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nocturne-pisces · 1 month
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like a stillborn foal kicking its legs, you protest death in small ways. half-limp and weak, but burning with spite, you spit warm blood in god's face.
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nocturne-pisces · 2 months
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Hi, hope you're doing well, the link for the masterist for The Grocery List is not working.
it was privated.
i was tired of continually blocking blank and ageless blogs and serial likers.
but it’s public now- you should be able to read it. lemme know if you have issues.
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nocturne-pisces · 2 months
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Hurricane
Jason Todd x Reader
Mostly like PG-13.
Allusions to heavy abuse.
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You think you must have been starved as a child.
It’s the only way that he could leave you this hungry, this hollow. You tell yourself that it isn’t normal to want someone like this. You tell yourself that it isn’t healthy to want someone so much that it twists your ribs around themselves, makes you fold in on yourself because if you don’t the wind will catch and carry you off. 
You’re so empty you hear the breeze whistle in your throat, half drunk with a beer bottle in your fist blowing across the opening like a whistle and your whole body is warm. You don’t know if that’s the alcohol or the fact that he’s sitting across from you. 
“What’s up with you?” 
Jason levels you with a stare, clacks his beer bottle against yours in some mockery of playfulness even though you’ve barely said a word to him all night. 
You try to shove it off now, try to swallow down your feelings as the sensation of the bile crawling up the back of your throat burns at your resolve. 
“Huh? I’m fine–”
“You’re a shit liar, kid.” 
You hate that he calls you that. Kids are innocent, pure; the first time Jason met you he’d had to pry you off of some man while you were trying to cut his fingers off for feeling you up. Jason told that man if he ever caught him doing some shit like that again he’d take a whole hand. Fucking greaseball nodded because Jason was more than a full head taller than him and held him off the ground by his stupid fucking stained shirt. 
You’ve always hated that you didn’t scare people like that, you think maybe if you did you could have avoided some hurt. 
You roll your eyes, because you are a shit liar and Jason knows better than anyone when you’re keeping things from him. Because he’s the only person you’ve let this close in longer than you probably have the functional front lobe to remember. Concussions are a bitch like that.
“I think I’m just gonna go home,” you offer, knocking back the rest of your beer before your ribcage gets so brittle that it collapses and he sneezes on the dust. 
“Alright then, magic man, keep your secrets.” 
“You’re obnoxious.”
“And you’re keeping shit from me. I thought we agreed not to do that with this whole sidekick thing–”
“I’m not a fucking sidekick.” Venom drips from your teeth, a snake backed into a corner with nowhere to go but forward viciously.
“And this is what I’m talking about! Any other day you’d just punch me and tell me to get my shit in check but today you look like you’re ready to slit my throat.” 
“It’s not off the table,” you murmur, more to the ceiling than to him, right before the last of your beer slides down into your echoing gullet. 
“What is going on with you?” 
“Just some personal shit, Jason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to give it finality, but Jason can’t even die on someone else’s terms so he doesn’t let this go either. 
“What, like your period?” 
You don’t even try to stop your hand when your fingers close around the beer bottle and throw it at his head. He ducks and it shatters on the wall behind him, shards of glass raining down around his chair. You know how that feels. 
The bartender’s voice is booming from the other end of the bar. 
“You two. Out.” 
He’s bigger than both of you combined and you don’t feel like arguing anymore so you wave your hand as you dismiss yourself, leaving Jason to pay for the abhorrently cheap beer. 
It’s humid in Gotham, suffocating your every breath with smog and uncertainty. Maybe you should just find a place in Metropolis, start over again, but you’re so fucking tired of running. Everyone you have ever met, everyone that has ever left you has taken their pound of flesh. You feel like nothing but bones, knocking together like chutes on a bamboo wind chime before a hurricane. 
Jason is your hurricane. Your natural disaster of righteous salvation and you didn’t bring your arm floaties. 
You want to drown in him, want to inhale him and choke—
Even if it kills you. He’s never even had a girlfriend that you know of and how fucking idiotic would it be to ask Alfred if Jason’s available, how stupid to ask Dick if Jason’s interested in you.
You peel yourself out of your jeans, your bra, shove your arms through the most comfortable oversized t-shirt you can find and flop onto your back in the middle of your living room. 
The ceiling in your apartment holds no more answers than the ceiling at the bar and again you have to swallow back that hollowed out feeling. At some point your eyes slid closed and you slumbered listening to the breeze in the auditorium of your chest. 
—-
Everything is warm when you wake up, heat radiates from behind you and from the arm slung over your middle. 
But that can’t be right, this isn’t where you fell asleep. 
You don’t wait to ask questions, pivoting your body and swinging at whatever is behind you. Someone yelps in pain, your fist connecting with something face adjacent before it’s caught and held fast. Your knees come up to join the struggle and one heavy leg drapes across your hips to still you. 
“Goddamnit, will you fucking chill out?”
“Jason?” 
Just as you say it your eyes adjust to the light, make out the red bat on his chest, make out the shock of silver that grows in the front. 
“Yeah, me, shithead.” 
“Why are you in my bed?!” You struggle against his hold, it only gets tighter. 
“I came to check on you after patrol and you were like sad girl passed out in the floor.” 
“So you decided I needed a cuddle?!” 
“I mean, that’s probably not such a bad idea given your fucking attitude—“
“Jason!” 
“No! I mean, I didn’t mean to. I tucked you in and just wanted to stay long enough to make sure you were okay and then I fell asleep.” 
He lets go of you, lets you get as far away from him as you can without falling off of the bed. He looks like you shot him with his own gun. 
“I’m sorry. I uh- I crossed a line coming here-“ 
“No, wait,” you stop him, reach for him as he moves to get up. 
“I don’t understand where I lost you-“ 
You don’t let him finish. You rush him,  connect your mouth to his because you don’t know how else to explain it. He doesn’t react immediately, and you wish that the floor would open up and swallow you whole but it doesn’t. 
You pull back, sit up and on your haunches and stare at his dumbfounded face. There’s only a second of silence between you before a hand strikes out lightning fast, thunder clapping against your sternum as you’re jerked forward. 
One hand cradles your head, allowing you no room to escape from the kiss suffocating you like the most beautiful Gotham smog. Wisp of smoke soft, signal of something lit aflame. The other presses into your back, calloused and unforgiving, like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. You want to pull him closer but you can’t, your electrons are already crashing together. 
You tug at the buckles on his chest kevlar, fingers pinch and twist until they come loose and fall into a heap on the floor. His shirt goes too, the silver of sinew in his autopsy scar catching the moonlight. You’re struck dumb like staring into the eye of his hurricane and seeing the beauty in the pattern of his destruction. Like pitching yourself into a volcano for the warmth. 
Because he is beautiful; 
and he is broken. 
And those two things are intertwined and that is something you understand in your marrow. 
You press your lips to the point where the three lines meet right over his heart. His breath catches the same way it does when he’s on the unfortunate end of a knife, but you know there aren’t words you can tell him that will soothe that ache. 
So you show him your own. 
Bodies roll and he lets out a huffed breath when his back hits the mattress. 
A handful of raised tally marks, gnarled and stretched over time, one for every reason your father decided that he hated you that night. You didn’t plan on living after that, you’ve kind of been wingin’ it ever since. Jason’s thumb brushes over the cluster of violence on your stomach, looks from it to your face and understands the exchange. 
Your scars and his, all the things that have happened to you. 
He happened to you too. 
And you can spew adjectives about every natural disaster that has a name and still never aptly describe how much you love his chaos. 
And that's okay too.
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nocturne-pisces · 2 months
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i just think people should want me carnally even though i never leave the house
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nocturne-pisces · 2 months
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Hurricane
Jason Todd x Reader
Mostly like PG-13.
Allusions to heavy abuse.
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You think you must have been starved as a child.
