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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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hornee joel request: soft to feral!joel. he's is an acts of service man who sometimes tries to start with softer touches in the dark, but as he gets more worked up those touches become rougher, more desperate. to the point he's got you bent in half, hands on the back of your knees, not even bothering to get fully undressed. gruff, whiskey-scented praise in your ear ("you like that, girlie? that feel good?"). also I heartily agree with pussydrunk!joel anon lol

alright, so when I first read this when you said "to the point he's got you bent in half" my brain immediately jumped to him bending reader over a surface of some kind and only understood what you meant after reading it again but I've already started writing it, sorry for misunderstanding your request! my bad but I hope you enjoy it still <333

𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

genre: smut, minors dni

word count: 1.2k

summary: It starts with soft touches hidden by the dark. In a world where finding one bed is considered lucky, it means that you and Joel frequently share one. He offers to sleep on the floor, or a tattered couch every time and every time your answer is the same. No.

warnings: rough sex, piv, joel being joel, angry sex, you-almost-died sex, feral!joel

It starts with soft touches hidden by the dark.

In a world where finding one bed is considered lucky, it means that you and Joel frequently share one. He offers to sleep on the floor, or a tattered couch every time and every time your answer is the same. No.

Then it starts. His large hands are on your hips, pulling you closer, his confined cock hot and aching under his jeans. It’s only that at first. Grinding, accompanied by heavy breathing. His scarred hands sneak under your shirt, he grips your breasts, flicking your pebbled nipples with the tips of his fingers. When Joel comes he makes a choked-out sound, swallowing his groans either by biting into your shoulder or breathing heavily through his nose.

It’s just that.

Until it’s not.

You expect to die when a clicker tackles you to the hard ground. It makes a jarring move to bite you and you manage to swerve away from it. But you know you can’t hold on for long. This is it. The end.

A gunshot echoes, then another one, and then another, until the clicker’s lifeless body falls limp on top of you. Joel shoves it away with a kick, lifts—no—he yanks you up from the ground. So hard that your shoulder ached from the sheer force of it. He’s angry, livid even.

He doesn’t look at you for the rest of the evening. Barely glances at you when you give him his portion of expired Chef Bouyardee. He just scowls, the crease between his brows deep.

Frustrated, you drop your plate and head further inside the deserted house. Heading into the first room, you notice it probably used to be a study room. Dust covers every surface and you step forward, touching the wooden table. It must’ve looked beautiful before the outbreak. Your fingers leave a trail of shiny wood in its wake.

You pull away and shake your head, frustrated.

Joel finds you. Crossing the room with large steps, he grips your waist. He pulls you flush against him, lips finding the skin between your shoulders and neck. You let out a sigh.

“You’re not mad anymore?”

“I told you to fuckin’ stay put,” he grunts, pushing you towards the table. “I’m fuckin’ furious.”

You smell alcohol on his breath. He must’ve taken a couple of swigs before he came to find you, instead of eating.

You can feel the dust from the table on your skin as he bends you over it. His large hands grip your hips, pushing you down further against the wood. Joel tugs down your pants until the pair hangs loosely over your knees. Kicking your legs further apart, he slides your underwear to the side and enters you in one swift thrust. You gasp, arching your back in response. Pain blossoms between your legs and your head spins. Hints of pleasure prickle at your skin, forcing a choked-out moan from your lips. He moves with an intensity that makes your body quiver, pushing you further and further against the table.

"You like that, girlie?" he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "Does that feel good?"

You shudder at how deep his voice had gone. You nod frantically, moans ripping from your throat. He pulls out enough so it’s only the head of his cock stretching you, and with one sharp thrust, he sinks into your heat. You jerk forward, nails clawing at the table.

“That’s it, take all of it,” he grinds into you, cock dragging against the soft spot that makes you see stars. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For me to fuck you hard that you forget how shit the world is.” Joel makes a point of emphasizing every word with the slam of his hips. “Sweet thing, you are. Sweet, but fuckin’ reckless.”

