#Frankie morales x fem!reader
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Flying to New Heights
Summary: A flight delay means you're spending your night at the hotel bar, praying for sleep to come to you. Instead, a certain Captain Francisco Morales shows up, tall and broad and far too tempting. With undeniable attraction burning between you, you can't help the way you fall right into his arms.
A/N: Alright! I know it's been a while, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Life has gotten a tad crazy, but the Frankie thirst never stops okay? And this AU has been buzzing in my head for a little while now, so I just needed to get it out there. I hope y'all enjoy the porn. (dividers are by the lovely @saradika-graphics!)
Tags: Frankie Morales x Reader, Commercial Pilot!Frankie, Flight attendant!reader, afab!fem!reader, alcohol consumption but barely, this is essentially an excuse for porn so, oral and fingering(r!recieving), unprotected piv (pls wrap it up I'm begging you), Francisco Morales and his dirty mouth have struck again (w/c: 4.2K)
You love your job, you really do. Deciding to actually train to be a flight attendant was one of the best decisions of your life. Gone were the days of short-lived stints in retail, and you’ve never been happier for it.
You’ve lived the attendant life for a few years now, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ve met some of your best friends through this job, seen some of the most beautiful places in the world, met celebrities on their way to new production locations and concert venues.
It’s the dream, you tell your family, during the rare moments you actually get to visit them. And it is. The perks far outweigh the cons in your profession, and you’re happy to be where you are.
That’s not to say there aren’t any cons though.
There are always rude flyers, unruly children, issues with luggage. The turbulence is never much fun, nor are the months spent without being able to go home at all.
There are always nights like tonight, where the rain made the flight arrive later than expected, and you’ve got another flight scheduled for the morning. Between jetlag and the copious amounts of airline coffee you’ve imbibed to remain bright and chipper over an eight hour flight overseas, there’s no way you’ll get more than five hours of sleep before you have to clock in again.
A nightcap in the hotel bar seemed just the thing to cool off. You haven’t even taken your uniform off, the thick fabric stretching across your skin, your legs exposed to the cool air as you sip on your drink. The alcohol burns a bit in the back of your throat, but you take comfort in it, trying to lean into the calming warmth it creates in your stomach.
“Can’t sleep?”
The unexpected voice rips you from your reverie, and fuck, what a wake up call. The voice is deep, a pretty rasp edging into the ends of his words, the warmth of his tone making you far warmer than the alcohol in your glass ever could.
Captain Francisco Morales. Even his name has heat swimming in your stomach, and you wish you had just gone to bed like a normal person instead of drinking at the hotel bar at midnight.
You can’t decide if the pilot is a perk or a con of the job, only knowing that he seems to pilot most of your flights, and is a fucking distraction during every single one of them. With his big broad shoulders and patchy beard, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles and his insistence that you call him Frankie, not Captain Morales.
The whole “flight attendants fucking pilots” trope never really applied to you until you met Frankie. You’ve made it a point not to hit on him, no matter how much you desperately want to. It would be far too stereotypical, and with how fucking nice Frankie is, you’d feel like you’d be taking advantage of him. So you’ve kept your distance, talking to him kindly, trying to cross your legs discreetly when he flexes his damn hands on the plane controls, and doing your job like a normal person.
But as he crosses into your line of vision, sitting in the barstool directly next to you, you’re struck with the realization that you’re in unknown territory. There’s no distracting yourself here with other passengers, or your fellow flight attendants. You can’t excuse yourself to an airplane bathroom to splash cold water on your face and yell at yourself to get it together. No, Frankie is right in front of you, ordering a whiskey neat from the bored-looking bartender, and smiling at you so fucking prettily with those big brown eyes and big hands and oh god you’re not going to survive-
“Nah, the jet-lag is really getting to me this time,” you say casually, your voice working on its own accord. At least you aren’t staring at him dopily like some kind of imbecile.
He chuckles. “Same here. Flight go okay?”
“You got us here, didn’t you, Captain? I’d say that’s a success.”
“Then let’s hope I’m always successful,” he winks, and it takes effort to breathe normally. You giggle, and he smiles at you again, his eyes crinkling up.
“You have a flight tomorrow?” he asks, sipping at his drink.
“Yeah, unfortunately," you sigh. "10:00AM, which is making the whole ‘no sleeping thing’ even worse. Y’know, it’s really the airline’s fault if I collapse on a passenger." You grin at him, and he laughs.
“Oh, they should be so lucky,” he chuckles, and you could swear that you see just a flicker of heat in his eyes. A heat that turns into a raging inferno inside of you, spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your toes.
“How about you, Captain? Flying again tomorrow?” You need to keep your mind out of the fucking gutter, not that he makes it very easy.
“Yup. They’ve got me in the air at 8:00AM.”
“Oh man, and you’re listening to me complain about my 10:00AM?”
“Work is work, sweetheart,” he smiles at you, and you want to collapse into him at that very moment. Sweetheart. Coming from anyone else, it would sound smarmy, like a pick up line, but from Frankie, it just sounds warm and comforting. You want to be his sweetheart. “We’re all allowed to complain. We aren’t in any kind of competition.”
He sips his whiskey, his eyes feeling like they’re boring into your fucking soul. “And either way, we’re both in the same bar, at midnight, sleep nowhere in sight. We’re pretty much in the same boat.”
“If you say so, Captain,” you say, your body positively burning under his gaze. You hope that you can blame it on the alcohol.
He raises an eyebrow, “I thought I told you to call me Frankie, sweetheart.”
“Frankie, sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” he says, taking another sip. You try to not watch his throat work as he swallows. You fail. “Think you just need more practice,” he mumbles into his drink, so soft you almost miss it.
“Practice?” you blurt, mind too distracted to think of an intelligent response.
“Practice saying my name.”
A laugh startles out of your mouth. “I have no idea how I’d practice that, Frankie.”
He hums, pretending to think. “I have a few ideas,” he murmurs, and fuck, you definitely aren’t imagining the heat in his eyes now. It’s blazing into you, and you have to press your thighs together to alleviate the ache between them, hoping that Frankie doesn’t notice. Or maybe you hope he does, as you watch those thick fingers wrap around his glass.
Fuck it. He’s hot, you’re horny, and God, you can’t take much more of this. “I’d love to hear all about them, Frankie,” you say, adding a little rasp to your voice that you hope sounds sexy.
Frankie chuckles, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. No, he sounds surprised, like he can’t believe you’re flirting back at him. Confidence swims in your chest as red colors his cheeks. You gaze up into those warm, brown eyes of his, and fuck, he’s so pretty up close like this.
“You sure about that, hermosa?”
You don’t break eye contact with him, and his deep gaze burns into yours. “Positive,” you breathe, and Frankie’s smirk is absolutely devastating.
Captain Francisco Morales doesn’t do this often. No, he doesn’t do this ever. Fucking between flights is supposed to be a perk of being a pilot, but it’s a “perk” he rarely utilizes. One night stands have never really suited him; he gets attached far too easily, and with his job, he can never stick around for long.
But god you’re pretty. And you’re licking hotly into his mouth, and whining in the back of your throat like you’re fucking desperate for it.
He couldn’t help himself when he saw you, still in your little uniform skirt, nursing a drink at the hotel bar. He couldn’t help himself when he struck up a conversation with you, wanting to see your pretty smile and soft laugh that he only ever hears mid-flight. And damn it, he sure as hell can’t help himself from pressing you up against the wall of the hotel elevator, pressing one of his thighs between yours while your fingers curl into his hair and his arms wrap around your waist.
You wiggle down onto his thick thigh, and it creates the most perfect pressure on your clit. You whimper against Frankie’s mouth, and he groans with you, pulling you flush against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his voice is deep and gravelly, breathless from your fevered kisses. “I, uh, I don’t usually do this kind of thing.” His cheeks burn, but he doesn’t back away, just leans his forehead against yours and tries to catch his breath.
It isn’t a surprise, his confession. You’ve heard stories about every other pilot, about their conquests with flight attendants, or how someone saw one of them take their wedding band off when they got to their hotel. There are stories upon stories about every pilot you’ve flown with, except Frankie. And it’s intoxicating, knowing that he wants you enough to have you like this.
“Good. Me neither,” you whisper, and Frankie grins again. That boyish, devastating grin, and fuck, your clit is throbbing so hard that you could cum like this. You could cum, right in this elevator, Frankie’s thigh between yours and his tongue in your mouth, fuck-
The elevator dings, signaling your arrival to your floor, and Frankie jumps away from you as the doors slide open. You don’t take it personally, not when you’re instinctually tugging your rumpled skirt down. You glance up, and Frankie is already staring down at you, gaze blazing as he braces a hand against the elevator door, holding it open for you.
“Where’s your room?” he asks, and the question is casual, but his voice certainly isn’t. There’s promise in it, and you have to make sure your knees don’t buckle.
“Why don’t I show you?” you say, stepping toward him to press your bodies together. Frankie doesn’t answer, he only cups a hand under your jaw, dragging your face up for a sticky kiss. It’s so much better than a yes.
He breaks the kiss far too soon, but one of his hands makes its way down to your ass, squeezing the fat of it through your skirt. “Lead the way, princesa,” he grumbles, and how could you ever think to refuse him?
Maybe you’re a little too eager in your walk to your room, but Frankie doesn’t seem to fare much better. No, he’s just as desperate as you are, with the way he presses you against the door of your room the moment you close it. With the way he swiftly kisses down your neck, sucking your skin between his teeth as he unbuttons your blazer, shoving the fabric down your arms. The buttons of your white undershirt follow, and you keen as he sucks maddeningly at your pulse point, his mustache scratching at the sensitive skin of your neck.
As soon as you’re divested of your shirt, Frankie’s moving again, kissing his way down your chest. He drags his teeth against the soft skin of your breasts, and you dig your hands into his hair.
“Fuck, baby, you’ve got the prettiest tits,” he murmurs against your skin. It doesn’t sound like a line, no, it sounds like a prayer.
“Frankie, please,” you breathe.
He looks up at you from his position at your chest. “What, gorgeous?” he asks, coy, as if he doesn’t know what you want. What you desperately need.
“Please, just,” you use your grip in his hair to drag him back up to your mouth, and he goes willingly, groaning softly as his tongue meets yours again. “Please fuck me, Frankie,” you whisper, and Frankie groans like he’s dying.
“Take- take your clothes off, baby,” he mutters, and it sounds more like he’s begging than he’s commanding. “Take your clothes off, and get on the bed.”
He doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You have to make sure you don’t trip on your way to the bed as you kick off your heels. You tug your skirt and nylons down your thighs, making sure to wiggle your ass a bit more than normal as you bend over to tug them the rest of the way down your legs. You smirk at Frankie’s soft groan behind you.
The air of the hotel room is slightly cold, but as soon as you kneel on the bed, arching your back in a shameless display of your desperation, Frankie is burning hot above you, and you can’t feel the cold at all. Frankie’s thick, calloused hands palm your ass, and you moan as he spreads you apart, staring unabashedly at your aching cunt.
“Can I eat your pussy, baby?” he grumbles from behind you, and the fact that he’s asking permission to eat you out is making you so much hotter, making you clench around nothing.
“Yes, yes, Frankie, oh please-” you whine, and Frankie barely lets you finish your sentence before he’s dragging his tongue in a long stripe up your dripping pussy. “Fuck, Frankie,” you groan, and he moans into you, sounding like he’s enjoying eating you out just as much as you are.
His nose drags maddeningly through your folds as he brings his lips down to your clit, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it in circles that send pure pleasure sparking endlessly up your spine. You arch your back into it, pressing yourself into his mouth, and Frankie groans again. The vibrations of it against your clit make you jerk wildly, whining high as you clutch desperate fingers into the pristine white sheets of the bed.
Frankie tries to keep you still with one of his big hands pressing into the small of your back. His other hand makes its way to your pussy, and you don’t even realize, not when he’s licking into you so feverishly, until there’s a thick finger pressing into your achy entrance.
“Frankie, oh my god-” you gasp wetly, his finger so much thicker than one of your own. It’s been so long, too long, since you’ve had the touch of anything other than yourself. Your tiny, traveling bullet vibrator doesn’t feel like this. You can’t stretch yourself like this, you can’t drive yourself wild like he can.
He moves his finger around inside you, searching, searching, while he licks softly at your clit. “Where is it, baby?” he mutters against you, and you have to force your brain to work at least a little bit to decipher whatever the fuck he means.
His finger is still searching, stroking against your slick inner walls, and you can barely gasp out a, “up, up,” before he’s finally touching that sweet spot deep inside you. You can’t hide it when he does, gasping out a high pitched moan as pleasure rockets up your body.
“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, “good girl.”
And fuck, how do you hold yourself together when he says things like that. He licks again at your clit, but plays with that spongy spot inside you, abusing it. You’re so slick and hot, it doesn’t take long before he’s pressing a second finger into you, then a third. And his fingers are so fucking thick, breaking you apart and pressing into that wonderful spot inside you. Your vision is blurring at the edges as he plays with you like a practiced instrument. How is he so good at this? Your body barely feels like it’s your own, just Frankie’s; his to play with, his to fuck. God, he’s ruining you. It’s never been this good.
“Frankie, Frankie-” you whimper his name like a prayer, and his fingers move fast into you, jackhammering you into the mattress. You whine as he breaks his mouth from your clit, but he keeps his fingers pressed deep inside of you as he leans over your trembling body.
“C’mon baby, c’mon baby,” he mutters, moving his fingers inside you so roughly that you could swear he’s trying to break you in two. “What do you need, sweetheart? What do you need to cum all over my fingers, huh?”
“Just keep-” you gasp between shuddering moans. “Just keep talking to me, fuck, please-”
“Talk about what, gorgeous? Talk about how hard I am for you right now? How hard you always make me?” You whine at his words, and you can feel his smirk against the skin of your shoulder. His fingers move into you even harder, if that’s even possible. “Fuck, princesa, you have to know how fucking sexy you are. Make me so fucking hard whenever we fly together. Fuck, watched you bend over to pick up your bag once, right in front of me. Had to fuckin’ jerk my cock as soon as we got back to the hotel. Can’t help it around you baby.”
You feel like you’re underwater. Frankie’s voice is deep and dark in your ear, and your pussy is so fucking sensitive. You can feel your orgasm burning relentlessly in your stomach. Just a little more, just a little-
“Thought about taking you to the back of the plane, mid flight. Thought about fucking you hard, stuffing this pretty pussy, making you go back out to work with my cum dripping down your thighs. You want that, sweet girl? Fuck you’re so pretty, so pretty baby, you’ve gotta cum. Please, please let me fuck this pussy. Be my good girl, cum all over my hand.”
You don’t think he means it like a command, but you follow it anyway. You moan, throaty and wet, into the sheets as your cunt clenches around Frankie’s fingers, hips twitching as he presses reassuring kisses to your shoulder. You turn your head blindly, and he leans forward to meet your lips in a bruising kiss, his fingers buried deep inside as you gush all over his hand.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” you whisper against his lips, repeating it like a mantra, and Frankie whimpers, needy and so hot that it makes you want to cry.
“Okay, baby, okay, I’ve got you,” he says, and you know he does.
When Frankie presses the blunt tip of his cock against the opening of your sensitive pussy, you both groan. You push your hips back just as he pushes his hips forward, and the tip of his cock is just as big as the rest of him. Which, of course, means fucking massive. You have to breathe through the stretch of him inside you as he sinks deep, deeper, deeper.
“Doing so fucking good, sweetheart. Jesus fuck- ah- so fucking tight baby- fucking beautiful- oh fuck-” Frankie mutters, sounding just as overwhelmed as you feel. It feels like forever until he bottoms out, his hips pressed against your ass as he hunches over you, hot and big and all man. It’s a dream that you’ve had before, but the reality is so much better than anything you could have ever imagined.
“So- you’re so big, Frankie,” you whimper, and Frankie groans behind you. “Need you to fuck me, wanna feel it tomorrow, please, please-” and he does. He pulls his hips back, just to shove himself back in, and the drag of his fat cock against that spot he found earlier has tears springing unbidden to your eyes.
“Yes! Oh my god, like that, just like that-” you’ve never talked this much before during sex. But his unyielding thrusts, deep, deep inside, have you babbling wildly.
“Christ, you can’t talk like that, princesa, gonna make me blow my fucking load-”
“Want it, fuck Frankie, want you dripping down my fucking thighs, wanna gape open after you fuck me, oh god-”
Frankie fucks in harder, and it’s like every thought you’ve ever had flies out of you. His chest and stomach press into your back as he holds you still, thrusting desperately into you, harder and harder.
The bed is creaking, a rhythmic squeak that mixes in with the endless sounds of your keening whines and Frankie’s moans, and the obscene squelching of your pussy around Frankie’s cock. Your wetness drips down your thighs as Frankie bullies his way inside. He’s hitting that beautiful spot inside you, so perfectly, so overwhelmingly perfect, and fuck, tears are dripping down your face as you clutch onto a pillow, only able to squeak out pitiful whines of “Frankie, Frankie,” as he destroys you.
“So fucking gorgeous for me, god, bebita, fuckin’- fucking tight, fucking strangling me. Been too long, honey? Too long since you got fucked like you deserve?” Frankie growls into your ear, fucking you like a god damn animal.
Frankie’s lost control above you, which he just doesn’t do. He’s always in control, always, he has to be in this profession. But it’s like you’ve stripped him bare, literally and figuratively, to the most primal parts of himself. You’re so fucking hot and wet and tight around him, whining and throwing yourself back on his cock like it’s the best you’ve ever had, and he’s losing it. Losing it far too quickly, and he’s going to cum far too quickly.
“C’mon, baby, give me another one,” he groans, “squeeze my cock with this perfect fuckin’ pussy, wanna, wanna feel it.”
“Touch my clit- oh please, please, Frankie, ah- ah” and he does, the moment the words leave your lips. He reaches underneath the both of you, not breaking the rhythm of his hips driving into yours, and rubs two of those thick, calloused fingers against your throbbing clit.
“Fuck- yes, just like that, just like that, oh my god.” You’re slurring your words, so stupidly drunk on the feeling of his cock filling you over and over, of his body radiating heat above you.
“Gonna take care of you hermosa, make you cum like you deserve, so fuckin’ beautiful crying on my cock,” Frankie says, rubbing your clit hard and methodical. “Never gonna get enough of you baby. Gonna fuck you in every hotel we ever get, fuck you at the terminal, fuck this pussy in the god damn cockpit, oh shit-”
And you’re screaming, outright screaming into the sheets as the thread in your stomach snaps, your pussy clenching and gushing all over Frankie’s giant cock. He’s still mumbling into the cook of your neck, mindless mumbles about how pretty you are, how perfect, as you tremble through the most powerful orgasm of your fucking life. It’s devastating, it breaks you apart and puts you back together all at once, and you just have to trust Frankie to hold you together in his strong arms.
“Where do you want it, huh baby? Please, please, you’ve gotta tell me, oh shit-” Frankie whimpers, and it’s a damned good thing you still have enough brain cells to understand what he means.
“Inside, inside, 'm on the pill, please, please fill me up.” It’s fucking risky that you both didn’t even think about a condom, but with a man like Frankie, it’s hard to think about anything.
His hips still, his cock pressed inside so deep that it feels like he could be in your lungs, as he fills your pussy with his cum. He bites harshly into your shoulder, but it doesn’t fully muffle his whimpers as he crashes through his orgasm. Your eyes flutter shut. You wish you could bottle those sounds and listen to them forever.
Your knees slide out from under you, leaving you laying flat on your stomach, and Frankie follows, holding himself against you as you wait for your breathing to slow.
“That was…” you whisper into the quiet.
“Fucking amazing.”
You can’t suppress your giggle. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Frankie.”
He tucks his face into the crook of your shoulder, and you can feel his pretty smile, before he’s lifting himself off of you, and you realize how cold you are without his heat.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, and you can’t bring yourself to do anything more than nod. Frankie rushes quickly into the en suite bathroom, and you can hear the sink running for a moment, before he comes back. A warm, wet rag makes its way down your back, over the curve of your ass, and between your legs. He’s ridiculously gentle as he wipes you down, and it’s wonderful.
Once Frankie deems you clean again, he climbs into bed next to you. He wraps his arms around your placid body, tugging you close. “Didn’t take you for a cuddler, Frankie,” you murmur, but you only snuggle closer, relishing in his deep chuckle.
“I’m usually not.”
“You don’t do this often, though?” you say, dragging a finger down his chest, your eyes already fluttering shut.
You feel Frankie’s lips press to your forehead as he murmurs, “I think I’m willing to let this,” he hugs you against him softly, “become a new habit.”
You smile, and you lean up to kiss him gently. “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”
#*runs away again for another month*#Frankie the man that you are#always here to pull me out of a writing slump#frankie morales x reader#frankie x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x fem!reader#triple frontier x you#triple frontier fic#triple frontier smut#triple frontier x reader
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BNBG (brand new baby girl)
frankie morales x curvy OF/cam girl f!reader
summary: frankie has been needing distractions from a hurdle in his sobriety, so he ventures to his frequented subscription service platform to take his mind off things. he sees the title of your page, intrigued immediately, and dives deep into your content. catching your attention on a livestream with his confident commands, frankie becomes infatuated with you and an avid viewer before he decides to DM you one day...and then ends up with a brand new baby girl.
wc: 11k
rating: E (very)
warnings: daddy kink!! **cover does not depict anything about the reader, simply vibes of softness**, vague descriptions of reader's body (plush, thick, curves, soft, etc. no definite descriptors used otherwise. picture her as you want but she is mid to plus size in my head 🫶), no age specified (only that reader started out of college, no specifications of when she went to school), discussions of addiction & drug use, childless frankie au, sex work, sex livestream, consumption of porn, unestablished relationship, online relationship, pet names (conejita, baby, babygirl, pequeña, bunny, etc.), gratuitous descriptions of frankie's dick, SMUT, male masturbation, female masterbation, sex toys, both frankie & reader have thoughts about the other (unprotected piv, fingering, oral, etc.), major dirty talk, d/s dynamics, some fluff sprinkled in <3, this might be lowkey problematic that frankie uses porn to cope (esp reader's porn) buuuuut hopefully it's hot
a/n: cover design & dividers by me 💋 this is an unhinged daydream of mine, hope y'all enjoy! huge thank you to my besties @kiwisbell and @northernbluess for beta-reading 💓
The time on Frankie’s phone screen turns over to well past midnight. Bedroom pitched black save for the blue light illuminating his face as he scrolls on Instagram, unable to fall asleep from thoughts stirring. He wants to scratch the itch — to pick at the scab that’s been growing in his brain for over a year. Temptation runs hot in his veins. A craving, deep in his gut. A strong inhale or the rub of his fingertip against his gums. It would be fast. And it would only last less than half an hour — he could manage it one more time, he was sober enough for that, wasn’t he? He indulges himself in other aspects now: drinking, food, lax with his once regimented workout routine.
Frankie can hear the voice of his sponsor, the one he listens to speak at his weekly meetings in the musty church hall. Sure, his sponsor’s got valuable advice for him, having been sober for decades now, but he can’t relate to Frankie. Not really. He doesn’t know the level of temptation he’s consistently faced with, doesn’t know the fucked up shit he’s seen that got him into the substance in the first place.
His sponsor tells him to get into meditation. That it helps him turn his brain off when he has a craving, redirecting the energy into himself and crushing the aching want for it. Or some spiritual bullshit that Frankie doesn’t understand.
And besides, he’s found his own means of meditation.