It’s the only way that he could leave you this hungry, this hollow. You tell yourself that it isn’t normal to want someone like this. You tell yourself that it isn’t healthy to want someone so much that it twists your ribs around themselves, makes you fold in on yourself because if you don’t the wind will catch and carry you off. 
You’re so empty you hear the breeze whistle in your throat, half drunk with a beer bottle in your fist blowing across the opening like a whistle and your whole body is warm. You don’t know if that’s the alcohol or the fact that he’s sitting across from you. 
“What’s up with you?” 
Jason levels you with a stare, clacks his beer bottle against yours in some mockery of playfulness even though you’ve barely said a word to him all night. 
You try to shove it off now, try to swallow down your feelings as the sensation of the bile crawling up the back of your throat burns at your resolve. 
“Huh? I’m fine–”
“You’re a shit liar, kid.” 
You hate that he calls you that. Kids are innocent, pure; the first time Jason met you he’d had to pry you off of some man while you were trying to cut his fingers off for feeling you up. Jason told that man if he ever caught him doing some shit like that again he’d take a whole hand. Fucking greaseball nodded because Jason was more than a full head taller than him and held him off the ground by his stupid fucking stained shirt. 
You’ve always hated that you didn’t scare people like that, you think maybe if you did you could have avoided some hurt. 
You roll your eyes, because you are a shit liar and Jason knows better than anyone when you’re keeping things from him. Because he’s the only person you’ve let this close in longer than you probably have the functional front lobe to remember. Concussions are a bitch like that.
“I think I’m just gonna go home,” you offer, knocking back the rest of your beer before your ribcage gets so brittle that it collapses and he sneezes on the dust. 
“Alright then, magic man, keep your secrets.” 
“You’re obnoxious.”
“And you’re keeping shit from me. I thought we agreed not to do that with this whole sidekick thing–”
“I’m not a fucking sidekick.” Venom drips from your teeth, a snake backed into a corner with nowhere to go but forward viciously.
“And this is what I’m talking about! Any other day you’d just punch me and tell me to get my shit in check but today you look like you’re ready to slit my throat.” 
“It’s not off the table,” you murmur, more to the ceiling than to him, right before the last of your beer slides down into your echoing gullet. 
“What is going on with you?” 
“Just some personal shit, Jason. Don’t worry about it.” You try to give it finality, but Jason can’t even die on someone else’s terms so he doesn’t let this go either. 
“What, like your period?” 
You don’t even try to stop your hand when your fingers close around the beer bottle and throw it at his head. He ducks and it shatters on the wall behind him, shards of glass raining down around his chair. You know how that feels. 
The bartender’s voice is booming from the other end of the bar. 
“You two. Out.” 
He’s bigger than both of you combined and you don’t feel like arguing anymore so you wave your hand as you dismiss yourself, leaving Jason to pay for the abhorrently cheap beer. 
It’s humid in Gotham, suffocating your every breath with smog and uncertainty. Maybe you should just find a place in Metropolis, start over again, but you’re so fucking tired of running. Everyone you have ever met, everyone that has ever left you has taken their pound of flesh. You feel like nothing but bones, knocking together like chutes on a bamboo wind chime before a hurricane. 
Jason is your hurricane. Your natural disaster of righteous salvation and you didn’t bring your arm floaties. 
You want to drown in him, want to inhale him and choke—
Even if it kills you. He’s never even had a girlfriend that you know of and how fucking idiotic would it be to ask Alfred if Jason’s available, how stupid to ask Dick if Jason’s interested in you.
You peel yourself out of your jeans, your bra, shove your arms through the most comfortable oversized t-shirt you can find and flop onto your back in the middle of your living room. 
The ceiling in your apartment holds no more answers than the ceiling at the bar and again you have to swallow back that hollowed out feeling. At some point your eyes slid closed and you slumbered listening to the breeze in the auditorium of your chest. 
—-
Everything is warm when you wake up, heat radiates from behind you and from the arm slung over your middle. 
But that can’t be right, this isn’t where you fell asleep. 
You don’t wait to ask questions, pivoting your body and swinging at whatever is behind you. Someone yelps in pain, your fist connecting with something face adjacent before it’s caught and held fast. Your knees come up to join the struggle and one heavy leg drapes across your hips to still you. 
“Goddamnit, will you fucking chill out?”
“Jason?” 
Just as you say it your eyes adjust to the light, make out the red bat on his chest, make out the shock of silver that grows in the front. 
“Yeah, me, shithead.” 
“Why are you in my bed?!” You struggle against his hold, it only gets tighter. 
“I came to check on you after patrol and you were like sad girl passed out in the floor.” 
“So you decided I needed a cuddle?!” 
“I mean, that’s probably not such a bad idea given your fucking attitude—“
“Jason!” 
“No! I mean, I didn’t mean to. I tucked you in and just wanted to stay long enough to make sure you were okay and then I fell asleep.” 
He lets go of you, lets you get as far away from him as you can without falling off of the bed. He looks like you shot him with his own gun. 
“I’m sorry. I uh- I crossed a line coming here-“ 
“No, wait,” you stop him, reach for him as he moves to get up. 
“I don’t understand where I lost you-“ 
You don’t let him finish. You rush him,  connect your mouth to his because you don’t know how else to explain it. He doesn’t react immediately, and you wish that the floor would open up and swallow you whole but it doesn’t. 
You pull back, sit up and on your haunches and stare at his dumbfounded face. There’s only a second of silence between you before a hand strikes out lightning fast, thunder clapping against your sternum as you’re jerked forward. 
One hand cradles your head, allowing you no room to escape from the kiss suffocating you like the most beautiful Gotham smog. Wisp of smoke soft, signal of something lit aflame. The other presses into your back, calloused and unforgiving, like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. You want to pull him closer but you can’t, your electrons are already crashing together. 
You tug at the buckles on his chest kevlar, fingers pinch and twist until they come loose and fall into a heap on the floor. His shirt goes too, the silver of sinew in his autopsy scar catching the moonlight. You’re struck dumb like staring into the eye of his hurricane and seeing the beauty in the pattern of his destruction. Like pitching yourself into a volcano for the warmth. 
Because he is beautiful; 
and he is broken. 
And those two things are intertwined and that is something you understand in your marrow. 
You press your lips to the point where the three lines meet right over his heart. His breath catches the same way it does when he’s on the unfortunate end of a knife, but you know there aren’t words you can tell him that will soothe that ache. 
So you show him your own. 
Bodies roll and he lets out a huffed breath when his back hits the mattress. 
A handful of raised tally marks, gnarled and stretched over time, one for every reason your father decided that he hated you that night. You didn’t plan on living after that, you’ve kind of been wingin’ it ever since. Jason’s thumb brushes over the cluster of violence on your stomach, looks from it to your face and understands the exchange. 
Your scars and his, all the things that have happened to you. 
He happened to you too. 
And you can spew adjectives about every natural disaster that has a name and still never aptly describe how much you love his chaos. 
And that's okay too.
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nocturne-pisces · 3 months
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twinkle [frankie morales x f!reader]
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summary: when his daughter starts preschool, frankie needs a little help with after school care. enter you--and much to his dismay, frankie cannot stop thinking about you. ratings/warnings: E [smut, so much yearning, me making stuff about nannying and childcare, POV switch toward the end, frankie is kind of a perv but in a respectful way, PIV, male masturbation, frankie pussy eating king, subby Frankie, bossy reader, praise kink, kind of a housewife kink, I truly don’t know what got into me with some of this] wc: 8.3k [i maybe got carried away] a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! shout out to my love @mothandpidgeon for betaing! so this is @haylzcyon's christmas present, and i may or may not have used that as an excuse to make frankie look sweaty and pretty and wild in front of the christmas tree. also i always wanted to do frankie fucks the babysitter, so. happy holidays, babes! dividers by @saradika-graphics.
masterlist | frankie morales masterlist
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Time moves faster since Francesca arrived, squalling and twisting her way from her mother as Frankie looked on in terrified fascination. Since her birth, he’s barely had a second to breathe. He thinks he wouldn’t mind the world moving so fast if the price of it was anything but her getting older at exponential speeds.