You can feel the splinters of the wood against your skin, but you don't care. Your nerves are on fire —you only feel him and nothing else. The sound of smacking flesh fills the room, his teeth deep in your shoulder as he wraps a hand around your throat. Joel pulls you until your back is flush against him, you hear his belt scraping against the floor with every hard thrust. Your lips part with a gasp. Your lungs expanding with the feel of his hand under your shirt.

Suddenly his hips still. You’re surprised at how fast tears flood your eyes, blurring your already hazy vision. You whimper, and his cock twitches at the sound.

“You gonna listen to me from now on?” he asks. “Are you gonna behave?”

“Yes,” you whimper, sniffling. “I will just…move, please.”

You lose your grounding, the room around you turning upside down. You find yourself sitting on the desk, your knees being pushed up until they touch your head. Your spine aches, however, the feeling is quickly forgotten when he pushes himself back inside. He feels bigger somehow, thicker.

Joel doesn’t say another word after that. He jackhammers his hips into yours like you’re a toy for him to use. Your breathing grows heavier, every nerve in your body coming alive. Between half-lidded eyes, you notice him looking down, watching his cock disappearing into your dripping cunt.

You’re shaking when his thumb starts circling your clit, heat swirls in your stomach, your muscles tense. Your body tingles with your nearing orgasm. It’s a steady push until Joel decides to part your folds as he fucks himself impossibly deeper.

Tiny black dots dance across your vision and you cry out. Suddenly everything feels a hundred times more intense, your aching sex a ball of flame. Your fingers seek him out, a need to touch, to feel his heat against your skin. But you can barely reach his thighs with the way the two of you are positioned, the tips of your fingers desperately trying to take a hold of the tense muscle.

You let out a shaking breath as your orgasm hits you like a truck. It doesn’t come in small, building waves. It’s violent and vivid, the pleasure needling into your skin. Joel finally grants you your wish and releases your legs, as they fall and frame his broad waist, you weakly wrap your arms around him. Only after the fact do you realize he leaned in for your embrace. Craving it as much as you do.

He keeps still until your tremors have subsided, his lips etched into your neck, kissing and nipping the soft flesh. He’s still hard, cock throbbing deep inside of you.

“You good?” he breathes out.

“Yeah.”

“A’right.”

You don’t expect him to pull out, hence you’re not ready to be left empty. But the sight he provides you is worth it, he grips his cock, his fist moving in solid, fast, strokes over your stomach.

He grunts as he comes, spurting his hot cum over your stomach in thick, white streams. Your cheeks heat up at the sight of him. His body shudders, his grip on his cock tight as he continues to stroke himself. His eyes are closed with the intention to hide his bliss, his lips parted. You hear the groans he tries to bite back, and arousal sets your body aflame once more.

He finally finishes, and his hand falls to his side, his breathing heavy and deep. Both of you too frightened to say a word.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #scheduled post #your friendly neighborhood queue

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keesespuffs · 6 months

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imagine your f/o, no matter how they normally act, clinging to you while deep in slumber. if you try to pull away, they whine softly and snuggle closer-

bonus: imagine them waking up to this (or you tell them about it later) and them getting all flustered about it. maybe they even try to deny it despite the evidence telling otherwise <3

#i wish to snuggle!!! where are my faves to snuggle with me :(#f/o imagines #self ship #self shipping #self insert #oc x canon #currently away | queue

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falsehero · 1 year

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#! doodles #p5 #persona 5 #shuake #akechi goro #amamiya ren #f for sojiro in the corner prolly suffering in silence #no but i rly do miss shuake i should do smth for 2/2..... HOILKY SHIT ITS NEXT WEEK TF???#anw apparently i just realized i ran out of queue.. oops

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unisongakikoeru · 3 months

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imagine your f/o holding your hand, and thinking to themself, "their hands are so soft..."

proship/comship dni

#I DONT KNOW HWO TO ELABORATE THIS ONE. ITS JUST. YEAG. imagine.#writing #🐯#fuck how do you tag again #self ship #self ship imagine #self ship community #self shipping #imagine your f/o #q #i always queue my writing bc im a coward lmfao

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ay0nha · 8 months

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This world needs sanji ANGST...i haven't seen anything like that that isn't immediatley fluff so plz plz plz do angst OR maybe enemies to lovers but reeealll enemies ther'es gotta be beeeffff

tension. jealousy. protectivness. what the hell. where is it.

thank u :3

Pairing: opla!Sanji x f!reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: canon-typical things, smoking, cursing, the Baratie, mentions of annoying/handsy costumers, RUSHED ending (sorry), etc.