Exiting the social media app, he opens his browser and types in the website. The light of the phone illuminates his face enough for his saved login to work, bringing him into his plane of piety. Where he escapes at least three times a week, late nights like now and the occasional mid-afternoon or morning on his desperate days off. When the urge is too strong. When he’s formulating a plan of how to get his hands on a tiny baggie, he loses himself — distracts his brain here.
Scrolling through his usual subscriptions, nothing seems to be hitting the spot. One hand grips his phone, thumb gliding along the screen, while the other cups his hard-on through his boxers, palming himself as he searches for something to get off to.
That’s when he sees it — the perfect combination of words that draws him in by the title. Clicking the page, he’s quick to pledge his monthly amount, eager to get access to all that lies beyond the paywall. And what he’s greeted with, pulls a sigh from his lips in the quiet room, his large hand squeezing his cock through the thin fabric elasticated around his waist.
“Fuck…” he mumbles to himself when he sees that there’s a live stream happening. A cosmic intervention for him, he thinks, a sign that he’s meant to satiate his vices with this.
With you.
The screen changes to a vertical view of you in front of the camera, iPhone seemingly propped up against something while you sit on your mattress. It’s so…delicate and soft. Those are the words he can think of to describe the backdrop that he takes in quickly. Billowing white comforter on your bed, pillows surrounding you. The first thought he has is that it looks like a bed he could easily sleep in — much more inviting than his. There are touches of blush pink, sky blue, and more. A complete rainbow of desaturated colors.
It all compliments you. Centered in the frame, the next sound you make drags his eyes back to your form as you move around. Another squeeze to his cock draws a longer sigh from his lips as he combs across the view of your body, scantily clad in a thong and a bra covered in cherries. The cups of the bra push up the weight of your breasts, spilling over the edge. His tongue runs across his lips to wet them, a new craving ravaging his mouth as he wonders what you would taste like with the skin of your tits dampened by his saliva.
The rest of your body is as softly lined and curving as your chest, waist swooping into your hips as you sit on your knees in front of the camera. Thick thighs spread with the press of your calves into the back of them, the inside of them meeting at the apex and providing cover for what he so badly wants to be shown. There’s a line of your stomach above the waist of your panties, supple skin glistening. Delicious, is all he can think to himself. You look so fucking delicious that it floods his mouth with saliva, enough that he feels the overwhelming need to push his boxers down, freeing his hard cock to rest against his stomach until he’s spitting into his palm and starting a slow, languid pace.
The grain of his palm drags against the length of his cock as he keeps a steady flick of his wrist. Not too fast, but not achingly slow. Enough to start stoking the burning coals in the pit of his stomach as he watches you on the small rectangular screen. Puffs of hot air leave his mouth, his jaw hanging open while he watches you shift to reach for something out of frame, the first look at your ass gifted to him. Rounded swell of curves with the fabric of your thong dipping between them. The slight jiggle of your cheeks makes Frankie moan quietly, taking the briefest moment to picture that same ripple in your skin from him fucking you from behind.
“Shit…” he grumbles under his breath, minorly increasing the pressure of his grip to squeeze his cock as his hand moves, desperate to mimic the feeling of someone — apparently you, despite not knowing anything close to your name.
Skin on skin catches on the base of his dick and he exhales sharply with his teeth bared, opening his palm to spit once again. It’s not enough, but he continues the slide of his wrist as he sets his phone down on the mattress briefly, reaching over to his nightstand, pausing once again to dispense a pump of lotion into the palm of his right hand. Wrapping the moistened hand around his cock again, he starts a faster pace before slowing down to drag out his pleasure longer.
Returning into the frame fully, he sees your face for the first time and coughs as his open-mouthed inhale seizes in his throat. His fingers circle the base of his cock, squeezing hard as he takes in your face. Perfectly primped with a layer of makeup, but he can tell you’ve got the kind of beauty that wouldn’t ever need changing or enhancing — effortless. Velvety skin, as silky as the rest of your body but with an added glow. Bright eyes that are shining with mischief and want, and a smirk that’s as playful; he finds himself shutting his eyes again, for a few lazy strokes as he pictures that face, and your plush, pliable body, on your knees in front of him. Eagerly awaiting his cock to fill your mouth.
Fuck, you’re really doing a number on him tonight. He needed this. His desperation for a high of any kind coats his open mouth with each labored breath.
Focused back on his phone, you show off the treasure that you dug for off-camera. A lilac vibrator, one that fits the length of your hand, with a swell of size rounded off at the tip and tapered in at the end. Leaning closer to your camera, Frankie groans when your tits bounce, spilling out of your bra with a tiny nip slip that he catches immediately. And it only makes him want to see more.
“Mm, c’mon, pretty girl, show me something here. M’fuckin’ dying…Necesito la distracción (I need the distraction),” Frankie speaks toward the screen, feeling pathetic as he barters with you in the one-way system.
As if you heard his pleas, you adjust your position, laying back on the mountain of pillows to prop yourself up and letting one leg fall open. Even in the lowered lighting of the room you’re in, presumably your bedroom, he can make out the wet patch covering your folds. He finds himself wondering if the act of getting off in front of a camera, in front of people watching live, is what gets you wet. Or if you have a fluffer like he’s heard they do in porn.
He’d wanna be your fluffer.
Or maybe he’d want to be the one to fuck you in the porno. At least both of you’d get to finish then.
“Think I need someone who knows better than me to tell me what they wanna see.” Your voice is saccharine, the slight fry in your voice jolts his hips into his hand, mumbles of curses slipping from his lips. “Anybody have any suggestions for me, chat?”
A low hum starts when you press the button of the vibrator in your hand, spreading your knees further to open your core to the view of the camera completely. Your opposite hand to the toy hooks into the crotch of your thong, pulling the small bit of fabric, practically a string with the amount it’s covering.
Frankie’s mouth waters as the speed of his hand picks up, the grip of his fingers not nearly as satisfying as the clench of a pussy, but he’ll make do. He has been for a year; you know what they say, no relationships for the first year sober. That, and he couldn’t find anyone that could take his mind off of coke long enough for him to get it up. So eventually he just let it be.
Now, though, he’s painfully hard. The quick movements of his hand send a shock of pleasure up to his brain, veins contracting with the extra effort to keep the blood supply to his cock. Thumb brushes over his tip, mixing in his precum with the other lubrication, a hiss from behind his teeth shot out from the stimulation. His gaze is glued onto his rectangular screen, huffing out deep breaths while you press the vibrator against your clit. There’s a quiver in your thighs that he notices, as if this is your first touch after teasing yourself, or someone else teasing you. Sensitive already.
Biting your lip, your eyes scan the screen as you read aloud, “FiveFingersAtFreddys said ‘Take your bra off please.’ Well, actually he said ‘Take your tits out’ but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, dude, and say that you actually do have good manners.”
He laughs, and it’s a first for him. Laughing at someone’s jokes as he jerks off, alone.
You comply with the request, taking the vibrator away from your clit to reach around and unclasp your bra. Tossing the material aside, you lean back into the pillows again and the next sight nearly makes Frankie come right then and there until he takes his hand away completely. Laid out, legs open and fingers pulling your panties aside, vibrator pushing into your clit and driving a high-pitched moan from your lips. All while you're bare from the waist up, cushioned torso melting into your heavy tits, pert nipples bringing them to a point. The form of a Greek classics statue, one with fleshy outlines carved impeccably from marble.
“La obra maestra (A masterpiece)…” Frankie whispers to himself, the squelch of his lotioned hand working his hard length bringing him back into his body, a moan slipping from his mouth.
“I think I need someone else to tell me how I should play with myself. M’so wet, jus’ wanna touch myself but I don’t know where to start. All seems like—like it’s going to feel so good,” you stutter out when your hips buck against the vibrator, a whimper echoing from your chest as you turn your attention to the chat again, awaiting intriguing instructions.
Maybe it’s sexual frustration, maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe it’s the intense fucking craving to replace his need for coke high with a need for an orgasm, but for whatever reason chosen, Frankie finds himself clicking on the comment box with his thumb, typing wildly with one finger. He takes a second to read it for spelling errors before he presses send. Too lost in it all now to care.
Your eyes perk up, smirk growing on your face when you read the influx of chat replies. One must have caught your eye because the vibrator is being left to the side again. Fingers hook into the waist of your panties, slowly pulling them off as you read aloud the comment that caught your attention.
“There’s a new name I see here…Maybe we should do what you want, Mr. FlyingFish. Consider it a welcome gift from me to you.” His heart is pounding in his chest, hand gripping tighter and twisting around his dick as he fucks his fist, mumbles of curses spilling out as he listens to you repeat what he desperately typed not a minute prior. It sounds dirtier coming from you, despite his best efforts at politeness, “You said ‘Please show off how many of your little fingers fit into your pretty pussy. Think a pretty girl like you deserves to fuck her fingers…’ Alright, FlyingFish, you’ve got me blushin’ from that request and that is difficult to do, sir. Thank you for calling me a pretty girl. I promise I’m smart, too. I’ll be sure to count ‘em for you.”
One finger slips into your dripping entrance easily, the other hand reaching for the vibrator and replacing it at your clit while your finger starts to fuck shallowly, “One finger…”
Whines of frustration crack over his small speakers before a bigger moan falls from your lips, a second finger slid into you alongside the first, “Oh, fuck…That’s two. Mm, how am I doin’? FlyingFish, d’you think I can get another?”
Frankie’s wrist flicks rapidly now, the direct address to him driving him mad as the sounds of his arm slapping against his stomach and thigh clap in his room and cut into the sounds your pussy is making as you get yourself off. He types as quickly as he can, strings of curses flowing from his mouth as the heat of his desire burns red hot inside of him. He’s so fucking close but he wants to watch you fall apart at the same time. Wants to be the reason you come.
“Oh, shit—you’ve got a mouth, FlyingFish. ‘I’d hope you can take another, otherwise, you couldn’t take my cock.’ Is that a promise, Fish? You saying you got a big dick for me to take?”
You whimper and he’s edging himself, squeezing hard to stay together when you inadvertently use his call sign. The closest thing you have to his name, and all he can think about is you screaming it while he’s fucking you. He wants to tell you it’s a promise only if you follow through, indulging in the fantasy of actually getting to touch you only for a moment. But instead, his attention is completely drawn to a third finger stretching your cunt in full view of the camera, your wanton moans popping in his speakers and driving his forearm to burn with the strain of muscle as he attempts to fist his cock even harder.
“Fuckfuckfuck…Come for me, baby, please fucking come on those fingers,” he begs no one but himself, a blinding white heat licking the entire inside of his body as he balances on the edge. Waiting for you to fall first.
“Oh my god, fuck…” The last word is drawn out, pitching up at the end as your fingers fuck faster, squelching sounds of your wetness flooding his mouth as his brain pleads for a taste of your cunt. “I don’t think—I don’t think I can get a fourth. M’gonna fucking come—ah! Oh, fuck me, Fish…”
You barely whisper his name, or at least what is his name to you, but it’s singlehandedly what punches out his guttural moan, ropes of warm, sticking spend coating his hand as he keeps moving and spilling onto his stomach. It’s prolonged, the tension in his calves relaxing after he spills the most come he has in a while.
Airy, light, a rush of blood back to his head has his whole body tingling with a high. Satiating his cravings from earlier, dissolving the want, the need, for anything of the sort. Instead, it’s replaced with thoughts of you — the image of you laying fucked out on his phone, adding his own touch of imagination when he closes his eyes to see you as you are but covered with his come the same way he is. Normally, this is when the smallest bit of shame crawls up his spine and sits at the nape of his neck, but instead, he melts into warmth. Faced with your smile as you sit up and lean over toward the camera again, laughing to yourself as you end the live.
“Um, if you’re still here, thanks for that FlyingFish. Felt fucking good…And to everyone else, I’ll stream again on Monday night, same time as always. Night, everyone. Have a good weekend.” All he hears before the sound cuts out is your excited giggles, the brightness of your post-orgasm joy stretching a smile across your face. He’s faced with a black screen, staring back at himself in the reflection with the shit-eating, smug grin he has on his face.
Now he’s got plans for Monday night.
Frankie hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. He’s hooked. Images of your sloping curves flash behind his eyes on the days when you’re not available to watch, his hips fucking his fist in bed, the shower, even on his couch with the blinds all open because he was that needy. Thoughts of you replaced his thoughts of the white powder, chasing after the different high he’s gifted by your voice, your body — all through a screen.
He’s caught himself rasping affections as he pictures you, hissed compliments as he comes and imagining what he’d say if you were in front of him. Letting him use your mouth or your cunt. He’s even gotten into a habit of imagining his head between your legs; the hardest he came is the one time he pictured you sitting on his face and all of the pretty sounds you’d make for him. Fuck, cariño, that’s so good. Mm, bonita, you’re such a good girl. Love doin’ what you’re told, don’t you, baby?
The fact that he doesn’t even know your name but is this infatuated isn’t lost on him. He knows he has an addictive personality, but this feels different. Like he was meant to find you for some reason. His sponsor would tell him it’s a call from the universe that this is all part of his ‘journey to sobriety’, but really, he just thinks that you’re fucking hot. And the tiniest part of him thinks you might like him watching too, even though you have no idea who he is.
Each time he watches you live, his thumb taps across the keyboard, responding to your requests and even adding in some encouragement. Virtually having conversations with you, he quickly became a frequent flyer (your joke, not his). You listen to him. Like the sweet girl that you are. Taking his suggestions — his demands when you beg — and showing off for him, a whimpering mess when he’s done with you.
At times, it feels like he’s the only one watching, or at least the only one that matters to you. With the amount of times his username falls from your lips, it’s easy to fall into a bubble of you and him. You’ve picked up the habit of referring to him as ‘Fish’ and it’s driven him mad, the closest thing to his name that he’ll hear you say. You give him material to think back about for days after. I love a man that knows what he wants, Fish. You can boss me around, Fishie. I always know what you tell me to do is gonna feel so fucking good.
All of this over the last few weeks has built up his courage, which is why he finds himself sitting on his couch with your profile open, the sun barely set outside. A random baseball game plays on his TV, but his focus is completely on his phone, writing and deleting a DM to you about ten times.
It has to be right. Friendly, but not stalker-ish. Flirty, but not creepy. Commanding enough to get your attention among what he imagines are countless messages in your inbox.
After another good ten minutes drafting a message, his thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button for a few seconds. Squeezing his eyes closed, he lowers his finger and hits the button, anxiety washing over him as he opens his eyes to stare at the blue bubble.
No going back now.
Standing at the stove, water boils over the side of the pot while you pour in the uncooked pasta noodles. A few drops hit your skin, mumbles of curses leaving your lips, “Fucking shit!”
You stir the pasta before reaching for the nearest kitchen towel to wipe the once-scalding water off of your hand. A deep sigh exhales, relaxing your shoulders as the ding of a notification draws your attention to your phone lying on the marble countertop next to you.
What you find on your lock screen sends a shock of excitement down your spine, the warmth of anticipation radiating around your body to tingle your fingers and toes.
[Direct Message:] FlyingFish
Quick to swipe up, the device unlocks with a scan of your face and opens a new notification when you click on it with your thumb. Subconsciously, your opposite thumb has ended up between your teeth, biting down on the skin as you hold back an eager grin while you wait for his message to load.
You’ve never had this reaction to a message before, actually, it was usually the opposite. Rolling your eyes, ignoring the men until the last moment. Only responding to keep them enticed and subscribed — all of which keeps more money in your pocket. That’s really why you started this whole thing anyway.
FlyingFish:
Hey
A puff of air exhales through your nose, a chuckle cutting the otherwise silent kitchen. Shaking your head to yourself, you can’t help but smile at your screen. Heartbeat fluttering, you internally kick yourself for having such a reaction to such a simple message. Not even knowing who this person is, you find yourself typing back a response.
Hey there Fish
Guess I never actually asked if I could call you that
You turn back to your task at hand, continuing to cook your dinner and attempting to put out of your mind all of your assumptions about this person messaging you. You’d guess it’s a guy, an educated inference based on the demographics of your audience, but everything else is a complete mystery. The one time he insinuated he had a big dick stuck in your mind, and based on his behavior, you’d like to assume he isn’t lying. An image of a man sticks out to you each time you whimper his nickname, on camera and that handful of times off camera and alone: tall, solid, and strong. Brunette, only because that’s your type. Rough hands and commanding touches. Someone to bend your stubborn will into submission. He’s confident, at least through the chat, and he seems to know what he’s talking about. Each time you see his username pop up, you can feel yourself start to get wetter. Since you started this whole gig, there hasn’t been anyone quite like him. It’s always people asking for more for them — Show us your tits. Say my name. Turn around so we can see your ass.
But with him, it’s the opposite. He asks for more for you, which you guess is what he gets off to, not that you mind. Bet one more finger would feel even better for you, baby. Curl your fingers, cariño. You reaching that special spot? Gotta get deeper for me, baby. Rub slower, drag it out. Promise it’ll be even sweeter at the end.
Always polite but stern in his demands. Never too much, mostly not enough for your taste. He’s built up an appetite in you that you haven’t had before, a desire to please and to be good for him. All of it doesn’t feel like performing when he’s telling you what to do, it feels like he’s there, deep rasp in your ears as you picture thick fingers in place of yours and tight grips on your plush curves. Fingerprint-shaped bruises left behind and sore muscles in your thighs from holding yourself up as he asks you to come for him over and over and over.
A vibration against the hard surface of the countertop refocuses your gaze from a thousand yards away. Turning to grab your cell, you rub your thighs together in hopes of relenting the ache between them from your daydreams. Wet panties get caught in your folds, discomfort only momentary before you lean over the counter and open your legs, reading the mystery man’s response.
You can call me anything you want bonita
But I will tell you that Fish is pretty close to my name
Fish is close to your name?
What is it? Bass? Salmon? Trout?
Funny
Fish is short for Catfish which was my call sign with my Special Ops team
Ahhh a military man. You know I like a man in uniform
Oh really? :)
Don’t wear it anymore but does it still count if I was once a man in uniform?
Hmm
:( please?
I wanna be liked by you
Showing your cards there Fishie
Not trying to play it cool?
Once you get to know me baby you’ll come to find out that me and cool don’t really go together.
I doubt that’s true
So Catfish is your call sign? Who came up with that?
My buddies on my team
Said I couldn’t grow a beard for shit and that it looked like I had whiskers
So Catfish
Well I don’t wanna call you Fish if it’s mean like that :(
What’s your real name? If you wanna tell me
Are you gonna sell my identity and let someone tank my credit score?
Never
It wouldn’t benefit me much if your card gets declined every month
I appreciate the honesty baby haha
My name’s Frankie
I like your name Frankie :)
It’s nearly an hour of messaging back and forth, flirting intermingled with genuine curiosity about the other’s life, history and background. Frankie learns that you were struggling to find a job straight out of university and needed to make rent, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to try out selling content. You detailed briefly the time that you grew your following, telling him about your Instagram too, which he follows in that instant. The notification makes you laugh and you follow him back despite the profile being completely empty of any information besides his name. Not even a profile picture. He learns that you don’t speak much to your parents anymore, that your siblings live across the country so you don’t get to see them much.
He tells you about his family — no siblings, parents that live in another part of the state and refuse to visit him in the city — and his chosen family, the Special Ops guys. Laughter hiccups from your chest when he recalls a few of the better stories from them, telling you about each other them as if he was preparing you to actually meet them. He has that thought, briefly, about all of you out for drinks. How they would probably like you as much as he does; your charm and sincerity would hook them all just as it has for him. Frankie tells you all about his current hobby, fixing up an old, cherry red 1978 Jeep Cherokee. How the only other time he spends online is searching for car parts, watching Youtube as he works on the vehicle in his garage.
You make a cheeky comment that he must be good with his hands before sending another message immediately:
Would you wanna actually talk? Like on Facetime maybe
Frankie stares at the message, blinking slowly as if it will disappear. You’re asking to talk to him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mean, if he knew that was an option he would have asked himself…
He wouldn’t and he knows he wouldn’t based on the way his stomach has dropped to his feet, his hands have gone clammy and his throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he whispers a small pep talk to himself to work up the nerve to say yes. He wants to see you, he always wants to see more of you, but the fact that you’d see him as well…he can’t cope.
Heat trickles across the back of his neck and up his cheeks, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as his brain completely wipes any thought to respond. Dropping his phone into his lap, both of his hands reach up, one grabbing the brim of his cap and lifting it from his head while the other runs through his hair to push it back away from his face. In the corner of his eye, he catches his left knee bouncing. Lips press together in a thin line, rolling the flesh between his teeth before he picks up his phone again and sends a message back to you with just his phone number.
Not even a minute later, his screen lights up with a list of digits strung together in an unfamiliar order. As if it were possible, he felt his stomach drop lower than his feet, deep into the ground below and burrowing away along with his confidence.
Shit, this was a stupid idea. He’s going to make a fool of himself and you’ll lose interest and he’ll have to think about you every day for the rest of his life and wonder what you’re doing, how you’re doing, even what your name is—
Fuck, he’s gonna miss the call.
Frankie decides that it is much more embarrassing to miss the call he just sent his phone number for than to potentially come off as uncool, so his finger swipes to the right to answer. Quickly, he turns off his camera before you notice, opting for the level of anonymity to remain.
“Hi, Frankie…” Your candied voice drips with sweetness around his name. He’s been imagining you saying it, trying to get it right in his mind over the past few weeks, but hearing it now he relishes in the fact that none of them were right. None of them sounded like spun sugar, like it did just now.
You fill the frame from your shoulders up, the same bright smile on your face that he’s seen at the end of each live, after he’s had his fun with you, but looking completely different out of that context. It’s a bit shy, demure in the way you're resting in your bed against your pillows, t-shirt on and fresh-faced. You look beautiful. And it makes him feel a bit silly that you can’t see his reaction.
“Hey, bonita. M’sorry I don’t have my camera on, jus’ nervous. Didn’t want you to hang up right away gettin’ a look at this mug,” he says with self-deprecating laughter at the end, watching as your brows knit together with a pout on your lips.
“You don’t have to apologize, Frankie. M’happy to do whatever you’re comfortable with. Besides, if your voice gives me any indication of your looks, you’d probably be making me way more nervous.” Teeth bite into your bottom lip as you hold in a grin, a hand coming into view to nudge at your nose. He’s seen you do it a few times on live, whenever you’re waiting in anticipation. For him, he’d like to think.
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he teases, the smirk playing at his face evident in his flirty tone.
“You jus’ sound…nice.”
“Nice? That’s all? Why would that make you nervous, baby?”
A sigh slips from your lips, rolling your head back as he hears the smallest whine from you. His cock jumps in his sweats, already half hard from the flirty back and forth in your messages.
“God, you’re going to be a problem with all those pet names,” you say exasperated. Frankie laughs at his screen, feeling like an idiot sitting here alone and smiling like a fool. You’re cute when you’re mad.
“You can tell me your name and I can use that instead?” he propositions, licking his lips as he awaits the piece of information he’s been chomping at the bit to have.
“No! I mean, I’ll tell you my name, but…I like the nicknames. Keep them. Please.” Your words scramble out and it makes him grin wider, witnessing you as nervous as he’s feeling. When you give him your name, he repeats it a few times, rolling it around in his mouth, tasting the syllables on his tongue. Delicate, floral, sweet but a slight tang. Smooth as it rolls across his vocal cords, soothing the rising heat he’s feeling with a refreshing chill. Like peaches and cream.
The two of you chat back and forth for a while, pride swelling in his chest when you laugh at his stupid jokes or give him a compliment, despite being none-the-wiser to his looks. He’s quick to make you blush with his comments, telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. And Frankie’s thanking himself for keeping his camera off, because at times during the call, his eyes drift to your chest, blatantly staring at your perked up nipples through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. It grows his hard on, the softness of your breasts bouncing around as you restlessly squirm during the call enticing him to picture getting his mouth on them. He’d guess you’d taste the same as your name.
