your pussy eaten before?” Lucien asks boldly, point-blank as you shake your head. “Good.”

He backs away briefly, allowing you to rush to remove your panties, no words to be spoken to tell you to do so—you were more than eager, ready to toss them to the ground before he’s stuffing them in the loose pocket of his silk button up.

And really, you could find a million reasons to complain right now. Knowing there was a house full of people just inside, that you were ruining your dress with the patch of dirt against the edge of your ass or how it was going to get under your fingernails as your hands squeezed into the soil as he settled between your legs, crouching until his face is right in line with your pussy, bare and glistening in his face and he swears he’s never seen anything more mesmerizing—says it too. 

It has your stomach doing flips, his fist bunching into the fabric of your dress as he pushes it up and away, eyes slanting up to look at your as he nudges your thighs apart, resting one gently over his shoulder for support as he gives a teasing, testing lick between your lips.

You sigh shakily, leaning back on your palms but keep your chin against your chest, watching as Lucien kept his eyes locked on you while his tongue traced along your seam, sucking testingly at your clit and that draws a ragged gasp out, which is rewarded with a big grin and a small chuckle, “Oh fuck,” You say on a punched-out breath, “fuck that’s so—“

“Language, nena,” Lucien chastises and you almost lose your grip on reality, reeling at how easily he can assert himself, “don’t need your daddy hearing all that, right?”

Not the fucking time, you think. A hand fists into his hair, pulling roughly as he ups the pace, tongue lapping you up greedily, swirling around your quickly swelling clit with a precision that takes years of practice to master—and you’re sure he’s had plenty, but then he’s piping up again and it has your breath catch in your throat.

“Not—not the time,” You gasp, “fuck—Luc, oh my god—“

He pulls back suddenly, chin gripped between his fingers as he speaks, smothering and far too close than he needs.

“Unless you need me to play daddy for you,” He challenges, “keep that dirty mouth in check, amorcito.”

You whine slightly, both from the tinge of pain and the implication of him labeling himself like that. So boldly and unashamed. You can’t help but give him what he craves.

You nod quickly, “O-okay,” You respond softly, earning a gentle tug of warning as he waits, “Yeah—yes, daddy.”

Lucien grins devilishly, a quick decent as he resumes his previous actions with no blip, mouth attaching to your pussy with ease and falling back easily into the motion, devouring you with a fervor that consumes you, arms nearly collapsing out underneath you as he dares to slip a finger in with his greedy tongue, biting your lip until you taste that faintness of copper, desperate to muffle the sounds as he sucks at your clit until you’re begging to come, words teetering on your tongue as you feel a swell of boldness fill your chest, guiding his face against your pussy in a way that Lucien can only describes as needy, giving you some credit as you give into your own pleasure so easily, unashamed at how badly you want to come—even without asking. 

“Hu—oh, don’t—don’t stop—I’m gonna cum.” You plead, soft but desperate, his tongue swirling rapid, messy circles against your clit that forces your orgasm to creep up on you, body buzzing with electricity as it builds and explodes, releasing a tired sigh as you collapse onto your back, “—oh my god.”

Lucien rises with a slight grimace, aging knees not too appreciative of his current position, his hands engulfing your forearms as he pulls you sturdily upright. And you could stop here, go back inside, pretend nothing happened, and see each other a few years from now.

But, neither of you want that. 

Lucien cradles your face once more, slow creeping movements as his fingers curl behind your ears and cradle your head gently, eyes shifting between your wide eyes and slightly parted lips, swollen from being assaulted by your own teeth, biting and chewing away nervously. He soothes the skin with a touch, the pad of his thumb swiping over it gently before he’s following up with his lips, kissing you gently. Silently.

He didn’t ask and you didn’t want him to.

“What do you say, nena?” He asks teasingly, “Want me to fuck you?”

“Right here?” You whisper against his lips, sounding scandalized despite what’s already progressed within the last several minutes.

Lucien soothes your worries with another kiss, deep and desperate as he tongue licks into your mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” He pleads softly, feeling the way your fingers grip into the fabric at his shoulders, “fuck, you’re so tense, nena.”

You breath softly, a small exhale that Lucien clocks and soothes, “Let daddy take care of you,” He teases sweetly, hearing the sharp intake of breath you take as his nose nudges at the sensitive spot behind your ear, his teeth following the touch and biting gently, “go on, ask for it.”