It feels like yesterday she was in diapers, and now she walks and talks and has her own opinions. Wherever she got this big brain of hers hadn’t come from him, of that he was sure. Now she’s old enough to notice; to be affected by his shitty moods or arguments with her mother or even when he’s late to pick her up. 
This year, though, there’s you.
You are a complication he couldn’t have foreseen in his wildest fucking dreams, but you’re here, and he’s tried his best for months not to let his feelings affect you or Franny. 
None of it’s your fault, of course; you’ve done nothing but be professional and caring and kind toward his daughter, and it makes this distant asshole act of his even more difficult. 
And goddamn, the holidays do not help. 
It’s his own goddamn fault he hired someone he was attracted to the second you came into his life. He’s tortured himself with this crush for months now; this totally inappropriate crush that haunts his every waking moment, despite his best attempts at distancing himself.
Frankie had been reluctant to get a nanny. Nannies were for wealthy families with four kids and vacation homes, not single fathers in two bedroom apartments and a preschooler. 
It was easier when she was in daycare—he could drop her off there in the morning and pick her up at six, but preschool threw the whole damn thing off. Preschool ends at noon, and he couldn’t leave work every day to go get her. He didn’t want to ask Franny’s mother for help, too afraid she might use that as some kind of evidence that he wasn’t stable enough for 50/50 custody. 
He didn’t think she’d be that vindictive, but it was a possibility. So he’d sucked it up and asked around, taking your number from Franny’s very enthusiastic preschool teacher who said you’d worked for a number of families in her classes. 
He was, of course, fucked the moment you’d walked into that coffee shop around the corner from his building, smiling brightly as you sat down and stuck your hand out to introduce yourself. You’d worn a suit, clearly tailored to your form, and handed him what he was sure was an impressive resume from a leather portfolio. He’s more than ashamed to say that he’d barely glanced at it, hiring you just a few minutes later. 
“Parents usually want to run a background check first,” you’d said, a little alarmed.
“Oh, uh—it’s okay. Franny’s teacher told me how highly recommended you are by all the parents from her class. The ones you worked for,” he’d said, tongue twisting over every word, but praying he’d covered his blunder. “And I need someone soon.”
“If you insist, Mr. Morales,” you’d said. “But I should meet her first.”
With that, he’d completely agreed.
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He tried to stay as cool and calm and professional as you were, giving himself a stern talking to in his truck on the way home from work, and it took him all of three fucking days to cave.
You greeted him at the door on your third day, and he wondered if that was a normal part of having a nanny. It felt wrong, being ushered into his own home, but he’d liked seeing you there looking so soft and comfortable with Franny.
“Pick up went great, she knew exactly where to go. Miss Nicole and I are friends, obviously, so she’d have gotten her to me anyway. We ate all our veggies at lunch—”
He liked the way you said “we” instead of “she,” but he’d be damned if he could explain why.
In the middle of your report, you swooped down to pick Franny up and away from her puzzle to hand her off to Frankie, whose arrival she was wholly uninterested in. It wasn’t the first time you’d done it—you said it made for a good transition; a signal to her that the day was over and it was Daddy’s time with her now. 
Frankie’d been working on his impulse control over the last few years, but all that progress seemed to fly out of the window the moment the v-neck of your t-shirt gaped just enough to see a lacy black bra. He bit the tip of his tongue just to keep himself from groaning. 
“Daddy!” Franny admonished, reaching for him from your arms. “You not listening!” 
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m a little tired. What’d I miss?”
You shrugged, and he kept his eyes firmly on your face. “She’s got some sniffles,” you said. “I didn’t wanna give her anything for it without you here, but I thought you might wanna keep an eye on it.”
He nodded, taking in the rest of what you had to say as you gathered your things to go home. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start dinner, but I can certainly do that going forward,” you’d said, and his mouth had gone dry as he imagined you in his kitchen cooking for him.
For Franny, he had to remind himself.
“I…sure, I mean, you can—uh, I don’t usually plan ahead?” He stuttered, too focused on not choking on his own spit. 
“No problem. I’m happy to do meal plans for you two,” you said. Does he pay you enough to do meal plans? “Just let me know.”
You were on your way out the door when he found his voice. 
“Did you have, um—how was your day?” He asked. You stopped and turned back, a shy smile on your lips.
“It was really good, Mr. Morales. Franny’s a good kid. Thank you for asking,” you said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He watched you walk out, eyes glued the sway of your hips. 
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During your second week, a heat wave hit. Franny was miserable stuck inside, all the excessive heat warnings making it too dangerous to play at the park after lunch. Even the balcony wasn’t shaded enough, and you had to bring her inside after twenty minutes. 
“She’s been a handful,” you told him that Friday. “But that’s hardly her fault. She’s just restless.”
He could tell you were tired, though, and he worried you’d decide not to come back in two weeks when Franny came back from her mom’s. 
It was so hot outside it crept into the apartment despite the central air, and your shirt clung to you, damp with sweat. 
He wanted to do something for you.
“Do you like ice cream?” He asked, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his damp hair as he watched you microwave Franny’s dinner.
“Sure. Why?” 
“I thought—if you’re not busy—after she eats, maybe we could get ice cream?”
You crossed your arms and grinned at him. “Is this some kind of bribe?” 
“Not a bribe,” he said. “I…just want to take you for ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Franny’s voice came from the living room, and you laughed.
“What you think, mija?” Frankie asked. “We all get some ice cream after you have your dinner?”
“Yes!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands. 
“Guess that settles it,” you giggled. “Come eat your dinner, Franny.”
“Er—you don’t have plans, right? No boyfriend I’m keeping you from?” Frankie asked, settling her into her booster seat.
“Not these days. My social calendar is pretty dry lately. Ice cream sounds good. I won’t even charge you for my time,” you grinned, and Frankie’s heart thudded in his chest.
No boyfriend.
The ice cream shop was just around the corner, right next to the coffee place he’d interviewed you, but he almost regretted walking there in the goddamn heat. The air conditioner was on full blast, and he had to force himself to look away from your now-stiff nipples. 
Franny chattered about something he couldn’t pay attention to and you entertained her in between slurps of your ice cream cone. The outside heat infiltrated the small shop every time the door opened, despite the frigid air conditioning, and the vanilla ice cream slid between your fingers. 
Frankie watched your tongue dance across your knuckles, not wanting to waste your treat. He couldn’t help but imagine what else you might lick up so enthusiastically, regardless of how fucking wrong it was. 
All you were doing was eating. He shouldn’t have been so fucking turned on by something so mundane. Not here in public, not by the woman who cares for his daughter. 
The ice cream kept melting, messy and sticky and dripping down your fist, and he gritted his teeth, nodding every now and then to the words coming from your gorgeous, hot mouth.
Deep breaths, in and out, it’s fine, just eat your ice cream—
Something crunched in his fist, and he looked down to see his stretched-white knuckles covered in chocolate ice cream, his grip so tight he’d crushed the cone. Franny laughed, and you laughed, and he laughed, too, praying his scarlet cheeks weren’t too noticeable as you grabbed napkins and cleaned the mess before he could even react.
He loved that, though, the way you take charge; how you know exactly what to do.  
“Hold still,” you ordered. He obeyed, watching you throw the crushed cone away and wiping his hand down with a wet wipe from your bag. You dried him off with a napkin, running your fingers over his skin to make sure you got everything.
 “Thank you,” he murmured and you smiled, squeezing his hand and lingering there for a second longer than he expected. Electricity jolted through his body at your caress, and on the way back, he racked his brain for reasons for you to stay. 