The next time you move, he watches your chest again before a sight in the background catches his eye, drawing a chuckle from his mouth. A stuffed bunny lays next to you in your bed, messy with age and love. A soft pink color with a red ribbon tied around its neck, he finds the need to ask about it prodding in his mind.
“Is that who films everything for you?” he jokes, watching your face twist with confusion before looking to your side and bursting out in a laugh. Returning your eyes to the camera, you shake your head timidly.
“No, unfortunately he’s pretty limited to cuddling.”
“He? Didn’t know you had a man in your life, baby. Feels like we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of him.” The sound of your laughter quickens his pulse, the melody trilling in his ears with comfort.
“Well, I guess if you could offer me more than cuddling, he could be demoted.”
“I think I can offer more, Conejita.” Frankie watches as something akin to excitement, but burning brighter, flashes in your eyes. You sit up more, one eyebrow raising in challenge.
“What could you offer me, Frankie?” It’s a loaded question. He could be polite, steer the conversation away from where he so desperately wants it to go, to be a gentleman. It would be easy to make a joke, to get you both to move on.
But he always wants to see where this could go. You’re the one who wanted to talk on the phone in the first place. And he would never suggest anything to make you uncomfortable, and he thinks that you know that. It’s like what the two of you do in your lives — a conversation, a back and forth that may end up benefitting both of you.
“Depends on what you’re lookin’ for, Conejita. I’m a man of many talents.” The words are slick on his tongue, silvery with enticement.
“Hm…” you ponder out loud, tapping your index finger against your bottom lip before turning back to the camera, “Can you cook?”
“Decently. Can’t claim I’m a chef, but I feed myself. And m’pretty good at a grill and makin’ some of my mamá’s recipes. Insisted on teaching them to me so they didn’t end with her.”
Grinning warmly, he feels his heartbeat kick up against his chest, thumping hard at the sight of you giving him that look. “That’s so sweet that she taught you. You can teach me, then someone else in the world will know her recipes too.”
Christ, you’re so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what he wants more in the moment: to keep talking and simply listen to your voice, or to flirt his way into something more.
“She might be a better teacher than me, baby. Would probably be over the moon if you asked to learn since she had to force me a bit,” he laughs along with your quiet giggle, taking a deep breath when you bite down on your bottom lip.
“Are you a good teacher of other things?”
“I’d like to think so. Haven’t I taught you new things already, Conejita?”
There goes his heartbeat when you look away from the camera, smirk lifting your cheekbones as your demeanor goes shy, shrugging your shoulders as you lay back again, shifting to get comfortable.
“You have…And now I’ve learned how sexy your voice is, too. I’ll be picturing everything you type now to be said in your voice.”
Frankie breathes out a chuckle, a heat burning the nap of his neck, trickling down his back. He feels the effects of his blood rushing below his belt, ever-so-slightly lightheaded as he quietly palms his bulge in his sweatpants.
“My voice is sexy?”
“Um, duh. Are you kidding me? You sound all…rugged and raspy and deep. Like you could manhandle me easily,” you admit your thoughts easily, and he sighs quietly at the thought of having you in front of him to throw around his bed and mold you into the positions he dreams of getting you into.
“No tienes ni idea de lo que haría contigo (You've got no idea what I would do with you)...” he mumbles under his breath, hearing a soft whimper from you. One of your arms is slung across your front, pressing your breast into the other and he can take a guess as to what your hand is up to. “You want some help, baby? I bet you’re jus’ feeling so needy, aren’t you? Listening to my voice got you that worked up?”
“Mhmm…I need it, Frankie…” Your voice has the edge of a whine and he exhales slowly as he hears you beg for him. Not his call sign or a username. His name. Him. There’s no one else who’s making you feel this way, no one else striving for attention.
He pushes his pants down, pulling his hard cock out to start slowly stroking. You’ve left him aching, dripping precum that his fingers smear around his length to lubricate as he moves up and down in a teasing pace.
“Use your manners, Conejita. What d’you say?”
“Please. Please, Frankie. I wanna hear your voice, I want you to tell me what to do.” He hisses from behind his teeth as he squeezes his cock at the base, leaning his head back against his headboard before his focus zeroes in on you on his screen, asking for his guidance, his control to get you off. No one else privy to the sights he’s seeing.
“Good girl. Such a good girl for me, baby. Why don’t you take off your shirt for me? Let me see you, bonita.” Wetting his lips with his tongue when you move to prop your phone up on your mattress, an expert at framing yourself perfectly. The thin, worn fabric of your sleep shirt slips over your head, leaving you on full display for him — already pantyless. Whether you started the call with any on is a mystery to him, but now, he settles back to tell you exactly what he wants from you…what he knows will feel good for his conejita.
“Okay, bunny, lean back for me…That’s it, get comfortable. Good girl.” Looking into your camera to your side, a nervous smile plays at your lips, shyness overcoming you as you wait with bated breath for Frankie, who’s still a mystery to you, to instruct you. It’s driving him mad, how trusting you are of him without ever seeing his face. Such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.
“Show me how you like to play when no one’s watching.”
When his phone dings one evening a few weeks later, Frankie pulls himself out from under the hood of his project car. A familiar fizz bubbles over his body, a Pavlovian response that’s been built over the last few weeks he’s been talking to you. There have been text chains, full of flirty sincerity, and more phone calls, all with his camera off but not all ending like that first one. There have been times when the two of you have had long conversations, full of laughter and learning about the other. A few calls have ended with you falling asleep, stuffed bunny tucked under your chin and pillowy lips parted slightly with deep, even breaths.
Admittedly, he’s grown attached. Maybe a bit much for…whatever this relationship or friendship is, but he can’t help the teenage giddiness he’s felt with every text chime, ringtone, or dial that he’s found you on the other end of.
He’s got a crush.
So immediately at the peal of his cell, he’s reaching for the rag on his workbench, wiping his hands clean of grease before reading over your message.
Conejita:
Hiii 😚
Are you busy?
Grinning like a fool at the gray bubble, Frankie begins to type out a response before abandoning the message and clicking the phone button at the top of your name instead. Pressing the speaker to his ear, he runs a thumb across his bottom lip while he listens to the trill of the dial tone. Steps pace him across the garage, counting them in his head as he waits for an answer.
“Hey, stranger.” The line clicks on and your voice immediately draws a smile across Frankie’s face, hearing one of yours in your upbeat tone.
“Hey, Conejita. What’s up with you?” Even your presence over the phone calms his nerves, sparking kindling low in his gut that spreads down to his toes and up to the back of his neck. Frankie tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder as he wanders back over to the carhood, shutting it carefully. He retreats inside, washing his hands as he listens to you recount your day.
“...So then I got pissed off and left ‘cause she was being so unreasonable. And then I wanted to talk to you ‘cause, I dunno.” The intensity in your cadence slows down toward the tailend of your story of an argument with a friend of yours; Frankie chuckles, biting his tongue while you sigh deeply and he dries his hands off on a kitchen towel.
“You don’t know why you wanted to talk to me? Don’t get all shy on me now, cariño,” he teases you, receiving a frustrated huff on the other end. “Well, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. She sounds like she has a stick up her ass. And m’glad you wanted to call me, Conejita.”
“D’you wanna switch to Facetime?”
“‘Course, I do. Always wanna see your face, jus’ one sec…” Frankie climbs his stairs two at a time, reaching the landing as his screen lights up with the Facetime request from you. He answers it, camera off, while he changes out of dirty clothes and listens to you chatting about plans for the weekend. He mentions going out with the guys tomorrow night, and you make a jest that gets him laughing, both of you bantering back and forth before he settles back on his bed.
“Y’know, I am content to chat with you like this, Frankie. But I keep wondering what you look like…” In the small rectangle of his screen, you lean forward to fill more of it, cleavage exposed in your bralette. He’s been waiting for this to be brought up again, and feeling so much more comfortable with you, he can’t admit he hasn’t thought about it. But with that stronger connection comes the anxieties. What if he isn’t what you pictured? What if he isn’t your type? What if you don’t like him anymore?
Frankie thinks he’s decent looking enough — he hasn’t had much trouble pulling girls since he was a teenager, but not being the most commanding or charismatic in the room, he has had his bouts of struggle in the relationship department.
“Please, Frankie. S’not fair I get to hear your sexy voice and not know what you look like. Pretty please, I’ll give you something special if you do,” you bargain with a pout on your face, bottom lip protruding and puffy. He wants to kiss it away, bite down on the glossy flesh, work away your frowning moue with his own mouth. Wonderings of what you taste like.
Coming back into himself, he wears a proud, intrigued smirk that you’re blind to except for the way his words curl around his slick, silvery tongue, “Oh, is that right, bunny? What if I wanna know what the something special is to decide?”
“Not how it works, silly. Either you want something special or you don’t.” A stern shake of the head, sitting up straight as you raise an eyebrow at him.
He sits with it for a moment, thoughts warring on the inside. In the end, his realistic side barters that either way could end badly: he doesn’t turn the camera on and you get frustrated, ending it, or he does turn the camera on and you don’t like the look of him, ending it. A phantom whisper of your voice, bubbly and bright, reminds him that it could make everything even better, and that ultimately is what convinces him.
“Alright, alright. You make a convincing argument, Conejita.”
A beaming smile stretches across your face as you draw a leg up to your chest, resting your head on your kneecap while you hold back your excitement and anticipation. Frankie takes in the sight of you, astir on tenterhooks.
“Here goes nothing,” he mumbles to himself before his thumb is pressing the camera button, illuminating himself on your screen. He sees himself in the smaller rectangle in the corner, grimacing before he laughs softly and grins, awaiting your reaction with waves of solicitude raging inside.
You see him, your Frankie. Filling your phone screen. Finally.
A nearly inaudible gasp leaves your lips, blocked from the mic by your knee. Studying his face, you witness the lines next to his eyes deepening as he laughs, his shy smile growing on his face. Big brown eyes strike your chest, their sincere softness making you want to fall into their warmth and stay there forever. Like the comforting heat of a mug of coffee on a chilly morning. You note that your visualizations were correct, mostly. Brown hair, curling out from under the cap branded with Standard Oil that sits on his head. Wide set shoulders that extend out of frame, a build to him that screams he most definitely can manhandle you around in bed. His call sign makes a bit more sense to you, seeing patches in his short beard, admiring the one on his left cheek that is shaped like a heart. Simply endearing. The image of him in front of you sends a shock to your core, wet spot in your panties growing as you begin to imagine what the rest of him looks like.
Hot is all you can think. Frankie is fucking hot.
His voice cuts through your trails of admiration, joking around to break the silent tension, “So are you gonna ask me to keep my camera off now?”
As you swallow to recover some of your composure, shaking your head back and forth quickly before a genuinely eager smile paints your expression. Leaning closer to see more of his details, freckles across his neck and where his shirt exposes a sliver of his chest, the peak of his cupid’s bow shaded by his mustache, long eyelashes that reach toward his eyebrows. You drop your knee from in front of you, leaning an elbow on the surface of your desk and resting your shin in your palm.
“Frankie, respectfully, what the fuck? You’re so hot.”
A boisterous laugh rolls from his chest, the same shy smile returning with a blush across his cheeks, “Conejita, you’re the hot one between us.”
“No, no, I’m being serious. You’re like — Damn. Your smile. And you have pretty eyes, Frankie. And you’re just like…really fucking hot. I can’t even think of another word. You should be the one doing what I’m doing.”
“Oh, c’mon, you’re only seeing my face, baby.”
“Yeah, and? It’s a pretty face…Wanna sit on it.” Your giggle cuts through his speakers, and Frankie groans at the comment. Saliva coats your mouth as you watch the muscles in his neck tense, licking your chops like a prowling lion. If only he was in front of you right now…
“Diablita…eres una problema. (Little devil…you’re a problem.) Do I get my special something now?”
Another giggle and a mischievous smirk make Frankie’s brows stitch together in frustration, your shoulders shrugging as you toy with the strap of your bra, hooked under your index finger, “Actually, I think I wanna move the goalpost. Will you show me what I’m missin’, Frankie? I wanna see more.”
Desire burns bright and wild inside of you, ache building between your legs as your arousal drips from your panties and onto your thighs. You’d been picturing him — all of him — for weeks. Ever since that first message. But now, seeing him on your phone screen, your imagination is running wild with newfound information and attempting to fill in the blanks. He has to be big, thickness would be just right. He’s the quiet type, unassuming in his own looks, which means he has to have a virtually perfect dick. It's the rules of the universe. Undecided if he’s cut or not, but regardless, picturing your manicured fingers wrapped around it and tongue licking at his tip. Watching him come undone from you. Stomach tensing, those long fingers that you sneak a peek of when he adjusts his hat wrapped up in your hair. Rasping moans. What would he taste like?
Frankie shakes his head, a quick tsking drawing your attention back to the moment as he looks on with a teasing expression, “Conejita, I don’t think it works like that.”
“Okay, then no special something for you. Your choice, Francisco.”
He watches as you move the strap back up your shoulder, the soft snap of the elastic against your skin. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he mumbles, “No serías tan valiente si estuvieras aquí conmigo, mocosa. (You wouldn’t be so brave if you were here with me, brat.)”
Uncaring in whatever annoyances he was airing with you, you watch him sit up further in the frame, knocking off his cap and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Despite his words, he lifts his shirt over his head, looking back at the camera, bare shoulders and chest on display, “This is what you get for now, bunny.”
Satisfaction glows from your smile, biting hard into your bottom lip while Frankie watches your eyes search everywhere on your screen besides his own. A stern clearing of his throat breaks your trance, a commanding expression on Frankie’s face.
“You promised me something, Conejita.”
A deep pout replaces your grin, huffing in defiance as you slip your bra straps from your shoulders, “Can’t you please take the rest off? Show me what I wanna see, Frankie. Please.”
“Nah uh. Quit demanding, baby. Y’know that’s my job. Now tell me, what are you gonna do for me to get what you want?” His unwavering voice surprises you, despite hearing it for weeks. With the added heat factor of his looks, you crumble a bit quicker, clenching your thighs as you sigh and nod obediently.
“I’ll do anything, Frankie. Jus’ tell me what to do, I wanna make you happy.”
He grins on the screen, sincere softness peeking out, “Oh, baby, y’know it’s easy to make me happy. Jus’ gotta be a good little bunny, yeah?” He hums, licking his lips as he ponders what he wants from you tonight, a night he wants to fill with another milestone for the two of you. He’s only seen you use a small vibrator or your fingers on the phone with you, but he knows what else you have. He’s watched the video of you using it on your profile only about ten times.
“Get your pretty pink toy for me, Conejita. Y’know the one. And then get on the floor and you’re going to show me exactly how you use it.”
There’s rustling as you follow his instructions, stripping bare and suctioning the toy to your hardwood floors, propping the phone up for him to see it all. The hot pink dildo bobbles from you moving around it, glistening with lube that you applied — even though with one glance at your cunt, both you and Frankie know you wouldn’t need it. Straddling over the silicone, you slowly tease your entrance with it, whining before you make one more attempt to Frankie watching you with a smugness in his smirk.
“Please, Frankie, can’t you please show me your cock? I wanna picture it while I fuck myself. Wanna know if it’s how I imagined…Dream about it a lot.” He can read right through your tactics, but his dick can’t. It strains against his zippered jeans, throbbing under the fabric for some sort of relief. He squeezes his palm over it once, exhaling as he shakes his head, strong in his convictions.
“Be a good girl, and I’ll show you what you wanna see.” No more room for negotiations.
“Yes’sir.”
Frankie’s mouth hangs ajar while his focus trains on the apex of your thighs. Watching you slowly sink down, the bright pink rubbery toy disappears inside of you. Whimpers slip from your lips as you brace your hands on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin. Need burns brightly in his chest and below his belt, clenching his jaw while he imagines biting the meaty part of you, leaving teeth marks in his wake before settling his mouth at your entrance.
Your hips set a quick pace, desperate for the high you’ve been dripping for since getting on the phone with Frankie. A low growl followed with a disapproving tut clicks over the speakers of your phone.
“Slow down, baby girl. Not a race…” Frankie corrects, and the only response you have is a frantic nod, turning your movements to a drag. The toy fills you up, stretches you the most that you have ever been. Pain heats your feelings of pleasure, intensifying it all in the lightness of your limbs and head. The ridges of the faux veins of the fake cock impress into your walls, the tip of it notching at the spot inside of you that Frankie taught you to reach. It only skates by it, whines accompanying your frustrations.
Frankie, on the other end, listens to the squelch of your pussy around the silicone. The sound drives him to fully cup his erection through his pants, palming himself with heady breaths as your own moans for him drive the iron hot brand of need deeper into his skin. He can see your need for a change, your need to be given permission to chase that feeling that’s within reach.
“Lean back, little bunny. Sit back on your hands and use your hips…Show me more of that pretty pussy,” he instructs, cool and confident while his hips buck up into his hand. Being his perfect girl, you do as he says and change positions, gasping when you sink down onto the toy. Your cunt clenches around it, a satisfied smirk painting Frankie’s face. He knows he’s gotten you to hit that special spot. With the grip your entrance has around the base of the dildo, he wonders if you’ll pop it off of the floor on your next thrust.
“Oh, fuck…Frankie, wish you were here. Tell me—tell me what you’d do to me if you were here,” you beg, your hips still dragging at the new angle.
A groan escapes Frankie at your request, biting down hard on his lip and taking his hand away from his lap to deny himself the temptation.
“You love hearing me say all the dirty things to you, huh Conejita?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “If I were there with you, I’d would be—shit—I’d be devouring you right now. Fucking you with my tongue and my fingers, making you squeeze me and getting your come all over my face. Gotta get you ready for me, bunny. After, I’d flip you over. Get your pretty ass up for me, and I’d fuck you senseless. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Turn it all off up there and just let me take care of you…”
Nodding, your hips start to move faster as Frankie speaks to you. He doesn’t have the heart to tease you anymore, letting you start to take what you want for a bit. Your moans pitch up, tits bouncing with your nipples pebbled and the rest of your soft curves twisting as you rock back and forth on the toy.
“Yes, please. I want that,” you mewl, heavy breaths erratic.
“That’s right. My baby deserves it all,” he says with a sigh, his large palm squeezing his hard cock again, slowly unzipping his jeans and slipping his hand into his boxers to grip himself at the base. “I’d fuck you until that pretty little brain of yours was filled up only with thoughts of how good I make you feel. How good you are for me, pretty girl…Look at you go, bouncing on that toy. Rub your clit, Conejita. Slow, at least for right now.”
You follow his orders, supporting yourself on one arm. Slow circles against your clit have you shuddering with pleasure, a twitch of your tummy as you moan. Your eyes flutter shut, face twisting with overwhelming need. Frankie drinks in the sight, indulging himself in a few long strokes of his cock before he hears it.
“Daddy…” you breathe, near a whisper, but it’s audible to him. Lost in yourself, you don’t even notice you’ve let it slip until it comes again, “Oh my god, Daddy.”
The surprise of it shocks your eyes open, stuttering your hips as you narrow in on your screen. Frankie’s eyes grow dark, licking his lips as he holds in a loud moan. His fingers grip the base of his aching cock, holding off at the edge. So close to coming when he heard that word drip from your mouth like melted sugar.
He can tell you’re attempting to gauge his reaction, nervous settling in as you attempt to move on from it and continue fucking yourself closer to finishing. Frankie’s eager to take it in stride, clearing his throat before he gives it right back to you, opening that door that he knows won’t be shut any time soon. At least not by him.
“Yeah, that’s right, baby. Let Daddy tell you what you need, yeah?” He chuckles darkly, satisfaction thumping in his veins while you nod and whimper yes yes yes back to him, “Y’know, if you like that lil’ toy, baby, Daddy’s cock will feel even better. S’bigger than that fucking thing.”
“Oh, fuck, I need to—I need you, Daddy, please!”
“I know, Conejita, I know. Poor little thing jus’ needs Daddy to be filling her up, huh? You wanna know what my cock feels like inside of you, don’t you, pequeña?” He hisses with a buck of his hips into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second.
“Yes, yes, please, Daddy! Please,” you choke on a breath and Frankie can see you twitch at your inner thighs from the full-on view of your pussy, your tell-tale sign that you’re about to come.
“Y’know the rules, Conejita. Better ask before you come.”
“Please, please may I come?” you moan, rubbing faster circles against your clit and grinding down on your toy.
“Oh, bunny, you can ask nicer than that. May I come…?” he leads, smirking devilishly when you nearly squeal from the way he’s holding you out on the edge. Teetering on the verge of that high that he knows well, he can see your legs faltering with a cramp.
“Please may I come, Daddy?” Your eyes open, heavy-lidded and lips parted with shallow breathing. Frankie gets lost in the sight, wrecked from his direction, his words, a sheen of sweat over your skin and the arousal coating your thighs. A fucking dream.
“Mm, come for Daddy, baby girl—” he’s interrupt as you erupt in a high-pitched moan, mouth wide open as you string together mumblings Oh fuck, Daddy, feels so good. Need you so bad…
“Good girl.”
Frankie hums contently, chuckling as a dopey grin finds your face, blinking through the orgasmic haze. Laying back, you slip the toy out of your pussy, leaving it to wobble in place and spreading your legs around it. One arm comes to rest against your forehead, breasts rising and falling with deep, recovering breaths. He’s blocked of the view that would make this moment even sweeter, licking his lips before he speaks up.
“Lemme see that fucked cunt of yours, bunny. Let Daddy see what belongs to him.” You sit up again, popping the toy off of the floor and laying it to the side to be cleaned later. Frankie hums as you part your legs more, the glittering of your come dripping on your thighs and across your swollen pussy. “Eres un buen oyente, pequeña. (You’re a good listener, little one.)”
“What’s that mean?” you ask, a long exhale punctuating the question.
“You’re a good listener, little one.” Frankie grins when you grow shy, inching your legs together before he tsks again, one hand coming into frame to motion for your lower limbs to part again.
“Y’know, it would look even prettier with my come dripping out of ya, baby.”
“Please.”
“What, Conejita?”
“Don’t tease me anymore…Can’t take it, Daddy.” You lips push out in a pout, subtle but he can catch the change in expression.
“Nah uh, no pouting, bunny. Who said that I was teasing? I’m going to make it happen.”
Sweetness slips from your lips in a giggle, leaning over to pick up your phone and hold him closer to your face.
“So, if I was a good girl, doesn’t that mean I get to see what I asked for before?” Wiggling in eagerness, Frankie feigns ignorance, scratching at his beard as he shrugs, acting as if he didn’t nearly come in his pants multiple times in the last few minutes.
“I dunno, Conejita. What did you ask me for? Gonna have to remind me.”
“Your cock. I wanna see it.” Your pout sneaks back, biting your lip. “May I please see your cock, Daddy?”
“I think I could do that for you, baby. Asking so nicely. Such a good girl for Daddy, yeah?”
“Always.” A giggle bubbles up from your tummy, biting down on your lip as Frankie takes you in, shaking his head in subtle disbelief. How the hell did clicking for one subscription get him here, having Facetime sex with you?
He obliges your original requests, moving to prop his phone up in front of him, stripping down his jeans first. The sight of his bulge waters your mouth, pupils widening in want at the outline of his cock. No tricks of the light, no chance of manipulation like some men in your DMs do. All natural.
And Frankie wasn’t lying. He’s big.