You nod lazily, moaning softly as he mouths at your neck. “Do it,” You command gingerly, and Lucien’s hands squeeze at your skin, the fingers on one hand gripping tightly at your shoulder—“daddy, please?”

He runs the back of his fingers down your chest, through the valley of your breasts and your thumb rubs at the small tattoo etched in the space between this thumb and index finger. It’s always been so prevalent, eyes spotting it whenever he scratched at his face or wiped at his mouth during one of the rare dinners you had with him and your father. 

You hated how easy it was for you to notice and memorize the small things about him, stuff that shouldn’t mean anything but ended up meaning entirely too much—the faint trail of freckles that cover his chest, muffled by his tan skin but at this proximity, under the small spattering of chest hair, under the dangling of a few gold chains, you can spot them.

Allowing your movement to mimic his as your finger hooks into the material of his shirt, just over the highest, fastened button and he stops you, eyebrows furrowing. Thick fingers wrapping around your palm guide you down, your own fingers flexing against his stomach and Lucien wants to jump at the touch, the boldness you take on now as you pull him in, continuing your descent as you palm him impatient over his jeans, the uncomfortable stretch of the fabric apparent with the press of weight against your hand.

“Can I suck you off?” You ask, voice a soft whisper–fearful someone may hear you.

Lucien shakes his head and you have the nerve to be frustrated, pulling your hand away hesitantly but his reflexes are too quick, fingers encircling your wrist as he pulls you into him, chest pressing into his, looking down at him slightly with your unfair height advantage.

“If you’re good, maybe,” He explains, “Can you be a good girl and listen, nena?”

You nod eagerly, using his shoulders for support as he guides you off the ledge before quickly spinning you until your stomach presses against the cold wall, his hands working to shift your dress up your hips, the entirety material bunched around your stomach and leaving you nearly naked, his body the only cover to someone who wanted to peek around the corner and catch an eyeful, his belt buckle jingling loudly behind you.

You almost turn—almost, but his hands are faster than you, wrapping gently around your neck, traveling up until he can cup your chin back and tilt your head back, looking up at him from an angle that stretches you uncomfortably, but the hot press of his cock against your ass soothes any discomfort, eyes squeezing shut as he rubs his middle finger over your clit testingly, gaging your sensitivity.

And clearly over-sensitive still, he chuckles. 

“You come for me again and you can have whatever you want,” Lucien barters with you, canting his hips slightly to guide through your wetness from behind briefly, his hand hooking around the back of your thigh to lift it up, allowing for more room and leaving you, essentially, putty in his grip—pliable and moving where he guided you, “you want it inside of you, nena? Ask for it.”

“Luce, please,” You whine softly, a gentle squeeze at your throat as you open your eyes, slightly bleary from how tight you had them closed and he’s looking at you pointedly—right. He watches you take a short, shaky breath, “fuck—daddy, please?”

Lucien bucks his hips gradually, heart racing from the teasing glide of his cock through your folds, he could chastise you for speaking so crudely but the sweetness in your voice is enough to leave him satisfied, dropping your leg suddenly as he adjusts himself, slightly, pressing into you slowly, hand gripping his shaft as you gasped, the stretch of his thick cock more than you were used to and he sees it, feels it in the way you squeeze around him.

“De mierda,” He curses quietly, “used to fucking college boys, yeah?”

“Huh—a—a couple,” You admit, gritting your teeth slightly as he jerks his hips slightly, seating himself inside of you fully then, a collective groan leaving your lips, “but you’re so—”

Lucien chuckles darkly, burying his face into your neck, the burn of the stretch from the angle he has your head becoming more prevalent, but the way he mouths at your skin makes it easier to ignore, moving his hips slowly to allow to adjust, the soft jingle of his belt against the starchy denim in the back of your mind, “So what, nena?”

As if to prove a point, he pulls back suddenly, slamming back inside of you with force, ripping a strangled groan groan from your throat that he stifles with his palm, eyes connecting with yours in a warning, forehead pressing against the underside of his chin from the angle he has you. His hand grabs greedily at your backside, fingers digging into your cheek and guiding you back pointedly.

“B—big,” You answer brokenly, “so fucking big, daddy.”

You can feel the imprint of his smirk into your skin as he squeezes at your flesh, moaning freely into the guise of his hand, muffling your sounds as he fucks into you from behind, watching as you fail to keep your eyes open, falling deeper into your own mind as he reaches blindly for your arms, allowing him to lock them behind your back with his large hands encircling them easily.

