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wannab-urs · 25 days

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Something in the Orange

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC!Sonya

Summary: Something in the orange tells me you’re never coming home.

Warnings: Sonya is Sarah’s mom, bittersweet ending - we all know Sarah’s mom wasn’t there in the game/show okay? Symptoms of Postpartum Depression, not diagnosed or treated. Joel calls her Sunny, Sonya does not want to be a mom, ANGST, smut but it’s in the past, mentions of separation and divorce, excessive drinking, intervention moment, song fic kind of? WC: 3.7k

A/N: I can’t believe I not only had a Joel idea, but then actually wrote it. Thanks to @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @atinylittlepain for listening to me scream about it all day and screaming back at me. And thanks to @dancingtotuyo/@catchallfangirl for editing for me <3. Fic based largely on the song by the same name.

Joel Miller Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

It'll be fine by dusk light I'm telling you, baby These things eat at your bones and drive your young mind crazy But when you place your head between my collar and jaw I don't know much but there's no weight at all

Sonya is curled up in bed, on top of the comforter, trying not to fall asleep before Joel gets home. He’s been pulling double shifts at the factory to pay for all the expenses of having a baby. A baby she didn’t want.

Well that’s not quite true. A baby she didn’t plan on having, that she had fallen in love with the idea of and decided to keep. She had been excited to be a mom, if a bit terrified, but who wasn’t? She thought that with Joel by her side, they could do anything. But having a baby has caused her nothing but grief.

She knows she’s supposed to love her child more than anything on the planet and that makes her feel broken, like she’s failing at this woman thing, this mother thing. She cares for Sarah, of course she loves her, cherishes her, or whatever. She does her duties as a mother and it fucking sucks. She just wants to go back to how it used to be with Joel, before the baby. Before he started pulling double shifts. Before she was nothing more than a wife and mother.

She hears the front door open, the shuffle of Joel taking off his boots by the door, the clatter of him in the kitchen, heating up the plate of food you left for him. You lie in bed and listen to him clean his plate and put it in the sink – not the dishwasher – and you sigh.

He goes in to check on Sarah before he comes to your room, and you feel a bit jealous. You used to be the first person he kissed when he got home. You used to have dinner together every night. He used to come home and dance with you, make love to you, spend real time with you. But now, he comes home and eats and goes to bed. And it’s all because of her. For her.

Sarah, despite only getting to see him at the occasional midnight feeding and on weekends, has taken to him wonderfully. What she’s really jealous of is how easy it is for Joel to love Sarah. He doesn’t seem to mind getting up after a 16 hour shift to feed her or change her diaper while she feels put upon every time she has to stop cleaning or cooking or watching tv to care for her. He’s all smiles any time they’re in a room together while she wears a permanently exhausted expression.

And Sonya doesn’t get any of those smiles from him anymore. Only his brows pinched in the middle, furrowing over his eyes, an exasperated “Sunny, I can’t,” when she begs him to come home early and help with the dishes, help take care of their daughter. “I’m helping the only way I know how, Sunny. I’m making sure we can pay our bills and give Sarah the best life she can have.”

“What about my life? What about me?”

“You’re her mother, Sonya. She is your life now. Or she should be.”

That had been a nasty fight. He practically accused her of not caring about Sarah. And that just wasn’t true. She may not feel that bone deep motherly love she’s supposed to feel, but she does love Sarah. She is so beautiful. She has Joel’s eyes and her nose, Joel’s smile and her hair. She’s a perfect little combination of both of them, and she knows she should feel more strongly for her. It’s like there’s a wall built up around her heart that won’t let Sarah all the way in. Unfortunately, it won’t let Joel in either.

Joel comes in and sits on the bed. You sit up beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

“I can’t, Joel. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Can’t what?”

“Be stuck in this house all day taking care of a helpless child and cooking and cleaning for a man who’s never even here anymore.”

“It’ll all be fine in the mornin’, Sunshine. Just a rough night.”

“It’s not just tonight, Joel. Why don’t you ever listen to me? I wasn’t meant for this. I don’t know how to be a mom or a housewife.”

Joel pulls her legs over his lap from where they’re dangling off the bed. He tucks her face into his neck and runs a soothing hand over her back.

“I am listenin’, baby. I don’t know how to be a dad anymore than you know how to be a mom. But we’re figuring it out together, huh? I know you’re scared, but I’m right here with you. Ain’t goin’ nowhere without you, pretty girl.”

He doesn’t get it – could never get it. It’s not being a mother that scares her, it’s being trapped. She can’t escape the housework and the baby needing all her attention all the time. Joel can’t go back to working one shift a day unless they want to lose the house, but she can’t stand being apart from him for so many hours of the day.

“No, Joel, I can’t do it. I can’t,” she’s crying now.

She’d never wanted kids. Never wanted to be a stay at home mom. Going anywhere with a six month old baby is a nightmare. She’s practically entombed in this house.

She sobs into Joel’s neck, her own tears and snot smearing on his skin and back onto hers. She doesn’t want to leave him. Not when he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her. She loves him so much, but it doesn’t feel like that love is enough to keep her tied down as she is.

The separation and the stress of a new baby is driving a wedge between them, a cavern so wide she could never cross it. She thinks back to three summers ago. She was newly graduated from high school, Joel having graduated the year before, and they decided to drive out to the lake and celebrate. She sat in the passenger seat, bare feet on the dash, backseat stacked with blankets and pillows and a cooler full of beer.

They swam all day and then in the evening, she read a book while Joel cooked burgers on the camp stove. They ate and talked and laughed and kissed. When the sun started to go down, they filled the truck bed with the blankets and pillows and laid down to watch the sunset. Joel had kissed her fiercely as the sun dipped below the horizon. He slid his big palms under her shirt and tossed it to the side. She had kissed down his neck while they both scrambled to get undressed. He was inside her before she even had her jeans kicked off her legs, whispering in her ear about how beautiful she was, how good she felt. He kissed her as hard as he could as he dropped a hand to her clit, driving her closer to coming. His tongue tangled with hers as she came with a cry he smothered with his lips, swallowing it down his throat and muffling his own groan as he came inside her. She loved him more than anything in the world at that moment.

He had been everything to her. He was still everything to her. And now Sarah was supposed to be everything to them. But where did that leave them with each other? They were stupid kids, in love with each other and with life. She never expected that having a child with him would ruin everything. She doesn’t want to leave him, she really doesn’t. She’s terrified of being without him.

“I have to go, Joel.”

“Let's talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

She curls up on the bed, Joel folded around her in that perfect way he fits with her, and cries herself to sleep while he snores in her ear.

Sarah starts crying at about 2 am and Joel gets up to feed her. She hears him talking softly to her and her heart cracks. This is going to be the hardest thing she’s ever done.

And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't 'Cause if I say I miss you I know that you won't But I miss you in the mornings when I see the sun Something in the orange tells me we're not done

Joel wakes up in his bed alone. Her side is cold and untouched except for the pillow, which he managed to bury his face in as he slept. It still faintly smells of her shampoo. He misses her so desperately he can’t breathe. It’s like her absence ripped a hole in his lungs and he’s been trying to patch it ever since.

He thinks about calling her, but he knows it would backfire. If he calls her and says he misses her, it will push her further away. If he doesn’t call her, she’ll never know how much he misses her. But she also won’t know he’s failing. That he doesn’t think he can do this without her. And she won’t know that he’s waiting patiently for her to come back.

Sarah cries from the other room, and he drags himself out of bed to take care of her and get her ready for the day. He tries to smile down at his tiny daughter in the crib he built himself, but he can’t form the shape with his lips, can’t dredge up enough happiness to even fake it.

“Okay, Sarah. You’re okay baby girl. Let’s get you changed, yeah?”

Joel picks her up and carries her over to the changing table. He explains what he’s doing as he changes her diaper and gets her dressed for the day. He puts her in a striped onesie and matching striped leggings. He carries her out to the kitchen and places her in her high chair.

“What do we want to eat this morning, huh? Bananas or sweet potatoes?” He holds each jar out to her and she waggles her left arm in the air. “Bananas it is.”

He straps a bib around her before he feeds her breakfast. “Can’t believe you’re already eating baby food. It’s like you grew up on me overnight, darlin’.”

After she eats, he leaves her in the high chair while he tries to clean the kitchen. She gets upset before he can even finish the dishes. He goes over to pick her up, gently cradling her head against his shoulder. She hiccups, spitting up all over his shirt and her own.

Joel sighs and goes to change her, stripping off his shirt and tossing it toward the washing machine. He gets her into a whole new outfit, replaces his shirt with a clean one, and packs a diaper bag. He feels a pang of sadness at Sunny not being there. He doesn’t know how to be a dad by himself. Should he wait to dress Sarah until after she’s eaten? Sunny always handled the mornings on weekends, since he worked so late. She would know what to do.

“Alright little lady, it’s you and me. We’re getting groceries today, doesn’t that sound fun?”

Joel feels like an idiot talking aloud to someone who can’t answer him back, but he read that talking to your baby is good for them and he’s going a little crazy alone in this house. His mom calls just as he’s about to walk out of the door. She offers to watch Sarah while he runs errands.

“I got it, Ma. We’ll be just fine.”

Accepting help feels like failing.

The grocery store is a nightmare. Sarah’s car seat makes the cart difficult to push. He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to buy, throwing random cans into the cart that look edible. An old lady approaches him as he looks at the terrifying wall of diapers. He has no idea which ones Sunny usually bought.

“Oh is daddy babysitting his little girl today?”

Joel bristles. No. He is not babysitting his own goddamn daughter.

“Yes ma’am,” he grits through a forced smile, like he’s baring his teeth.

“She’s a beautiful little girl. Good on you for giving Mama a break.”

Joel nods and keeps his forced smile up as he grabs the nearest package of diapers and quickly leaves the aisle. Is it really so obvious he doesn’t know what he’s doing? Can everyone see he’s only faking it, that he’s clueless?

Sarah starts crying, and he tries to soothe her by rocking the car seat in the cart. It doesn’t work even a little bit, so he goes through his mental checklist – she’s been fed, it’s not naptime, it’s not too loud or scary in here. He picks her up out of the car seat and notices her drooping diaper and the worst smell that has ever hit his nostrils. She needs to be changed. Great.

He sets her back in the car seat and buckles her in, takes the cart over to the bathroom, carries her inside the men’s bathroom and… there’s no changing table. He checks all the stalls just to be sure. He can’t use the women’s restroom. He huffs in frustration and takes Sarah out to the truck to change her. He left the cart of groceries by the bathroom, but fuck it he can try again tomorrow. He changes Sarah’s diaper in the backseat of the truck and straps her back into the car seat, now safely secured to the seat.

She still hasn’t stopped crying. He makes sure she’s strapped in well and then just sits in his front seat for a while. He can feel his frustration building up. If Sunny were here, it would be so much easier. He bets there’s a changing table in the women’s restroom. He bets single mothers don’t get asked if they’re babysitting their own damn kid. The world isn’t accustomed to single dads, not built for them.

And fuck he doesn’t want to be a single dad. He wants Sonya with him, with Sarah. He wants to struggle through the hard shit with her and come out the other side stronger than ever. But that’s just not in the cards for him. He decides to let his mom watch Sarah tomorrow while he goes to the grocery store alone. And it feels like a failure. It feels like he fucked up again. He can’t do something as simple as get groceries, something Sunny did dozens of times.

Shortly after he pulls into the driveway, another car pulls in behind him. He warily approaches the stranger who gets out with a packet in his hand.

“Joel Miller?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Are you or are you not Joel Miller?”

“I am. What’s this about?”

“You’re being served divorce papers.”

Joel’s stomach drops as bile rises in his throat. Divorce. He had thought, this whole week, that she’d snap out of it and come home. But this? Ending their marriage? That’s a permanent separation. Something tells him, in that moment, that she is never coming back home to them.