The reveal comes when he tugs his boxers down to his ankles, settling in front of the camera again. His heavy length rests against his lower stomach, precum dripping into his dark happy trail. Your eyes drag over the veins ribbing him, leading down to show off that he’s tastefully groomed. Swallowing saliva, you lick your lips as his large hand wraps around, slow strokes that gently shift the foreskin away from his tip. The end of his cock glistens with pebbles of precum, red and aching. Frankie hisses at the contact, the veins in his neck straining against his skin while he starts to fuck his fist.
“You look so pretty, Daddy,” you compliment sweetly, grinning at him as he laughs quietly back at you.
“Such a sweet little bunny. You think you can take me in your tight little cunt?” A long exhales concaves his chest, quiet moans as his hand picks up pace.
You return his regular favor of talking him through it, detailing how good of a girl you’d be for him, telling him all that he would be allowed to do to you. The sounds Frankie makes has you dripping again, getting his permission to fuck your fingers, both of you driving each other to a peak, your second one taking the breath from your lungs as Frankie comes at the same time. Whimpers escape your mouth as you envy his hand and stomach being covered in his release, biting your tongue and crowding the screen as he shows off how much you made him come.
“Wish I was there to clean you up, Daddy.”
“Right back at you, Conejita.”
A few days later, Frankie calls you after one of your livestreams, grinning like a schoolboy when you answer in only your underwear. You laugh as you set your phone down on the surface of your dressing, his childish smirk turning to a pout as he stares at your white painted ceiling. Calling out to him, you ask for one second while you tug a sweatshirt over your head, shuffling around before grabbing the device and relaxing back on your bed, bunny in your lap.
“Hi, baby,” Frankie coos, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile as he drinks in your cozy, drowsy demeanor. Cuddling with the toy against your chest, you grin back at him, curling up onto your side like a cat.
“Hi, Frankie,” you mumble back, exhaustion heavy in your eyes.
“You sleepy, little bunny?” A slow nod answers his question. “Alright, I won’t keep you up for long then. Just had a question for you.”
The vague proposition piques your interest, your eyes shooting open and the camera being brought closer to your face, “What’s your question?”
Frankie works his lips between his teeth, nerves crackling over his entire body. Realistically, he knows you’ll say yes, but there’s still that chance for rejection in the moment. His left leg bounces against his couch, hand running over his face as he takes a deep breath in, “I was wondering if you’d wanna come visit me here in Florida? If you don’t have time—”
“I would love to come visit, Frankie,” you agree immediately, a sincere smile growing on your face. Frankie mirrors your excitement with a goofy grin, the creases next to his eyes deepening and his dimple cratoring his cheek. “I’ll even book my flight right now, that’s how eager I am.”
Shaking his head furiously, he clicks his tongue in a tut, scolding you playfully, “Hey, hey. No, none of that. I’m not letting my baby pay, I’m the one who asked you to come.”
“But—”
“Nope, no buts. Except yours getting onto a plane and coming to see me,” Frankie laughs at his own joke, earning a playful eye roll as you hold back your own chuckle. “Oh, c’mon, that was funny, Conejita. I can tell you want to laugh.”
The two of you go back and forth while he books your flight on his laptop, showing off the confirmation number once it’s all gone through. Both of you wear shit-eating grins on your faces, sitting in disbelief.
Frankie can’t help the rush of anxiety, unable to tell if it’s solely from his excitement. All he can think about is having you in front of him, in the flesh, in person. No screens between the two of you, no broken signals or shitty wifi interruptions. Hearing your voice without the strain of speakers, getting to touch you, taste you, hear you, feel you all over him. There’s the flash of a vision of you laid out underneath him, making your little sounds that drive him crazy and digging your nails into his back…
“Gonna let Daddy spoil you while you’re down here, baby girl?” Frankie smirks as you stretch sleepily, biting down on your lip.
“You’re flying me out, isn’t that spoiling me enough? Shouldn’t it be my turn to spoil you then?”
“Think you know the answer to that, baby. Having you in front of me is spoiling me enough, I jus’ wanna take care of you.”
The simple statement brings a smile to your face, shyly tucking your face into your pillow. The rest of the call relaxes you back to near sleep, listening as Frankie tells you all about what he’ll take you to do. Your drowsiness catches up with you, drifting off on the phone. Frankie chuckles quietly to himself, sitting with you for a moment silently before he goes to hang up.
“Night, Conejita. Can’t wait to see you.”
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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡
Word count: 12.2k
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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier
Make us come, baby. Make us come together.
These words are yours.
Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep.
He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body.
They’re yours, right?
Even if you don’t get to see him ever again.
—
It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles.
Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here.
It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.
Not today. Please. Not today.
Friday.
Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head.
Today is Friday.
You reject the obvious.
Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.
Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.
Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night.
You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons.
Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours.
Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping.
Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.
And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you.
You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet.
You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.
Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can.
You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine.
It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor.
—
On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body.
You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze.
You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste.
Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.
Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you.
If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be.
With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia.
You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste.
All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down.
Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums.
At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again.
All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.
Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.
You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black.
—
In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation.
You did want to get better.
You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities.
On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results.
But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality.
For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.
Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were.
Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear.
As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.
Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.
Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all.
And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.
—
The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places.
Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed.
Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…
Frankie.
You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?
“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”
Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through.
Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before.
He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel.
The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.
Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish.
There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.
So many cords. Too many sensors.
“Where’s my phone?” you mumble.
Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore.
“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed.
You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.
“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”
He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness.
“What day is it?” you try again.
“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”
The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.
“What happened?”
“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”
You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you.
Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it.
“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.”
You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape.
Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”
“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.
It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.
Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most.
The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate.
“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”
“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week.
Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.
“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.
There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping.
“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”
So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known.
It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.
There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute.
“Polly’s not old,” is your answer.
“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”
“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”
“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.
The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt.
“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”
You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline.
He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small.
“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”
The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence.
“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation?
You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out.
You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show.
Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology.
“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!”
He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine.
“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.
“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink.
And he’s gone.
Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping.
Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse.
The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location.
Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.
Is this how it ends?
Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close.
You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday.
Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.
The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.
Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE.
The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case.
Your heart rate slows down.
Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.
—
The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you.
You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.
On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation.
Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed.
You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.
You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.
After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.
One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you.
You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.
Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.
Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.
Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week.
In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak.
You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid.
Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.
You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours.
You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it.
On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in.
She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child.
While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse.
True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material.
At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”
So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image.
“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”
As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.
Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC.
That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood.
You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted.
You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.
“Fuck it.”
You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic.
The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour.
It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut.
Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper.
As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor.
You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.
Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks.
That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.
You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity.
Is this how it ends?
Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here.
Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours.
The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes.
Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar.
“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“
A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again.
“I come in every week?”
Jesus.
“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”
“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”
You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.
“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”
“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”
“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”
“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund. Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“
“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”
Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long?
If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will.
“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”
The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe.
“Do you want to book it?”
You shake your head slowly.
“No. Thank you.”
Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot.
He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding.
You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you.
You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.
All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years.
The before and the after him.
He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him.
Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story.
The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed.
That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel.
“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan.
His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob.
It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind.
Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.
“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers.
“What?”
His smile drops when you take a step back.
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“
Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall.
He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.
“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.
“What happened to you?”
The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms.
“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper.
“Did he do that to you?”
“What?”
“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.
“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”
“How did you fall?” he presses.
He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to.
The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own.
“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”
“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze.
“You can barely stand.”
However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.
“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.”
“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”
“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”
He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.
The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all.
“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.
“Wanna bet?”
You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could.
“Listen,” he begins with a sigh.
“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“
“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.
His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness.
“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”
Our minds.
He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Yes, ok.”
He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”
—
The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you.
What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?
On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing.
You hate yourself for that, too.
After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard.
Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual.
The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it.
“Hey. You ok there?”
In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate.
“C’mere.”
The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his.
The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer.
You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart.
“I’m not married.”
“Ok.”
The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it.
“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”
“Ok.”
The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit.
“And I really fell.”
He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist.
“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”
You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened.
He tightens his embrace.
“That when you hurt your head?”
“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”
“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”
“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”
You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”
How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again?
“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.
If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks.
“No,” you lie.
“Mmh. And for real?”
You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.
“A little. I’ll be fine.”
The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines.
Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.
“He wouldn’t hit me.”
“Ok.”
“That’s not what he does.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“What does he do?”
You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason.
“He makes me doubt.”
“Him?”
“Myself. And him too.”
Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel.
The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights.
His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist.
Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber.
“You ok? Want me to close the window?”
His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness.
“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”
Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy.
—
When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare.
Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone.
You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin.
At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light.
You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there.
Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then.
You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh.
“Wait. I need to talk to you.”
His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will.
You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him.
“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes.
Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest.
“I understand.”
“I imagine you can’t be here either.”
No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always.
“No, I can’t.”
The following week, either. But you don’t share that.
This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.
Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.
In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you?
Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket.
“Kiss me, Frankie, please.”
“Yes.”
His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips.
All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his.
Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else.
His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too.
You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness.
Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire.
There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent.
He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.
Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles.
“Want me to make you come, baby?”
He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration.
“No, I want you inside me.”
“Shit, you sure?”
“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.”
You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth.
“You think I don’t know that?”
So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back.
Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.
“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.”
It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place.
“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans.
“I know you can.”
When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair.
It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.
You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside.
In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes.
He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart.
Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue.
Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.
Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.
“You ok?”
His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff.
His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.
Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it.
He stays like that for a while.
Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes.
“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”
“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”
You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts?
“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.
But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him.
Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”
You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within.
“I want you.”
His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion.
He doesn’t.
He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling.
Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named.
You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice.
“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt.
The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties.
You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face.
He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest.
The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale.
Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you.
“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”
He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.
“Fuck you’re tight.”
“Please, Frankie–”
His frame tenses up under your palms.
“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”
“No!”
That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out.
“I can—“ You trip over your words.
“What?”
“I can sit on it.”
Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles.
“Yea. Yea you can.”
He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal.
“Spit on it,” he says.
You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.
“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”
Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed.
His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours.
“Sit on it, now.”
His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look.
“Yes,” you pant.
Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.
Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing.
The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel.
Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back.
You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help.
You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically.
His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs.
“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”
You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.
A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.
You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats.
His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit.
And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall.
“Too much?”
“Oh god yes.”
You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.
“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”
His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind.
You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.”
He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire.
His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.
“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?”
You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are?
“Say it again, please.”
“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you.
“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”
“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.”
He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon.
You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already.
He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk.
You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave.
And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss.
****
#one day I will understand why I am more obsessed with Frankie driving his truck than flying a fucking aircraft?????#it's like Kelli said: it's my safe space 🧡#Kelli's a genius#anyway#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic
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Grays II
Frankie Morales x f!reader
{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }
Rating: E (18+ only)
Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’
Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.
Word count: 8.5k
Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘
Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man.
He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots.
But he can’t do his fucking hair.
He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.
Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’
He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.
Hair half-dry - check.
Hair mousse applied - check.
Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy.
Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -
Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.
He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.
‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down.
He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.
And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.
Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -
By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.
This is as good as it’s gonna get.
He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.
‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’
‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’
Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’
The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’
Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’
The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.
‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.
Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’
Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’
Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’
Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’
It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon.
So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.
The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.
Nerves.
You’re nervous.
And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about.
Or more precisely - who.
‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.
From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.
Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’
Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’
‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’
‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’
When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.
Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’
In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’
Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’
You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’
Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’
‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’
‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’
‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’
‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’
‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.
Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’
Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’
‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’
He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’
‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.
He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’
At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen.
After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’
A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’
Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’
‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.
Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’
Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’
‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’
You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’
‘Well, I don’t think so.’
‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.
‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’
Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’
You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’
He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’
‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.
‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’
Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.
‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.
The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first.
‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.
‘Pope?’ you prompt.
‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.
‘Ben?’
‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’
Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’
Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’
Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’
To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’
‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.
‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger.
Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’
‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger.
You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’
‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.
You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’
Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.
‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.
Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’
Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’
Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.
You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -
Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’
‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’
He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’
Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’
‘I don’t have a look on my face.’
He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'
‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’
‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.
Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’
You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears.
‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’
Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’
‘40/60.’
‘Fuck off, Shiv.’
‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.
He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’
Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’
He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’
Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’
As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you.
But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.
So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’
You blow him a kiss and grin wider.
Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’
He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.
Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.
He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.
You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’
‘Shiv -’
You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’
‘Shiv -’
‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’
His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’
You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’
Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’
You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks.
Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.
Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.
In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind.
The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.
‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.
Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.
You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -
‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’
Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’
You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.
You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.
‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’
‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’
He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’
Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.
Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’
‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’
Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’
‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’
He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’
Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.
It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.
‘Hey.’
His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.
Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.
When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.
Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’
‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’
His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’
‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’
Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.
‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’
He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’
She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’
‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.
The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.
‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.
‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’
Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’
He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’
You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’
‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’
Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’
He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’
Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.
You smile to yourself and follow.
You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.
It’s a lot of staring, even for you.
His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.
As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar.
And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.
Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.
You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.
Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.
‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’
His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.
‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’
He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’
You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’
‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.
You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’
Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs.
‘Because you wanted me to.’
You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’
He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’
It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.
It would be simpler. So you ask -
‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’
Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up.
‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’
‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’
You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’
The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.
You invited him inside.
He said yes.
You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs.
Francisco Morales, of all people.
Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.
But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.
Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.
‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.
‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’
‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’
You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.
Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’
His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’
‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’
‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’
You hum, unconvinced.
He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’
You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’
He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’
‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’
Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’
‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’
He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’
The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’
Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’
‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’
‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’
‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’
With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’
It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself?
Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’
Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.
‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’
He leans in close.
You stop breathing.
‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’
Closer still.
Your lungs ache.
‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’
He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’
‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.
And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.
It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.
‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.
‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’
He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.
Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’
‘Touch me, Francisco.’
Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.
This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.
His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.
Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.
‘I want to suck your cock.’
His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him.
‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’
You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’
You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.
With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’
He whimpers, and you know you have him.
His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man.
There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.
Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.
Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face.
His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe -
‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’
He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.
‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’
‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.
There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.
‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’
You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’
Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.
Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this.
Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat.
Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.
‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’
‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.
Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.
‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’
You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.
Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.
‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.
You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’
The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’
‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’
He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’
Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’
He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’
‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’
‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.
‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’
Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’
As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.
When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’
Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.
His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.
For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’
You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.
Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’
Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.
When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.
‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’
‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’
‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.
‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’
‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’
Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.
You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’
He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’
Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway.
‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.
You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’
Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’
‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.
‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’
You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’
Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.
‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’
Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.
‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.
His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’
Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’
‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.
Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.
‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’
His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’
Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’
Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’
‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.
Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’
With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’
‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’
You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.
Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.
‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.
You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’
‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’
He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.
‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.
Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.
In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.
‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’
You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.
Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️
Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍
I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️
#fuckyeahgrays2#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x female reader#frankie morales smut#frankie morales twoshot#frankie catfish morales fanfic#triple frontier fanfiction#francisco morales#frankie friday
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𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆.
DAY ONE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN
prompt: taboo au + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into."
pairing: stepbrother!frankie x santi's gf!reader
genre: explicit smut, minors dni
summary: you were seventeen when Frankie became your stepbrother, but no matter the title, he never felt like a brother to you, going off to college right after your father remarried. But no matter the circumstances, he was still off limits. Years pass and when he returns from the army your relationship with him is even more strained. You end up settling for the second best thing instead, his best friend. Everything seems to be going fine until Frankie stays over and Santi needs to leave for work.
word count: 5k
warnings: infidelity (reader cheats on santi), stepcest, possesive!frankie, y'all this fic isn't morally okay at all but it's not exactly "dark" it's just really messed up so read with caution, breeding kink, dirty talking, fingering, mild degradation kink, male masturbation, piv, oral sex, spitting, pillow humping, size kink, poor santi didn't deserve this, size kink, cuckolding kink???? (santi isn't there but frankie gets really turned on talking about it)
a/n: i don't know who's or what's gonna do it but I need someone to forgive me for this. also hopefully this turned out okay, it's very loosely edited and feel a bit all over the place but hopefully I'm just overthinking it. enjoy babes
Your father remarried when you were seventeen.
You felt cheated at the time. And not because your father had found love again—no, that made you quite happy actually. You just wished he’d done it sooner, you could’ve benefited from having a big brother early on. Your relationship with your birth mother wasn’t easy, especially when you were young, and having someone there to vent to would’ve been like a dream. Your dad listened, but you know he felt someone guilty for it even though it wasn’t his fault.
Frankie was only three years older than you. Sadly, he didn’t stick around for long, going off to college a year later. But his visits were frequent enough that you two developed a somewhat friendly relationship.
Emphasis on the somewhat.
Being young and dumb, you developed a crush on him instead. It was an innocent thing. Just some hearts around his name and following him around like a duckling whenever he was around. Your dad and stepmom found it cute, endearing. Frankie seemed indifferent most of the time. He listened when you needed to vent, brought you soup when you were sick and your parents were working—and that was pretty much it.
Then he went and joined the army.
You remember the chaos that decision brought over the household. You were applying for colleges all on your own, your dad busy trying to console your stepmom, the latter being distraught over the potential of losing her son. You were just. . . sorta around, floating and looking over them, listening without really being there, just. . . there.
A month later you were surprised to find a letter addressed to you. There was one for his mom and one for you, you just stared at it, confused when your dad handed it to you.
You opened it in your room. You swore the damn paper smelled like him, the beat of your heart too loud to your own ears.
You read it. There was only one sentence scribbled down, his handwriting even more crooked than usual.
I’m sorry.
You didn’t write back to him. You had no idea why he was apologizing and you were too afraid to ask at the time. During your first day of college you just assumed it was because he left you to deal with the mess his absence caused.
Then he returned.
The house was bustling when you came for your weekend visit. Your stepmom grinning from ear to ear when you arrived, hugging you tight with tears shining in her eyes. Frankie had brought a friend with him, a friend almost as handsome as him.
Said friend had smiled at you, squeezing your hand tight, “Santiago,” he introduced himself. He stayed over for about a week and so did you, charmed by this sudden stranger that was your brother’s best friend.
Frankie didn’t address the letter. Or what he’s written inside of it. He was the same as he’d ever been and for a second you doubted if you ever did receive a letter. But you knew you did. You still had it.
At the end of the week, Santi officially asked you out, telling you that he’d already spoken to Frankie about it. You almost laughed at the absurdity of the whole ordeal. It wasn’t like Frankie ever was protective towards you, you were pretty sure Frankie couldn’t care less about who you dated. But nonetheless, you said yes, hoping that Santi would bring you the normalcy you so desperately craved.
And he did. You were happy, enjoying every moment you spent with him. Santi didn’t push you aside, he didn’t make you feel like you had to fight for his attention. You didn’t have to play tricks or games, you weren’t second place to no one. Finally, you felt like the lead in your own goddamn life and you would always feel grateful to him for that.
You couldn’t say the same thing with your relationship with Frankie thought. He completely iced you out, only talking to you normally when people were around, especially Santi. No one seemed to notice. You wanted to ask him about it but too much of a coward to do so. And honestly, you didn’t have it in you to care anymore. Neither you nor Frankie were young anymore; if he had a problem, he could just ask.
Three months into your relationship, you moved in with Santi.
The setting sun's warm, orange glow pours through the open windows. A gentle breeze brushes against your skin, as you place a cup of hot black coffee on the table in front of him.
Santi sits on the couch, absorbed in the files from work. His fingers flip through the pages as he studies them intently. The soft rustling of paper mingles with the soft summer air.
You sit next to him, your legs brushing together. Unlike him, you didn’t hate yourself so you were cooling your insides down with an iced coffee. You take a sip, your eyes eating at the way the sun kisses his skin, sharpening his jawline further.
“Thanks,” he mutters, lifting his mug to your lips. His eyes find yours midst of drinking. “What are you looking at, querida?” he asks, lips twitching into a smile.
“Oh nothing,” you hum. “Just looking at my very hot boyfriend.”
“Very hot hmm,” Santi places the mug on the coffee table and gives you all his attention. “Seems like someone’s gonna miss me when I’m away.”
Before you can quip back, he pulls you to his lap, your thighs framing his hips. You instinctively grind down and let out a shuddering breath, Santi drops his head back against the couch. “Fuck, you really are going to miss me, aren’t you? Sweet thing.”
You cradle his jaw with both hands, leaning in, you press your lips together. Santi eagerly licks the seam of your lips, a silent order for you to let him in, you do, moaning at the feel of his tongue dancing alongside yours. He sucks the air from your lungs, tracing every inch of you with his tongue, a shiver runs up your spine, your body rubbing against his despite yourself.
When he parts away you take in the sight of his swollen lips, his lustful gaze. Your heart skips a beat and your insides flush.
“Oh, by the way, Frankie called,” he says out of the blue and out of breath.
Well, that certainly kills the mood.
“He needs a place to crash a couple of days, is that alright?” his eyebrows raise. “I’m actually surprised you don’t know. What kind of sibling relationship do you two have?”
“You know we never actually lived together right?” you shrug. “But of course, he’s my brother and I love him. He can stay as long as he wants to.”
He nods. “Good,” then nods again before giving you a quick peck on the lips. “It’s a bummer I won’t be here when he arrives.”
“You could’ve rescheduled.”
“This isn’t that kind of job sweetheart, you know it.” he nuzzles your cheek, feeling your discomfort. “But anyway, I’ll see him plenty when I get back.”
You draw him into another kiss, and you take your time with it, feeling the fat strokes of his tongue delving into your mouth as you part your lips further. You wish he’d be here when Frankie comes. He still doesn’t talk much unless there are others around and after all these years you don’t know what you did to anger him enough so that he’d hold a grudge.
Santi moans into your mouth and cups your breasts, toying with your hardened nipples with his thumbs. You wonder how okay he’d be with it if he knew about your past crush on Frankie. He’d probably laugh it off, it was a long time ago anyway.
Your mind drifts to Frankie. To his messy curls the ballcap he refused to take off. Deep down you wonder what his reaction would be in learning about your past crush. A gush of heat rolls down your spine, slick gathering at the seams of your underwear. Santi's fingers glide downward, tracing the path between your legs. You shudder, a moan breaking through your lips.
You’re not sure who you’re thinking about right now, two faces merging as one.
You’re sitting on the couch, rigid, when you hear the knock that you hoped never came.
All day you’ve been pacing around thinking about it, thinking about Frankie. He hadn’t called you not even once. All of his travel info was forwarded to you by Santi. It hurt to a degree. Him ignoring your presence so forcefully. You haven’t visited home in ages just because you knew he was staying there, helping your dad with the business. Sometimes you teased your father that Frankie was the son he’d always wanted, and despite your awkward laughter, you knew there was some truth to that statement.
Another forceful knock.
You finally push yourself off the couch and head to the door. Blood pumps vigorously through your veins, your heart beating too fast—too loud. You don’t have time to calm yourself as you yank the door open.
His eyes immediately meet your own. Dark like chocolate chips but bitter like coffee. Sweat clings to his skin, hair curling at the ends, his shirt darkened in color sticking to his sternum, highlighting the contours of his chest and the swell of his stomach. You swallow.
“Hey, Frankie,” you make a move to help with his luggage but he pulls it away before you can touch the handle. Filled with unease, you take a step back and leave enough room for him and his luggage to pass through. “How was the flight?”
“Good.”
Jesus, why does he always make everything so difficult?
You close the door when he fully steps in, he does a brief once-over across the living room. His eyes linger on the picture of you and Santi on the coffee table, then quickly turn back to you, ignoring his own picture entirely. “Which room am I in, hermanita?”
Your eyes widen at the endearment, your pulse picking up again. It had been years since he last called you that. “Uh. . . last room down the hall,” you murmur, mind absent. When he’s about to leave, you grip his arm, stopping him. His muscles tense underneath your touch, his eyes burning holes into the hand that’s holding him. “I cooked,” you say, choked. “You must be hungry, let’s eat first then I’ll show you around.”