A/N: Hello anon! Thank you so much for the request. I started a little sm sm based of this request and a couple similar ones. It's just a start, so let me know if I should turn this into something more/longer...I have ideas...COMMENTS ENCOURAGED. Enjoy.

PART II

You always preferred sailing on quiet nights.

Fewer lights from the ship scared the stars into submission. It was the only time your shoulders settled and your breaths became leveled. The air’s humidity wrapped you in warmth and the patterned waves lulled your racing thoughts.

Yet, the lights of the Baratie reminded you that those idyllic nights remained only in memory, few and far between. The chatter radiated an aura, which functioned as a reminder of the never ending responsibilities of hospitality.

Your dwindling cigarette marked the time left of your break, but you savored every second. You slouched into your shoulder, head resting softly to the side to acknowledge the footsteps approaching you.

“Sanji.” Even with your back to your newly found company, you knew who had found you. He always had. “If Zeff sent you…” You drew in a deep and finalizing breath, the crackle satisfying in contrast. “Turn around and fuck off.”

The breath of his laughter exposed his delight at your demise. “Your funeral—

“—Our.” You corrected him. Finally offering a glance, you saw he’d replaced his apron for a tie. Always trouble, you thought.

“Nah, you’ll be alright…” He tutted with humor. “Regardless, who can I count on to spit on my grave?”

You hummed to hide a semblance of a smile. Sanji’s charm was worthless to you, never working in his favor. It had taken years of coaxing past vindication to even occupy the same space. So as always, you’d removed yourself to create a more familiar distance.

“Funny.” You only ever entertained him with sarcasm. Flicking your butt into the darkness, you began to walk away. “Just don’t get in the way.”

The night was busy—every night was busy. You hadn’t minded the adrenaline or the late hours. It was what kept you going, kept you from realizing that slowing down would never be an option.

But then the constantly spinning world stopped. Your wrist was caught in the hand of a guest, the very one whose crude remarks failed to cause a reaction. However, your plastered smile only encouraged him. You became a challenge he hadn’t realized would eventually retaliate.

It caused a scene, glass to be broken, and scolding from Zeff that echoed throughout the kitchen. Your pent up venom led you to an ultimatum; cool off or leave. Now, your headache dulled in comparison to the nausea you felt walking back in.

Hearing your name you turned to see Sanji’s face illuminated with his lighter. His eyes were fixed on his task, but you knew he was speaking directly to you. “You’re alright, though? Right?”

It was happening more frequently than you’d like to admit; your sarcastic insult caught in your throat and your breath pinned to the roof of your mouth. Your words were lost. Sanji was responsible for the confusion of feelings and it only furthered your resentment.

Yet, your voice was never found and so you nodded with promise.

Instead, your wrist throbbed and you were sure by the end of the service the bruising would surface. But you rolled it as if the action could wash away the pain. You straightened your posture, pulled a practiced smile, and held a soft air as you began again greeting guests table by table.

The people dining waited their turn just as those rubbing elbows with them. From the decor, the crystal, story of the menu, even you were a part of the experience. Performance was key and you were nothing but stellar at pretending to be someone else.

“Good evening—” You greeted. Your voice could have been mistaken for sultry. Some nights you struggled to recognize yourself. “—I’ve noticed you’re back and your wine is getting low.”

“Always attentive, you.” The Baratie regular reveled in the banter. It was formulaic at this point, but the atmosphere captivated you both.

“I can’t help but play favorites.” You countered, granting a heavy pour of wine into his glass. Your dress cut low, ever dip intentional to distract from the mountain of Berries owed for the aged wine provided.