He found none, of course, other than the real reason—to make you come as many times as you’ll let him—so he let you go home. 
Later that night, when Franny was asleep and he found a second of peace in the shower, he braced the tile wall with his forearm and wrapped his hand around his aching cock, pumping himself as he thought of you and the ice cream dripping down your knuckles and your stiff nipples and the way your soft hands felt on his. He let himself imagine your taste, what you’d sound like as he devoured you, what your hot, wet pussy would feel like on his face, around his cock—anywhere, he wasn’t picky.
He hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years. Not that he hadn’t had flings or attempts at relationships since he and his ex split, but his desire wasn’t like this. Frankie closed his eyes and imagined what your tits looked like under your shirt, if you knew he could see how cold you were. He choked back a loud groan at the thought of you wearing some thin little bra on purpose, just to fuck with him, just to see if he’d get on his knees for you.
Frankie squeezed the base of his cock, desperate to draw this little fantasy out a bit longer, but his body betrayed him. He came too quickly, breathing hard and murmuring your name as his spend spattered against the tile. As he pushed himself off the wall, the guilt washed over him while he watched his come circle the shower drain. 
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
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Two weeks later, he’d  told himself he was over it. Franny was with her mom, so he hadn’t seen you, and it was just a fluke—you were beautiful and new, and he just got overexcited. It wouldn’t be a problem now that he’d gotten over his little crush. 
Sure, the first week consisted of him jerking off all over his apartment when he looked too long at something you touched or sat on, or when he scrolled your socials for a while, or thought about you, but that didn’t mean anything. Guys jerk off a lot anyway. 
The second week he slowed down, only touching himself once while he listened to a voicemail you left about needing to leave a few minutes early one day next week. And then again after he called you to let you know that was fine. 
He was starting to wonder if he could run out of come. He hadn’t masturbated this much since he first discovered he could do it. 
On the Monday you returned, he was much too tired from work to be nervous about seeing you again on the way home. It wasn’t until he pushed open his front door to find you in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot, barefoot in a pair of leggings with Franny on your hip, that he remembered how fucking out of his mind you made him. His mouth watered.
You turned around at the sound of the front door, setting Franny down so she could run to him. He greeted the both of you, your bright smile disarming him as he scooped Franny up.
All that progress he told himself he made on his stupid, ridiculous crush evaporated
“Hi, Mr. Morales,” you said, tapping the side of some spice jar into the pot. 
“Frankie,” he said, against his better judgment. “Just Frankie is fine.”
“Frankie,” you said, testing the word in your mouth. “I like that name, you know.”
“Thank you,” he said, fighting the strong urge to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss the back of your neck. 
You declined his invitation to stay and eat the dinner you’d made.
“I have a date,” you explained, and something ugly clawed at the inside of his chest. He ignored it because you were allowed to have dates, and he couldn’t say a fucking word about that.
Franny calls him out the moment you leave. 
“You love herrrrr,” she said from her booster seat, artfully arranging the broccoli on her plate. He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“And what’s that supposed to mean, little miss?” He asked. She looks up at him, exasperated, as though it’s a hassle to repeat herself. 
“She’s pretty, so she’s the princess,” she said. “And you supposed to love the princess.”
Frankie laughs, always impressed with the perception of his three-and-a-half-year-old. “All right,” he says. “Eat your broccoli, mija, it’s almost bath time.”
She was not as excited about that. 
“Do you need me Monday?” You asked him Friday evening. “It’s Labor Day, so—”
“Oh! I guess it is, isn’t it?” Frankie laughed, suddenly pleased about his three-day weekend, as if he hadn’t known about it before. That quickly turned to concern for you, though, because that certainly meant your pay would be short, and Frankie knew all too well what that was like. “Technically, no. Do you have plans?”
“No,” you sighed. “Just hoping I can pick up a shift at my other job.”
“You have another job?” He asked, but it seemed silly as soon as he said it. 
“Well, of course,” she grinned. “You pay well, Frankie, but there’s two whole weeks I gotta supplement.”
“What’s your other job?” He asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You winked, and God, were you flirting with him? 
You were flirting with him.
“What if, uh—we’re going to the lake with some of my friends. What if you come with us and watch after Franny, and I’ll pay you double for hazard pay.”
You raised your eyebrows. “What’s the hazard pay for?” You asked. 
“Putting up with my idiot friends,” he said, and you laughed. He really loved making you laugh. 
You chewed your lip, thinking it over as you put your shoes on. He told himself it would be a big help to have someone to help with Franny, and ignored the fact that she had three overprotective uncles with plenty of experience reining her in. 
In the end you agreed, and he was mostly successful at keeping himself from seeming too excited about having you with him at the lake where he could, maybe, get to know you a little better.
And it all went well. It went beautifully. The guys loved you, he learned where you went to school, where you grew up, how you got into nannying, what your second job was. 
He learned that he was your favorite client, and you weren’t just flattering him. He wasn’t as stuffy as the others, you told him, which was nice. He made you feel less anxious. 
His chest warmed at that—he wanted you to feel comfortable.
But then there was the fucking sunscreen. 
He forgot all about it, of course, but you let them use yours. You slathered yourself in it on the way there, some fancy organic SPF 100 shit that smells fucking heavenly, adding a second coat to Franny halfway there and asking him, so politely, to put it on your back when the three of you arrived. 
Your skin was so soft—he felt like such a fucking creep as he lingered over the base of your neck, stroking you with his thumb and squeezing your shoulder when he’d finished. You were so beautiful that day—you always were, of course, but in the sun, splashing around the lake with his friends and his baby, it felt right. 
Like you were supposed to be there; like you should have been there all along. 
He dropped you off that evening and you kissed his cheek, and he grinned like an idiot all the way home. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but what if he wasn’t? 
What if you liked him? 
For the rest of the week his truck smelled like that sunscreen. He’d get to work, completely unable to concentrate and tucking a boner into his waistband, contemplating asking you where you’d bought it just so he could get some and jack off with it. 
He was losing it over you.
This was bad. It was bad.
He saw how much Franny loved you and how much you loved Franny, and he had to figure something out. What if he made you uncomfortable enough that you left? Even if you were friendly, even a little flirty, what if he crossed a line? A month and a half in, he couldn’t lose you. 
That Friday, when he got home and found you making Franny eat carrots—she’d never eaten carrots before—he made himself put a stop to it before he did something completely stupid. 
“Frankie!” You called from the little breakfast table. “Did you have a good day at work?”
“Yeah, uh, can we talk? Over here?” He motioned to a further corner of the living room, away from Franny’s ears. 
“Everything okay?” You asked, stretching your arms over your head. He almost lost his way then. 
“Fine, fine. Look, uh, I think—” He cleared his throat. Why was he so fucking nervous? He’d killed people; how was giving the babysitter instructions so difficult? “I was thinking, we maybe should go back to some less informal interaction. I’d like for you to call me Mr. Morales from now on, please, and we should probably not be so…casual.”
Hurt ghosted over your features, confusion following them for the briefest second. Your posture changed; you stood straighter, your arms down by your sides as you pulled your shirt to cover yourself more. 
He wasn’t expecting that. 
“Oh! Sure,” you said, swallowing harshly. 
“It’s nothing—”
“Personal. I understand. No problem at all, Mr. Morales,” you said, looking away from him as you gathered your bags. “I should probably get going then. I’ll see you Monday, sir. Bye, Franny!” 
You scurried out of the door like you couldn’t leave fast enough, and he stood there as Franny chomped on her carrots, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.
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You always look a little nervous to see him when he comes home now, though, and it hurts him
This wall he’d put up is the best thing for his daughter, though, and you’d taken it in stride. He counts himself lucky—thinking with his dick could’ve led to him hiring someone much less professional. But not you. Your recommendations hadn’t been so glowing for no reason. 