Frankie rolls his shoulders and moves his jaw from side to side. You’re about to take back your offer when he sighs, his shoulders dropping. “Fine. Okay.”
You’re heating up the food when Frankie walks through the kitchen door. He’s wearing a clean shirt, cheeks damp from where he splashed water over himself.
“Smells nice,” he mutters, standing next to you and peering from above your shoulder. “Is that mom’s recipe?”
“It is,” a soft smile touches your lips. His eyes follow the curve of it, a slight surprise etching between his brows. “But I don’t make any promises about the taste. It’s my first time making it.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
There’s something in his tone that prompts you to stop your stirring and look at him. You’re surprised to find him already staring. His eyes clouded, lips tight as his gaze searching yours. “I shouldn’t have. . . what?” you ask very slowly, every word chosen very carefully.
“Cooked,” he’s so unbelievably close. So close that you can hear the rasps in his voice, feel the heat of his breath across your cheeks. Your breath catches in your throat, heat pooling in your stomach.
“O–Oh, well it’s nothing,” you force a chuckle. “Didn’t want to feed you something you didn’t like when you’re already probably uncomfortable.”
He laughs, a sound you hadn’t heard in such a long time. Your body vibrates with the sound. “What am I? A dog?” However, the moment is fleeting like the sand dancing under the wind. His brows furrow. “What do you mean uncomfortable?”
Ah, so much for picking your words carefully.
You shrug and turn off the stove. Your eyes move up to the cupboard, you so desperately want to break away from the hold the close proximity has on you but it just feels good to be physically close to him again. He’s taller than Santi, that combined with broad shoulders and chest, Frankie’s presence can be quite demanding when he wants it to be. You guess that right now is one of those moments. He cups your chin, his fingers brushing against your neck. Your throat bobs heavily under his palm, sweat gathering at the small of your back.
“Don’t play dumb,” you answer him sharply. “You barely talk to me when we’re alone. You didn’t even tell me you were staying over or your itinerary, I had to learn it all from Santi,” you break away from his grip, your anger starting to boil over. Frankie’s unphased by your sudden movement. “So what? All of that changes just because I cooked for you? Just because you only now noticed that I actually care about you? Do you have any idea how—”
You clamp your lips shut. It was too much— too much threatening to bubble out. The inside of your mouth feels like sandpaper, your throat convulsing painfully as regret coats your tongue. You dare a glance at Frankie. He doesn’t seem taken aback by your outburst. In fact, he’s giving you a look as if he’s been waiting for this.
“I know that you care,” he murmurs and you look away, the softness in your tone more than enough to convince you that he knows. And he had known, all this time. “I had to ice you out. I didn’t have much of a choice.”
You need to hear him say it. You need him to tell you that he knows—you need him to blatantly tell you that every time you averted your gaze at the last second years before. . . he noticed.
“Choice in what? Just tell me,” you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling like your entire body might shatter into a billion pieces at any second.
He gives you a knowing look, eyes moving up and down your figure. “You know why.”
“So as always it’s my fault.”
“What?” he blinks rapidly and comes closer, hands finding your waist in an odd sense of familiarity. “No no, it’s not your fault. I. . . I was protecting you,” he licks his lips, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I was. . . protecting you from myself.”
You shake your head, fighting every urge to nuzzle his neck like a wounded animal. To smell his scent to soothe you. God, you’re unbelievable. And here you thought all your feelings had disappeared, apparently, they were just laying dormant under the flesh and bone.
His nails bite into your skin despite your clothes.
“Do you know how hard it was seeing you with him?” he spat the last word as if it was poison. A shiver crawls up your spine, needles digging into your skin. “You started to look at him the same way you used to look at me. I had to pull away.”
“You were jealous?” you ask, confusion crossing your face. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because it’s wrong, hermanita.”
The Spanish hit his tongue more violently this time. A reminder of what this relationship was supposed to be. However, the word doesn’t stop him from coming closer and closer, until his lips are only a breath away.
“We’ve never been brother and sister, Frankie,” you say voice surprisingly hoarse. “Everyone knows that.”
He scoffs, “You’re dating my best friend.”
For that, you don’t have an excuse. All you can do is swallow and nod, his chest now flush against his, the only thing separating you to is your own arms that were still squeezing you tight.
Frankie observes you a second longer, eyes flitting across your face; taking in the sight of your parted lips and dilated pupils. “But,” he continues, voice dangerously low. "I'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into."
You enter the bedroom and as soon as you do guilt rapidly builds in your chest, Frankie is right behind you, closing the door while your gaze remains glued to the picture that’s on your nightstand. A picture of you and Santi; there’s frosting on his nose from your birthday cake, your face split in a huge smile. You also remember being mildly bummed that Frankie hadn’t called.
He follows your gaze, frowning when he notices what it was that you were staring at. With large steps, he walks over to the frame and slams it down.
“Do you want this?” he breathes out, voice nothing but gravel. He doesn’t turn to look at you, his face lowered to the nightstand. “Because if you don’t, you have to tell me.”
He’s asking the wrong question.
You walk up to him, sliding your arms to his front as you press your forehead between his shoulder blades.
Of course, you want this.
The question he should be asking is if it’s worth throwing everything away just for one night. Because this is what that was. You don’t think you can hide it, and you’re not even sure if you want to hide it.
Being with Frankie tonight means that you’re saying goodbye to Santiago, whether you tell him or he figures it out.
You clutch the front of his shirt. It’s damp with sweat. You press a kiss, enjoying the moisture gathering at your lips. “Do you?”
He turns around and grabs your face, pulling you to him immediately. Your mouths crash together, tongue and teeth eager to explore more of the other. He’s already pulling you away before your brain can’t even comprehend the taste of him, “More than anything,” he growls, hands still cradling your face. “Get on your knees.”
Your drop instantly, not even bothering to take off your shirt. Warmth blossoms all over your skin as he drops his pants along with his boxers, cock already hard and ready. He starts stroking himself and tilts your head back. “Open your mouth,” he orders.
Slotting the head of his cock between your lips, fist moving up and down his length. You close your lips around him, dipping your tongue into the slit. He groans with a rock of his hips, the first drops of precome stain your tongue, a loud moan ripping from your throat. You desperately want to bury your hand between your legs, your clit throbbing angrily.
Frankie moves his hand away from his cock and brackets your head with both hands, pushing you forward down his cock. Only halfway down and you begin gagging, struggling for breath. You knew he’d be big, you just weren’t aware of how big.
A cruel laughter rings above you, “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you can take?” you look up, eyes teary as he thrust a little bit more. Your throat squeezes helplessly around the width of him, your nostrils flaring. Frankie clicks his tongue, “My poor baby sister,” he tuts. “You’re not used to taking something this big huh?”
You attempt to convey an answer but end up choking around him instead, your lids flutter, wet lashes kissing the skin under your eyes. “I guess I’ll have you train you myself,” your nipples harden at the promise, slick gathering at the seams of your underwear. “But later,” he says and much to your disappointment, pulls out.
You breathe heavily, chest heaving as oxygen floods your lungs.
“Strip,” he says, pulling off his shirt and kicking his pants away. “And get on the bed.”
“So bossy,” you mutter, and as soon as you do, Frankie tugs you roughly against him, his tongue slipping between your lips hastily. He doesn’t allow you to breathe, mouth moving before you get the chance. He licks deeper into your mouth, and sucks your tongue as he parts away. Your insides flush. Your head spinning and legs trembling. Lightheaded, you grip his shoulders.
“I’m not bossy,” he grunts, wet lips touching your forehead. “I’m just eager.”
That makes both of you. Quickly stripping, you climb the bed waiting for him to show you just how eager he was.
Instead, he walks around the bed, examing the pillows, “Which one is his?”
“Santi’s pillow?” you raise an eyebrow. “It’s the one on the left.”
He takes it with a hum, “Spread your legs,” he says and when you do, he places the pillow between them. Your heart races, a surge of arousal coursing through your veins. You don’t lower yourself down on the pillow, too embarrassed to do so. Frankie sits on the footstool at the end of the bed and takes his cock into his fist. He stares at you expectantly.
“Uh—What am I supposed to do?”
His cat-like grin makes you realize he wanted you to ask that, he leans forward, touching himself slowly, “I want you to make a mess of his pillow,” he groans. You clench at the order, your cheeks heating at how slick you’ve gotten just from the thought of it. “I want you to drench it so when he lays his head, he knows you don’t belong to him.”
Frankie’s gaze flash with hunger, it frightens you to a degree, how angry he truly is.
The fact that you actually do it, frightens you more.
You lower yourself onto the pillow, feeling its softness beneath you and a strange thrill whispering through your body as your arousal surges higher. With a moan, you begin to ride the pillow, sinking your hips deeper with every thrust. You feel it grazing your clit, a whimper dropping from your lips. Mouth agape, you lift your gaze to Frankie.
He’s stroking himself with a smile, wet noises coming from his fist fill the room, he swipes a thumb over the head. Your mouth flooding with saliva, you press against the pillow harder, the muscles of your legs clenching. Frankie notices and spreads his legs further, giving you a show of cupping his balls before moving his hand up again.
“You look like you’ve never seen cock before,” he purrs. “You can’t wait can you? For me to fill that hungry pussy up. Don’t worry, big brother is going to take care of you.”
“Fuck—” you can feel your body becoming increasingly slick, your breathing heavy and labored as pleasure ripples across your skin. Your body tenses and trembles as you rock against the pillow relentlessly, the coil tightening as you circle your hips.
Dampness gross underneath you, Frankie’s eyes fixed on where you and Santi’s pillow connect. You’re embarrassingly wet, strings of slick stretching between. Your movements start to slow as your orgasm nears, it’s too much and you have the need to just bend over and let Frankie fuck you hard without any of the games.
The legs of the footstool drag against the hardwood floors, the sound making you jump. Climbing the bed, he sits on his knees, “Let me feel how wet you are,” he groans. He pushes his hand between your legs without waiting for an answer. He slips a finger in, your eyes rolling back at the pressure. “He can’t get you this wet can he?” he asks rhetorically. “Bet he’d loved to see you getting yourself off like this, coming for another man.” he curses, thrusting into his other hand.
You hover above the pillow, your thighs starting to shake for exertion.
“Don’t stop, baby. Come on, soak it—soak it and I’ll fuck you.”
Your nipples tighten and your skin begins to tingle with arousal. Your head tilts backward and your mouth opens slightly as your body arches and grinds against the pillow. Something devastating builds inside, it builds and builds and builds—builds until you can’t take it anymore. Liquid heat sprays out of you, your walls convulsing as you drip down his hand and soak the pillow, just like he said.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he murmurs, pulling out his finger and dragging the wet digit over your cheek. He kisses you deeply. “Good fucking girl,” he growls into your mouth, nipping your chin.
You gasp for breath, your hips slowing but still shaking with pleasure even when you stop. Your mind is in a state of ecstasy. Frankie forces your jaw apart and purses his lips, spitting into your mouth. You jolt when it hits your tongue. “Swallow,” he murmurs.
“Gonna fuck you now, sweet girl,” he coos. “Gonna claim you on the bed you sleep with him every night,” he chuckles into your mouth. “I’m going to fuck you so good that Pope’s gonna keep wondering why it always smells like sex in here.”
God, you wish it didn’t but the words and the depravity he said them in makes your skin prickle, an involuntary moan slipping from your lips.
Frankie turns you over, pulling the pillow under your hips as you remain on all fours. Your arms feel weak, legs still trembling from your orgasm. “F–Frankie,” you slur your words.
“Don’t worry baby,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth over the small of your back. “I got you, and I’m never gonna let go.”
He positions Santi’s pillow under your hips, the fabric dark in color from your slick. Your arms finally gave way and you drop face-first into the sheets, you can smell him now, Santi’s pine scent fills your lungs.
Shit, what the hell is wrong with you?
“Stop thinking about him,” Frankie hisses from behind you, parting your folds by dragging his length. He lets out a deep sigh before you can answer. “It doesn’t matter, you won’t be able to think of anything else soon anyway.”
You shudder at the promise of his words. He leans in, the heft of his body covering yours as his lips touch your ear, “I’m gonna come inside this pretty cunt. Then you’re going to squeeze every bit of it out and taste it—Got it?”
“Y-Yes,” your voice is trembling, your body burning from the inside out.
Suddenly he grips your nape, squeezing until pain ebbs under the skin. You swallow, tears stinging the corner of your eyes; he doesn’t say a word, pushing his cock between your wet thighs. It’s filthy how he makes you feel, how badly you want to surrender to him. You drool all over him, your walls spasming until the head catches against your clit and a whimper leaves your lips.
Frankie comes to a halt and his grip around your nape lightens, caressing the skin.
You let out a little groan as he eases himself inside you. He moves further and further until he’s fully sheathed. A thrill surges through your body. Your eyes roll back at finally faving him inside, a wanton moan falling from your lips.
Frankie flexes his cock and you groan at the stretch, “Who’s bigger?” he huffs, pushing deeper. Your body becomes limp underneath him. “Me or him.”
“You,” you manage to garble a response. “You’re so much bigger than him, Frankie.”
“Yeah?” he pants, chest heaving. “He can’t fuck you like this can he?”
He presses your hips flush against the pillow, the dampness that touch you scorching your skin. You nod helplessly and claw against the sheets. “He can’t—” you choke out. “Frankie please.”
He gives you what you want, grinding against you, cock filling you up with every forceful thrust. His ragged moans echo around the room, and you grasp onto the sheets tighter. Every thought is knocked out of your head every time he buries himself into you. Hips bruising where it hits your skin. You reach the peak quickly, that familiar tingle blossoming between your legs.
“Fuck—” beads of sweat line Frankie’s body, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. “You feel so good, so fucking good.”
He wraps an arm around you and pulls you out, holding one breast tight. His thumb goes in circles, lust lapping at your tired body as he presses deeper. “I want to feel you coming just on my cock,” he moans into your cheek.
Frankie angles himself in a way that he brushes against something devastating inside of you. It’s like a jolt of electricity, the force of it enough to empty the air in your lungs. He drags his cock over the same spot again and again, his thrust quick paced. You cry out his name when static fills your ears and dots dance over yoru vision. Your head falls back, chest heaving as your body quakes.
Your cunt continues to squeeze and throb around him, and soon enough, you feel the hot spill of come filling you to the brim. You swear another orgasm washes over you, the flavor of it thick on your tongue as you meet his thrusts. Frankie huffs a tired laugh and grips your asscheeks, spreading them.
“I can feel you dripping,” he murmurs, you hear the smile in his voice. “Makes me want to stay buried in your forever,” in contrast to his words, Frankie pulls out. “I hope you didn’t forget what I said,” he kisses your neck, long and slow. “Drag that full pussy all over his pillow.”
You spread your legs wider, rolling your hips over the soft material, you hiss when it brushes over your clit. “S-Shit, Frankie—”
“Bet he never fucked you like that before,” he remarks. Satisfied with the mess, he gestures you to move away. You practically collaps, head thudding against the headboard. Frankie’s gaze is fixed on the poor pillow, drenched in your slick and his come.
No matter what Frankie says, you’re not letting Santi sleep on that pillow. You’re fucked up, but you’re not that fucked up.
Staring at the pillow, reality finally settles in. A sharp inhale parts your lips and Frankie’s eyes snap toward the sound, his gaze searching yours. “There’s no going back from this,” he says. “When’s he coming back?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Good,” he crawl over to you, taking place between your still trembling legs. He slides his palm up your tigh and presses his mouth against your neck. “That’ll give us more time.”
You’re too much of a coward to ask time for what.
#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#francisco morales x reader#francisco morales x you#francisco morales x fem!reader#triple frontier fic#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfic#hauntedhoedown
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The Pilot and his Girl - complete
Series Master List
Frankie Morales in The Last of Us AU
Frankie Morales meets the love of his life and starts creating a new life for himself, her and his little daughter. But things are about to change in ways no one could've imagined with the outbreak of the cordyceps infection.
Warnings (contains spoilers)
I finally finished this monster of a fic and I've been overwhelmed by all the love it's been given! I love you all for bearing with me and reading through my monster chapters of angst, heartbreak, grief and two fools very much in love. Don't send me your therapy bills! 😅
I love hearing from you all, even if you think you're cringe or embarrassing or the fic is too old to comment on, if you like the fic, please let me know! It will make my day! Comments, reblogs or asks are always welcome! ♥
No age gap, our reader and Frankie are the same age, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions.
Chapters with ** contain smut
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5 **
Chapter 6 **
Chapter 7 **
Chapter 8
Chapter 9 **
Chapter 10 - part 1 **
Chapter 10 - part 2
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13 **
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17 **
Chapter 18
Chapter 19 **
Chapter 20
Chapter 21 **
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25 **
Chapter 26 **
Chapter 27
Chapter 28 **
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32 **
Chapter 33
Chapter 34 **
Chapter 35 **
Chapter 36 **
Epilogue
#frankie morales#frankie morales x you#frankie morales fanfiction#pedro pascal#frankie morales fluff#pedro pascal character fanfiction#frankie morales fanfic#the last of us#the last of us fanfic#the last of us fanfiction#frankie morales angst#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x f!reader#tlou fanfiction#tlou#tlou fic
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common thread | frankie morales
wm masterlist / frankie masterlist
-> pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
-> words: 2060
-> content warning: 18+ blog; smut smut smut, there might be a plot- there might not be, benny’s fighting, alluding somewhat to anxiety but no real mention of it, established relationship, unprotected p in v (not mentioned but reader is on BC, otherwise wrap it folks), mentions of bodily fluids, mentions of drinking, reader wears Frankie’s shirt but no other descriptive features of reader, nipple play, labeling dubcon just to be safe, consent not mentioned but implied within their established relationship, implied somnophilia but very vague, kissing, shared orgasms, I think that’s everything- please don’t hesitate to let me know if I missed anything.
-> notes: was this born purely from the fact that I own said shirt and that I might have had thots of stealing it from frankie… yep! Big thanks to @gnpwdrnwhiskey for listening to my thots and helping me make sure some things worked together. And for enlightening me on the word spooge. Anywho, I don’t even know what this is really— hopefully you enjoy it.
You're lost in the moment. Grateful for the way your mind is able to lend such vivid imagery. Manifested bursts of him against the darkness, intermittent flashes of Frankie dancing across your eyelids.
His unrestrained smile you so frequently witness, teeth and dimple bared with an exuberant ease. His eyes, packed with millions of different shades of brown and gold into the smallest little pools of warmth, express everything he needs to say without uttering a single phrase. His voice wraps around you with a smokiness, a tonality that seeps deep into your bones, metastasizing himself in every bit of you. But it’s nothing compared to the real thing.
*
A memory from earlier in the evening trickles in. Frankie’s shoulders relaxed, his laugh unobstructed by lingering weighted thoughts. Completely surrounded by the sweeping lights and obnoxious yelling that’s accompanied by one of Benny’s fight nights.
His hand rests comfortably between where your legs cross, tucked in and with zero desire to move unless necessary. His body slumped back in the metal folding chair that sits next to the one you’re occupying, Santi in one flanking the other side of him. Even while deep in a conversation with Santi, he still manages to oscillate his attention between his best friend and you, never once making you feel unnoticed by him.
Once Benny takes the ring, Frankie’s reserved demeanor shifts into sobered excitement. His fists clenched and slightly jabbing the air out of pure ritualistic habit, mirroring every punch delivered to the bloodied opponent sparring against Benny.
Frankie hangs back after the final call is made and Benny’s arm is thrown upward in victory. Late nights at the gym with the blonde fighter had paid off. He’d googled rigorous drills to run Benny through nightly for a month straight to prepare- jab, cross, jab to the body -Playfully showed you his own wonky technique in the middle of the kitchen while you stirred garlic into the simmering marinara sauce you had started when he called to let you know he was heading home one evening.
Benny’s bruised body dangles over the metal cage, a triumphant wail rips from his throat as Will and Santi grab at him, engrossed in their own fight to congratulate Benny while fending off other spectators and screaming women.
Frankie pays no mind to the celebratory explosion shared between his buddies. A squeal of surprise comes from somewhere within you melds with a growled C’mere as Frankie’s arms pull you closer to him. His arms forming a net around you, stronger than any fisherman had ever thrown out to sea, sheltering you from the dispersing crowd. You grab onto his tan canvas jacket, the material rough and gritty, but it withstands the stress of your grip grounding you to him as your breath is stolen from your lungs. Frankie’s lips fuse to yours, pursuing a more secluded adaptation of celebrating. His mouth still tastes of the tapped beer he’d been sipping on throughout the fight, the hoppy bitterness coated on his tongue is no rival for the sweetness that is Frankie. The kiss coming to an unhurried close, soft lingering pecks breathe into him thanking you for supporting him, supporting Benny. I love you’s and Let's head home lead to rushed goodbyes and rain checks for drinks later in the week— no time wasted milling about with only you on his mind.
*
Your lashes flutter in an unrushed manner, kissing the tops of your cheeks with each crisp fatigued breath you take in. Brief glimpses of his brawny silhouette move just outside of your closed off vision, melding with the soft light that pours in from the hallway.
His whiskeyed tone cuts through the hazed filled air, pulling you back into this real time pleasure seeking dimension.
“Baby— fuck! Fuck, Babe you feel so goddamn good!” Hot and humid syllables fanning across your neck, mixing and reformulating with the brininess of your skin.
He shows you he means it with each intentional move he makes. Every bit of him in motion, diligent and relentless.
The weight of Frankie settled snugly between your legs. His hips flexing against your inner thighs with each calculated thrust, exerting a carnal like rhythmed pace.
He’s intoxicating, a divine ambrosial tonic. The fiery elixir is so addictive and sweet, you slowly sip your allotted daily servings. Always selfishly craving more of him. Everywhere. At once.
There’s an eagerness that drips from his saccharine tongue, intent on pleasing you sufficiently. His words drumming against the hollow channels of your ears. Begging. Coaxing. Praising.
“That’s it, Babe— c-can you give me one more? I need you to come with me!” His lips brush over yours. All full and red from how you like to draw them in your mouth, ardently sucking and rolling them between your teeth. Your tongue soothing over the fleshy skin, offering a tempered smile at the way he grieves the sensation. “I know you can, Hermosa, you’re almost there. Fuck, baby! Love watching you fall apart— one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced in my life.”
Frankie’s never showy or boastful. It’s not even luck that he relies on. It’s endless learning and knowing exactly what makes you tick. His own desires secondary to yours. The steady drag of his cock is sturdy enough, your velvety walls claiming him as their own for the time being.
Something pricks at you. Somewhere below the surface. A euphoric flame alit. Ignited by Frankie’s earnestness. Burning slowly through your cresting body.
It’s a mirroring of pleasured expressions. Brows contorted. Mouths softened, hanging open. Lips grazing the other’s briefly. Noses bumping and nudging. A synchronous exchange of explosive breathy moans, reverberating through your chest.
“Mírame. Let me see you— all of you.”
Your vision is fuzzy. Slowly adjusting to the scene before you. There he is, your Frankie. More beautiful and handsome than you remember. His skin flushed with a twinge pink. His own eyes are heavy with an emphatic desire. A single clump of sweat drenched hair curls to a point, swaying against his forehead. His jawline sharp and nearly unhinged as he stares down at you— a man with a need to satiate and protect you.
“Francisco—“ A breathless plea. His namesake called out to him. The sweetest sounding voice he could ever hear, mesmerized by the way it dances off your tongue.
“Yeah! You look so fuckin’ good like this, Hermosa. Wearin’ my lucky shirt and lookin’ so goddamn sexy in it, too. Love it when you wear my shit.”