He somehow makes it inside with Sarah, setting her car seat gently on the ground before he collapses. He sobs for a while, grieving the loss of everything they’d had together.

When they first bought this house, they were both barely over the age of 20. Her parents had loaned them the down payment. It was in a good neighborhood, a good school district. Probably well out of their price range, but they were gonna make it work.

The day they moved in, they had nothing but a mattress and some blankets and pillows. They had laid it in the living room, right where he lies now. They ordered Thai food and ate it on the floor and then they curled up together on the mattress. He’d taken her slow and easy that night, savoring the feeling of her wrapped around him. He’s pretty sure that’s the night they made Sarah.

Joel has to call her, has to hear it from her, and not some random courier her law firm hired. But she doesn’t answer and it goes to voicemail. He begs for her to come back. That this is too hard for him all alone.

Sarah starts crying, needing to be let out of her car seat. Joel hangs up and leans over to grab her. He holds her as tightly to his chest as he can without hurting her.

“I love you, babygirl.”

To you I'm just a man, to me you're all I am Where the hell am I supposed to go? I poisoned myself again Something in the orange tells me you're never coming home

Sonya drops her bags by the door and heads into the living room. The red light on her answering machine flashes, showing she has a message.

Sonya had a wonderful day – she went to the farmer’s market, met up with friends for lunch, checked out some bookstores and little shops. She’s afraid to listen to the message, afraid it will be him.

She presses the button and listens to it play.

“Sunny, baby. I need you. I can’t do this by myself,” his voice breaks. He sniffles a bit. “If you don’t call back I’ll… I’ll sign em. If that’s what you want. Fuck. I never thought I’d have to do it without you, Sunshine. Thought we were it. I miss you so fuckin’ much. I love you. Always will.”

She hears Sarah crying in the background and starts crying. She slumps onto her couch and lets the tears fall. She feels so incredibly guilty. Not for leaving, no. That was the best decision she could have made. She feels guilty because she’s relieved. Relieved she doesn’t have to cater to the whims of an infant all day, that she could afford to buy herself a coffee, despite only working as a receptionist. She feels guilty for leaving Joel to fend for himself.

But she won’t let his sweet message and her gnawing guilt stop her from living a life she can be happy in.

Joel stumbles into the house, less than a drink away from piss drunk. Sarah is at his mom’s for the night, as she is more often than not now. God the house feels so empty without her. There’s no meal waiting for him in the fridge, no Sarah to kiss goodnight, and no Sunny to cuddle up with in bed after a long day. He faceplants in his empty bed and cries himself to sleep.

She used to dance with him in the living room. He’d come home from work and she’d be dancing by herself in the kitchen to Etta James and he’d wrap his arms around her and kiss her like it was gonna be the last time. He’d drag her into the living room and slow dance with her until a timer went off in the kitchen or she could smell the food burning.

He wakes in the morning with a hangover and a stinging ache in his chest. He gets ready for work and comes out of the bathroom to find his mom and brother standing in his living room, Sarah cradled carefully in Tommy’s arms.

“Joel, we need to speak with you.”

“I have wo–”

“We’ve already talked to your boss, you have the day off.”

And Joel supposes he should have seen this coming. He’s been in nothing but a downward spiral for weeks. His family sits him down on his couch.

“You’re missing your daughter growing up Joel. If you’re not careful you’ll miss her first words, her first steps. You’re going to drink yourself into an early grave at this point.”

“I know.” Joel looks at Sarah sitting peacefully in Tommy’s arms and regrets the time he’s missed with her already. She seems bigger, closer to sitting up by herself, probably getting close to a whole bunch of milestones. Sonya is going to miss every single one of them, and he really doesn’t know what to do about that.

“I know it’s hard, but we’re here for you, we will help you,” his mama reassures him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

All he can do is be the best he can be for his little girl.

He decides to sell the house and most of the furniture and move into a two bed apartment with Sarah. Standing in the empty house he bought with Sunny, picked out furniture for with Sunny, it finally all feels real. She is gone forever and no amount of whiskey will make her come back. No amount of wallowing in self pity will make her change her mind.

Moving to the apartment is a total gamechanger. Sure, the kitchen is tiny and cramped and the two bedrooms combined are smaller than the master suite at the house. But it’s enough for him and his baby girl.

He quits his job at the factory and starts working construction, freeing up his evenings to be with Sarah. Sometimes he has to work weekends, but his mom is happy to see Sarah, now that he’s not staying out all hours of the night. He has Sarah every night now and watching her grow is the most beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed

One night, after he’s gotten Sarah bathed and in bed, his phone rings. The caller ID shows Sunny’s name. He wants so badly to answer it. He looks at the phone until it stops ringing and his answering machine picks it up.

“Hey, um. Call me when you get this?”

He nearly gives in, nearly rips the phone off the receiver and tells her he’ll welcome her back with open arms. But he looks around at his tiny apartment filled with baby toys and furniture he picked out all by himself, and he doesn’t see a place in his life for her anymore.

He knows he can’t allow her back into his life now when she could so easily tear down all the hard work he’s done on himself, on being a dad, on being a better man in general.

He loves her and he always will, but it’s too late for them.

#joel miller #joel miller fics #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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cherubispunk · 4 months

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CHERUB (PART III) - Dealer!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: the devil has a funny habit of making you want your own suffering.

a note from Lucy: Well, this is it folks. The third and final instalment of the unholy trinity that is cherub. The fic that i had no idea would get this amount of traction. The fic that gave me my username, blog theme, the majority of my mutuals and the freedom to explore more taboo areas of writing that I never felt comfortable with doing before. I just wanted to thank you all for all the kind words you’ve shared with me. Comments, reblogs, messages, they all mean the utter world. But i also want to specifically thank @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin who was such a huge help for motivation when wrting each of these. She's been there since the first day of cherub and always let me obsess over dealer!joel with her. Ange, i love you baby. Out of all my fandom experiences, this has definitely been one of the best. I know this sounds a lot like a goodbye completely, but it's not i swear! I just never really knew where this was going, but I think this is a pretty good way to end the series and I hope you agree too. Part of me isn't ready to let go after such a short run, but I honestly have no idea where to go from here so I think I did it as much justice as I could. Regardless, Cherub and Dealer!Joel will forever have a place in my heart all thanks to you lovely lot! Your love means the world to me and you are all so easy to share this with, you've given me an environment to flourish creatively and I'm eternally grateful for that. I wish you all the love, hugs, kisses, and angel wishes in the world!

playlist

wc: 5548 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! Unedited for now, no outbreak, no use of y/n but joel calls the reader ‘Cherub’, plot? what plot? we all know we're here for the porn anyway, bombastic age gap (reader is in her early 20’s and Joel is in his late 50s), gore imagry, religious imagry, Smut, very dubcon in theory but both want it bad, grafic smut, P in V sex (unprotected — pleaseee don’t do tis irl i beg of you), teasing, sort of edging? (idk what to call it but he doesnt fuck you until you beg for it lol). nipple play, biting biting biting!!!!!, references to domestic violence, use of pet names, manipulative! joel, stupid stupid cherub, stockholm syndrome, oral (f receiving), cum eating, pussy slapping, Joel being foul mouthed, cursing, dirty talk, overstimulation. Again, some of the most animalistic, disgustingly wretched and vile vile vile porn I have written thus far…with so little plot that this earned me my place in hell, i have my own circle now. Big Dick Joel Miller comes as his own warning.

series m.list | m.list

The danger didn't lie in his hands. It didn't sit in his closed first to be suffocated. Choked out until the life of it was compressed. Until its face was blue, then purple and its eyes were bloodshot and streaked with red. The danger lay in your heart. And it thrived off the beating.

What is ‘it’, you ask? Mania.

The Greeks had it nailed down when they split love seven different ways. To the crucifix through its punctured and bleeding palms. All equal, but different. They understood that one love is different to the other. That love can be either obsession, or lingering in the quiet parts of a person's mind. You cannot hold up a mirror to one and deceive into believing it is another. No matter how sweet the lie seeps into the ear. They don't work that way. You were not Lucifer, you had no forked tongue. And your mania wasn't Eve. There was no apple to devour. Only the strong arm of Joel Miller to cling to like a noose.

Some love passionately. Find it in the scathing friction of flesh upon flesh. The heat two bodies make only in sex. You were no body anymore. Merely a corpse for him to dig up and breathe life into whenever he needed relief. So it was not Eros. Some love playfully. In the back and forth of a conversation that makes the mind and heart float in the clouds among the soul. Entwine them together until you are too sedated to know the difference between the three pillars of personal holy trinity. There was nothing lighthearted about Joel Miller. So there was no Ludus. Affection. The subtle, it-is-there-even-when-it-is-not weight of lovers hand in lovers hand. Joel clutched your throat with his heavy hand. He didn't lace your fingers in his like tapestry threads. And he was anything but friendly. So it could never be Philia. He was not unconditional. Familial. Constant. Committed. Long lasting. Selfless. He crept in through the backdoor and took. Then slipped back out. So the thick blood red line was drawn through Storge. Agape. Pragma. The love you had was not for yourself. Without him you hated yourself. Hated how you didn’t feel needed. Or wanted. So Philautia was buried six feet under hot earth, the final nail in the coffin that was lowered into the rotting, thick-with-decaying-mulch, stenching ground. By none other than Mania.

This was something you came to realise as you stumbled from his truck back to your room. His come dribbling down your leg. Luke asleep on the sofa. Months passed of the same thing. He’d take you home from work, only letting you go once he'd had his fill. Played out the sick fantasy from mind to matter, let it bleed through his fingers into fruition. You let it happen for mania. It was the thing inside you that kept you going. Before you thought mania fed off your heartbeat. But now you realised mania fed your heartbeat. The kick it got every second fired the next muted pulse. That's what kept it alive. Energy for energy. You were never one to bite the hand that feeds. That’s a sinner's duty.

—

The usual sight of Luke slumped in his lazy boy, guzzling beer was what you expected. The liquor once again swigged past his lips and dribbling down his stubbled chin. Wiry greying hair greasy on his head, balding. Thinning. Residue from a line on the coffee table. You were never tempted by it before. And you were determined never be a Angel dust statistic like him.

Instead, you opened the flimsy door of your trailer to see him hunched over a small collapsible table. His hand running over his sunken eyes, dragging purple eye bags down with his fingertips in shame. Cards in his other. It had your breath catching in your throat like a hare in a wire snare trap. This time around the small collapsible round table. Cards in his hand. And two other men shared a knowing glance and a grim smile of satisfaction. Him.

Joel Miller.

The tension was thicker than molasses in the room. You only wished it was as sweet. You swallowed it down thickly. It stretched your throat. You watched in morbid fascination when he lay his hand on the table in a fan for all to horror at, a sly smirk slithering over his lips and curling the one corner of it up like a scorpion's tail.

“Full house.”

“Fuck!” And Luke’s hand slapped the tabletop as he folded.

The door clicked. All three looked up to see you. Luke, Joel, and the man who held a familiar resemblance to your own personal devil. With eyes on you, you felt more like that hare in the snare than ever. Clapping eyes on the hungry wolf as mutton dripped bloody from his sneer. Cruel and hungry. You imagined him as that wolf, hyde thick and bristled under your soft fingers as he led you to some deep, dark, thorny place. A place only lit by the eyes of owls who observed while he had his way with you. Ripped your stockings to get to sweet fruit.