You always look nervous when he comes home now, though, like you’re waiting for him to find something to be upset about. It weighs on him sometimes—you’d told him he made you feel comfortable, less anxious, and he’d pulled the proverbial rug out from under you just a few days later. 
But it’s right. Overall, it’s the right thing to do. 
It doesn’t mean he’s over you, though, and this current situation he’s found himself in might be the death of him. Or your job. Maybe both.
The logistics of equal custody can get a little tricky around the holidays. Franny’s with her mom this year for Christmas, and Frankie’s leaving early to visit with some family. His flight leaves at six in the morning, and his ex couldn’t get the day off. 
It was like a word problem on a standardized test, and he’d been bad at those in school.
You’d come up with the solution on your own—you’ll just stay the night and through the next day until her mother gets off work, and that way he gets to spend as much time with Franny as he can before she leaves for a week longer than usual. 
It makes sense. 
He’s behaved himself for months now, but here you are in his apartment, having a mini-Christmas with Franny. You’d pulled him aside when you arrived, looking more nervous than he’d ever seen you—he thought you were about to tell him you were quitting after this. 
“I just wanted to check and make sure before I give it to her, but I got Franny a present. It’s nothing big or noisy, I promise,” you assure him. “But would that be okay, Mr. Morales? I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”
You take better care of his kid than he does, and he’s made you feel like you can’t even get her a Christmas present. He wonders if that was the norm in the other families you worked for, the ones you’d told him that day at the lake that it was nice to have a break from. 
“Of course it’s fine,” he says softly. “She’ll love that. Thank you.”
You give him a sort of lop-sided smile as you open your bag and pull out a neatly wrapped box with a big silver bow on top. 
Franny squeals over her early present—a pink camera with a unicorn on the front, small enough for her little hands to hold and simple enough for her to figure out how to use within a few minutes. She runs around the apartment for a long while until Frankie tells her it’s time for dinner. At the table, she takes several pictures of her macaroni and cheese, of him, of you making silly faces. 
He didn’t even know Franny liked taking pictures so much. 
“How’d you know she wanted that?” He asks later as you empty the dishwasher. 
“Oh, she’s always stealing my phone and using the camera. I keep finding pictures of Barbie dolls and tea parties. I thought she might want one of her own,” you say. “And I won’t panic about my missing phone, like, five times a day.”
“That little thief,” he says, and you laugh. 
“She’s just curious. Much better than my last charge, who flushed my phone down the toilet twice.”
Frankie’s mouth falls open, aghast. “On purpose?”
“On purpose,” you smile. “Franny’s been a breeze.”
Frankie leans against the kitchen island, and when you turn around you’re dangerously close to him. He should move, he thinks, get away from you, but the lights from the Christmas tree are dancing in your eyes. 
You clear your throat. “Should we make some cookies? Franny was asking earlier.”
Frankie clicks his tongue, looking at the refrigerator. “I don’t know if I even have cookie dough.”
“I can make cookie dough,” you say, standing on your toes to rifle through the cabinets. “Bet you have everything in here.” He takes you in like this, greedy for you as your ass jiggles every time you jump a little to grab something else you need. A sliver of skin shows between your jeans and top, and his hands twitch as he tries to keep himself from curling a finger through your belt loop and pulling you against him. 
“Butter, sugar, flour, baking soda, salt, hmmm…oh! An egg. Are these eggs good?” You ask over your shoulder, and he pulls his gaze from your ass. 
“Should be,” he says, the back of his neck burning like he’d been caught ogling you. “Made eggs this morning.”
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Franny sidles up next to him, peering at you with interest. “What you doing, Daddy?” She asks. 
“We’re making some cookies,” he says. “You want some?”
“Yes, please!” She says, snapping another picture and toddling off to the living room to take pictures of the TV screen.
You pull out a mixing bowl and a cookie sheet, setting them gently on the little island. “Hand me the measuring cups,” you order, and he does without a second thought. 
“And the flour?”
“Yes ma’am,” he says.
He watches you work, waiting for any instructions you might give. It all feels so natural, slipping into this rhythm with you, and his cock stirs every time you nod at him with approval. You’re more relaxed than you’ve ever been around him. 
Everything you do turns him on, and it’s a fucking nightmare he doens’t want to wake up from. By the time you get the cookies in the oven, you’re covered in flour and the kitchen’s a mess again. He catches you before you start cleaning up, insisting you go take a shower and let him do it. 
“It’s the least I can do,” he says. 
“Thanks, Fran—um, Mr. Morales,” you say, and his heart thuds at the slip up. You slip away before he can change his mind again and tell you to disregard what he’d said before, call him Frankie, or Frank, or Francisco, call him whatever the fuck you want to call him. 
He almost chokes when you walk out in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, a fluffy robe thrown over your shoulders. He takes a deep breath, his attention now on making sure Franny doesn’t try to eat every cookie on the plate. 
They’re amazing—obviously they are, because you made them, and everything you do is amazing, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without telling you that maybe he doesn’t just have a crush, maybe he isn’t just a pervert, maybe he just really, really, really fucking likes you. 
But it won’t be tonight, so he needs to relax. 
He gets Franny to bed by eight, miraculously, and when he comes back to the living room it’s just the two of you. It’s almost never the two of you, and he can’t tell if he’s just imagining it or if the air in the room’s gotten thicker. 
You’re wrapped in that fluffy robe, legs tucked under you as you scroll your phone, so comfortable on his couch, in his home—goddammit, he wants you in his home all the time. How can you make him hard just sitting there, just existing?
“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he says, and you nod, not looking up. “You’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”
“Okay, Mr. Morales,” you say. 
He is a weak, weak man. 
“You can—look, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think the Mr. Morales thing is necessary anymore. Just…call me Frankie.”
You smile softly. “Not gonna change your mind again?” You ask, and he can hear the uncertainty in your voice. “I don’t mind…I’m used to strict boundaries. It’s okay.”
“I won’t change my mind,” he says, and you nod. You don’t call him Frankie, but you don’t argue with him, either. 
He’s proud to say that he doesn’t jerk off in the shower, not with you right on the other side of the wall, no matter how insistent his cock is. 
Frankie digs out the one pair of pajama pants he owns and a white t-shirt, foregoing his usual tank top and boxers, tucking his dick under his waistband and hoping you don’t notice anything. 
“Great British Bake Off?” He asks, nodding toward the tv as he sits on the other side of the worn leather couch. You’re stretched out over the other cushions, a blanket covering your bare legs. He wonders what you’d do if he pulled it off of you and crawled between your legs. 
He doesn’t.
“Mmhmm. Old episode, though,” you say, getting up to hand him the remote. “I’ll just—”
“You going to bed already?” He asks. 
“Yeah, I didn’t wanna be all in your space, you know?”
But he really, really wants you to be all in his space.
“We could watch a movie. If you want.”
You smile. 
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Frankie tosses and turns on the couch—this’ll be hell on his back in the morning, but he’d wanted you to be comfortable.  And it’s not just the position keeping him in discomfort—he’s so fucking horny he thinks he might die.
He rolls over on his stomach, smushing his cheek into the pillow and sighing. He tries not to think of you asleep in his bed, all vulnerable and soft. He tries not to think of your tits spilling from that tank top, of the shorts riding up your thighs and exposing your pussy. He tries not to think of you having a dirty dream, whimpering in his bed and rubbing your thighs together, hips moving on their own and searching out friction in your sleep. 
Fuck.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s doing that—moving his hips in search of friction, pressing down into the worn leather couch. It feels…good. 
Frankie picks his head up, peeking around the room to make sure all the doors are closed. He turns the volume up on the tv to cancel out any noise and grinds his hips down.