*
His shirt. Or so he thinks. Technically it did start out that way, being his shirt and all. It came about as the result of a beer mishap a few years ago. A rowdy group knocking into his frosted cup, ice cold beer sloshing over the brim, soaking his shirt completely.
With only minutes until Benny’s match, it was a mad dash to a closing thrift shop across the street. Nearly turning their closed sign on him, Frankie flashed his pearly whites, pleading with the sweet woman for just a shirt to replace his beer soaked one.
The announcer's voice echoes into the night sky, signaling the next match was starting soon. Frankie grabbed a single hanger from the rack. No time to inspect or deliberate on the last minute purchase, tossing more than enough cash on the shop counter and bidding the shop owner a thanks ma’am, goodnight. Frankie frantically ripped the soured shirt from him, tossing it in the trash can outside the event doors. Pulling on the new-to-him threadbare t-shirt and slapping his worn hat back on his head as he went in search of you.
The irony of the situation was not lost on him. A soaked in beer shirt replaced by a beer branded one. No mistaking the faded Budweiser logo printed across the back. A smaller, less in your face, but still obvious enough, strategically positioned on the front. He wouldn’t have hated it initially if he actually liked the stuff, preferring Stella Artois that got him into this situation.
Benny won his fight that night. Was it all his hard work paying off? Surely. Or was it a newly acquired beer shirt bringing him some extra luck? Frankie thinks a bit of both. From then on that shirt was worn every fight night, whether Frankie was in attendance or not, Benny winning his first title at the end of the season.
Frankie was wearing the shirt tonight, too. Until he wasn’t. Picking up where he had left off as soon as the front door clicked closed, now alone, with zero onlookers and strobing lights. The dim lit hallway was as far as you both made it before he had you pressed against the wall. Your hands scrambling to remove every stitch of clothing from him. Needing more of him, more skin to touch. His shirt thrown onto the pile of your already removed clothes.
It wasn’t long before Frankie was unwrapping your legs from his waist, your back slowly sliding down the wall until your feet hit solid ground. An agreement made to order from your favorite restaurant as you both slipped on an article of clothing from the heap of clothes— Frankie grabbing his black boxers and you swiping his lucky shirt.
Your shirt. For now, your shirt. Parading around the house in only the vintage loose knit beer branded shirt. The neck and sleeves tattered and frayed. All these years you and Frankie had possessed it, only added to its distressed appearance. Frankie’s musky pheromones now the only thing this beloved shirt is ever saturated in.
It’s how he finds you hours later. After you had called it a night, eyes were too tired and body beyond exhausted to focus on the movie he picked out. The t-shirt being the only thing veiled over your sleeping form. Its thin worn material leaves little to Frankie’s ardent imagination. The hem hardly draped over your bare hips.
Frankie watches you shift in your sleep, the shirt sitting higher now, exposing more of you to him. His cock twitches. A steady drip of his spend slips from your soaked cunt. He’s transfixed by the sight of it. Palming himself through his boxers, not even fazed by how hard he is already. He suppresses the urge to wake you, savoring how serene you look all splayed out on the bed.
“Fuck—“ He sucks in a sharp breath.
*
A choked sob is the only response you can give him. Your brain far too flustered to conjure up any sort of coherent argument about the shirt belonging to you at this moment.
The well loved garment now cropped over your chest, all bunched and twisted. The logo, now broken lines of illegible letters, lost in the rolls of fabric. Frankie had slowly peeled it higher for his own viewing pleasure. Losing himself in the soft bounce of your breast, brought on by the way he rolled his hips at a languid pace.
It begins to emerge. A coiling tension forming, building, tightening with every tempoed thrust Frankie delivers. Massaging that sacred spot, triggering your inner walls to grip him with an immense force.
He senses it instantly. The telltale signs of the cresting moment. An inferno of heated arousal burns through his lower abdomen.
“Fr-Frankie! I’m close— oh god!”
Surrendering. Dissolving into a puddle of pleasure. Back rigid, arching off the bed. Your nipples damp and taut, as Frankie’s tongue traces around the hardened peeks. Breath hitching as your orgasm splinters through you. White noise cutting into the air.
“I can feel you, baby— fuckfuckfuck!”
Time slows. Your name on his lips. A single word he recites delicately, an intimate poem for only you. His release is a welcomed warmth as it coats your pulsing cunt, filling you for the second time tonight.
Your finger trails down his back. Gliding through the pool of sweat that’s gathered at the base of his spine. Dame un beso, Francisco. A lazy slow press of his lips, your mouth naturally parting to him— an unhurried kiss, your tongue reacquainting with his.
Collapsing into the bed, Frankie pulls you into his depleted body. Too tired to care about anything but sleep. His hand finds its way under his shirt that you’re still wearing, resting where your heart beats for him forevermore.
#frankie morales#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#pedro pascal#pedrostories#wildemaven writes
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Riddles
Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Female Reader
Click here for part two
Word count: 12k+
Summary: You and Frankie become ‘friends with benefits’ until you evolve into something more. But when you can’t seem to communicate your needs, you find yourselves in uncharted territory.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact
Explicit sexual content (p in v, female receiving oral, dirty talk, semi-public sex, sexting, sending nude photos), references to sex scattered throughout, swearing, unhealthy relationships, making each other jealous, communication issues, discussions of low self-esteem, conflicted emotions, angst, possessive! Frankie, reader wears Frankie’s t-shirt, consumption of alcohol, references to religion and drugs (purely for metaphorical purposes), public discussions of sex, reader is described as having a vagina and breasts.
This is a reader insert fic, but there are a few plot details that lean towards an OFC. Reader's mentioned as having two parents, letting their hair 'down' after work, and one of their friends is given a name. If any of these details make you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading.
New to the community, so this hasn’t been beta’d.
Been working on this for a few weeks, please let me know if you enjoy it!
Get coffee, meeting, reply to emails, meeting, lunch, marketing proposal, planning period, meeting.
As you opened your planner that morning, you were greeted by your responsibilities for the day. However, each damn meeting brought you one step closer to the end of the work day, and subsequently one step closer to leaving your office and heading to Benny’s Fight Night.
Due to your busy schedule, you hadn’t been able to make it to one of his fights for a while so you often resorted to wishing him luck via a text message. Having the chance to actually be there and support him in person was therefore a big deal for you. Plus, you’d also have the chance to grill the eldest Miller brother, having set him up on a date with your friend a few weeks ago, only to have her tell you it didn’t work out. You knew Will would be prepared for you to press him, and being as stoic as he was, you anticipated that he wouldn’t reveal much.
How many times had they reprimanded you for attempting to play matchmaker?
You couldn’t help it. It was only natural for you to want the best for them, you’d shared so much of your life with them, and they’d been by your side when it counted.
Of course, you were only a kid when you first met the Miller brothers. When your parents had befriended theirs, you were quick to latch on to them, glad to have two little friends to annoy. You often spent holidays chasing them around their home, and they enjoyed bringing their LEGO to yours, much to the dismay of your poor mother, who wasn’t prepared for how much mess they’d bring.
Sure, shit got real when you got older.
After you graduated from college, you threw yourself into work. You successfully climbed up the ranks, securing enough money to live comfortably. Though you admit, you had to sacrifice a lot in the process, regularly denying yourself the chance to be happy - to be loved - in the name of prioritising your career.
Every time you wake up in the middle of the night, yearning for the comfort of another body, you’re reminded of the loneliness that sometimes plagues you.
Benny and Will weren’t strangers to the feeling either. You’d been around to see the darkness that followed them home from deployment. The darkness that tarnished some of their ability to accept love. The same darkness that made them hold on to you that little bit tighter, now very much acquainted with the feeling of loss.
You would never be able to understand what it was like for them. Never be able to fully comprehend the extent of their trauma. Some part of you knew that for Benny and Will, relationships weren’t as simple as they used to be.
But that didn’t stop you from trying to set them up. You appreciated that your attempts were futile, they were just gestures of good faith, really. They communicated that you cared. That you wanted them to be happy - and they saw that for what it was: their friend looking out for them.
On the other hand, Benny and Will rarely tried to set you up on dates, understanding that the guys they knew wouldn’t be the right fit for you.
Despite this, they made sure to constantly remind you that you weren’t getting laid.
An issue you were sure they’d raise again, at some point this evening.
It wasn’t as though you weren’t looking.
Respectfully, you’d found most of the boys’ friends attractive, and perhaps, there was one man from their Delta Force squad, in particular, who’d caught your eye.
A man with a serious attachment to his baseball cap.
A man who seems burdened by his affliction, shouldering the weight of it all by himself.
A man who was just so gorgeous, yet often chose to play it safe, hanging back when in the presence of the other boys.
Yes, Francisco Morales. Or Frankie, as the boys called him.
You had looked at Frankie. Many times. He’d definitely caused you to lose your train of thought more than once, having been mesmerised by his features; strong yet with a particular softness.
Whilst you acknowledged your attraction to this man, you got the sense that he wasn’t available.
Benny had never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend when he spoke about Frankie, but you still felt as though there was some kind of invisible wall up, preventing you from getting any closer.
Besides, you were going to support Benny tonight, not ogle his friend. You could keep it under control.
Or at least you tried, yet the way Frankie let out a soft chuckle as Benny teased you about becoming a crazy cat lady, was testing your patience.
Now, you were avoiding his gaze, afraid of having to confront your attraction to the man across the locker room. This was proving to be quite easy, as Benny’s enquiry into your (lack of a) sex life had you staring up at the ceiling in embarrassment, hoping the ground would swallow you whole.
“C’mon, I’m only looking out for you here. You gotta break the dry spell soon, else it’ll become even harder to get back out there.”
Benny continues his onslaught, deciding to raise the point that if he didn’t fight for a while, he’d simply have no skill when he got back in the ring.
Frustrated, you roll your eyes at his comparison before telling him, “That’s unfair, Benny.”
Santiago chooses this moment to weigh in, reassuring you, “Bonita, you could have any guy you wanted, huh? What’s stopping you?”, and before you have the chance to speak, Benny jumps in on your behalf.
“That’s what I keep telling her, but she keeps making up all these issues. Worrying too much.”
“Well these issues are real concerns for me. I don’t want a relationship right now, but one-night stands aren’t for me either. There’s too many unknowns with hookups. Do you know how many married guys take their rings off just so they can take girls home for a night?”, you tell Benny incredulously, trying to communicate the extent of your concern.
Benny senses your ire, beginning to back off slightly, yet not before proposing, “Why don’t you just get a fuck buddy? Then you can get laid all you want. Problem solved.”
Sure, the prospect was very appealing to you. Someone you could count on to give you orgasms and not have to worry about the strings attached?
You’d sign yourself up right now.
The problem was, where would you find such a man? You shuddered at the thought of returning to the dating apps, having had enough interesting encounters on there to put you off using them again.
Turns out Benny had his own solution to that problem, choosing this moment to turn his attention to his friend who was currently leaning against the lockers, arms folded against his chest. It was almost as though Frankie could sense what was coming next, as he retreated further back into himself, looking down at the floor in a futile attempt to avoid being targeted by his younger friend.
“Hey, Fish is right there. He’s been hard up for god knows how long now. Why don’t you scratch each other’s backs, huh?”
Right now, he was cursing himself for having one too many beers that night at Santi's house, when he’d opened up to the guys about his sexual frustration.
“Jesus Christ”, groans Frankie, his eyes looking at Benny disapprovingly.
Turns out you two did have something in common, as you both looked as though you could kill Benny with your stares. The younger Miller, however, was sporting a grin that would rival the Cheshire Cat’s, thoroughly pleased with himself.
With the attention span of an excitable puppy, Benny was quick to move on. You guess it had something to do with the way Will was looking at him, the subtle tilt of his head gesturing to Benny that he needed to get his head back in the game.
But that didn’t stop you from wanting to die of embarrassment.
Sure, Benny had a fight to focus on, but you had to survive a couple more hours in Frankie’s presence.
You pushed the strap of your bag further up your shoulder, hoping that having something to hold on to would quell the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Straightening your posture, you hazard a glance over at where Frankie’s stood, only to realise he’s not there.
Pushing open the double doors, you exit the locker room and spot Frankie, way ahead of you, and his steps are somewhat urgent as he catches up to Santi.
Shrugging it off, you find your seat and wait for the fight to commence.
****
He’s struggling.
Frankie’s still reeling from Benny’s comment. He knows the only reason Benny said that was to rile you up, and he knows he shouldn’t still be thinking about it now. But he just can���t get the way you looked tonight out of his head.
He grabs himself a beer and settles onto his couch, before allowing images of you to flood his head; the late-night news report swiftly forgotten.
He imagines your hair, slightly tousled after a long day at work. It was extremely sexy, to him; the image of you letting your hair down as you leave the office. It signified you letting loose, and he could only imagine what it would be like to have you lose control around him. God, he’d give anything to run his hands through it as you looked up at him with those eyes.
Fuck, you were gorgeous.
Frankie’s got it bad for you. Has done for quite some time now. Ever since he was introduced to you at Benny’s birthday party last year, you had taken over all of his fantasies. Being around you consumed all of his energy, as he often fought hard enough to play it cool whenever you spoke to him; always worrying he’d scare you off with his dark wit.
And for Benny to joke that he had a chance with you? Well, that was cruel.
He managed to make an escape from the locker room before you noticed, latching onto Pope in an attempt to recompose himself.
You were far too good for him.
He had baggage; struggles he was still working through.
You, on the other hand, were stable. With a successful career, a solid group of friends and a pretty house at the end of the block, you intimidated him.
Frankie often wondered how you had spent so much of your adult life around the Millers, seen the damage that had been done to them, and yet you still had a certain innocence about you. It was like you had seen first-hand just how unforgiving the universe could be, but you still saw purpose beyond the pain.
Yep, he needed to stay away from you.
Deciding to push his demons aside for the moment, Frankie casts his mind back to the times he’d tried, and clearly failed, to put the moves on you.
There had been the brush of his hand on your waist as you walked by him in Will’s kitchen to get another beer. And the time you fell asleep on Benny’s sofa, he had shuffled closer, allowing your head to rest ever so slightly in his lap. Frankie also recalls each time he’d driven you home from the bar, only driving away when he saw you head inside. As you sat in his passenger seat, Frankie came to the conclusion that your presence was downright intoxicating. Therefore, he always volunteered to be the designated driver in the hopes he could drink up more of you.
It was getting late. Late enough that he could put all this down to being some kind of a fever dream.
Frankie’s about to head up to bed, when his phone lights up with a text message.
A text message from you.
Yeah, this was definitely feeling like a surreal experience.
He decides to bite the bullet and glances down at your message.
Hey, Frankie. Just wanna say sorry about before. We all know Benny loves to tease, but I hope he didn’t make you uncomfortable. Hopefully see you soon! x
Frankie’s not quite sure what you have to apologise for, and frankly, his attention was elsewhere; on the last four words of your text. God, he hoped to see you again.
He sends his reply swiftly.
Hey, you don’t need to be sorry. I’ve definitely had worse thrown at me by the boys. Don’t worry about it. Hope you enjoyed the fight?
Frankie knows he’s pushing his luck, but he adds that little question mark hoping you’d take the bait to talk to him for a little longer.
You reply almost instantaneously, much to Frankie’s delight.
Yeah, it was great! Once I stopped wanting to kill Benny. Until then I was kinda rooting for the other guy. Promise you won’t tell him?
Can’t promise anything, Cariño, came Frankie’s response.
Your humour almost seemed like flirting, and Frankie would be a fool not to try, so after hitting send, he relaxes back into the couch whilst awaiting your response.
Huh. Knew I couldn’t trust a man with the name Francisco.
Fuck. Frankie was immediately consumed by visions of you - saying his name.
Imagining how his name would sound coming from those perfect lips of yours caused something to stir deep down in his gut.
Get it together, Frankie. Get it together.
He found it a little harder to type his next words.
Not many men you can trust these days. But you deserve to be with one who takes good care of you.
He hadn’t intended to get so deep so quickly, but the thought of you being hurt in the past caused an unpleasant feeling to grow in his chest. You were so beautiful, so good. You had your whole life ahead of you. Whichever asshole had broken your trust in the past didn’t deserve to be breathing right now, Frankie was certain.
You take a little longer to reply, causing Frankie to doubt himself for a moment before his phone lights up again.
Thanks, Frankie. I feel like I really needed to hear that. You deserve to be loved, too.
The sincerity of your words almost knocked the wind right out of him. Pleasantly surprised at the turn his evening took, Frankie longed to draw more of those confessions from you.
Pope’s right, you know. You could have any guy you wanted, Bonita.
The Frankie who hadn’t gotten anywhere with you before was not expecting the response you gave.
Any guy, huh?
And before he has time to process your insinuation, you send another text.
Even you?
Oh, he wasn’t prepared for you to say that. So understandably, his response is delayed.
Shit, he needs to tread carefully here, he thinks, as he eventually composes his next few words.
Cariño, you need to be careful what you say to me. I don’t do well with riddles.
On edge, Frankie’s composure is wavering. He’s definitely not prepared when he spots an incoming call from you yet he doesn’t hesitate to pick up.
“Hi…I, uh…I don’t even know what I’m doing Frankie.”, your words are soon followed by a soft, yet nervous, laugh.
“Do you wanna come over?”
Frankie swears he hears the breath leave his lungs, before all but moaning out, “Yeah.”
“Be there in 15.”
****
Of all the things you thought you’d be doing at 2 am on a Friday night, giving Frankie directions to your house wouldn’t have been your first guess.
What were you thinking? You became a woman possessed. The dark timbre of his voice had caused a warm, fuzzy feeling to grow in your tummy, and before you knew it, you had invited him over for a late-night booty call.
You keep your hands busy, clearing up some of the mess in your bedroom when the realisation hits you. You were going to have sex with Frankie.
Is this really happening?
The doorbell rings and you soon realise that - yes - this does seem to be happening, and it’s happening right now.
Like the cat about to get its cream, you slink to the door to let him in. You’re hoping your face doesn’t betray your eagerness as you greet Frankie with a smile.
He takes a moment to assess your features, apprehensive that you may have changed your mind whilst he was driving over. Finding only a hint of shyness in your otherwise confident persona, he knows he’s made the right call. Frankie needs to see you move first. He’s not going to enter your apartment until he knows you want him in there.
Luckily for him, you turn your body to the side slightly, allowing him to see further into your apartment. You take a step back; it’s an invitation that needs no words - it simply says, chase me. See what you’ll find.
And he does. But not before looking away from you and rolling his eyes ever so slightly. You don’t know if he’s amused or frustrated, but you know you’ve got him right where you need him when he crosses your welcome mat.
His eyes return to you, then, and he gives you an assured nod. It’s Frankie’s way of asking you what your next move is. After all, he’s on your turf right now.
Desperate to break the silence, you tell him, “Thanks for coming, I know it’s late.”. Choosing that moment to head to your bedroom, you lead the way. Hoping. Wanting. Praying he’ll follow you.
Frankie follows. He follows you blindly - like a disciple on a mission - trusting that wherever he’ll end up, it will be worth it.
When he reaches your doorway, he’s greeted by a sight so divine, he’s forced to rethink his stance as an agnostic.
You’re kneeling on the bed, stretching over to switch on the light, when he admires the way your back is arched like a feline wanting to play. He sees your mischief. And, as your shoulders dip low, he becomes hung up on the view of your ass in this position. He definitely wants to play, too.
The tension gets thicker and thicker as Frankie advances forward. He wants to test the waters; see what you do next. But he also wants to dive in headfirst and lap up your sweetness like a man starved. Frankie is a man starved, and he’s losing resolve with every passing second in your presence.
Of course, he’s delighted when you turn to face him again. You kneel on the bed, right in front of him this time, sitting back on your legs with your hands behind your back. You push your chest forward and sit up tall in a way that almost short-circuits Frankie’s brain. You look so submissive; preening and proud to put your body on display for him. So eager to learn, to please him.
He knows you’re toying with him. You look so innocent sitting like that, but Frankie also knows you’re playing naughty.
He wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Your moxie had his cock aching in his pants.
Cautiously, Frankie rakes his eyes over your body, trying to figure out your next move. The soft glow of light in the room gives you an advantage, however, and you manage to catch him off guard.
He’s too focused on the way you bite your bottom lip to notice your hands on his belt buckle.
Frankie thinks you’ll unbuckle it, yet you surprise him again as you use it to pull his body flush to yours. You’re on the bed and he’s stood up, and you adore the way he’s making you feel so small and pliant right now.
Sporting a mischievous grin of his own now, Frankie moves his lips to your neck.
“Don’t thank me yet, baby. Not until you’re cumming all over my tongue.”
How’s a girl supposed to respond to that?
By some miracle, you manage to stay upright on the bed, and you decide you need to regain control of the situation before Franke dirty-talks you to death.
“Francisco…”, you purr devilishly, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Frankie lets out a sinful groan; with just enough impatience to let you know he’s yours. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now than hanging on to every word you say. He can tell you’re being bratty. He loves it. Loves the way you’re taunting him, waiting for the moment he snaps and fucks you how you need to be fucked.
You repeat Frankie’s earlier words to you. “So…I could have any guy I wanted, huh? You really think so?”
Frankie thinks your smile looks a little bashful, for a second, before he notices the way you’re running your tongue across your bottom lip as you toy with the neck of his t-shirt. There’s a glint of something in your eyes. Your smile. That tells him he’s clueless as to the game you’re playing tonight, yet you’re definitely playing him.
And, well, Frankie’s down for the ride. At this point, he’d promise you the world just to get a taste of the heaven between your thighs.
Refocusing, he decides that’s what he needs to do.
“Cariño… so needy. You got my attention. All of it. No need to play up.”, says Frankie in a heady whisper.
You realise, then, that you may have underestimated the man in front of you.
But you definitely aren’t prepared for what he says next.
“On your back, baby. Panties off. Let’s see if you’re still an impatient little brat after you get your pussy eaten.”
Unable to form words, you get to the task at hand, dragging your lacy panties down your legs. You swear you can feel your skin throbbing as your hands skim your thighs. There’s nothing he could ask of you right now that would be too much, you decide, as you settle onto your back.
He’s still fully clothed, and it’s almost like he senses your concern as he suddenly begins to undress. Starting with his t-shirt, he moves with urgency; afraid he’ll miss something if he takes his eye off you for a second. His hands reach for his belt, and you’re trying your best not to drool at the way he looks right now. Hair ruffled from your touch, chest heaving in anticipation of the pleasure you’re teasing of, and eyes glossy and wide. You’re simply mesmerised by the way this man looks when he’s affected. You’ve only ever seen him composed, playing it cool. You’ve never witnessed Frankie lose it, but you’re hoping that’s subject to change. Soon.
“Frankie…”, you beg. “Don’t keep me waiting, baby.”
Despite the way your impatience amuses Frankie, he decides he can’t wait any longer and dives down, using his hands to pry your legs open.
He nips the inside of your thigh, just far enough from where you need him to have you arching your back already; like a creature in heat.
You’re dying to express that you disapprove of his teasing, but you figure you should probably be a good girl considering he’s about to take care of you.
However, Frankie’s not done. His kisses trail higher, and as he reaches your knee, he places kisses there too, as he huffs out a demand.
“You’re gonna be a good girl and give me all those pretty moans of yours. Take what I give you. Be grateful.” The way he emphasises those final two words tells you he’s not messing around, and you’re ashamed of the way you moan at the authority in his voice.
“Yes, baby. I’ll try to be good…. for you.”, you say.
“Try, huh?”, is his response, as he reaches for a pillow, tapping your hip as a signal for you to lift them up. He places the pillow underneath your hips, and you’re ready to melt as he uses his thumb to rub firm circles into the spot just beneath your right breast. He applies a good amount of pressure, and all you can think about is how completely at his mercy you are right now; squirming underneath him in desperation.