“Great, the cunt is home.” Luke spat to the room but you, looking over the table again as he bit his thumb nervously to the edge of the hangnail. “Get me a beer.” Your nostrils flared in defiance at his demand, knuckles pale as fingers furled into a fist. An army of goosebumps had stood to attention all along your arms and the back of your neck. A shiver shattering down your spine. Your heart had enough of its prison of your ribcage in your anger, ramming into it over and over in a frantic hammering. And when that wasn't enough, you felt it in your throat. Among the tightening of your airways. “You hear me girl?” He asked, looking at you. He stood, chair scraping against the floor and you staggered back to the point your shoulderblades hit the door. While he was a thin, wiry man, he had a vicious backhand that stung. Like a vengeful aftertaste. “Y’need me to beat some sense inta ya girl, huh?!” You dared to spare a glance at Joel who was too busy collecting his winnings. You soon to be among them.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, looking to the floor and cowering off to the kitchen to get him his beer.

“Y’short, Luke.” You heard from the doorway, straining to hear the tail end of the conversation. Something about your uncle having it by monday. And then Joel telling him he shouldn’t raise a bet he doesn't have the dough to cover.

It took a second to catch your breath. Tears strung in your eyes and your chest threatened to split in two. Your sternum felt like it was cracking down the middle into clean halves under the weight of your chest. A hand clasped over your quivering lips to bite back a horrible sob and muffle it. Only your palm could know you were crying miserably. So you took a beer from the fridge, heard the hiss as the lid gave way and popped off. It clattered to the linoleum and you bared your teeth at the grating sound, picking it up and tossing it in the bin.

“Here.” You mumbled, placing it unceremoniously on the table in front of Luke.

“Y’got any spare cash on you, girl?” Luke asked, beady eyes staring you down as he raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink. You grimaced inwardly at the sight of his yellow teeth when he made a satisfied sigh.

“No.”

Joel’s brow raised. You should know by now not to lie to a man who can read you like a book. That's the thing about narcissists. They have a way of being able to understand you like a one word sentence on paper. A quick glance and you’re unravelling with concealed meaning and connotation.

“C’mon, Cherub…gotta have something from workin’ this late in that diner of yours…” You dared to challenge Joel with a look. A look that retreated soon after the advance of the glare of his eye. The same glare of the hungry wolf. Of the cheated man. It was unkind, and unyielding, and did not hold mercy upon the souls of the enthralled, the damned, or the harrowed. You might try to cross through the sentence, or turn the page. Or shut the book entirely. But the truth is still the truth even when you chose not to look. This was the man that knew your mind. Knew your body. And coaxed his will out of you each time. His word was all it took to cave, so you took the folded bills from your apron, flicking through them with a bitten back scowl,

“How much does he owe you?” Joel smiled with amusement, counting through his winnings to see what was short.

“Ninety-eight.”

‘What?” you asked, eyes wide, hurt. Disheartened. Fingers stilling halfway through the small stack. And Joel smirked.

“You heard me, Cherub.”

“Give Joel his money.” Luke warned.

“But it’s not his money! And it’s not yours to give!” You tried, and saw the warning tick of your uncle's narrow jaw. It was always set on edge before he threw a hand. Cast a palm across your cheek in a brandishing. It had you cowering. Relenting. Tossing the money in front of him. If it fell to the floor in its flurry he could pick it up and grovel about it. But Joel never grovelled. Only relished. Then reminded Luke of the money he still owed for the drugs.

And you walked back to the kitchen, biting into your lip again. With the devil and your demon in the next room over, you were sure this could be hell. A buzz filled your ears. Like the constant thrum of flies over roadkill. In festering flesh wounds where broken white of bone poked through gaping, bleeding holes. Blood matted in the hyde of the animal helpless and scattered across the road. A leg here, smashed teeth there. You were the roadkill. Joel was at the wheel of that which mowed you down. Luke was howling in the passenger side.

His boots thumped clumsily over the linoleum and he let out a huff through his nose while he adjusted his low slung jeans in the doorway.

“Cherub?” He asked, clearing his throat huskily — a consequence of the smokes he used religiously. You stood with your back to him, palms flat to the countertop and head hung low to fight the sting of tears simmering from within.

“He threatened to hit me.” You whispered, not turning to face him. If you mattered his ears would strain to meet you halfway. “And you did nothing.”

“Come on, Cherub…don't be like that.” he sighed, and you imagined him pinching the bridge of his hooked nose.

“He took my money. You took my money. How am I gonna get out of here without it?” You croaked, your tired eyes seeing faces of gaping mouths and slate black eyes in the speckled linoleum of the counter.

No reply came from the door. And when you turned it was empty. He had left. The other man had left. The tv was on again with the scream of a woman murdered. And Luke fell asleep in his lazy boy.

—

Another day, another shift. And more horror ensued. At first, what set the nerves thrumming was there was no sign of Luke. His truck was gone from its spot. No drunk slumped on the worn leather settee. No scream or grotesque image on the TV. Merely an empty bottle on the coffee table.

You swallowed, shutting the door cautiously with a muffled click of the latch. You didn't dare call his name. Just pushed it down into your stomach for it to churn the thought up in acid. But the horror jumped back up your throat into a lurid scream at the sight of your mattress tossed to the side. The moth bitten pillowcase on the floor, void of money. Your money. Gone. Someone had rifled through your belongings. Turned your only space into a mess. Strewn clothes, bed sheets, pillows in their haste. All your work. All the nights of living off bitter coffee from the pot at work, scrounging together tips. It made you seethe. The heat was an inferno at your fingertips, nails embedding crescents into your palms. You searched all over for it. But to no avail.

When Uncle Luke came home, he smelled of hard liquor. It was a miracle – or curse – he hadn't wrapped his car around a tree. He gloated, and sneered, and shoved it down your throat in his intoxication that he’d found it under the mattress. Joel had called him, told him you planned on leaving. And he connected the dots. Ransacked your room. Oh, how the man would hate his loose lips when you gave him hellfire.

You expected Luke’s reaction. You knew if he were to ever find out he’d snatch it up in his greedy, grimy hands and take it for himself. He spent all of it. Paid his debt to Joel, gambled some on bad luck bets, drank with the rest. Slugged liquor down his throat and got drunk off your labour. And then left you on your floor with tear stained cheeks and a heart of heavy lead.

You wanted your money. But would you take from the man who gave you your everything? Your sense of being. A religion and faith. You believed in nothing more than the way he held your name between his teeth. You forgot what your real name felt like in the same place. And it occurred to you that he had never said it. Did he know it? You weren't them anymore. You were Cherub.

The sweet and mourning lamb in you wanted to go over just to be his again, and not carry out the plan of taking back what was yours. That which he would see as sin. You felt guilt claw up your throat at the thought alone. It seemed blasphemous to conspire against him. Why do you insist on protecting yourself. You who was the sacrificial lamb?

If you did go – and you let him have you again – you were whole. But at what cost? Could you stand another night of temporary hell under the guise of heaven. Of touch so cold, like ivory or black ice. To have him thumb your skin with blunt endearments and the croon of ‘cherub’ past his chapped lips. Definite like black and white. No escape. What he’d do and how. Whispering them in the stone deaf shells of your ears like they were a sculpture. Pygmalion’s Bride. He’d made you all you were today. Took chisel to marble and carved out his masterpiece. Cherub.

You were soft, and pliable. Wax heated by his flame. You kissed back. You moaned for him. Begged him for his release and not your own. Bruised with his handprint. The warmth of life under flesh. But without him…you returned to marble. Another pretty thing to be gawked at. He tempted you with it because he knew more than anyone, more than god himself who watches these exchanges, that you can't live without him. It was like telling a child not to slip off to the woods in the dead of night. That was a pointless warning. You knew what lay there anyway, what threat it would be. That wolf in his thick bristled hyde. Curled up in his den. You would see it as innocence and vulnerability if you weren't so scared. But you knew when he woke up the teeth would shine again. And they’d tear flesh. Let blood. Gnash bone. Dripping from the glaring white once he finished with your carcass. Your matter between them and your crimson lacing his gums. Who knew being eaten alive could be so pleasurable.

But then again, how could bering alone really be hell if the devil wasn't there?

There is mania in your body. But you can't get it out. It rattles in your head and lungs and glues to the backs of your gnashers. No matter how much you wish to spit it out. It infects your tongue. It welds itself to the matter of your bones. Melts into the cracks between your teeth. Claggy against your tongue. All to show the sweetest of words have the bitterest of tastes. You can feel it swell underneath your skin. In the gap between muscles where it festers and heats you up. Like fever it burns, like the fire that consumes and the pillars that hold the temple up crack, the ground shakes, and the beast rears its ugly head at you. You’re losing your body to him. It's a fight you try to win. You dare to. You give your all, tooth and nail each time in the gaps between. In the silence and hollow that nestles in the middle of the meetings. In the quiet, where no one is around but the cracked plaster of your room. You stopped caring who fired the gun first. You were always the one who got shot down in the end. Right in the stomach. Blood gurgling up your throat in a grotesque plea for help.

All these weeks you had shrunk yourself to the size of a bird in his hands, sang a sweet sweet song of his name, until the squeeze of his first closest off your throat. And the sound stopped altogether. Laid there after the warning. Patient while you had your wings clipped and your freedom taken. And he took more. Took the beating of your heart with his teeth. Took the will to want. The will to love. The will to need anything else, as well as the need to have better. Below you were the foundations. Only now you saw them for what they were, a decaying mess of fragments, the stench of wood rot hot in your nose. A musk like no other. His musk. So in your anger you took an axe to a willow to see how it would weep. You slipped past the sleeping drunk you call Uncle Luke. Out the door, over gravel, past the truck he coaxed you to without the need of a sweet treat. You’d yank the axe from the bark of the weeping willow, its sob echoing in the wind that rustled its drapery of lush green leaves. Leaves that will wilt as sap bleeds from its severed trunk. Take the axe to the wolf. Cut him. Scrotum to throat.

Take back what was yours. And leave those woods skipping.

—

Your knocks descend upon his door in quick raps until he opened it with a grumble. Then a smirk. “Evenin’, Cherub.”

No salvation. No going back. No space among the clouds. Just the fall. You pushed past him into his front room. “Where is it?’ You hissed, tossing the cushions of the couch up. Nothing there. So you left them on the floor and did the same for the airchair. Nothing there either.

“Woah, calm down, girl!’ Joel huffed, reaching for your arm, which you tugged back from him in a new found strength surging you forward, out of his arms. “Where’s what?”

“My damn money, Miller!” You bit back with venom laced spit. A hunger for revenge making you salivate like a bad dog.

“The fuck you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about, dickhead!” And he recoiled at your bared teeth, your verbal assault and battery, but went in for his own.

“Watch your damn foul language, girl!” He warned, reaching the end of his already short tether.

“You know how much he stole from me? Three hundred dollars of my hard earned chash. Forget my fucking ticket out of this shithole, I ain’t even paying rent now! And for what? Your god awful drugs!” His nostrils flared, and you watched the vein in his neck bulge under the sweltering heat of his own anger. Coiling inside him. Wounded bitch about to bite back.

“You didn’t have much of a probelm with my drugs after I fucked that pretty little hole of yours. All dumb and needy f’me, Cherub.” You grimaced at the sneer. But the feeling made your knees buckle. The name again. Cherub. You were Cherub. His cherub. “You want ya money back, huh? You can have it.”

That made you stutter. Thoughts skidding to halt at the sight of a brick wall. Crumpled matter as it smashed into it anyway. “What?”

“I ain't giving it to you for free though.”

“You're sick! It’s my fucking money!”

“Not in the eyes of the law its not.” And he folded his great oaks of arms over his chest in satisfaction. Once again one upping you.

“The eyes of the law? Says the fucking drug dealer. I bet you got way worse than coke in duffel over there. Wonder what the law would say about that?” It was said dismissively over your shoulder as you turned to leave. Alas, once again his large hand encompassed your wrist and squeezed. Pulled you back flush to his broad chest. His breath was hot on your neck as he whispered sweetly into your ear.