His fist clenches around the pillow under his head as he presses up and down, back and forth, his foreskin doing most of the work. He should stop this, but he doesn’t know how he’ll get to sleep without some relief. He pulls his pants down and shirt up, trapping his cock between the soft leather and his belly. You were sitting right where he’s rubbing, and he can almost smell your soap. Precome pours from him as a hard shudder runs through his body, biting on the pillow to keep himself quiet.
It feels so good, so wrong—he shouldn't be doing this out here where you could walk right out and catch him. It would be humiliating, wouldn’t it, if you found him like this, fucking against the couch that smells like you?
But that only spurs him on, sweat accumulating on his temple as he rocks back and forth, grunting as quietly as he can. He keeps his eyes open, scanning the room, wishing now that you’d find him like this. He can almost hear that quiet giggle of yours as he humps faster, his eyes finally closing as he feels himself nearing his peak. 
How wet would your pretty little cunt get, watching him humiliate himself for you? Would you like that? Would you spank him, ride his cock, put your fingers inside of him—what would you do?
His eyes fly open at a sudden noise, and there you are, standing still, your mouth slack and eyes wide open. 
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
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You can’t sleep. 
Of course you can’t sleep, not in Frankie’s bed, even with the sheets smelling like fresh laundry. The scent of him is still embedded into the mattress, baked into the fibers of his pillow. You try not to think about what he does in here when he’s alone, or even when he’s not—how many people have felt the scratch of his patchy beard between their thighs; his thick, calloused fingers roaming their bodies? How many people have fallen apart around his cock? Was he rough? Was he soft? Did he talk them through their orgasm?
Did he let them talk him through his?
You’re not sure which would be better, but you’ll take whatever he’s willing to give. 
Not that he’s willing to give you anything.
This was stupid, falling in love with a client. It complicates everything, makes it so much harder to be objective. And it’s not permanent—one day they won’t need you anymore. Leaving a kid is always hard, but this one? This one’ll hurt if you don’t get it under control.
Sometimes you think there might be something there, but it’s always a fleeting glance here or there, a touch that lingers a little too long. He’d made it very clear months ago he wanted a professional relationship only, and that was totally fine. He didn’t want anything else.
Right?
You toss and turn a little longer, the TV on the other side of the wall a bit too loud for comfort. Surely he’d fallen asleep by now.
The door opens without a quiet creak, and your eyes adjust to the relative brightness of the living room. The tree lights are still on, twinkling like little stars. Movement from the other side of the room catches your attention, and it takes a moment to work out what’s happening on the other side of the room.
Frankie’s all lit up by the tree lights bouncing off his warm olive skin, but it’s his hips you're mesmerized by. His eyes are closed, a thin sheen of sweat glimmering from his exertion as he grinds himself against the couch—the exact spot you’d been sitting in earlier—panting quietly, allowing himself a weak whine every few seconds. 
Holy shit.
It briefly occurs to you that you should turn around, afford him this private moment he might desperately need before a stressful trip, but how private is he being, really? How’s this your fault?
You could’ve come out at any time, but here he is. In the middle of the living room, doing…that. Wetness pools between your legs, as if you weren’t already aroused enough, wrapped in his sheets and fighting with yourself about stealing one of his shirts.
He looks so beautiful in those lights. His mouth hangs open, hushed groans starting to pour out with each new thrust of his hips. A particularly bright flash comes from the TV screen and you catch a glimpse of his cock trapped under his belly, and you’ve never wanted to be a couch so badly in your life. 
Frankie Morales has a huge dick.
You knew it.
When his eyes finally open, he blinks a few times, and everything moves in slow motion—his eyes go wide and panicked as he stills, pushing himself up to stop the cant of his hips, but his cock doesn’t seem to care what’s happening. 
In fact, his cock seems to like it an awful lot. 
He tries to cover himself but seizes up before his hands make it to his waistband; instead he gasps, crouching over and grabbing the back of the couch; he squeezes the cushion with one hand as his eyes close again and lets out soft, needy grunts. Your eyes slide back down to his throbbing cock, unable to look away from the ropes of thick, pearlescent come splattering onto the couch, his hips thrusting into nothing.
“Oh, fuck,” he whines, and you have never, ever seen anything hotter in your life. The sound of it landing rings in your ears; you can barely hear his apologies. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
You hover in the hallway for a moment, trying to decide if you should go to him or disappear, but he’s looking at you with his big eyes, his chest still heaving with effort. 
“It’s okay, Frankie,” you say, taking a chance. “I’m not upset.”
He frantically stuffs himself back into his pants, pausing as he takes in what you’ve said.
“You’re not?” He asks through ragged breaths, looking around for something to clean up his mess. 
“No,” you murmur, grabbing the remote on your way to him and turning off the TV. “Not at all. I…liked it.”
Frankie doesn’t move as you settle in front of him, doesn’t recoil at your fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging up. He raises his arms up and lets you pull it over his head.
“You made a mess,” you whisper, and he nods, transfixed as you use his shirt to clean it up. 
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking up at you through long lashes and groaning as you run your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You liked it?”
Frankie puts his hands on your hips, a shaky finger curling into your waistband and tugging. With the TV off, the lights glitter in his eyes, and the little halos bouncing off his glistening chest are angelic and sinful at once.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sit back.” He listens, no questions, and you straddle him, both knees planted firmly against his outer thighs. “What were you thinking about, baby?”
He sighs, squeezing your hips as you explore the breadth of his chest all the way down the swell of his belly. 
“You,” he admits. “Always you. I think about you all the fucking time, I’m so sorry, I know it’s not—”
“Shh,” you soothe. “It’s all right, Frankie. I think about you, too. All the time.”
He runs his hands over your waist, hovering at the hem of your shirt and searching your eyes for permission. You nod, and he slides his hands up your shirt, thumbing at the sides of your breasts. You rock gently against him, waiting for his answer. 
“You don’t think I’m a…pervert or something?” He asks.
“I didn't say that, did I? I think you were being a bad, bad boy out here. Thinking about me, fucking yourself where I could walk right in here,” you chastise, and he shudders underneath you. 
“I’m so—”
“Why don’t you apologize properly, hm?” You purr. “We can get comfortable in your room. If you’d like.”
He nods eagerly, but before you climb off, he wraps his big hand around the back of your neck and presses a kiss against your lips, pulling a soft squeak from you. You melt against him, almost forgetting you’re in charge, but his lips are so soft and needy you haven’t lost any control.
How long has he wanted to do this?
Why hadn’t he done it before?
“Frankie,” you murmur against his lips, and he pulls back, letting you guide him to the bedroom. 
You lean against the pillows, his eyes darkening as you spread your legs. He makes himself at home between them, pulling off your tank top and stripping your shorts in two quick motions. 
“You were bad,” you murmur again, and you don’t just mean earlier. 
“How can I fix it, bebita?” He asks, eyes softening, and you think he gets the message.
“You wanna make me come?” You ask, and he nods eagerly, pressing himself against you. He’s already stiff again.
“I’ll give you anything. Please,” he begs.
“You can eat my pussy to apologize,” you order and he whines, crashing his mouth to yours in a sloppy kiss. He trails down your chest, licking and sucking little marks until he gets to your cunt, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. 
You thread your fingers through his hair and tug; he shudders and buries his face in your cunt, teasing your clit with his tongue. 
“Fuck, I knew you’d taste good, I knew you’d taste so fucking good,” he growls. “Open your legs a little more for me, please, baby, lemme see you.”
He inhales, nudging your clit with his nose and circling your hole with his tongue. “Smell so fucking good, too, goddamn. Knew this little pussy would be so—fucking—good—”
Frankie Morales is relentless with his tongue, grunting like an animal as he takes his time to figure out what feels good and moaning in satisfaction when he finds something you like. 
Pressing firmly with the flat of his tongue, he licks long, languid circles as his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs. It feels like heaven, like you’ve needed this your whole life, and you clench around nothing as your orgasm nears. 
He notices.
“You want my fingers, bebita?”