Frankie finally uses that tongue of his. But it’s not where you need it…yet.
He draws your nipple into his mouth, sporting a smug grin as he does so. You want to scream. You can feel just how puffy and swollen your pussy is from the lack of attention it's receiving. As you feel it clench around nothing, you buck up against him whilst he continues to tease you. He’s sucking the peak into his mouth, drawing his tongue around in torturously slow circles, before releasing it with an audible pop. Frankie moves to continue his ministrations with your other breast, and in your petulance, you make the mistake of fighting him.
You hook your left leg around the back of his, trying to position your aching centre against the rough denim of his jeans; desperate for some friction.
But Frankie had been expecting you to challenge him. He’s seen your spark when you’d both been out with the other guys, it was one of the things that drew him to you in the first place. He recalls how you’d light up when you became competitive, you’d find ways to provoke your opponent yet you were able to mask it well. You’d get all giggly and cute, playing it off like you just got a bit over excited, and Santi, or whatever poor schmuck had gone up against you, would give in to you. Often letting you win.
Well, Frankie wasn’t giving in that easily.
His hand shoots out to hold your left thigh open, whilst he uses his leg to pin down the other one; keeping you splayed out just how he wanted. You’re taken aback by his strength and you can’t deny it makes your pussy even needier. You need him, and your frustration has made you bold enough to tell him.
“Frankie, baby.”, you whine. “Need your mouth on it. On my pussy.”
He lets out a dark chuckle at that. And he decides to punish your brattiness with silence. You’re easy to read, to him, and he knows you’re liking the way he’s running his mouth whilst in your bed. But you’re reaching for too much, and he’s got to show some resistance for both of your sakes.
Of course, Frankie would give you anything, but he’s not sure what your intentions were for inviting him into your bed. He assumes you’re after a no-strings-attached arrangement, and he’s gonna need to keep you wanting more if he’s to keep you.
Pushing the thought aside for now, he focuses on his next move: giving you what you need.
After what feels like a century, Frankie finally dips his head down to where you’re dripping for him. He’s sure he’s never seen a pussy so sweet and so responsive. He’s not even touched you there and he can see you clenching around nothing.
His thick fingers part your folds and the way his breath ghosts over you has you crying out to him.
“Ngghhh…fuck. Need it.”, you draw out in a frustrated giggle, and at this moment, Frankie thinks - no he knows - that you’ve ruined all other women for him. You sound so sexy, like a little vixen, but at the same time, there’s a sweetness about you that’s humbling.
Frankie decides he needs to reassure you. “Shhhh, Cariño. I’ve got you. You’ll get what you need.”
And you do get what you need, as Frankie forces your legs open even wider before licking a thick stripe all the way from your fluttering hole to your throbbing clit with his tongue - and the noise you make is untamed.
He takes his time, opening you up on his tongue. He knows you need his fingers inside but he’s not sure you deserve it just yet.
Frankie admires the way your pretty pussy is shy at first - like you - as he uses soft kitten licks to loosen you up. Your juices taste heavenly, and he laps up every ounce that flows from the core of you. Eventually, you relax into his mouth and your moans become more desperate. You need more and you communicate this by pulling Frankie in even deeper, your hands tight in his hair.
“Jesus Christ”, he groans. “Tell me what you need, baby.”
“Fingers, Frankie. I need your fingers.”, you plead, hoping he’ll take pity on you.
And he does, by some miracle, pressing two inside you and immediately curling them up. You’re soon ready for another, and he adds a third, causing you to pout at him as your orgasm grows closer. The way you’re trying your best to ride his fingers, yet also sink further back into the bed like a pillow princess, is endearing to Frankie, as he can’t help but watch how you take him. Fuck, you’re beautiful like this. Underneath him. He needs you to come on his fingers and his tongue and he decides he can’t wait much longer.
“There you go, pretty girl. You’ve got something to clench down on. Something to cum on.”, says Frankie, and his words have your eyes rolling back. He’s got a dirty mouth and it’s doing all the right things to you.
He moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking it into his mouth. Applying the perfect amount of pressure, he’s got you whining out his name as you stretch your arms above your head, gripping the pillow you find there to anchor you - otherwise, you’re sure you’ll float away.
It doesn’t take Frankie much longer to push you to the edge, and he gets a little rougher, much to your delight. You’re suddenly thankful for the pillow you’re grabbing onto, as his hands grip both of your ass cheeks, pulling your cunt up to his mouth and there’s nowhere for you to run. His grip is unrelenting; all you can do is lie there and take it as his tongue lashes against your clit. The absence of his fingers leaves you feeling empty, though you’re not complaining, as the way he’s clutching your hips allows him to really wreck you with his mouth. And what a mouth that man has.
You’re writhing on the bed, your orgasm so close that your body’s going crazy; arching and stretching as it tries to hit that spot to send you over the edge. It comes as no surprise, however, that Frankie’s words finish you off.
“That’s it, baby. Know you need to cum. Need it so bad you’re whimpering for it.”
“Come on now, give it to me. I know you can. Cum and I’ll give you my fingers to ride it out on.”, he says, and you cum. Hard.
“Frankie. Oh my god, Frankie”, you moan out like a madwoman and Frankie plunges his fingers back into your pussy as you cum all over his face.
You can’t help but chase every wave of your high, and you push your cunt down on his fingers like you can’t get enough of what he’s giving you. Somehow, you’re able to remember what Frankie told you before, and you begin to chant “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” as you ride out your orgasm.
There’s a cheeky smile playing on your lips and Frankie lets out his own throaty chuckle at your sass. And that’s when it hits him.
One time isn’t enough.
He can’t give you up just yet.
****
The two of you soon get into a rhythm.
You alternate between your place and his, spending most nights together each week. It’s after a few weeks of this routine that you realise: you’ve got yourself a ‘fuck buddy’ after all.
But you wouldn’t dream of telling Benny. Or Will. Or Santi. You weren’t ready to burst the bubble and face reality yet. You were perfectly happy indulging in each other’s bodies, sheltered from the pressures of the outside world.
The sex is incredible. You know it, and Frankie most definitely knows it too.
You’ve come to know Frankie’s body so intimately, it sends a shiver down your spine just from thinking about it. You know what makes him tick. What makes him abandon his resolve and cum for you. You know how to draw particular sounds from him; his moans, his whimpers, his shouts, even. You had become a Frankie connoisseur in what seemed like no time.
Actually, it had only been a few weeks, yet things seemed to be moving at pace.
Having been friends before all this began, neither of you was inclined to kick the other person out after you were done rolling around in the sheets. So, naturally, then came the lingering.
You both had taken to lingering a little while longer after the post-coital high faded.
One time, you had hopped in the shower, and when you were done, you found Frankie on the phone to your local pizzeria. You hadn’t even questioned how he knew your order, putting it down to the fact you were friends before this. Still, it caused an unfamiliar feeling to stir in your chest, and some small part of you didn’t hate the gesture.
You start showering together, too.
The first time it happened, you were still giggling over something Frankie had said. You’d riled him up and he’d taken you on, finding it way too easy to laugh with you. You’d been poking fun at him after he’d shared quite an embarrassing story from his days in service and he had decided to take a shower to escape your teasing. However, you didn’t want to let the moment go, just yet - so you followed him into the bathroom.
He had just stepped under the spray of water when he heard your girlish giggle getting louder. Frankie tried his hardest to steel himself, but your happiness was infectious and he couldn’t help but be affected, dropping his head forward with a content smile as you wrapped your arms around him from behind. And since then, this became a frequent part of your routine.
On several occasions, you slept over at Frankie’s place and he drove you to work the next day.
You struggled with this. You weren’t going to lie. The thought of one of your colleagues spotting you, and the gossip that would ensue, concerned you. But you brushed it off each time.
After all, it meant that Frankie would take you home as well - and that came with its own benefits.
You’d gotten into the habit of getting him all worked up on those days he was due to pick you up, deciding it was fun to have him show up wrecked and so hard for you. Sometimes he drove a little faster, gripped your thigh a little tighter, and braked a little harder as he rushed to get the two of you to someplace private. Whilst other times he’d take to finding a discreet place to park his car.
Yeah, those were the days you’d texted him something filthy.
You figured out quite early that you were both into dirty talk, but you weren’t expecting it to escalate in the way it did.
An incident occurred at the Millers’ BBQ, where everyone in the neighbourhood appeared to be out in full force. Despite you and Frankie pledging to behave yourselves, you couldn’t help but sneak off upstairs when the moment presented itself. You had to remind yourself that Benny had probably done the same, if not much worse, in your own bathroom as you let Frankie sit you up on the counter; his broad frame crowding you against the mirror and your heels digging into his back. He had come to love when you’d communicate how much you needed him by sinking your stilettos into him like a vice. It was a kind of foreplay and he was very much here for it.
It was at that moment when he said it, as he had you spread out on the counter in your friend’s bathroom, fucking you good.
You could’ve blamed it on the slight buzz of alcohol running through his veins. Or the fact you had been fucking each other a lot. The latter was more rational, you realised, yet you didn’t want to dwell on how you two got to this point. The anxiety and regret would creep back in, and you were having way too much to let yourself ruin it by overthinking.
“Fuck…Cariño. Feels so good. You like that, huh?”, he said.
You’d mewled out a “Yeah”, knowing Frankie needed to hear the praise, needed you to use your words.
What followed then, was a veiled threat to your dynamic. “Yeah…”, he groaned out. “You like it, huh? Letting me fuck you like this tight little pussy is mine.”
Frankie loved the way you whined at that, and he was perfectly content to watch you go wild as you took his cock like a champion, but you were getting too loud, so he covered your mouth with his; swallowing your cries of pleasure.
You should’ve noticed then that things were changing between the two of you, but you were too far gone at the time to pay it the attention it needed.
However, Frankie had been paying close attention to you. Specifically, you in his t-shirts, wearing only your panties and pottering around his place like you belonged there.
You were blissfully unaware of how much this particular sight drove him crazy, but each time you wore one, Frankie died a little inside. He was overcome with the need to possess you. To make you his girl, have everyone know you warmed his bed.
This feeling also reared its head whenever you called him baby.
He’d never been one to jump to conclusions and he was definitely not one to overestimate a woman’s feelings towards him. But, against all odds, and because this was you, Frankie found himself desperately clinging to the pet name. He latched onto the idea that, maybe, he was your man and there was nobody else. Of course, Frankie knew what he signed up for. But he could still imagine what it would be like if things were different.
But, afraid it would scare you off, Frankie subdued these urges every time. He’d often shut down when it all got to be too much for him to contemplate, rushing to another room where he’d make himself look busy. Unfortunately, you interpreted his struggle as him being distant. Closed-off. Emotionally unavailable. And in your eyes, this was the reason why you couldn’t let yourself fall for this man.
Despite the doubts you harboured, neither of you was prepared to stop.
The pace at which things were evolving terrified you, if you were being honest. It was as though you were heading towards a cliff edge, but you had taken the scenic route.
The views were breathtaking, so you went along for the ride; paying no mind to where you were going.
You hated being unable to control the situation and part of you wanted to turn it around and go back to when you were just friends. Back then, you didn’t owe him anything. You could control the version of yourself you presented to him. But in this arrangement, Frankie was able to catch you off guard, sometimes. When he looked at you like you hung the moon, you felt as though you could fall into him with no parachute - give him more. And that scared you.
Frankie was scared, too.
In fact, he’s worried.
You’re currently enjoying a night out with your girlfriends whilst he’s home alone with his anxiety.
He knows you can handle yourself, but he’s itching to hear from you. You’re having fun and you don’t need him, but he can’t help but keep glancing at his phone, thinking of texting you. Truthfully, Frankie’s afraid he’ll fade into your background. Every second you spend without him - untethered - is a chance for you to find something better and leave him behind.
He wants to be missed. Needs you to miss him.
However, Frankie’s not prepared to get this deep in a text message to you, so he settles for something a bit lighter.
Releasing a strained sigh, he decides to bite the bullet and so begins to type out a message.
Meanwhile, in the club, you’re nursing your third margarita of the evening when the text comes through.
Luckily, you’d agreed to watch the booth whilst your friends went to the bar for more drinks, meaning you were able to take a quick peek at your phone, away from prying eyes.
You hated the way you doted on his every word, yet still, you ran your eyes over the text a few more times than necessary.
Hope you’re having fun. You know there’s a space in my bed if you want to crash here later.
Slightly buzzed from the cocktails you’d had so far, you aren’t sure whether this new sensation you’re feeling is down to the alcohol, or something else entirely.
Being your usual flirtatious self, your instinct is to tease Frankie a little.
Your bed? Benny usually lets me crash with him after a girls night. Why should it be your bed, Francisco? X
It’s true. Benny did always offer you a place to stay at the end of the night, but it wasn’t like that. Yet Frankie doesn’t need to know that Benny always takes the couch, letting you sleep like a baby in privacy. Besides, you think it’s fun to rile him up. After all, you’re not sure how far he’ll go, to earn your company tonight.
He doesn’t respond for a while, and you’re tapping your nails against the back of your phone, thankful that the bar service is slow tonight, delaying your friends’ return.
Fuck…is what comes to mind when Frankie reads your message. He’s driven wild by the thought of you in another man’s bed, even if it’s his friend who he knows has only ever been platonic with you. He’s not proud of his jealousy, as he knows what he signed up for. But he can’t help himself - he needs to give you a reason to end the night in his bed. He needs something that will reassure him: he’s not losing you. Thinking on his feet, despite having spent a solid ten minutes figuring out what to say, he replies.
Come on, baby. You know I can give you what you need tonight. Not sure Benny’s going to cut it.
Kicking himself as he reads over his words, he knows he needs to give you more, so he sends another.
You think I can’t see through your games, Cariño. When you wake up needy in the middle of the night, it’s my cock you’ll be coming on.
Oh. He’s playing dirty, you realise. You grab your drink and take a generous taste, needing something to cool you down desperately.
Is he jealous? Your mind is racing with the possibilities of what this could mean for your relationship.
Panic swirls in your stomach, letting you know that you may be heading into uncharted territory here. And to make matters worse, a glance to your left alerts you to the fact your friends are on their way back to the table.
You intended to reply with something equally as dirty as what he’d been sending you, yet as you spot your friends getting closer, you freak out and lock your phone, hoping they’re tipsy enough to gloss over the way you’re breathing a little harsher, right now.
You couldn’t deny it, Frankie’s way with words had you feeling hot. Heat pools between your thighs as you dwell on the delicious implications of ending the night in his bed, but you remind yourself that you need to appear unaffected or else you’ll be subject to interrogation.
It didn’t work, judging by Cami’s expression, and you take a moment to prepare yourself for the questions. Yet, there’s a look of real understanding on your friend’s face, like she senses your inner turmoil and feels for you. She assumes you’re tearing yourself apart over something, or someone, and she’s not sure that a crowded club is the right place to bring it up. Deciding to buy you some time, Cami suggests you accompany her to the bathroom.
Shooting her a look of gratitude, you let her lead you into a cubicle, before she turns to face you whilst leaning back against the door.
You stare up at her from where you’re perched on the toilet, and you know she’s waiting for you to fill her in.
After a few seconds, you succumb.
“I think I’m in too deep. Shit, Cami. Things are changing, and I don’t know if I like it.”
She doesn’t need you to elaborate. She knows you’re referring to a guy, and from the sounds of it, she can assume it’s casual. Well, supposed to be casual. The way you’re frantically chewing on your lip suggests otherwise.
Always in your corner, yet still firm enough to call you out when it’s needed, Cami’s been by your side long enough to tell when a man’s made a serious impression on you. Deciding it’s time to be firm, she weighs in on the situation.
“Being comfortable has never been enough for you. Change can be good. I know you know that, babe.”, she tells you.
“Who is he?”
You figure there’s no point in delaying the inevitable, so you reveal that it’s “A friend of Benny and Will. Uh…Frankie, the pilot.”
It’s hard to miss the proud smirk that Cami gives you. “Well-played.”, she says, chuckling slightly. “And that’s who you were sexting whilst we were at the bar, right?”
You nod, feeling less overwhelmed after opening up to her.
“Are you planning on showing me, then? I can’t help you blow his mind if you don’t let me see the texts.”, she adds smugly. Instantly putting you at ease.
You don’t need to ask her how she knew you were sexting Frankie, you’re just grateful that she’s a girls’ girl through and through, and you welcome her expertise in the matter.
Cami’s about to suggest that you send him a flirty picture, with an even flirtier caption, until you scroll further down the conversation and you notice two new messages from the man in question.
It turns out that whilst you were stewing over your lover’s salacious messages, Frankie had gone through the motions, ten times over. He thought he’d pushed you too far. Pushed you away with his jealousy.
He let himself simmer in his frustration before concluding that your lack of a response signified rejection. Frankie knew he’d shown his hand too soon. He’d fallen at your feet like all the other men, acting like a golden retriever in the way he fought for your attention.
But still, your rejection hurt. It hurt enough for him to become defensive, trying to regain some of the control he’d forfeited to you. He shouldn’t have said what he said, but he let his emotions get the better of him.
You can’t quite believe what you’re reading, and even Cami appears to be shocked at the words staring back at you.
I get it. You don’t owe me anything, huh?
And after he hadn’t heard from you for fifteen minutes, he sent another text.
You should stay at Benny’s tonight. Wherever you choose to go, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of options.
All you see is red. All you feel is the unmistakable tinge of betrayal. You hadn’t expected Frankie to jump to conclusions, and you definitely hadn’t expected your Frankie - who was always so sweet and respectful - to degrade you like this.
Some part of your brain is able to register Cami’s words and you hear her cursing Frankie with some very colourful language. You’re left feeling blindsided, unable to process his sudden resentment towards you, but nonetheless, you can’t allow yourself to get hung up on it, not when you were surrounded by such remarkable friends.
You switch your phone off, determined to salvage the rest of your night, before letting Cami drag you to the dancefloor for some much needed release.
It’s no surprise, then, when Frankie’s 3 am apology text fails to come through.
****
Frankie becomes an expert at jumping to conclusions when it comes to you.
After you didn’t reply to his apology, and subsequently screened all of his calls, Frankie didn’t know what else he could do.
He couldn’t reach you and you hadn’t made an effort to contact him. Hell, he knew he’d fucked up; he shouldn’t have spoken to you in the way he did, but he’d tried to make amends and yet you didn’t seem willing to hear him out.
Frankie doesn’t see you for a while. Eight days, to be exact.
He knows you’re alright, thank god, as he hears from Will that you’d been offered a promotion at work and that he’d taken you out to dinner to celebrate.
And yet, it doesn’t get easier, he comes to accept, and he finds himself wanting to call you on multiple occasions, and he almost does, but something always stops him in his tracks.
Unable to stop replaying your words over in his head, Frankie’s overthought and overanalysed until the point of exhaustion. You were both to blame, considering neither of you had been willing to speak about your relationship. Expectations, boundaries and outcomes had all been forgotten. You’d gotten swept up in the pleasure and failed to address these crucial concerns, and now you were both reaping what you had sewed.
It was supposed to be casual. It was supposed to be just sex.
That’s what Frankie told himself when Benny revealed that he had set him up on a blind date with a mutual friend.
Neither of you had told Benny, or Will and Santi for that matter, about the two of you and Frankie couldn’t have declined the invitation without arousing suspicion from the youngest of the group. He didn’t know where he stood with you, but he wasn’t going to drop you in it with the boys. He was way too protective of you to let that happen.
So, begrudgingly, Frankie agreed to the date.
The first you heard of the date was through Instagram, and Frankie and Imelda were well into their second drink of the evening by the time you’d found out.
Turns out, Benny had crashed it around forty-five minutes in, having gotten a text from his friend revealing he wasn’t ‘feeling it’. Taking his wingman duties seriously, Benny wasn’t prepared to let Frankie give in just yet, so had shown up in an attempt to encourage him, and to salvage what was left of the night. Benny had brought a girl friend - whom you both had met whilst at college - hoping the double date vibes would put Frankie at ease, and as she had taken to posting on her story, you were able to poke your nose in.
It wasn’t spying, and you weren’t jealous. But when Stacey posted a picture of the group, you couldn’t help but fixate on the way Frankie had his arm around his date, leaning into her ear, and it looked as though she’d caught them during an intimate moment.
Due to the angle at which the photo had been taken, you couldn’t tell whether Frankie’s lips were just hovering over her ear, or whether they were pressed tight against her skin. His baseball cap cleverly hid the majority of his face from view, but you couldn’t deny what was plain to see. And it drove you mad. Though, you knew your anger wasn’t justified.
Preparing for the worst, you conclude that Frankie’s ready to move on from you.
You wish you could put your phone aside and let it be. You wish you didn’t care. You wish that the thought of Frankie touching another woman didn’t make you want to die, and you wish you could stop yourself from doing what you were planning to do next.
There’s a fire in your eyes and you realise that, perhaps, you are jealous, though you don’t waste time dwelling on it. If you were going to keep Frankie’s interest, you needed to do something that would throw him off balance and you needed to do it soon. And you knew just what would do the trick.
You practically run to the bedroom, pulling out one of Frankie’s old army t-shirts that you’d snagged from his place. Getting comfy on your bed, you slip the shirt up your skin until it exposes enough skin to drive your man wild. There was no doubt about it. Frankie adored your breasts, and he also adored the way you loved to tease. You are hoping that this sexy little underboob shot would make him forget all about his date. No disrespect to her, as any woman would be crazy to turn down a date with Francisco Morales, and you feel bad - honestly, you really do. But the anxiety in your chest is pulling you towards the action. Your body’s screaming at you to do something, like it senses that it’s about to lose Frankie’s touch, for good.
You angle your phone just right, so the camera focuses on the way your breasts peek out from under his t-shirt. Whilst you make sure to get your face in the shot, too, as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and widen your eyes; looking all cute and innocent as you look up at the camera positioned above you. You know you’re anything but innocent right now, but you’re anticipating that Frankie will play right into your trap. As you have it on good authority that the man loves how you play coy, only to whine pathetically when he finally stretches you out with his cock. And by good authority, you’re referring to the way he grips your hips like your body gives him oxygen, or the way his big hands cup the back of your neck, fingers skimming over the side of your throat in a way that says, you’re staying right where I’ve got you.
Throwing caution to the wind, you press send on the photo and you make sure to add a fitting caption.
Your girl’s feeling a little lonely. Lucky she’s got your shirt to play in. Would be a shame for you to miss out, tonight. x
And you’ve got him.
Hook, line and sinker; Frankie’s ready to come crawling back to you like a dog.
When he sees your name light up on his phone, notifying him that you’d sent him a photo, he needs to get somewhere private. And fast.
He gives Imelda, as well as the other couple, some lame excuse about needing to get his jacket from the truck - just in case they decide to go somewhere with outdoor seating later on - and before he even reaches for his keys, he’s got his phone out ready. Somehow, he manages to hold off on opening your message, wanting to give you his full attention from the comfort of his driver’s seat. And he’s glad he did, as he pulls up the text and is greeted with what could only be described as a treat. Your eyes. Those lips. Your tits in… wait. Is that his shirt? Fuck, he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes rapidly move from each focal point in a frenzy to soak up everything you’d given him. You’d bestowed upon him a gift, and he needed to treasure it. Besides, he hadn’t heard from you in a while and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to touch you, or even look at you, in this way again.
And then, he casts his eyes down to the text that follows.
Your girl’s feeling a little lonely. Lucky she’s got your shirt to play in. Would be a shame for you to miss out, tonight. x
He takes a minute to process your words, but he’s unable to move past your girl and your shirt. Did you want him dead? Surely, that was your goal in pushing those exact buttons of his. You’d seen his possessiveness, and until now, Frankie was certain it had pushed you away; overwhelmed you. Were you now encouraging it?