“Come on now, Cherub. You wouldn't do me in like that would ya? Not when I love ya…”

The way he said it…it didn't seem real. It was false. Comforting but not real. You knew it was a lie. This wasn't love. He didnt love. If he loved you he'd ask for your number then call you. Take you out. Let you cry on his shoulder and drive you home after. Kiss you in the dark for only the walls to see. Let you stay a night or two, or a whole damn week. Give you your damn money back. Stand up to Luke with a closed fist to the face. Leave swelling and a deep bruise on his cheekbone as a first and final warning.

“You love me?” You asked, voice small and hollow in your chest.

“Yeah, Cherub. I love you too.” He cooed, as if he knew you loved him already. All this and nose running over the curve of the side of your neck, tongue trailing hot in pursuit, it had you keeling over in confession at his feet. “You’re so cute when you're angry. Come on now, lemme make those tears go away…and you can have your money back, and we can forget this ever happened.” That tone…it was patronising. It made the sense in you rattle the cage of your ribs. Claw at the bars of bone and run into them like a caged animal. Because that’s what it was. A caged animal. But your heart was holding its hand over its mouth in a trance as it let his words ebb deeper. Somewhere between desperate and divine. But what was his motive?

God, Jesus, all above that is holy, you didn't care! After all this time, it was still no secret, or hushed uttering that Joel Miller was now everywhere in you. Scraping the backs of your teeth, festering like a virus in your bloodstream. Melding to the marrow of your bones. The walls of your cunt.

He still had a devastating habit of seeping through the cracks of your closed lids. Still ready to pillage and plunder his way through your head in its numbed state of sleep. When you could have finally— finally stopped and not felt. But he ebbs deeper. Always would. Always will.

It's what got you here. It would end you if it could. Snuff out your heartbeat and the fire inside of you. All he need do was lick his fingers and press them to the wick. And leave the smoke to string out and curl. You thought you were hungry for love before. But now you realised you were just hungry for the sight of your blood on his lips. The gnashing of you between his teeth. The curl you made of his brow. If it wasn’t devastating, reaping its agony in your silly little fractured chest— you didn’t dare need, nor crave it. You came for the pleasure but you stayed for the pain. And he took again, and again.

So you let him ‘make it up to you’. Let him claw at your clothes until they were scraps on the floor. Tore your stockings. Showed you those gleaming teeth. The wolf. And you, his sacrificial lamb. His Cherub.

“Feel that?’ He asked, with the slow drag back and forth of him inside you, parting you. This wasn’t fast, or rough. This was slow. And it made you need more. Need it faster. Need him hurtling you towards the edge of harrowing oblivion. He knew that. It’s why he took his time with it this time around. “Yeah. You do.” Joel answered for you. You never had to answer. But often he made you say it from your own quivering lips. Just to have the taste of the words from your tongue bleed into his. The neverending praise. “Why would you wanna leave that Cherub?” You couldn't answer, only let out a soft sob. “Huh? Answer me, Cherub. Why’d you wanna fuckin’ leave that?” And he punctuated it with pulling out to the bulbous head of his clock, then slamming back in with one sharp thrust. And then he was still.

You whined a shallow gasp into his mouth. But he didn’t kiss you. Joel never kissed you. His teeth sinking into your bottom lip shut you right up before his tongue delved deeper into it. The thumb of the hand that slithered between your legs rolled over your clit, making you mewl over the buzz of electricity causing you to clamp down on his thick, full cock. You were so eager for more. Anything more than what he was giving you. He smirked into your mouth when he felt your hips buck forward, trying your damn hardest to push his cock deeper into you. Silly little cherub. You should know better than to defy God. “See? Felt good didn’t it?” You nodded as much as you could in your current piston.

“Mhm.”

“See what you can have if you stay. Why fight it cherub?”

“Yes, Joel.”

“You gonna listen then, Cherub?”

“Yes. Yes! I’ll listen, just-” You shuddered at the thought of it, tears brimming at the the threshold of your eye. ”Please.”

“Say it.” He waited, wanting you to beg for it in the pretty way he knew you could. The choir voice. The songbirds hymn. The whole time his eyes did nothing but stare you down hungry at the sight of you falling apart from nothing but a hand to your throat and a single his throbbing dick buried in your aching cunt. It all pooled down into your centre, creating a rush your head had trouble keeping up with. “Tell me why you wanted to leave.”

“I dunno-” You stuttered, once again rolling your hips up. His hand at your throat pressed into your skin again, harder. It choked you. It had you drawing in a sharp, meagre breath. And he pulled out, running the underside of himself through the hot, drooling seam of your cunt. You shivered when the tip brushed up to your clit momentarily. The bead of precome at his slit smearing into your sex, mixing with your slick. “I dunno, Joel. I- I just wanted my money. I just wanted out. I hate it.” You babbled through closed eyes, chest heaving with sobs, and hot tears ran thick down your flushed cheeks.

“You hate it, huh?” He mocked and crooned, still catching your clit with the tip of his cock, hips waxing and waning in a slow roll. “You hate me too?” He knew the answer. But again, it was the satisfaction of knowing you were wrapped around his finger. Ready to bend over backwards for him. Him seeping into you through the cracks of your ribs, the gaps between your teeth. The opening of yourself to the twisting knot of denial within you. Your back arched like the lofty roof of a chapel, legs parting like its heavy doors. He followed you with hunger. You opened your mouth to speak but he squeezed momentarily on your throat again, oxygen starvation and the smell of him dizzying you. He relished in the whimper that he garnered from you. That and how he left you breathless just from his cruel touch.

“No.” You garbled as his thumb unhinged your jaw. Saliva in your mouth pooling while his thumb pressed your tongue down, bitter with a smokers telltale tobacco staining. It slipped past your lips, dribbled down his digits making a sticky mess at the curve of his thick wrist. He drew up a glob of saliva in his throat, watching as it drooled thickly, gluttonously, past his lips into your waiting mouth. He watched as you gagged on it, and then he let your jaw go so you could close your mouth. You swallowed eagerly, savouring the taste on your tongue. For what did it matter anymore? One day, you’ll be nothing but dust. Bronchioles in lungs will mimic roots. Navels will copy trunks. Organs will feed worms. Ribs will fossilise and lips that are kissed will mould back to Mother Nature. It's all you have ever been. Quick. Convenient. Easy to please, eager to help. Waiting lips, wanting cunt. Warm, never warm enough. But he kept you like a butterfly in a glass jar. He let you see freedom but never experience it. Why need it when you had the stretch of him inside you. The feeling of him, heat to heat with your sex.

“You want this, cherub? Wanna be stuffed full of me again?”

“Always wanted it, Joel.” You mumbled into his mouth, sniffing back the last this spurt of tears, hypnotised. His hand wrapped around his cock, the large splay of his palm did nothing to dwarf its size with he jacked himself once, twice, three times to the sight of you. He squeezed the base with hiss, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth after cursing under his bated breath. He was thick, flushed, the tip swollen and leaking, drooling greedily with a rivulet of precum down the underside of his length. He trod a path with his hands down to your breasts, kneading each one between his palms with a pinch before guiding himself back into the mouth of your heat, your cunt swallowing him down to the base. The needy roll of your hips into his showed just how desperate you were. He groaned at the start of the friction between you, and slowly dragged back out of you, moving just as slowly back inside. He repeated this twice, and then he let loose. The motion turned into a needy clash of his hips to yours. Again. Again. Again. Somewhere along the sting of passion and heat, his hand wrapped around your throat, feeling the flex of it as you swallowed under his palm. He bit down into your neck, reaching out from you as his hips slammed erratically. His heavy balls slapping against your ass with each rut forward of his unrelenting. The way he fucked you, was like holding a knife to your throat. It grounded you in the most harrowing way to each of his breaths. His panting in your ear. It swallowed you whole. Mad your legs wrap around his waist and your hips keen up into him.

Your cunt drooled down his shaft, down to the base, down the sensitive skin of his cock. He growled and hissed in your ear, teeth closing around your earlobe, his hand dragging back up and grip tightening around your neck. Getting off on the feeling of your pulse under his thumb.

You felt the knot tighten. And tighten. Right in the pit of your stomach, deep in your sopping wet cunt where the mouth of your cervix met his fucking. The walls of your cunt sucking him back in as the angle of his hips snapped up into the spot that had you seeing entire constellations. They darted to and fro across your vision. It blurred the edge, spots of dark matter, deep black, the colour of oblivion slinging over the back of your eyes that now burned with tears of pleasure. His fingers dug deeper into malleable flesh, gripped tightly at your hip with his free hand, thumb brushing over your hip bone down your mound to toy with your clit after a slap to it. And it was the action that sent you spiralling, babbling his name nonsensically among a string of curse words. So pretty and fucked out beneath him. Joel couldn’t help but stare smugly as your eyes rolled back into your head when your orgasm hit like a freight train. He came undone soon after, his climax hitting a crescendo with a growl bitten into your shoulder, bruising and brandishing you with his mark again.

He pulled back, leaving you to the mercy of the cold. Watching was his hips moved again to fuck his release back into you. Your hole quivered in protest, and you squirmed under him. “Don’t be fucking ungreatful now, Cherub.” You relented, going still and boneless on the mattress. Limbs unfurling from their tension. “That's it. Take it. Take it all.” He groaned smoothly. Just like the roll of his hips. He fucked it slowly back into you. And you took his release inside you to keep. “Good girl, Cherub.” He whispered, kissing your lips in a tender dichotomy. Not letting you rest until he was satisfied you took every drop of him. Afterall, it was all you’d have left of him until he next chose to pick you up. All the while, he trailed his tongue back down to your breasts, pressing the flat of it to your nipple, drawing it with a sharp suck into his mouth. Pressing the blunt of his teeth into your flesh. Letting the taste melt on his tongue. Salty with your sweat. He did the same to the others. When he went soft inside of you, and his hips stilled. He slipped out of you with hitched breath, the pad of his fingertips tracing your abused, used sex. Your legs twitching when he rolled your clit under two fingers. “I said stop squirming.” He grunted, landing another slap to your pussy. It made an obscene wet sound. His come dribbling out slowly.

“Open your mouth.” Joel commanded, and you did. Waiting for whatever he had planned. He licked a hot strip from your asshole to your cunt, pressing his tongue in to drag out some of his release. And he climbed back up to spit it into your mouth. A hand clamping down on your jaw. “Don’t swallow. Close your mouth.” And you did with the side of his thumb clamping it shut for you. “Taste that?” You nodded in response. It was hot, heavy and thick and salty to taste. Divine. “Show me.” You opened again, his creamy spend diluted amongst your saliva and he smirked. Clamping your jaw shut again. “Swallow.”

Joel watched in open mouthed amusement as the delicate column of your throat rippled under muscle contract. “Good girl, Cherub. Remember that taste next time y’feel like leaving again.” He warned in a growl. And you nodded, swallowing your pride. Your fear. Your mania aiding in shoving it down your throat to dissolve in acid. Once again you were in those deep dark woods. The one where the wolf lay. Remnants of you in his teeth. The willow is still weeping, slashed in half. The axe free of his bloodshed by the entrance of his den. The owls' eyes still lit the scene of sin where overhead the starlight was snuffed out by the tangle of branches thick in their black greenery.

You never got your money back. Maybe one day you'd get out of this town. But the devil has a funny habit of making you want your own suffering. Even angels can’t resist a slice of that heaven. Fallen angel. Wounded bitch. Cherub.

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angelofsmalldeath-codeine · 7 months

Text

Hemmy's Recommendation List - Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales

Hi! I am Hemmy and live in a delusional world where I am the female companion to Frankie Morales, Joel Miller and Javier Peña. The amazing banner by the incredible @proxima-writes @pr0ximamidnight; mid-banners and dividers by @cafekitsune

This is my first-ever recommendation list and I am trying to figure out the best format.