His eyes took in your figure, falling into the trap. “Apparently, I’ve got competition.”

You wanted to feel good, as you normally did. The fabric complimented your physique and kissed your skin with such sensuality. The feeling of hungry eyes on you never grew old. The assurance was always refreshing. However, there was a weight tonight that wasn’t the fault of the fabric.

“Pirates can never resist treasure.” You pushed past the crack in your demeanor. You smiled wider, but your eyes cast down at your wrist hoping it didn’t reveal too much too soon.

The bark of laughter almost made you flinch. “Not the filthy pirate! Your friend there—” The man continued, complaining about nonsense while raising his already dwindling glass to Sanji. “100 Berries he’s spit in my food.”

That swirl in your chest had just settled, but it returned as your eyes met Sanji’s. His glare wasn’t shy, burning through you. Judgment about your pairing of wine, most likely. Regardless, you noted the fluidity in his movements pulled him closer to you.

The man laughed at the slight staring contest. You internally cursed at breaking first.

“He’s harmless.” You muttered, pouring another serving of wine. Moving your body kept you distracted from the unspoken.

“Harmless?” The man scoffed, inebriation heavy in his inflection.“The scum of a pirate walked—well, crawled really—out of here with nothing but a bloody promise of a slow death.”

You remained light and playful as you finished the conversation, distracting your regular enough to slip away. You made your rounds just as Sanji had, but you were clever to dance around him, avoid him.

It worked at first, but it only aggravated Sanji. He spoke loudly and boldly about the well-known service, slipping in insults and intentionally sabotaging everything you’d just smoothed out. It may not have been intentional. It rarely was if you thought about it, his disappointment reserved for Zeff.

It was as though Sanji had tunnel vision. His upset became yours conscious or not, as every complaint and move he made contradicted yours. It made you trip and stumble. It began to make the night agonizingly slow as he became the barrier between you and the end of the service.

You’d boiled over, pulling harshly on his arm until you both crammed into a blindspot of the rest of the restaurant.

Sanji’s eyes blew wide, but his smirk only widened. Even in his state of mild shock, his mind wandered. “What are you—

You straightened his tie harshly, a threat. “Fix your attitude.”

“Mine?” He countered with disbelief. “If Zeff understood—

“I don’t care about Zeff. I don’t care about you.” You hissed, pushing a finger deep into his chest. Slowly your composure was unraveling, but you regained it quickly, speaking pointedly, “What I care about is this night being over.”

Sanji took the beat of silence to look between your eyes. You were frazzled, your collectedness hanging on by a thread. He could guess why, but you’d never admit he was correct.

“Are you even listening?” You prompted again, ready to move back with utter impatience.

However, Sanji touched the wrist that was within distance causing your body to freeze. “You need ice.”

His hold was gentle, but he felt the heat come from the swelling. The pain was catching up to you.

“Enough.” You spat, wobbling with your steps backward. “Enough of—” Tonight, you wanted to say. The kindness threw you off, made you feel seen in a way you wouldn’t accept. “Just—

“We’ll finish the night smoothly.” Sanji spoke evenly, decidedly for the both of you. “Then, I’ll find ice for you.”

Your chin raised for your childness to surface. “I can take care of myself.”

“I have no doubt.” Sanji felt his emotions settle on his face, the smirk was hard to call on, but the air had become too tense not to with such unfamiliar territory. “But yet, If I don’t help you, you’ll milk it for weeks and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

#QUEUE #I'm nervous writing for someone new #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji #sanji #black leg sanji #one piece #one piece sanji #opla!sanji x reader #opla #opla sanji #opla!sanji x f!reader #opla!sanji fluff #opla!sanji angst #sanji angst #sanji fluff #sanji x reader #sanji x you

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alien-romantic · 1 year

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Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying (Do Your Part to Save the Scene and Stop Going to Shows), Fall Out Boy, 2005

Heaven, Iowa, Fall Out Boy, 2023

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

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Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school.

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable.

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back.

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides.

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle.

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt.