“Look at me,” He breathes gruffly, the deep creases in his forehead showing with how hard he’s trying to hold himself together, his soft brown eyes darkened to near black as he admires you openly, mouth parted slightly, “baby, look at me.”

You force your eyes open despite your state, sobbing openly into his hand as he allows you some relief, guiding your head back down slowly but nearly wrapping himself around you as he sandwiches you between him and the wall, setting your hands free and pressing his own against the ledge in front of you, the other one gripping your hip harshly.

He’s mumbling something behind you, sounding wrecked beyond repair—some in english, some in spanish. His voice is heavier and slurry, small groans escaping when you squeeze him just a little too tight, “Cuidado, nena. Easy, easy,” He begs into your shoulder, “I can feel it, baby.”

“I wanna taste it,” You tell him suddenly, driven to near insanity by the thought of it, his heady taste on your tongue as he jerks himself into your mouth—and if this was only a one-time thing, you just couldn’t pass that up, “please?”

And fuck, he can’t say no to you.

He switches gears, fingers finding your clit and circling quickly, determined to bring you over the edge once more, before he can reach that point himself, following through on his promise to make you come again as it hits you suddenly, muffled into the hand that finds your mouth again, biting gently at the inside of his palm in an effort to stifle your moan, his movements going far past the point of over-stimulation and you swat him away, hearing his voice strained from behind you.

“On your knees, nena.” He directs and you move quickly, seeing the pained and pinched up look on his face as he grips his cock, glistening with your slick as he jerks himself in front of your face, gravel digging into your knees but you can’t be bothered to care, eagerly sticking out your tongue to feel the press of his tip against it. 

“Good—good girl, look so fuckin’ sweet down on your knees.”

Your delicate fingers grip into the silk material of his shirt as he cradles the top of your head, fingers gripping into your hair roughly as he comes with a strangled groan, muffled through clenched teeth. 

Thick spurts paint your tongue, your lips wrapping around his head briefly as you swirl your tongue around the head, determined to clean up whatever mess was left as you swallow it down, flashing your tongue in show as he loosens his grip on your hair, stumbling back slightly.

The aftermath is quiet, fumbling with clothes to redress yourself as you pull your straps back over your shoulder, adjusting the dress back over your hips and Lucien keeps a careful eye on you, tucking himself back into his briefs, jeans slipping back over his ass as he buckles the belt into place, noticing how you squeeze your thighs together instinctively, suddenly remembering where your missing garment had gone.

You start to reach for it but his hand covers the pocket, brow furrowed in a playful frustration as he swats your hand away, “Luce, I need those.” You insist, but he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Maybe I want an excuse to return them,” He admits, puffing out his shirt and smoothing the wrinkles, running a lazy hand through his tousled hair before giving you a quick one-over, assuming you didn’t want to stress the…fucked-out look you’re sure you sported, to some degree. A small hum slips from his lips as he nods toward the back door, “I’m gonna smoke another, if you wanna head inside.”

Less conspicuous, less obvious. Besides, he needed a minute to collect himself. Clearing his throat as he reached into his back pocket for the second time that night.

You leave quietly, a simple nod but a lingering touch as he fingers trail along your wrist as you leave, a definitive wink your way as he turns away, faint lighter flick in the distance.

You mold back into the small talk with ease, only catching him entering through the backdoor several minutes later, a faint blush to his cheeks from the sticky heat and you linger, selfishly.

And he’s hoping to blend in, avoid any and all conversation for the rest of the night—but there’s your father, hot on his heels as he sways a little on his feet, looking eager for conversation.

“How’s your kid doing?” He asks casually, “I’m sure she talked you head off about college.” There’s a subtle nod in your direction that makes you uncomfortable, shrinking slightly from the wall you rested against.

“Fine.” Lucien bites back his words, giving little away.

“I get it, college ain’t easy on us,” He replies, “But, I sure am proud of her.”

Lucien smiles slightly, a small huff of a laugh hidden behind pursed lips.

“Should be,” He agrees, “she’s something special.”

And if your heart doesn’t swell ten sizes then, it’s later. Wondering how he got your number as he sends a picture of the ruined panties he kept for himself, draped over his lap as he sends a short message.

Got a minute? Wanted to return these.

Fortunately for you, you had all the time in the world for Lucien.