These are fics that I have read and enjoyed. I am sure there are many more out there that I have yet to discover. If you have any suggestions, please comment so we can all add them to our 'to be read' lists.

Link to Masterlist

Self-plug: if you need a beta reader or want help with Spanish for the ones who write Javi P and Frankie, hit me up!

Disclaimer:

These creators are putting out content for free and do not have to cater to your personal preferences or expectations of how this or that character should be written.

If a creator has not explicitly asked for feedback on their work, keep your opinion to yourself. If they have asked for feedback, mind your manners.

You are not forced to read through it. Feel free to abandon a series or one-shot halfway through if it is not working for you.

Heed warnings and tags, if you don't like soft!Javi, don't read anything with that tag. It is THAT simple. Apply that logic to everything else that is not to your taste.

Warnings and tags on each fic. Read at your discretion. You are responsible for the content you choose to consume.

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales

GIF by uuuhshiny

Series

A Fond Farewell @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin Amaryllis @gracie7209 Because Of You @kteague Delta Palms Tropical Resort @linzels-blog Fix You @astoryisaloveaffair Forest Ranger @the-ginger-hedge-witch Grays I & II @fuckyeahdindjarin I like the way you @undercoverpena-fics Just a Number @linzels-blog King Of Your Heart @ruinedbylanadelrey My tears and my beers and my candles @proxima-writes Shadow Of The Past @lotrefcp Something Else @pedrostylez Table For Two @hellishjoel Take Your Time @romanarose The Layover @goodwithcheese The Melting Point @penvisions The Road Ahead @bellofthemeadow Third Time Is A Charm @jwritesfanfics Those Ocean Eyes @iamdesibell Worlds Get In the Way @jokersfangirl84

One Shots

Always Here For You @jwritesfanfics Burning Hearts @wordywarriorwrites Bush Pilot @legendary-pink-dot Cherry Flavoured @pedrostylez Easy Like Breathing @louswrld11 Focus @pedrostylez Frankie's Way @morallyinept Friends Don't Do This @forever-rogue Gold Band @moralesispunk Home From The Bar @pedrostylez Not A Day Too Soon @criticallyacclaimedstranger Over When It's Over @gnpwdrnwhiskey Partner In Crime @romanarose Seven Minutes In Heaven @tieronecrush The Day 3 Words Are Said @undercoverpena-fics The Day Frankie Meets You @undercoverpena-fics Touch Me Like You Never, Push Me Like You Never @quinnnfabrgay-writes Working Hard @pedrostylez

Link to Masterlist

180 notes · View notes

for-a-longlongtime · 5 months

Text

So. I accidentally ended up writing a Frankie x Santiago x reader fic...

I say 'accidentally' because I was all in on writing my Javi P x Tim Rockford fic (which is still happening!), then wanted to write a short drabble for @legendary-pink-dot's birthday - and that's how things quickly escalated. Oops.

Shouldn't be surprised though considering Frankie and Santi are, hands down, my absolute fave pairing.

Right now it's looking like the final wordcount will be near 20K words, so I'm thinking I should break this up into two parts. Also because it's been taking over my entire brain and life living in my head and Google docs for 3 weeks already, and I'm overthinking everything because ngl I'm pretty nervous about posting my first fic. So, endulge me if you don't mind...

FYI, @morallyinept is currently feedbacking the first part - she is an absolute GEM! And I have to give massive props to @sin-djarin @magpiepills @imalrightllama @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin in particular who have been so damn encouraging and patient as I've been constantly running tidbits past them for the past weeks.

Whoever catches the reference in the title wins a cookie, btw.

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Nothing That I Didn't Know (teaser)

Frankie watches you across the crowded bar, standing close to Pope as you’re talking while waiting for drinks. Something tickles in the back of his neck, raising the little hairs there, then all over his arms and everywhere else, like he’s been zapped by a little bolt of electricity. He knows he’s had plenty of tequila - probably more than enough for the rest of the night - but still he can’t help but reach for another shot, unable to tear his eyes away from what’s happening in front of him.

The liquor burns deliciously in his chest as it goes down smoothly, sinking into the rest of his body; undoing and releasing way too many safety clips that normally stay bolted down, and he has to work hard to not reach for another shot. Fuck, his head is loud. Much too loud.

Had been that way already earlier, at the beginning of the night, as he’d watched you and Pope at the bar getting shots for the table. Messing around with each other, and he’d smirked when he saw you triumphantly snag away the shot in front of him - you two were always at it. But then the tone had changed, and he knew it was happening before you seemed to register it - he recognized that look on Santiago’s face.

The set of his mouth, the way his chin would tilt up slightly, the little telltale signs right before he attacked. Watched as he’d suddenly grabbed you, sharply pulling your arms behind you as he shoved you against the bar with his body, and Frankie could feel his mind and body immediately responding in a diametrically opposed manner - his brain in loud protest, the "what the fuck, Pope" right at the tip of his tongue even though he was much too far away to even be heard - immediately protective of you. But his body betrayed him, blood suddenly rushing away from his brain as his cock stirred, immediately painfully trapped against the denim of his jeans. Fuck. Fuuuck.

He saw Santi say something against your ear as you struggled, and the roar in his head was suddenly deafening in a way that made him uncomfortable - there was the instant urge to go stop it, pull Santi off you and ask what the fuck he thought that he was doing. But the other part of him, the one that throbbed in his jeans, didn’t even want to consider interrupting this - just wanted to drink in what was happening, what was next, wanting to know how you felt being pressed against the bar by him like that. Wanted Santi to press him against the bar like that.

He swallowed heavily when the realization of that last thought fully hit him, a hot mix of guilt and desire at the same time, then felt the wave of anger that rolled right after it. It didn’t matter whether it was hot to see - Santi had no right to touch you like that. YOU, you had no right to push back against him like that, even if it was just to struggle and break free, as you ended up pressed even closer against Santi’s front - clearly though inadvertently positioned right against his dick.

Don’t touch her. She’s–

Don’t touch HIM.

Mine.

Mine mine mine.

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Tagging a bunch of you who might be interested in this (or is it tacky to do that when it's your own work? I don't know, man. Like I said, I'm really good at overthinking shit): @linzels-blog @goodwithcheese @maggiemayhemnj @rhoorl @goodwithcheese @undercoverpena @secretelephanttattoo @musings-of-a-rose @trulybetty @rifflovesjoey @avastrasposts @gemmahale @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @nerdieforpedro @ladybess-a03 @prolix-yuy @whatsnewalycat @ezrasbirdie @thewreckening @marisferasiop @perotovar @max--phillips @wannab-urs @idolatrybarbie @inept-the-magnificent @gasolinerainbowpuddles @alwaysmicado @romanarose @chronically-ghosted @alltheglitterandtheroar @boliv-jenta @covetyou @5oh5 @reallyrallyauthor @radiowallet @writefightandflightclub @exquisiteserotonin @pink-whiskey-woman @anavatazes @youandmeand5bucks @arcanefox207 @fettuccin-e @ghostofaboy @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

Want me to tag you when the first part drops? Leave a comment or rb and I'll add you to the taglist!

#frankie morales #santiago garcia #triple frontier #pedro pascal #frankie morales x you

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ifyougoillfollow · 3 months

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tfw you finish a zine fic way before the deadline so now you have to wait months and months before you can inflict said fic on your readers (:

#feels good to finish something quickly for once but i neeeeeed validation now 😭#anyway i say 'inflict' mostly as a joke it's a surprisingly sweet fic considering how sad it is #does that make sense #don't mind me just ramblin'#i do have other wips i could finish but will i #will i.#maybe i'll hold a poll i could use the external motivation fr

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rhoorl · 7 months

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Week in Review | Oct. 1

Happy October! This month is a really special month for me personally (more on that later). It marks three months on Tumblr! I’m approaching a pretty significant follower milestone (for me) which is really cool. I try to not pay attention to numbers because that’s stressful and I'm trying to treat this as my fun space (and me time), but this milestone made me pause and think about the little community I’ve found here and how special it is to me. To anyone who has left a comment, reblog, like, ask, or message - thank you! You’ve brought some laughter and smiles to my days. My inbox is always open so if you want to say hi please do!

Anyway, here we go with the week in review…

Fics I read this week:

Frankie Morales

The Pilot and His Girl by @avastrasposts - I don't want to spoil what happens in the latest chapter but ahhhh this series is just so so good. But seriously, pack some Kleenex for Chapter 33.

Grocery List by @frenchiereading - I love everything in the Mr. Morales and Miss universe. This is just such cute Frankie fluff.

Delta Palms Tropical Resort by @linzels-blog - You know I love a Triple Frontier AU and I’m so excited to see all of the goings on at the resort run by the boys!

Joel Miller

Body Language by @cupofjoel- Joel shows up at your place with a camcorder and some fun ensues…

Happy Birthday by @trulybetty - Needless to say Joel had a very good birthday this year based on some of the fics I added to my TBR list. However this fic right here?! I was a mess after the first freaking sentence - soft smut is your specialty friend!!

Another entry from @linzels-blog this time in the way of some cute Joel fluff when he attends a parent-teacher conference.

Javier Peña

It's Never Too Late by @javierpena-inatacvest - I was seriously smiling the whole time I read this latest chapter. If you’re looking for a softer Javi (who is still spicy, can’t take that part out of him), then this is such a great read!

What Do We Have Here? by @secretelephanttattoo - We get a little more insight into what Javi’s relationship with Elisa could have been like. I loved all of the references to the show.

Drenched by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin Javi comes home from work sweaty (hello sweaty curls sticking to the back of his neck) and he and reader both end up drenched. 😉

Marcus Pike

Headshots by @secretelephanttattoo - Reader is a photographer tasked with taking headshots at the FBI office. Marcus is so freaking cute in this.

Dieter Bravo

Destiny & Deliverance by @mysterious-moonstruck-musings is a staple on this list and the only Dieter fic I’m consistently reading at the moment. Sounds like we may need to form a support group based on what may be happening in the upcoming chapters, but I am ready.

Fun Posts

Dieter and @morallyinept were back this week dishing out some self-care advice. I seriously love the way Jett puts these posts together, they make me laugh and think.

I shared some of my favorite things on this post, which also included some photos I've taken.

Feral corner:

Joel’s birthday coupled with photos of Pedro on the picket line kept the feral corner well occupied this week. I mean, look at him. I don't even care how he ties his shoes because he's adorable no matter what.

I found there’s a name for the affliction that I and many of us suffer from - Chronic Pascalitis. There are ways to lessen the symptoms, although do you really want that?

Also, the Pike Puddle is getting deeper thanks to posts like this and like this.

Can we also appreciate how beautiful this photo of Pedro is from earlier this year when we appeared on Seth Meyers' show?!

Things I watched:

I started watching this show on Max called Mosaic featuring Garrett Hedlund. It’s been interesting so far, I’m only about halfway through. There was an episode where looked like Benny and I about lost my damn mind.

Personal Update

This month is a really special month for me personally - my daughter was born in October, we rescued our dog in October, and we got married in October. Needless to say, there’s a lot to celebrate but it also has me in my feels as I sit back and reflect on a lot of things.

The past two years and the transition to becoming a mom has been hard and I’m a work in progress on that front every single day. But we've made it and I'm pretty lucky to have the independent, fearless, and hilarious little girl that I do.

My parents have been in town for the past couple of days to celebrate my daughter’s birthday. As a result, my husband and I get to take advantage of some free babysitting help and are doing a little overnight trip. It’s an early anniversary present for us to stay at one of the on-site hotels at Universal and go to Halloween Horror Nights for the night. Yay I get to see Joel and the TLOU house again!