“Please,” you sob, forgetting you’re supposed to be in charge. All you can think about is his soft, wet tongue and the way his hair feels between your fingers. He slides one thick finger inside of you, hooking it upward and curling, brushing against something that makes your toes curl. Your hips thrust up so high he has to lay his forearm across your belly to hold you still.
“Think you can take another one, baby, gonna give you one more,” he says, and you have to bite your fist to keep from crying out as he pushes the second finger in. He strokes you insistently, fingers working in tandem with his persistent tongue and your whole body tremors as you inch closer and closer. 
“Frankie,” you whimper. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, please—”
“That’s it, just let it happen, come on, don’t fight it, baby, come for me, come f—” You fall apart around his fingers, mouth open as you gush so hard you push his fingers out of you, and he lets out a long, guttural moan, praising you with soft murmurs. “Oh fuck, fuck yeah, so good, baby, did so fucking good, look at all that you gave me—”
You throw your arm over your face, sobbing quietly as it just keeps going, your legs shaking and twitching as he rubs your outer thighs. “Fuck, Frankie, Frankie, feels so good, feels so good,” is all you can manage.
You lift your arm to find him looking up at you, eyes glazed over and his face dripping with you and he’s so, so beautiful. You don’t think he knows how beautiful he is, and you wonder if anyone’s ever told him that. 
He crawls up your body to meet you, kissing you fiercely, still hungry for you. “Am I forgiven?” He asks. You smile and slide your thumb over his bottom lip. 
“No,” you murmur, and his sweet, eager face falls with disappointment. Your reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock, closing your eyes to savor the way it pulses in your hand. “You still need to fuck me, don’t you? Because I still need your cock, Frankie.”
“R-really?” He asks.
“Unless you don’t want to,” you say, giving him an out. “But I would really love you to fuck me with that big, pretty cock.”
“Yeah. Yes, ma’am, please, let me—”
He clamors for his bedside drawer, fishing out a condom.
Responsible. You like that. 
He rolls it down that pretty cock of his and starts to line himself up with you, but you have something else in mind.
“Wanna ride you,” you say, switching positions with him. His eyes rove over your body as you swing your legs over his thighs, and he scoots up to a sitting position against the pillows. 
“Wanna kiss you,” he says, groaning as you sink onto him. “Think about this all the time.”
You breathe as you adjust to his size, the slight stretch disappearing quickly as you start to move. You wish you could feel his cock without the barrier, wish he could come inside of you and watch it leak out of your spent pussy, but the way he’s looking at you, worshipful and earnest, more than makes up for it. He pulls you to him, all teeth and tongue and need as he pants into your mouth. 
“Shit,” he says. “Shit, I don’t know—don’t know how long I’ll last. You feel so fucking good. Wanted this for so long.”
You moan at his confession, your pussy clenching around him and pulling another groan from him. “You gonna come that fast, baby? When you just came? My pussy feels that good?” It’s too easy to tease him. He wraps his arms around you, like can’t get close enough to you, and whimpers and holy fucking shit, you love that noise. 
So you keep talking. 
“It’s okay, Frankie. I won’t be mad. You’ll still be a good boy for me if you come fast, you can’t help it if it feels good, right?”
He shakes his head, grunting something that sounds like “no” as he starts to thrust up into you. He slots his arms under yours, his fingers anchoring over your shoulders from behind, and all you can do is hold on. Not exactly riding him, but this is really fucking good, too.
“Fuck me like you need to, baby. Wish you could come inside me, Frankie. Wish you could make a mess inside me, I’d make you clean it up, lick it out of—”
“Wanna come in you, wanna come in you so bad,” he says. “Wanna keep you, wanna—fuck—wanna make you my little woman, want you to boss me around, please, baby, fuck, I’m gonna come—”
Frankie lets out a long, quiet groan, shuddering like he had in the living room, and you whisper encouragement in his ear.
“Sorry,” he moans. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” you murmur, not entirely sure what he’s sorry about. He doesn’t let you move from him, your foreheads pressed together, lips molded as he comes back to Earth. 
“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”
“I’m…oh, fuck,” he says, kissing you all over your face. “I’m amazing.” He kisses your nose. “You’re amazing.”
“Yeah?”
After he takes some time to breathe, you’re able to move from his lap, his softening cock slipping from you. You could’ve kept him in there all night, you think. 
He ties off the condom and throws it away, throwing on boxers and says he’s going to check and make sure Franny’s still asleep. 
You make your way into his bathroom to clean up, putting your clothes back on and dreading whatever post-orgasm clarity conversation was about to happen. His mumbled apologies seemed like a bad sign, and your stomach churns. 
He’d also said nice stuff, things you know better than to take seriously if men were in the heat of the moment, but you don’t think you’d mind bossing him around if he let you. As you open the door, you take a deep breath and find him sitting on the bed with a glass of water on the nightstand. 
Dammit, he’s so pretty. 
“Hey,” he says softly. “We should probably talk—”
“Look, I get it,” you cut him off, trying to get ahead of him. “I’m still fine to stay here through the day tomorrow. I can give you some good referrals to other sitters—”
“What do you mean?” He asks, frowning. “Why would I need that? Are…you’re quitting?”
“No, I mean—I thought you’d want to remove any complications,” you explain. 
“You’re not a complication,” he says, holding his hand out. You look at it warily, taking it with suspicion. “I wanted to tell you I’m rescheduling my flight so I don’t have to leave tomorrow.”
“Really?” You ask, and he nods, handing you the glass of water. 
“You thought I was gonna fire you? After…that? Right before Christmas?” He asks. 
“I’ve heard plenty of stories, Frankie,” you murmur, taking a drink of water.
“I wanted to spend time with you. I want to take you on a date, if you’ll let me.”
“I’d love that,” you say, the constriction in your chest dissipating with his sweet smile. “I just…”
“What?” He asks, cupping your cheek. “You can tell me.”
“You don’t like me,” you say. 
“What?” 
“You don’t like me! You did, and then—and then you didn’t anymore, back in September. And you were apologizing when we—”
“I was being an idiot. I wanted to do what was best for Franny and I thought if I came onto you it would fuck everything up,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck and gives you a sheepish grin. “And I was apologizing because I came so fast. You just felt so good.”
“Oh,” you say, letting this information wash over you with another swig of water. 
“Oh?” He asks, his eyes all big and round and worried and sweet and how can a grown man be so cute?
“It’s a good ‘oh’. I’m glad I know. I like you, Frankie. I always have.”
“I like you, too.”
You fall asleep tangled in his arms, talking late into the night, and in the morning you wake up to the noise of a camera shuttering and several bright flashes. 
“Why you both in here?” Franny asks, clicking away like a miniature paparazzo. Your mouth opens and closes with all the grace of a land-dwelling bass fish, and blessedly, Frankie wakes up before you can answer. 
“Come here, mija, let me see that,” he says, and Franny climbs in bed with the two of you, presenting her camera to Frankie for inspection and successfully distracting her as you slip out to put your robe back and start breakfast. 
They come out of his room a few minutes later, and Frankie comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing the back of your neck. 
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“Close enough,” he says.
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nocturne-pisces · 3 months
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HOW DID I GO FROM GROWING UP TO BREAKING DOWN? // ON GROWING UP
Mother Mother Mamma Told Me // unknown // 어른들은 몰라요 Young Adult Matters (2021) dir. Hwan Lee // Kristin Chang Churching // unknown // Salman Rushdie East, West // Lorde Ribs // Cameron Awkward-Rich The Child Formerly Known As _____ // Lorde // unknown // Leanna Firestone Least Favorite Only Child // リリイ・シュシュのすべて All About Lily Chou-Chou (2001) dir. Shunji Iwai // Richard Siken Crush // unknown // Hala Alyan I'm Not Speaking First
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nocturne-pisces · 4 months
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"When you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives"
–Lauren Eden
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nocturne-pisces · 6 months
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yes hes my comfort character, and yes he does beat the shit out of people. he multitasks idk
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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thank you babe 😘😇💚
Y'all ever look at a man and think "....yeah, he's into mutual masturbation..."