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash.

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands.

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there.

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath.

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips.

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while.

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage.

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie friday #queue

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tightjeansjavi · 3 months

Note

Congrats on being here writing for one year!!!

🦋Can I please request a little mini drabble for Javi G?

And since you know I love my little bad boi/soft boi - can you please make him a little naughty? He's not a big, mean man, but I think he can be spicy when he wants to be.

xoxoxo

Patti, anything for you my darling 💗

Thank you for taking my Javi G v-card ;)

Tease

A/N: spicy, spicy, spicy! 🥵🌶️

~word count: 1.3k~

Summary: being Javi Gutierrez’s personal assistant comes with many perks.

Pairing | Javi Gutierrez x f!personal assistant reader

Warnings: smut with no plot, power imbalance (boss/employee) reader is ballsy and bold, mutual pining, unprotected piv, fingering, teasing (like HELLA) seductress reader, noncon/dubcon (reader is naked in his eye-line on purpose) javi is respectful till he’s not, dom!javi, reader can understand Spanish, reader has no physical descriptions such as body type or skin color, no age gap (no mention of age) +18, minors dni!

translations:

¡Mierda! - Shit!

Querida - darling

Ten piedad de mí, joder - have mercy on me, fuck

Hermosa - gorgeous

Chica mala - bad girl

translations done by @angelofsmalldeath-codeine & @yoongi-tangerine-22

Being Javi Gutierrez’s personal assistant came with…many perks. Javi was always a generous man, and even though he was your boss, and you knew it was shameful to be attracted to him, you couldn’t help it.

But what’s a girl to do with an assumed one-sided attraction? Tease the shit out of him till he simply can’t take it anymore.

It started off innocent, light touches here and there. Fluttering of lashes, giggles, and asking him questions about himself that did not pertain to the conversation at hand.

You loved to see him stutter over his responses and rub the back of his neck, or card his fingers through his luscious, soft curls.

He never acted upon his desires and urges. He always was respectful, polite, and boy, did that often drive you up a wall.

You were desperate to know what kind of man Javi Gutierrez was in the bedroom.

You started wearing revealing clothing around him. Short skirts, low-cut tops that had your tits practically staring him in the face. Flowy sundresses that allowed for easy access to your bare cunt.

He found you purposely bent over at times, with the seam of your pussy exposed—puffy, dripping a droplet of arousal like the sweetest fruit a man could ever taste.

Tempted by the bared fruit of Eden, he was. The urge was there, but never satiated. You were his assistant, and he was your boss. It would be shameful.

The sun was hot, blistering, boiling on your skin. One of the perks of living at Javi’s coastal home, was your free access to his inground pool. As long as you did your job, you could spend your free time lounging poolside for hours.

Today you decided to spice things up a bit more than usual knowing the exact time that Javi would come down for his afternoon swim. You would be there, waiting for him.

At first, he didn’t notice your naked form sunbathing on your stomach, ankles crossed in a relaxed position on the poolside chaise lounge. His mind was elsewhere: a new screenplay idea.

He whistled, throwing his towel down on the chair beside you, stretching his arms above his head, giving you a tiny peek at the happy trail at the top of his very tight speedo.

Your sunglasses tip down over the bridge of your nose as you shamelessly drink him in. Salivating at the look of his bronzed, golden skin that you absolutely would love to sink your teeth into.

“Mr. Gutierrez, so nice of you to join me.” You giggle softly, waving your fingers in a teasing motion.

He does a double take when his eyes finally gloss over your naked body. His pupils expand, and he nearly stumbles over his two feet.

“¡Mierda!” He exclaims, covering his eyes and shaking his head. “Querida, why are you naked?!” The harmless nickname slips past his lips, his eyes going wide behind the cover of his hands when the realization hits.

“Aw, Javi! I’m your darling? Wow, you sure know how to get a gal feeling flustered!” You giggle again and slowly roll over onto your back, thighs falling open over the side of the lounge chair, just enough that he can see the outline of your cunt. “It’s far too hot to be wearing anything, Javi. My skin is absolutely boiling.” You said with a soft, airy sigh, letting your hand drift southwards to rest along your stomach. Inching—

Ten piedad de mí, joder. He thinks.