Aside from that, we have some fun things planned this week. I’m excited for the weekend when I get to go see A Strange Way of Life in theaters! I’ll be sure to include a spoiler-free review here next week!

Fic updates:

I should have the next chapter of Working Title out soon. Thank you to those who have listened to me rant and ramble on about it. I’ve been struggling with the latest chapter. Once I get that out then I’ll work on Delta Landscaping - Will and Katie go on their date, but we also have Friday night plans for the others too. I also shared a little tease about a new neighbor coming to Mule Fall Court.

Thanks as always for reading my ramblings, I hope you have an awesome week!

#rhoorl week in review #rhoorl #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfic

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nikethestatue · 5 months

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A Match Baked in Heaven

Part Vl

My Mind is Ramblin’

A pair of gorgeous deep green eyes looked back at Azriel. Sharp, perfect features so delicate and precise they might have been etched in marble or glass. Lustrous dark skin. Full lips. Silky black hair.

“Who the fook is this?” Azriel muttered under his breath, looking at the photo.

“Nuala Raith,” Elain said, “your first match.”

“Wow!” was all he could manage. “For real?”

“I take it you find her attractive?”

“You take it correctly. Freakin’ gorge she is!”

“Well, I am glad that you are pleased, Mr. Night,” Elain said, her voice a bit dry.

He took the photo, looking at it closely.

“Are all the birds that you match look like that? ‘Cause then I might be very interested in your matchmaking services,”

Elain folded her arms on her chest and looked at him, her face glum.

“Beauty is only skin deep,”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind getting deep into this beauty,” he mused.

Elain blushed as usual, and her expression soured, but she didn’t say anything.

“Can I see more?” he requested.

“More of what?”

“The gals you got!”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“This, this,” she was panting, outraged, “Mr. Night, this is not you Boomble!”

He frowned, “what?”

“Brumble? Trumble?”

“Are you having a stroke?” he queried, somewhat concerned and reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

“No. I am perfectly fine! Those sites, where people go to find matches.”

“Like match.com?”

“No, the other ones, where it’s based on looks! Trimble?”

“If you mean Tinder and Bumble,”

“Yes, those! This is exactly the opposite of that, Mr. Night!”

“Okay, okay!” he raised his hands, trying to placate her.

“No, it seems that you still don't understand the nature of my services–I am not peddling pretty women to lonely men. My services are based on compatibility, mutual interests, chemistry and not just looks!”

“Okay, will you relax?”

“I am relaxed!” she half-shouted.

“Then why is there steam coming out of your ears?”

“I am fine. But I find you exasperating!”

“Hmmm,” he looked at the photo again. “Seems like you got real mad when I commented on how pretty she is,” he noted.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she argued, indignant.

“I am just making an observation,”

“It’s incorrect, your so-called observation. Of course I want you to find her attractive and I am glad that you did.”

“Yeah, okay,” he concurred reluctantly.

“This is Nuala’s profile,” Elain handed him a sheet of paper.

“Oh, a footie lover,” he smiled to himself, as he read through it. “A swimmer too…AND a model? Overachiever much.”

Elain didn’t respond, letting him read.

“If you are interested,” she told him at last, “I will arrange it with her and provide you with her number, so you could decide on a date.

“Now, normally, if the date goes well, you go on a few more and if there is a relationship, I would bow out of the arrangement,”

Azriel threw a sharp look at her and immediately said, “but,”

“But my arrangement with you, and the way that Cassian negotiated it, is that it must result in marriage. Therefore, I will be in the loop regarding how the relationship progresses. If things don’t work out between the two of you, then we’ll move on to the next match.”

“Hold on, how much am I paying you for this?” he chortled.

“£30,000,”

“Not cheap, are you,”

“That’s just for the matches. If you get married, it’s £75,000.”

“Jesus fuck! And my accountant approved this shite? Highway robbery is what it is,” he complained dramatically.

“You’ll be getting £230 million in return. I think you’ll be fine. Besides, I know how much you are worth,” she notified him with a dismissive shrug.

“Oh you do, don’t you?”

“You aren’t exactly poor.”

“I can get my own wife, for free and not blow 75,000 quid on you,” he grumbled.

“Ha! Right…you just admitted not never having been in a relationship. I am highly doubting that you can find yourself a wife in 4 months considering your record.”

“Anything else you know about me? My sperm count?”

“Not my concern,” she said dismissively. “You aren’t having children with me, so why would I care?”

“Maybe Nuala cares.”

“That’s between you and Nuala.”

“Fine. Set it up,” he told her.

Elain nodded and gave him the folder. Then she stuffed her IPad into her bag and said,

“Baby boy, let’s go.”

“Okay,” Azriel nodded and called for the bill.

She looked up at him and grinned.

“Shit,” he hissed.

She dissolved in laughter.

“I am not the ‘baby boy’ am I?”

“If you’d like to be the ‘baby boy’, I suppose you could be…”

“How about ‘handsome’?” he proposed.

“No, Mr. Night. I am not calling you ‘handsome’ and we are not doing pet names.”

“Alright beautiful, as you wish,” he agreed calmly.

“Mr. Night,”

“Yes, gorgeous girl?”

“I am this close to firing you as a client,” she clicked her nails.

“Oh, you can do that?” he asked curiously. “Can I fire you?”

“If you wish to, then yes.”

“Something to keep in mind then. Alright, beautiful, get the pugster and we are outta here.”

Elain laughed softly, whispering, ‘the pugster’. Then she reached into her purse and took out a hundred pounds, laying on the table.

“What the fuck is this?” Azriel grunted.

“For the tea,”

“Put that away,” he ordered harshly.

“Why? I,”

“You’ll put your money away,” he interrupted her. “I am a man and I pay when you are with me.”

“Is this a man and a woman thing?”

“It’s my thing. And it’s not negotiable. I am a man and you will do as I say in this matter.”

Elain’s mouth popped open at his tone, but his glare forced her back into her chair and she took the money back nevertheless. She glimpsed the savage that was hiding behind Azriel’s handsome veneer. The creature that grew up on the streets, the creature whose knuckles were permanently scarred from fights, the one who used to resolve his issues with violence, the one who was unyielding and firm in his beliefs.

“Fine, if you want to be macho, go ahead.”

“Oh, you got that right–I want to be macho. Listen, Ms. Archeron–I find it cute when you are all bossy and demanding with me. I will never demean or diminish the work that you do, even if I find it bloody weird. I respect you. Your tenacity, your belief in love and happy endings, as ridiculous as it is, your intelligence–they are very admirable.

“But for the record, you ought to always remember that I am a male beast that cannot be tamed. And I am a man, which means I will act like a man in all situations that require me to act according to my sex and my values.”

He got up and called out ‘Pinky, let’s go’ at which Piglet immediately stopped his modelling show and trotted after Azriel. Everyone groaned and snapped final photos of the dog, while Elain belted her coat. Azriel extended his hand to her, and while she didn’t know why, but she took it.

“Thank you for the tea,” she told him when they were in the lift.

“My pleasure. Let me message Dev so he could drive the car around.”

“We could walk for a bit,” she proposed quietly. “We need to walk off the pastries and the sandwiches.”

Azriel laughed and said, “How can I refuse my favourite matchmaker?”

It was dusk by the time they came out of the Shard. The crowds swell around pubs, especially because the evening was clear and crisp, and the darkening skies were almost cloudless. A breeze came off the river and autumnal browns, oranges and yellows were in full colourful swing. As they walked, Azriel’s huge warm hand wrapped around Elain’s, he kept looking at Halloween decorations around them, and criticised them, telling her that ‘theirs’ were better. Elain couldn’t help but smile at his critique, because he was so wholeheartedly aggressive about it.

The driver, Dev, was going to meet them a few streets down, by the river, and Elain wasn’t in a hurry. It was cute watching Azriel hold Piglet’s lead, as the dog acquainted himself with the new surroundings, eager to explore further.

“Have you thought about what you’d do with your 230 million?” Elain wondered. “It’s a big sum–you could do many different things,”

“Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Azriel nodded. “I think I will…”

It all happened instantly. But also in slow motion.

Elain was shoved and almost spun around, thrown into Azriel’s chest.

Her bag was torn off her shoulder and a young lad in trainers and a hoodie sprinted ahead of them, clutching the bag to his chest.

He was young, probably a teen, fast and agile, running fast, pushing like an angry bull through the crowds of people.

It was logical that Elain was a target–she was walking in her high-heeled booties, her skirt, with her large bag and her pug. She made a perfect victim…only the lad underestimated who she was with.

“What the fuck!?” Azriel bellowed, bounding over Pinky and giving chase. Not to be outdone, the dog ripped his lead out of Azriel’s hand and dashed after Azriel, the lead dragging behind him.

The mugger looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening, as he realised that he was being pursued by a huge man and a dog. It didn’t matter that the man was wearing leather shoes and a suit–his long legs ate up the road ahead of him with incredible speed.

The kid was fucking fast.

He ran like Azriel used to run when he was a teen mugger himself. Azriel recognised the patterns, the parcour-like ability to skirt around pedestrians, jump over any obstacle, propel himself against walls, but Azriel was an athlete and a runner with over twenty years of experience. The kid was good, but Azriel was bigger and had longer legs and extreme stamina. He was a fast fucker.

“Pinky, what the fuck are you doing?!” Azriel gasped in shock, seeing how the three-legged pug was keeping up and was running alongside him.

The pug only glanced at him sideways and continued running.

People were yelping and crying out in alarm, falling by the wayside, and allowing the chase to continue, and that gave Azriel the opportunity to gain on the kid.

“Oh ya little cunt, stop!” he shouted, seeing as the mugger was panting loudly now, his face dripping in sweat, the thick hoodie probably making him extra uncomfortable. “Just,” Azriel leapt ahead, “fucking,” and tackled the kid on the ground, “stop!”

His fist connected with the lad’s sweaty red face and he punched him hard.

His knuckles sang back in pain, but he punched him again, making his man’s head snap to the side. The kid howled, and Azriel slapped him hard, though he no longer used his fist.

“Who the fuck do you think you are grabbing my girl’s purse, you arsehole?” he ripped the purse out of the mugger’s clutching arms, and slapped him again.

“Get off me!”

“Get off you? I am gonna break your jaw, you bloody fool!”

“Awww, come on, mate! Stop it!” the kid cried out like a little bitch, crying and spitting. “Stop hitting me!”

“You don’t know what hitting is,”

At that moment, Pinky bounded forth, and landed on top of the unfortunate bloke, his sharp little teeth sinking into the sleeve, and then into the arm that stole Elain’s bag.

“AAAAAAAAAAAaahhh!” the guy screamed loudly, while the pug latched onto his arm, and wouldn’t let go.

“Is it rabid?!!” he screamed in terror.

“You are fucking rabid, you douchebag. Don’t call my dog rabid!”

“Get it off me!” He tried to shake Piglet off, but without success.

“Be grateful he isn’t biting your cock,” Azriel said calmly, rising to his feet.

“You got the bag back, fucking let me go!” the guy shouted.

“Oh, you think I shouldn’t call the cops?” Azriel taunted, as he wiped his brow.

Meanwhile, Piglet finally let go of the arm, but now he was going into a full body shake, jumping and bouncing, snarling and snapping his teeth, his whole demeanour definitely saying Oh, you want to fight me? Come on you punk ass bitch! Come on and fight me! Yolo!

“Alright, Rambo, let’s go,” Azriel picked the dog up, “let’s go to Ellie. She is worried about us. Let’s go get our girl.”

“Fuck, it’s you!” the kid suddenly exclaimed, his eyes wide. “I knew it! It’s you!”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me,” Azriel muttered. “Seriously, mate, if you are about to make a scene, I will fucking break my leg on your arse,”

“But it’s you!!” smearing blood all over his face, the wannabe mugger kept pointing at Azriel, star struck at once. “I can’t believe it’s you! None of my mates will believe this!”