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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Y'all ever look at a man and think "....yeah, he's into mutual masturbation..."
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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💚😇💚💚
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA FUCK OFF IM DEAD
Y'all ever look at a man and think "....yeah, he's into mutual masturbation..."
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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saving that picture for later
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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no one rang my bell— but here i am—
happy birthday babe
dark!Scott Huffman x darkish!Reader
I can’t count, much less count words
for the benefit of me, we’re calling this soft!dark
Mutual Benefits
His clothes fucking itch.
He’s read the same sentence on the paperwork in front of him seven or eight times and he isn’t absorbing a fucking word. His leg bounces under his desk.
The problem is that damn skirt. It’s skin tight and high waisted and he’s pretty sure he can see the outline of what his mind tells him is the skimpiest little panties when your back is turned to him.
He knows he should have hired someone else to do your job. He knows that having you here is doing nothing but distracting him and making his pants feel tight, but he saw how eager you were to please him and couldn’t help the sick desire to see you bending over backwards for him for 40 hours a week.
The floor to ceiling windows of his office give him the perfect view of you; concentrated, pouring over his schedule, making sure he’s not overbooked but also being sure to book him just enough that he stays busy. He would like to say that his days are going by quickly and painlessly, but that would be a lie.
He knows he can’t stand up right now, it would reveal too much, so he bores his stare into his paperwork and tries his best to keep working.
A soft knock pulls him from his thoughts and there you are, practically fucking glowing in the sunset light from the window. Golden hour, golden you.
Your face curls into concern.
“Hey, are you feeling alright? You look —“
“I uhh- yeah, no I’m- I’m okay.” He’s not convincing, you take the seat in front of his desk.
“Mr. Huffman, you know—“ You’re about to tell him that he can tell you anything, that your job description implied confidentiality, that you signed the NDA, but he cuts you off.
“I thought I told you to call me Scott,” his face is hard, his stare dark. It makes your heart thump a little harder in your chest. Your eyes flutter and saliva collects behind your molars.
“Scott, I’m sure—“ but he won’t let you finish, he’s done hearing your voice after it trilled over the consonants of his name.
“You know what my problem is?”
The manila folder in his hand gets slapped shut, tossed on the surface of his desk as he leans forward. You shake your head, the grip on your own stack of paperwork tight when you swallow back your words.
“You.” He’s deadly serious, the tips of his ears are red with agitation.
“What have I done?” You ask, nearly affronted.
“You exist.” You watch as his hands leave his desk top, his palms massaging at the top of his thighs where you’re sure his erection sits heavy between his legs.
The corner of your mouth tugs, you have to bite your lip to keep it from breaking into a full smile. You’ve got him. You play coy anyway.
“I don’t understand,” you reply. You place your paperwork on the chair next to you and stand, the click of your heels against the carpet covered concrete echoing off the walls of his office. You make sure to walk slow, to shift your weight deliberately from one foot to the other to put that bounce in your ass cheeks when you walk over and shut the blinds to his office.
“You’ve got to be kidding, you don’t know? Don’t know how much I want to—“
“No, Scott,” this time you cut him off, slice through him with a look and catch him off guard. You walk back to his desk, lean over it and speak low, inches from his face. “I don’t understand why it is that all I get from you is sideways glances when all I want is to ride your cock where you sit.”
His eyes widen, his breathing labored, you continue.
“Do I have too many buttons buttoned?” You plant your ass back in the seat, lean back and undo the top three buttons on your blouse.
“Sweetheart, please,” he begs, though you’re not sure if it’s to keep going or to stop. You take liberties.
“Are the skirts not short enough, Mr. Huffman?” You work your fingers under the hem of your skirt, pull it up over your thighs and let your legs fall open.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, his eyes drifting down to where you’re already very close to dripping bare on his office furniture.
“All of this,” you suck a breath in through your teeth when your fingers come into contact with your clit, already sensitive, “was just walking around your office waiting for you to take some fucking initiative.”
“Fuck, I’ll give you initiative,” he mumbles. It’s not even really to you, it’s more a plea for you to keep talking to him. He doesn’t even ask to take his pants down, the jingle of his belt buckle and his frantic pawing tells you he wouldn’t ask anyway. A few seconds later he has himself in hand and the saliva that was collecting behind your molars threatens to spill. He’s engorged, thick and angry, shiny with precum and if you don’t speak now he’ll ruin everything.
“Go slow,” you command. His head snaps up, his eyebrows knitted. He doesn’t want slow, he wants rough and fast and he wants to come so goddamn bad his head spins.
You lean over his desk again, take his wrist and bring his hand to your mouth. You spit in his palm, wet and lewd, and then smile up at him when he falters. He licks his lips like he wants to taste it.
“Next time,” you coo, and all his empty head can do is nod.
You relax back, sluicing your fingers with your own slick before plunging them into your cunt. You make a show of it. “Fuck, Scott,” you whimper, looking from where you fill yourself to where he’s giving himself slow and deliberate strokes.
“Look at it, you could have been inside me weeks ago, but you wanted to fuck around.”
“I’m sorry,” he grunts, his thumb grazing just right and making his head fall back for a moment.
“Don’t be sorry, be better. Listen to my rhythm, fuck yourself in time with it, don’t cum until I say so.”
“Shit, okay, fuck.” He stops, his eyes locked on your pussy, gets the tempo and starts back up again. You give it a few moments before you pick up speed.
“Fuck Scott, you always look so good in your suits. Always wanted you to take me right here, over your desk, blinds open so everyone could see.” Your mouth is running away with you, but you can’t help it. You’ve finally gotten some of the attention you wanted from him and you’re going to get him addicted to what you know you can do to him.
“S’that right?” He groans, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That pretty pussy just needed me to fill her up? Stretch her out? Send her outta here aching and sore?”
“Fuck yeah,” you breathe, your thighs starting to tremble. Your grab a breast, knead it in your hand and tug on your nipple. “Just wanted you to fill me up so I could feel it leak out.”
Your toes start to tingle, and he’s sweating so hard it starting to dot stains through his button up. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To fill me up and see me round with your babies?”
He lets out an inhuman grunt, an unexpected orgasm painting white streaks across his slacks.
You fuck yourself faster, harder, pounding into your own g-spot until your eyes roll back and your breath stutters in your chest.
You’re both left panting, the room suddenly reeking of bodily fluids. You let out a chuckle, standing on shaky legs and leaning over Scott’s desk to brush your two still wet fingers against his bottom lip.
His tongue traces after it and you watch his eyes close and his cock twitch when he tastes you for the first time. You pull your skirt down, make sure your hair is presentable and button up your blouse.
“I’ll be at my desk if you need anything else, Mr. Huffman.” You shut the door after you, allowing him the privacy to clean himself up.
Scott keeps an extra suit on hand just in case he spills coffee on himself and after he gets changed he opens the blinds back up and watches silently as you tap away at your keyboard. No doubt finding ways to make his life and his job easier.
He slides the top drawer of his desk open, a ring box with a silver band and a brilliant diamond sits inside. He’s going to have you, he can feel his heart stutter and restart its beats in the rhythm of your name.
Yeah, he’s going to catch you and keep you. Even if he has to call in a favor with that ex-military IT guy a few floors up.
Y'all ever look at a man and think "....yeah, he's into mutual masturbation..."
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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I need you to finish the grocery list series. Idk how much longer I’ll be able to go on 😔 also stream Lover, you should come over -🩵
i haven’t gotten notes on that in — forever, so i assumed it was dead.
also is that the song by jeff buckley?
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nocturne-pisces · 8 months
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