He doesn’t respond, feeling flustered as a hot flush spreads across his face. He averts from making eye contact with you and tosses his sunglasses onto his towel. You swear you hear him curse under his breath just before he dives into the refreshing pool.

Darn.

Javi finally loses his cool when the second draft of his new screenplay is rejected. He’s been so distracted with you and your antics that he hasn’t been able to focus! Well, he’s about to show you just how frustrated he truly is with you.

You don’t hear him approaching at first from where you’re bent over the sink, focused on washing the dishes and the song playing in your AirPods.

Your hips are swaying to the side, loose and flowy and from where Javi is standing in the opening of the kitchen, he’s practically burning holes into the back of your head.

Fucking tease.

He stalks forward, coming up behind you and nearly rips the earbuds from your ears, tossing them onto the countertop.

“Hey—” you start to say, losing your voice in your throat when you feel Javi’s palm slip between the apex of your thighs, fingers just barely brushing between the seam of your cunt.

“You’re a dirty fucking tease, querida.” He growls against the shell of your ear. His freehand yanks you back by your hip. He inhales your scent, familiar—his fucking cologne? “Naughty fucking tease. Are you—wearing my cologne?” He drags his fingers through your folds, gathering up your apparent arousal, sticky and wet for him. “Dripping all over the freshly washed tiles, hermosa.”

“Fuuck—” you whimper, pressing your ass directly against the growing bulge in his cotton shorts. Your head lolls to the side, falling back against his shoulder. “I’m your dirty fucking tease, Javi.” You spread your thighs further for him as he continues his ministrations, “Wearing your cologne, sir. Stole it from your room because I’m a bad, bad, girl. I wanted you to smell yourself on me.”

He nips at your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin, sucking harshly on your pulse point as he eases two fingers inside of your sopping cunt, knuckle deep. “Fucking always wearing short skirts around me. Those goddamn sundresses. Lost my mind when you were sunbathing naked, cunt on full display without a care in the world. You’ve made it so, so hard for me to keep my hands to myself, querida.”

“Javiii!” You whine, “please don’t keep your hands to yourself, baby. Please. Have your way with me, sir. I’m all yours.” You don’t give a flying fuck how desperate you sound for this man, you’ve been pining after him for far too long to care.

“Yeah? You think I should, hermosa? Think I should give you my cock? That’s what you want, right? You want my cock? I don’t think you deserve it, querida. Not after you’ve driven me up a fucking wall. Naughty little teases don’t get rewarded.”

He begins to shallowly pump his fingers, knuckle deep, curling them inwards. You can feel the bite of the cooling touch of his expensive rings against your hot skin. “Please, Javi! Give me anything—I’ll take whatever you give me! Your cock, your fingers!” You cry out.

“Yeah? You’re that fucking desperate for me, querida? You want my cock that fucking bad? Look at you, dripping all over my fingers…” he hums, pressing the hardening length of his cock against your ass. “You want me to fuck you so bad, little tease? Take my cock out then, hermosa. Fuck yourself on it.”

You waste no time to reach behind and blindly search for the waistband of his shorts. You let out a frustrating whine when he pulls himself back slightly just so you have to work for it a little harder. He hisses between his teeth, working his fingers inside of you faster when you finally pull his cock free through the opening of his shorts.

He’s heavy in your palm, tip weeping an angry bead of precum when you pull him back in just as he slips his fingers out. You're both a mess of breathy moans when you ease him into your wet heat, tight pussy hugging him like a fist as he bottoms out.

He’s thick, girthy, and it’s overwhelming to have all of him stuffed inside of you. It’s a delicious sensation: being stretched open by Javi’s cock.

“You’re enjoying this too fucking much, hermosa.” He keeps a firm grip on your hip, his other snakes around you, dipping between your thighs so he can thrum your sensitive clit. “Fuck yourself on it, chica mala.”

And so you do.

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