“Well, boo-freakin’-hoo. I don’t care,”

“Can I have an autograph?!” the guy asked excitedly.

“Are you serious right now?” Azriel raised his brow at him. Pinky was still trying to escape his grip and go back to savaging the mugger, so Azriel held on tight, pressing the pug to his chest.

“I am telling you this dog is rabid!” the guy shook his finger at Pinky, which was greeted by more teeth snapping.

“Don’t rile him up!” Azriel ordered. “My woman is gonna have my head if something happens to him.”

“Sign something for me,” the guy whined.

“Oh fuck off! I am not signing shit for you. Be grateful I am not calling the cops. Also, shouldn’t have stolen my girl’s purse,” he shrugged.

“I didn’t know she was your girl!” the mugger cried defensively.

“Sucks to be you. Piss off. I think some of these people are definitely calling the cops on you.”

“Sure no chance of an autograph?”

“You have about three seconds before my fist reacquaints with your face,” Azriel warned.

In the distance, they heard the frantic slapping of feet and Elain’s fast running, as she cried mournfully ‘Piglet! Piglet! Mr. Night!’

Piglet surged in Azriel’s arms and Azriel released him at last, as the pug catapulted towards Elain.

In the next minute or so, Azriel saw her turning the corner, Piglet under her arm, running wildly towards him, her shoes in her hand.

“Hey beautiful,” Azriel opened his arms to her and she flew into him so hard, he stumbled back.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” she kept muttering, her hands exploring his body feverishly, her face pale and eyes terrified. “Are you okay? Tell me you are okay!”

“I am okay,” he assured her gently, stroking her head, “I am just fine. Here is your purse,”

He handed her the purse and she rolled her eyes, crying, “it’s not worth it! It’s just an IPad! Some money…I don’t care…I don’t care about any of this!”

“Well, no one steals your stuff on my watch,” smiled down at her, drawing his knuckles over her cheek.

“What if he had a knife!” she exclaimed.

“Well, then he is fucking dumber than he looked, because it’s pointless to bring a knife to a fist fight with me,” Azriel smiled.

“What are you talking about?! He could’ve hurt you!”

“Lassie, I was in a gang. I can handle myself and some lad who snatches purses isn’t exactly a threat.”

“You run really fast,” she murmured in admiration, her cheeks slightly pink, her hair wild and undone. She shifted on her bare feet and Azriel tsked, shaking his head.

“Are you out of your mind, beautiful? What are you doing?”

“I had to,” she mumbled, “I had to run…I didn’t know what happened to you…to Piglet. I…don’t know…” she added quietly. “I couldn’t…if something happened to you…”

“Nothing happened to me,” he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her off the ground.

People started applauding. Some snapped photos. The fighting pug in a Burberry jacket also got a lot of attention. He didn’t mind it. He rubbed against Azriel’s ankles, whimpering and snorting softly, happy that his Elain was okay.

“You can put me down,” Elain whispered, blushing and squirming against Azriel’s broad chest and within the circle of his iron arms. Goodness gracious! He had a lot of muscles. He was so big…with so many muscles…so firm…so heavy…she loved his weight…how solid he was…

“Naw, pretty matchmaker, I am hauling your plump arse all the way to the car, so we don’t get into any more misadventures.”

“All the way to the car?!”

“All the way–you are not walking barefoot here, and you were stupid enough to take your shoes off. Were you gonna beat him to death with your shoe?” he teased, adjusting her in his arms, and wrapping Pinky’s lead around his wrist. These two could not be trusted with their own safety. They had the same amount of common sense–and it wasn’t much.

“I couldn’t run in them!” she hissed. “But I can put them back on.”

“Those are nice expensive shoes and you aren’t putting your gross dirty feet in them.”

“Ohmygod, I don’t have gross, dirty feet!”

“You literally just ran barefoot for three-four blocks on the streets of London. You need to be hosed down.”

“You are so mean and nasty!”

“And yet, here I am carrying you in my arms to the car.”

People stared at them, at Elain’s shoeless feet, and her torn hose, and watched the two of them with surprise, while many probably recognised him, but Azriel walked quickly, before anyone could stop him.

Elain was lighter than he thought she would feel, but she was also soft and cuddly, like a stuffed animal. Compared to the women he usually dealt with, it was obvious that she’d never passed an apple crumble that she didn’t love, but he didn’t mind that at all. In fact, he pressed his face into her hair and inhaled. She shifted in his arms, feeling his lips on her head, but he didn’t say anything and just pressed her closer.

Why did she attract him?

WHY?

There was nothing in her that should’ve appealed to him whatsoever, and yet, here he was, drawn to her in some inexplicable way. He didn’t even like her. He wanted to make fun of her. She was irritating. She was snooty. Most of the time, she drove him crazy. She had a bad attitude. She wasn’t impressed by his fame and accomplishments. He was pretty sure that she didn’t even like him much. Yet, here he was, fighting the desire to message Dev and tell him to drive around for a bit, so he could continue carrying her in his arms.

“Mr. Night,” she said after a long stretch of silence, where she just burrowed herself into his chest.

“Yes, beautiful?”

She cleared her throat in warning, and he corrected himself, “Ms. Archeron?”

“Please promise me that you are not going to make stupid, impulsive decisions anymore. Especially not in my name,”

“What’s the fun in that then?” he chuckled.

“I am serious. You have a goal–you need to be married by March, and that’s what we’ll concentrate on. You cannot risk yourself or your well-being for silly things. You need to be in tiptop shape mentally and physically. So, promise!” she insisted.

“Naw, darlin’. I ain't promising nothing like that.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause things change and I don’t know what’s gonna happen. What if I fall for you? What if you fall for me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

He shrugged and continued,

“Also, there is a matter of Pinky,”

“What about him?” Elain demanded, immediately alarmed.

“We need to figure out some type of joint custody agreement, because,”

“Excuse me?!!” she fumed. “He is mine! Why are you even interfering?!”

“Sorry, darlin’, but Pink likes me. I am the male figure in his life. We need each other,”

“He doesn’t need you!”

“Well, I beg to differ, but also, he needs me.”

“Forget it. After this is over, you can’t see him.”

“Pfff, right! Are you gonna stop me?” he challenged, pretending like he was about to drop her and she screamed and threw her arms around his neck, while he threw his head back and laughed.

“You bloody wanker! What the hell?!” Elain cried out, slapping his shoulder.

“Can’t argue with facts. I am a wanker,”

“Eww I don’t want to know!” she even attempted to cover her ears, but he noticed her hot, flaming cheeks, which was his favourite way of hers to be.

“Been going through a bit of a dry spell, if you know what I mean,” he grinned. “Where should I take Nuala?” he then pondered.

“I am not giving you dating advice!” she ground out. “Normal people go out for drinks.”

“And abnormal people?”

“You’d know more about that.”

Azriel slowed down and Elain turned her head and saw Dev standing next to the Bentley. The chauffeur opened the door and smirked,

“Rough tea?” he asked, seeing as Elain was being carried and missing her shoes.

“You could say that,” Azriel nodded, while Piglet made his way inside the car and settled by the window. “My lass here was mugged and then she murdered the mugger with her shoe.”

“Ahh,” Dev didn’t seem surprised.

“I did not!!!” Elain screeched.

Dev smiled cryptically and said, “it’s alright, miss, I get it. Plausible deniability and all.”

“Seriously, you are going to throw some legal jargon at me?” Elain asked incredulously.

Azriel deposited her inside the car and slapped Dev’s shoulder.

“It’s alright, love. Dev is an old mate of mine. We grew up in the same place. He knows a lot about the law. And how to avoid any trouble with it.”

“Good to know,” Elain muttered and moved in her seat closer to Piglet.

Azriel slid in beside her and Dev took his seat behind the wheel. The car took off towards the bridge and Elain looked out the window, gently stroking Piglet’s back.

He was her good boy today. So brave. So fearless. Sometimes she wondered if anyone else loved her as much as Piglet loved her.

Azriel looked at Elain and her beautiful, dishevelled hair, her gloriously gorgeous face, and when his eyes dipped lower, the question that he'd been asking himself the whole day was answered.

Her skirt had ridden up on her soft thigh, and in the slit of the trench, he saw that she was indeed wearing stockings. The lacy top wrapped around the pale skin of her thigh and was held up by a garter belt. It was gorgeous. The whole thing was gorgeous–her skin, the soft fat of her thigh, the nude lace, the fishnet of the stocking, and Azriel couldn't tear his eyes away from her. For the first time since he met her, he found himself wanting to touch her. Like that. He wondered what she’d taste like: her lips, her skin, her nipples. What she’d look like naked. What she’d sound like when he entered her. How her lovely face would flush. What her moans would be like as she came all over his cock.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

She was the matchmaker. And he wasn’t going there. Ever. Never.

So he smiled at her and then gently covered her exposed leg with her skirt and her coat.

Enough.

Enough now.

It was Sunday morning. Piglet clawed at the bed, whining softly.

“It’s too early!” Elain moaned heavily, to which Piglet responded with a decisive bark.

“Aw, no barking!” she ordered, rubbing her temples.

Damn Halloween party.

Damn dog, who knew no peace.

Piglet clawled at the bedsheets, demanding that she wake up, give him food, cuddles, put a bow on him, take him out and in general, devote as much of her as possible to him.

“Piglet, not now,” she barked back at him.

He growled and butted the bed, and Elain threatened, “I swear, I will take you to the pound!”

At that, he gasped in shock and stepped back, before dramatically hanging his big round head and starting sniffing and crying pug tears. Then, he slowly turned around and just as slowly walked to the door, all the while throwing pensive looks over his shoulder, to make sure that she was watching him and that she was feeling bad.

His bed was located at the top of the staircase, in an alcove, where he slept, keeping vigilant of any intruders, ready to attack, while having Elain nearby. She didn’t let him sleep in her bedroom, because…well, he was a pug, and he made a lot of pug noises. He snorted, he grunted, he panted. He farted. He liked to talk to himself in his yippy pug language. Sometimes he freaked out over nothing, and ran in circles just for the fun of it. In general though, he didn’t mind having his own space, and he liked his domain and his plush dog bed. But the mornings belonged to him and he needed attention.

How he knew what the ‘pound’ was, Elain had no idea, but that was the greatest threat that she could throw his way. Even the mere mention of it made him act like she actually took him there and left him.

“Pig-let,” she called him.

He didn’t respond.

“I am sorry. Come back.”

She knew that he needed a good fifteen minutes to calm down and live down the insult.

Even though she didn’t want to, she finally got up and went to shower.

The party at Feyre’s last night was pretty wild. It was mostly the bohemian crowd that Feyre hung out with–artists, musicians, tattoo artists, performers, even people who performed in sex clubs. Feyre told Elain in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t permitted to wear pearls. Sometimes, her sister had the most bizarre notions about what and who Elain was. Kind of like Mr. Night.

And just like that, he popped into her head.

Why? Because he did chivalrous things like fight a mugger, or hold doors for her, or carry her in his arms, or keep her freezing feet in his hands, while they were in the car? Or was it because he did oddly romantic things too, like taking her out for tea, and gently talking her through her sadness and staying on the phone with her? Or was it that checked in with her every night via text, to make sure that she was home and safe?

He was a pest. A worm that burrowed his way into her brain: a song that she couldn’t turn off. No one else affected her like this! Never before. Certainly none of her clients. And that’s what he was–her client. Even thinking about him outside of their business arrangement was unprofessional.

And yet, she loved the feeling of elation every time her phone dinged and a message came from him. She loved that he started following Piglet’s IG page, under the handle of FootieFreak–she just knew that it was him, because who else could it be? He sent her random, rambling messages. They were sincere, but she knew that writing wasn’t his forte. He made adorable grammatical mistakes and his writing style felt strained, as if he wasn’t good at expressing himself, let alone expressing himself in writing. But it also felt like he was making an effort, just for her. He also sent her long and pointless stats about football, and profanity-filled rants about training or players. Elain found it cute.

And therein lay the problem.

She was developing an attachment to this man.

His uncouth, brash, but fun and funny, uncontrolled manner was unusual, but also felt fresh and endearing, and he always kept her amused and entertained. He wasn’t exactly hard to look at either. The man was criminally good looking. Wild and untamed and savage. He had no finesse, wasn’t particularly well educated, or polished, but he also had charisma, peculiar confidence and a wild sort of attitude that could be considered elegantly feral.

And Elain hated that she was attracted to him. Because she knew that it could never go anywhere. It frustrated her, just like he frustrated her, but what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t just put an end to her attraction to him, it wasn’t exactly like corking a bottle, but she supposed that she could not act on it. She was a professional, after all, and she’d just grin and bear it, just like she always did.

Elain, the peacemaker. Elain, the one who was soft and smiley and gentle. Elain, the matchmaker. Elain, the flower grower. Elain, the plump, old-fashioned, awkward beauty who never knew how to play all her assets up.

Whatever. Life was for others. At least she had Piglet.

She wrapped herself in a terry robe and tied a towel around her hair. Grabbing her phone, she went to the landing, and saw Piglet burying his face in his bed, his ass turned towards her, still holding a grudge. He didn’t turn when she called him, and she had to grovel and ask her pug for forgiveness. He was still pouting when she simply went over and picked him up, and then went downstairs, while he attempted to snap at her.

She let him out in the garden, and he did his business quickly, because it was cold and drizzling, and then he was ready for breakfast. To appease him, Elain cooked some ham especially for him, and sliced up an apple and a carrot–his favourites–and considered making his all time beloved meal of chicken and rice for dinner. She scrambled eggs for both of them, though Piglet’s didn’t have any salt or pepper or spices, but he was fine with that. ‘The pound’ was soon forgotten, because he was busy eating and having a good time.

She sat at the table that overlooked her pretty garden and sipped her coffee.

The thing was that she’s been agonising over this since yesterday. She fingered her phone, contemplating. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything if she sent it to him. It was just a photo. It was just a fun photo of her in her costume. Why couldn’t she send it to him? Yeah, technically, she’d never send the photo to any of her other clients–obviously–but was Azriel Night one of her usual clients? No. She didn’t go to tea with her clients. And Piglet didn’t jump on them either. Piglet typically avoided her clients and preferred to sit in his lounge and nap or watch videos. But Piglet wouldn’t leave Azriel’s side.

And that gave Elain her first brilliant idea.

She pulled up a photo from last night and sent it to Azriel, forbidding herself from any further thinking or doubting. She was just going to do it.

Piglet was a Piglet last night, she wrote.

And then she put the phone down, convincing herself that she didn’t care if Azriel responded.

The problem was that he responded very quickly and she grabbed the phone instantly, reading the response.

Beautiful, you have no imagination. You dressed a pug that you named Piglet as a pig.

Elain snorted. Of course he was going to critique her!

Well, I think it’s cute!!!!!

In a few moment he responded,

That’s a very aggressive usage of exclamation points.

Tell me that he looks cute! She demanded.

😀

He looks cute, Azriel conceded. He is the cutest dog in London. He looks good in any costume.

That made Elain smile. He wasn’t wrong about that.

Can you show me what my favourite matchmaker was wearing for Halloween?

The unexpected request was straightforward. Bold.

No.

Come on, beautiful. You can do it. I know you want to.

Stop calling me that!!! And I don’t want to.

Yes you do. I bet you are proud of your costume.

She was. It was very daring, her costume.

Biting her lip, Elain gnawed on her thumb, as she looked through her photos. They looked good. Her costume was that of a sexy Little Red Riding Hood–she wore a very short pleated red skirt, black tights, kneehigh black boots and a bustier. She draped herself in a bright red cape and put on dramatic makeup with bright red lipstick and dark, smokey eyes. When she stepped into Feyre’s loft, Feyre barely recognised her. It was Piglet who was the giveaway. He bounded in in his pink piggy suit and Feyre almost smothered him to death with hugs. He actually began growling at her, and she had to give him a banana to placate him. He spent the rest of the evening dodging aggressive huggers and playing ‘the Pleading Pug’ card, when he saw someone holding cheese or sausages, before finally falling asleep under the table.

Elain sorted through the photos. Some were silly and taken out of context they would look odd, though she didn’t think that Azriel would care. You’d think she was a massive boozer, considering how she held some kind of drink in every shot. She did get a bit rowdy last night, but it was a good mix of people, and she was pretty relaxed. But she wondered throughout the evening what it would be like to have Azriel there. As her date.

Her business phone dinged and she frowned. It was Sunday. Who the heck was ringing her on a Sunday morning?

*Nuala Wraith*

Elain frowned, debating whether she should pick up, but eventually she did, though she was frowning.

“Elain?”

“Good morning, Nuala. Is everything okay?”

Nuala wasn’t the type to ring on weekends.

“Yes, yes. I am sorry I am bothering you on a Sunday.”

“It’s alright,” Elain lied. “How can I help?”

Nuala’s voice sounded excited. It was like she was panting.

“Azriel Night…” Nuala said breathlessly.

“Yes…oh god, what did he do?” Elain winced to herself. Jesus. She didn’t even know where to begin thinking about what might have happened.

“This man,” Nuala continued. “Is perfect!!!” the last part came out as a snorty sort of squeal.

“I am sorry?” Elain winced again, this time in confusion.

“You’ve met him, right?” Nuala demanded.

“Well, yes, of course.”

“So did you not notice that this man looks like a god? He is brilliantly funny. I was laughing all night through!”

“Oh, you went on the date?”

“Yes! Two in fact.”

“Two dates?”

“We went on Friday–just drinks, but we stayed talking until closing time and then he drove me home and,”

A wave of heat suddenly flushed over the entirety of Elain’s body.

Hot, sweaty wave of embarrassment and dread.

What was Nuala about to tell her?! What if she was going to start talking about the incredible sex that she and Azriel had after their first date. What if she was going to go into gruesome details? Was she going to describe his…appendage?

“And he is just such a gent, you know. Dropped me off right at my doorstep,” Nuala kept going without taking a breath, “and…I was surprised, you know,”

“About what?”

“Well,” she laughed softly, somewhat shyly. “It’s…embarrassing, really…but I was definitely putting out signals, you know?”

“Oh,”

“Yeah. If he was keen, I was keen too. Is that bad?”

“No. You are adults,” Elain assured her feebly. “But…he, didn’t,”

“No, he didn’t pick up what I was putting down, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Elain confirmed through slightly gritted teeth. Why was she so irritated? Wasn’t this what she wanted? For Azriel and Nuala to find their matches and live happily ever after.

“I mean, from all the stories that I’d read about him in the Daily Mail back from 5-10 years ago, it seemed that he was Mr. Orgy,”

Elain blushed to herself.

He did have a reputation. She considered discussing it with him when they were at the Shard, but then she didn’t find it in herself to broach the subject. However, Nuala was correct–Azriel had a reputation for someone who had a chequered and questionable sexual history. Involved in an orgy was a fairly common comment to read in relation to him.

“But you went on a second date?” Elain confirmed.

“Yeah!” Nuala, normally composed and quiet, seemed very unlike herself. Giddy and jolly and hyper.

“And the conversation was good?” Elain pressed.

“Oh yeah! It was so easy. We didn’t talk about anything serious, but it was lovely,”

Elain chuckled, “what, no talks about baby names and how many children he wants?”

Nuala paused, and even though Elain couldn't see her it seemed like she was perplexed by the comment.

“What do you mean? No, we haven't talked about children! He doesn’t strike me as someone who’s ever thought of baby names!” she laughed at the ludicrousness of the suggestions.

Elain laughed nervously, and quickly agreed, “No, no. I just thought that since it went so well…”

“No, no! We didn’t get that far. We talked about footie and stuff,”

“Haha,” Elain huffed, “were you subjected to one of his Chelsea related rants?! How horrid their defence is and how,”

“Oh, he talks about that?” Nuala seemed amused. “He was very complimentary of everything and everyone…”

Hmmm. Well, that was interesting. Was he just playing Mr. Nice Guy with Nuala? Or was he just dumping all his aggravation and hopes and dreams into Elain’s lap for some reason?

Excitedly, Nuala announced, “we are going on our third date on Tuesday!”

“You are? Moving quickly!”

“He is amazing. We went to this nice intimate Spanish tapas place in Maida Vale–the neighbourhood was kind of dodgy and I didn’t even know why he was taking me there, but then, the place was absolutely incredible. The owner cooked all our food to order!! Just him. No one else in the kitchen. The most adorable and cosy place. I have no idea how Azriel even knew about it, but I’ve never been on a date like that.”

“I am almost jealous,” Elain laughed a totally fake laugh. “It does sound incredible!”

“It was…we had fried sardines and chorizo stuffed dates, and two pitchers of Sangria!” she paused and then said, almost shyly,

“Honestly Elain, when you told me ‘Azriel Night’ I was doubtful. My first thought was–what is Elain thinking with this? But you…god, you know what you are doing, don’t you? That’s why you are the Rolls Roys of matchmakers and it’s so difficult to even get an appointment with you. You just…know. I am sorry I doubted you.”

The words warmed Elain’s heart. Regardless of her personal feelings on the matter, she was proud of what she did. Of the 80+ couples who found their happiness with each other because of her. In fact, she did know what she was doing. She knew how to match people, and what made them tick. How they fit. She’s had this gift since she was a little girl, and she was lucky to put it in motion when she was in Uni, and then, actually carve a career for herself doing what she loved. A lucrative career, where she was able to make quite a comfortable living for herself, while bringing joy to others.

But now, she had an almost pathological need to know. So she asked,

“So the Spanish restaurant went well, since you two are already almost on date three. Anything else?”

Nuala laughed.

“Did we do it?”

“Oh my, Nuala, I would never pry like that!” Elain gasped. She was definitely prying though.

“No, I know, Elain! Sorry. I am just joking. We didn’t though. Not so much as a kiss,” Nuala sighed. “I mean, he took me home and then he kissed me on the cheek. Who even kisses on the cheek nowadays?”

Elain smiled.

Azriel Night apparently.

“He kissed you on the cheek?”

“He did,” Nuala laughed. “He is very respectful. I think he is cautious, because he is a public figure. Maybe he doesn't want to rock the boat and make assumptions? You know how footballers are often accused of things. Perhaps it takes time to cross that line,”

“Yeah, you might be right. Now that I think about it, that could be the reason,” Elain nodded to herself.

“Anyways! I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I am sorry for ringing on a Sunday, but I just wanted to share how things were progressing.”

“Thank you. Keep me posted. Good luck.”

It seemed that her time with Mr. Night would be shorter than expected.

Elain wouldn’t have been surprised if Nuala was scrolling through Pinterest, looking at wedding dresses and ideas.

“Have a nice day, Elain!”

“You as well.”

Elain put aside the phone and looked out into her garden.

The rain was coming hard now, beating down the glass like tears.

She picked up her personal phone and saw a message.

Where is my photo, beautiful?

3 minutes later.

Still waiting…

2 minutes later.

What did I do? You don’t need to send it to me if you are shy. Though I’d like to see it.

She sighed and said loudly,

“Piglet, we are going out.”

Piglet raised his head and gave her a doubtful look, after he glanced out the window and saw all that rain.

“Come on,” she slapped her thighs and got up. “You are a dog, you are fine.”

She looked back at her phone and then turned it off completely.

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