Not wanting to miss his chance, Frankie recomposes himself, just enough for him to be able to send a semi-coherent reply. He also texted Benny, asking him to apologise to Imelda on his behalf and tell her he had to head home, as he wasn’t feeling well. Home wasn’t on the cards tonight, however, as he geared up to head to your place.
Don’t play too hard without me, baby. On my way over now.
Somewhere on the drive over to yours, Frankie finds himself able to reflect on your relationship.
Relationship. That word felt foreign on his tongue, but he didn’t hate it, he realised, as he allowed himself to fantasise about a version of you two where you dated, held hands, and openly expressed your affection in front of your friends.
You’d never given him any indication that you wanted more. Until tonight.
Frankie’s aware that you’ve given him a crumb, and he’s already dreaming about the whole damn thing, but he can’t help himself from pushing forward.
His attraction, and his appreciation for you had grown, and he often found himself doting on the way you held your coffee in the morning like it was precious cargo, just as much as he doted on the way you went all cock-dumb in his bed after he’d worn you out for hours and hours. He’d begun to notice the little things that made you, you. And he knew he could fall in love with you. It would be so easy.
Frankie considers how he’s probably ruined it for himself, already. He spoke to you in a derogatory way, that night you were out with the girls, and you’d somehow found out he’d been on a date with another woman. He knows that, on paper, the date isn’t something he should feel guilty for, as you two weren’t exclusive. But you were still involved and he has to admit he hasn't handled things in the best way.
As he turns onto your street, he concludes that he wants you.
Frankie wants to be with you, and he’s willing to have you in whatever capacity you’re prepared to offer him. If you’re not ready. If you can’t give him what he needs, like the self-sabotaging martyr, he’s willing to take whatever he can get if it means he doesn’t have to give this feeling up.
Then he’s at your door, trying his hardest to stop the tapping of his foot, which would surely give him away.
You appear from behind it, and he’s a fool not to notice the tears staining your cheeks as he makes his way past you.
He bounds on you, the force of his kisses backing you up against the kitchen counter. And there are so many words on the tip of your tongue, but you haven’t seen this man in over a week and it’s so easy to fall back in again.
After he’s somewhat satisfied that you’re real, and you’re here in his arms, he pulls back to address you with a needy tone of voice. One that was unfamiliar to both of you.
“What was that, huh?” he demands. Looking anywhere but at your face, it’s no surprise that he misses the anguish that clouds your usual playful expression.
After a beat of silence, he pushes again.
“You couldn’t let me try to get over you.”, says Frankie, and this time, you notice the pain in his voice.
It’s like you’re frozen. Paralysed by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you.
Silence follows. It’s the kind of quiet before a storm, and neither of you knows what to do to protect yourselves.
He’s holding onto your hips like they’re his altar, and he’s staring down at your body like it will lead him to enlightenment; give him the answers he needs.
When he moves his gaze back to your face, that’s when he sees the absence of light in your eyes. You look troubled. Uncertain. And Frankie’s kicking himself for not noticing the tears that are streaking your soft skin earlier. What had happened between sending him the photo and now?
Cupping your face with a tenderness unlike the way he had just kissed you so roughly, Frankie’s at a loss for what to do. He just knows he wants to soothe the pain; your pain and his, and make it all better.
Your silence feels like another dose of rejection, so Frankie takes a step back from you.
He’s amazed at his own courage, as he finds himself needing to communicate what he needs, right now.
“You know what I want.”, he says.
The look in your eyes tells him you were expecting this conversation. And it crushes him, because he needs you to fight for him. But you won’t. He can see that much from your pained expression and the way your body is curling in on itself. You’re retreating.
And you are retreating. You want so badly to run to him; to hold him in your arms and promise that you’ll try, you’ll give him what he needs.
You know you could love him right. Some mature part of you wants you to acknowledge that you are falling for him, and have been since the first night. But you’re confused, driven by heightened, raw emotion and you haven’t taken the time to process what you’re feeling for him.
His rejection still stings you, and you struggle to bounce back when you’ve been hurt. You know the adult thing to do is to talk about it - patch things up and move past it. But you’re a creature of habit and what you actually did was stew in your irrational anger, before closing yourself off to him. He’d tried to reach out and you’d crawled deeper into your pit of self-sabotage. Yeah, it wasn’t healthy and perhaps Frankie was better off without the hurt you’d most likely cause him if you gave this thing a chance to grow into something more.
A lot of self-work needed to happen before you’d be ready to let him in; let him sink deeper underneath your skin.
So you stayed put, whilst your words failed you.
Frankie’s eyes are raking over you so intensely, awaiting your next move, and all you can do is look anywhere but at him.
The tension in your body has been stretched too far, and so it snaps. And you’re sure that both of you can hear the way the energy in the room shifts just like that.
“Francisco… I -”, is all that you manage.
And Frankie feels as though he can read your mind.
What you meant to say, he thinks, was I can’t give you what you want.
And he gives you a moment to finish your admission. But nothing comes.
Wanting to be anywhere but here - facing your rejection, again, Frankie pivots towards the front door, ready to leave.
“I shouldn’t have come here.”, he says.
Then as he darts towards the exit, you call out his name, and his movements still completely.
You continue. “I - … “, before releasing a sigh.
“Frankie”, you whine, though it’s not like he’s used to hearing. It’s a broken whine, telling him all he needs to know.
You’re not ready.
“Tell me to stay. Tell me you want me.”, he pleads.
And you think it’s kinder to let him go now. As it’s only a matter of time before you break his heart anyway.
This arrangement was supposed to be casual. It wasn’t supposed to evolve this way, but you had both fallen in a little too deep, with too little communication.
Fuck, he’s a good guy. Why won’t you let yourself have this? Have him?
By now, your delicate tears have given way to distressed sobs, and you need him to walk away from you, so you can let it all out.
After what feels like an age, Frankie leaves. He realises that he’s powerless. He’d handed over all of his control, to you, and you now held the advantage.
As you watch the door close behind him, you release the hand that’s covering your mouth and unleash your heartache.
****
It’s not a secret that you miss him.
Your body feels the loss, as you regress into the shell of your hurt.
You can’t eat or sleep for the first few days, and when your appetite returns, you’re too anxious to make a run for some groceries. You’d called in sick to work, and that should’ve been a sign that Frankie meant more to you than a ‘fuck buddy’.
You were grieving him. And as cliché as it sounds, you didn’t know what you had until it was gone. Or more so, you didn’t know that you wanted more until you had nothing.
The days that followed that fateful night in your kitchen were filled with longing. You yearned for the comfort of his body: the softness of his hair underneath your fingers, the sound of his voice over the phone, the way he held you like his favourite memory. You couldn’t bring yourself to wash his clothes that appeared in your laundry; you weren’t ready to erase his scent. It was somehow calm and untamed at the same time. Like Frankie.
You also missed the way he made you feel so needed when he’d beg for your touch.
But physical touch aside, you missed his mind, too.
You found yourself wanting to bask in his dark humour; the way he was often quiet and observant in social situations, only to cut in with something downright philosophical when it counted. Truthfully, you thought a lot about the way he’d listen, hands on his hips and mouth slightly ajar, looking like he was sizing you up, though you knew he held nothing but empathy and respect for those he cared about.
It was down to you now. You needed to be the one to show up, for him. You needed to reach out to him, tell him what he means to you, but you were worried you’d missed your chance. That night in your kitchen couldn’t have been more poetic; he’d come running to you and it would’ve been perfect had you crashed into him with open arms and an open mind. But you didn’t. And that left you playing out scenarios in your head, thinking of all the ways you could confess the depth of your affection to your lover.
What would he say?
Would he take you in his arms and vow to forget the past?
Would he be forgiving? Or would he be guarded, detached?
You imagined the latter was more likely, though you had come to accept that you were the one responsible for the limbo you were both existing in.
And of all the ways you’d imagined seeing Frankie again, you never expected it to be in the grocery store; dressed for comfort and definitely not to impress.
He’s got a six-pack of beers in his hand as you let your eyes soak him up. He looks good, but also exhausted, and although your heart aches at the thought of him struggling, the needy part of you latches onto it as evidence of him missing you.
Frankie had once revealed that he loved sharing a bottle of wine with a woman, as he enjoyed getting comfortable enough with a partner to share the pleasant buzz it gave. And that was something you had delighted in, too, before taking it for granted. Though as you glanced back down at the beers he was holding, you were so thankful for his choice of beverage, as it signified there wasn’t someone waiting on him tonight.
You found yourself wanting to be the one waiting on him. Being the one he came home to every night, and the thought sent a gentle thrill through your body.
So you held on tighter to your tub of ice-cream, channeling your trepidation into the object in question as it gave your hands something to do and slightly quelled the urge to reach out and touch Frankie.
As you pluck up just enough courage to walk over to him, he reaches for a bag of chips, and you believe he's blissfully unaware of the baggage you’re bringing him.
The distance between you is not enough, as you know you’re only a few steps away from having to confront this thing. Tail between your legs, you slowly move closer to him.
Of course, as an ex-veteran, Frankie had clocked you before you even considered approaching him. He’s grateful for this, though, as it gave him a sliver of time to compose himself before you had eyes on his weary form. However, he can’t help but think the way you’re slinking towards him, in an attempt to appear discreet, is cute. Despite how much he wishes he could refrain from becoming even more infatuated with you.
Arguably, the anxiety in his stomach tells Frankie he’s not ready to face you. Though he doubts he could ever feel completely ready. So, at the moment when you become too close to ignore, he lifts his head, knowing his time’s up.
Words aren’t exchanged for a while. Rather, you’re preoccupied with assessing each other; devouring with your eyes what you’ve been deprived of for over a week.
Frankie knows he can’t be the one to break the silence. It has to be you, and if he gives you this, he’ll never know whether you mean to fight for him. He needs to see you step outside your comfort zone and give him the words you’ve held hostage.
And you do, after a poignant pause.
“Hi, uh - … you look…good, Frankie.” is all you manage to say. You find a little more confidence as you go on, and the way you breathe out his name with poise gives Frankie hope for what’s to come.
He doesn’t think it’s the right time for him to speak, though, and he doesn’t want to spook you should you be preparing to speak candidly. So, he doesn’t say anything.
You gesture towards the beers and chips in his basket, “Oh, are you seeing the boys tonight?”
Frankie puts the basket down, then, and folds his arms over his chest. He gives you a quick shake of the head, before telling you “No.”
He’s trying to appear unbothered, but the way his laboured breaths are visible through his chest tells you otherwise.
You’re fighting the instinct to run but you somehow manage to continue.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you.”, you admit, and then you tell him, “I’ve been thinking about everything. About you. A lot.”
Frankie can’t help himself, and he jumps in, craving your honest disclosure.
“What do you want. Really?”, he says, and he looks so tired - exhausted by your indecision, and it makes you loathe how avoidant you’ve been with him.
Oh, you think. We’re getting to this now.
“I- I’m not used to… used to letting someone in. Y-You-” and Frankie cuts you off.
“Cariño.”, he says sternly. “I need an answer.”, and he’s begging you.
“Francisco!”, you whine petulantly. And if he couldn’t see the pained expression on your face, he’d be offended. You’re conflicted, and he wants to believe that you’re trying.
“You want me to tell you how I feel, then listen.”, you assert, before adding a softer “Please”, as you look at him like he could break your heart with any sudden moves.
“Frankie… y-you saw me, like actually took the time to learn it all. I couldn’t hide. I thought you’d find something that would make you leave me alone, and I wasn’t prepared to l-lose it.”
He leans closer, ever so slightly and it’s the encouragement you need to continue.
“Didn’t want to lose you, Frankie. You’re a good man. A man I could love, and… and I was happy but I was afraid it couldn’t last. S-so I kept going back and forth, daring you to stay. Seeing if you’d give up.”, you say, and the last five words come out sounding more uncertain than the rest.
Meanwhile, Frankie’s processing. He inhales every word out of your mouth like he’s gasping for breath. He’s needed to hear this - hear you - and it feels long overdue.
Your strength doesn’t fade, as you continue.
“I don’t know if I deserve you.”, you confess softly, before revealing, “You could be better off with someone else.”, and you can’t look him in the eye as you share such a deep-rooted insecurity with the man you’d come to adore.
It’s genuine, everything you’re saying, and Frankie sees that you’re trying, for him. He’s finding it hard not to say fuck mature communication and comfort you, knowing you could do with some physical touch to ground you. He wants to kiss you until all your worries dissipate, hating the thought that you could ever underestimate yourself in this way. If only you saw what Frankie saw when he looked at you, you’d be walking on air.
But he knows he needs to tread carefully. You’re giving him an inch, and he wants a mile, but he knows you. Knows the vulnerability you’re slowly welcoming is a lot for you, right now, and he’s appreciative regardless.
Then, you go and throw him a curveball.
Taking a risk, you move in even closer, until your feet are practically covering his, and you’re looking up at him with an innocence and vulnerability in your eyes that you reserve for him, only.
And your voice wobbles as you say, “Shit, Frankie. I need you.”
He looks down at you and you appear so small and fragile beneath his gaze. There’s no trace of your usual playfulness or moxie on your expression. And in your voice, there’s no trace of the pretence you sometimes hide behind when forced to confront your emotions. And Frankie registers that you must really mean it this time.
He needs to believe that you mean it. That you really need him, as the alternative is something he’s not prepared to brave.
Arguably, you’ve put yourself out there this time, and Frankie would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about you reverting back to reticence, should he give you another chance. Who’s to say you’ll maintain this level of communication with him? He can’t go through this again if you aren’t truly invested in moving forward.
“Fuck, I never thought we’d be stood in a grocery store having this conversation.”, you add to ease the tension, and the way Frankie lets out a breathy chuckle tells you he’s just as grateful for the relief from the heaviness.
After a moment of intense deliberation, Frankie arrives at his choice.
He understands that acknowledgement is only the start, and he needs to see that you’re willing to commit to something more, whatever that may be.
But right there on the confectionery aisle, as the artificial lighting of the store illuminates every emotion on your face - and he sees the fear, the concern, and the tenderness that gives you away, Frankie decides that he needs you.
And, like an addict, he swears to have you in whatever capacity he can get.
You can’t read him, and you’re on edge awaiting his response.
Then with a newfound sense of ease, Frankie picks up the six-pack from the basket beside you, as you watch his every move; afraid you’ll miss something.
He gestures to the beers, before the slightest hint of a smirk greets you from beneath his baseball cap.
“How about we swap these for some of that wine you like? Then we can head back to my place. Talk some more.” he says.
And he knows those last three words could scare you off.
Yet as you take his hand, pulling him over to the aisle you need, Frankie feels hopeful.
It’s a kind of hope that simultaneously scares and excites him, and right now, he’s okay with that.
Thank you for reading! Please consider commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed it. <3
#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales fic#frankie morales x you#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#frankie catfish morales#frankie morales imagine#pedro pascal fanfiction#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x female reader#francisco catfish morales x reader#francisco catfish morales x female reader#frankie morales x f!reader
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Hello beautiful! Huge fan of your work! I have an interesting request. Don't know if you know or remember that tik tok trend where the women got those leggings, the ones that enhanced the ~booty~ and I immediately thought of frankie morales. 👀 could you do an x reader fic about that? Can be smutty too iykyk 🫠🥰 xo
AN | Oh, trust me. I do know 😏
Pairing | Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader
Warnings | Language
Word Count | 2.2k
Masterlist | Frankie, Main
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────
You weren’t sure if you were more amused or embarrassed by your latest little impulse purchase. Perhaps it wasn’t so much an impulse considering you’d gone back and forth on whether or not to buy damn the thing.
Those silly leggings that everyone was talking about. The very ones that proclaimed to enhance your butt and make it look incredibly enticing.
And, as you laid in bed one evening unable to sleep, you came to the decision to buy them. What was the worst that could happen? You’d have a new pair of leggings. Which wouldn’t be too bad. At best you’d have an extremely luscious booty. You considered that a win-win.
And now they’d arrived, your little package just sitting on the front porch until you were able to get home from work.
Frankie had beaten you home and had grabbed the package and set it on the table in the kitchen, sending you a quick text to let you know you’d received a package. If only he knew what was in store. Maybe. The jury was still out on that one.
Once you’d gotten home, you were ready to grab the package and all but ran upstairs.
“Hey baby,” Frankie’s voice cut through your internal monologue and stopped you with a sweet smile. Your face flushed with warmth as you smiled back at him. Your husband, ever so observant, noticed that something was on your mind, “what’s up?”
“Hey my love,” you stepped over to him and let him wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a warm hug. His arms might have been your favorite place in the entire world, strong and soft at the same time, holding you just perfectly. You buried your face in his chest, taking his familiar scent, all uniquely him, “missed you today.”
“I missed you too,” you could feel his chuckle reverberating throughout his chest, the sound familiar and always welcome. You looked up at him, finding those big, brown eyes watching you reverently. You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips…and then you stole a few more, “alright, what’s up with you?”
“Can’t I just kiss my husband without any ulterior motives?” you teased, wishing that for once he couldn’t read you so easily, “nothing’s up, Francisco. You’re just really handsome and I am really lucky.”
“Mhmm,” he hummed in content as you carded a hand through his dark locks, lightly scratching at his scalp, “whatever you say, Abejita.”
“Exactly,” you grinned, “whatever I say goes. What do you wanna do for dinner?”
“How about we order in Thai?” he suggested and you perked up, stomach already growling. He heard it and laughed, a sound that went straight to your heart, “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll order if you want to go and change.”
“Perfect,” oh yes. This would give you the opportunity to try the leggings without him being too nosy, “just the usual please! I’ll be back in a few minutes!”
“You’re up to something!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” you shouted as you bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time.
Once you made it to your bedroom, you ducked into the en suite bathroom and ripped open the package. You were almost giddy as you ran your hands over the soft, buttery fabric. You undid your pants and almost kicked them off in excitement before pulling on the leggings.
They did feel nice on your skin, and you turned to study yourself in the mirror. You posed a few times, trying to take in all angles to see if the leggings did what they proclaimed to do. After a few moments of intense scrutiny you realized that you couldn’t quite tell. You like the way your butt looked, but honestly you liked it in most things, so you weren’t sure if the leggings actually did anything. That would be up to Frankie to decide when you wore them.
You pulled them back off and stuck them in the laundry basket to be washed soon. You doubted that Frankie would notice anything new, especially an unassuming pair of black leggings. You pulled off the rest of your clothes and slipped some comfy loungewear before heading back downstairs.
Frankie’s face lit up at the sight of you; he was practically the physical manifestation of heart eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered shyly, “you’re gonna make me fall even more in love with you.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he grinned happily as you waved him off, “I mean it.”
“Even in my lazy, comfy clothes?”
“Even in your lazy comfy clothes,” he agreed, “always and in anything you could ever put on or without anything on.”
“You’re a fool, Morales.”
“A fool for you, Morales,” and you almost knocked him over with the sheer intensity of your hug. You really, really, loved this man.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────
It was a few days before you managed to do laundry, and even longer until you finally grabbed the leggings. You’d almost forgotten about them at this point, but you had a day off and planned to do some stuff around the house, so you threw them on along with a t-shirt. Definitely not anything sexy or over the top, but comfortable. That’s what you were going for if you were going to be moving around.
It wasn’t until that evening when you were making dinner that things got a little…interesting. Frankie had gotten home and had gone upstairs to clean up first, dirty and greasy (and very sexy in your humble opinion) and ever the gentleman with not wanting to get you dirty either. You were standing at the counter, chopping some vegetables for a salad when you heard him make his way back downstairs.
“Hey honey,” you didn’t turn around just yet, instead focusing on the task at hand. When you heard nothing but silence, you assumed something was wrong. After wiping your hands on the tea towel you turned around to find him standing there with an expression of awe on his face, “Francisco? Is everything alright?”
“Y-yeah,” he managed to choke out, nodding slightly, “you look…umm. Wow.”
“Just so you know wow can mean a multitude of things, and not always good,” you crossed your arms over your chest and watched his face flush a pretty shade of rose, “care to elaborate?”
“You’re so fucking hot,” was all he managed to choke, which caused you to break into a fit of giggles. Normally so eloquent but suddenly rendered speechless, “I-I mean, you’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful but today you also just look so…hot.”
“Ahh, well thank you,” you bounced over to him and pressed a kiss to his stubbled cheek, “you look very hot yourself.”
“Are those new leggings?” he finally asked, eyes skimming down your body as he swallowed thickly, “they look nice.”
“Oh,” you looked down at yourself when it suddenly hit you that you were indeed wearing those leggings, “oh. Yeah, I am. You like them, Frankie?”
“I do,” he confessed, almost nervously as he tried to make sure he wasn’t saying the wrong thing. When he saw the coquettish grin on your face he knew that he’d said the right thing, “I really do.”
“Do they make my butt look good?” you turned around and lifted your t-shirt just enough to make sure he could get a full, long look at everything.
“They sure do,” he rasped and before you could say or do anything else, you felt his hands on your hips and he pulled you into his body, “so good, you minx. You planned this didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied innocently, a small gasp escaping your lips as he slid his hands down to grab at your butt, “maybe you just really like my ass.”
“Hmm,” he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his warm, soft frame. You felt him drag his lips against your shoulder and up the side of your neck which caused you to sigh happily, “you’re so gorgeous.”
“Francisco,” you reached up and gently touched his cheek as he rested his chin on your shoulder. You loved him, you loved this, but you decided that you were going to mess with him just a little bit longer, “but I’m in the middle of making dinner so can you please control yourself for a bit?”
“Fuck,” he groaned as you slipped out of his grasp, moving to lean against the other side of the counter. You put the most innocent look you could muster up before turning back to the cutting board, “you’re killin’ me here, baby.”
“Aww, my love,” you pretended to give him a pout and he playfully held up his middle before putting on a puppy dog face of his own, “can’t control your own horniness for a few minutes?”
“One - it’s going to be longer than a few minutes and two - can you blame me? Have you seen yourself?” he tried to reach over to touch you and shimmied out of his grasp as you held up the knife, “you’re brutal.”
“I love you too,” you grabbed a piece of cucumber and gently shoved it in his mouth with a giggle before he could argue any further, “you know, if you help me finish dinner, we can eat sooner and that means we can-”
“Whatever you need,” he nodded eagerly, “I’ll help.”
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────
You made it a point to drop things or bend over as much as possible while the two of you made dinner. You could practically hear the small groans and sharp inhales that escaped his lips. Perhaps it was a little cruel, to taunt your poor husband like this, but you’d made it up to him later.
You also weren’t immune to the way he made it a point to siddle around you as much as possible, his hands just grazing over your body. You’d let him get away with it for now, just a little taste for what was to come.
“You’re eating so slowly,” Frankie pointed out as you chewed your bite a little bit longer before swallowing. Maybe you were, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“It’s important to thoroughly chew your food before swallowing,” you shrugged innocently, “it can really help your digestion.”
“You. Are. A. Menace,” he insisted, scowling at his broccoli like it had wronged him in a manner most foul, “can’t believe you tricked me into marrying you.”
“That’s because you know I’m worth it.”
“Not right now,” he mumbled as you started laughing. You knew he was just playing but it was a little fun to get him all riled up. That was just one of the many wonderful parts of your relationship. You raised an eyebrow and he sighed dramatically, “fine! Even right now.”
“That’s what I thought,” you took one more bite before pushing away your plate and leaning back in your arm. Frankie’s eyes were quick to shoot over to you as he drank you up, “you know, I think I’m done eating.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm,” you grabbed your glass of wine and finished off before looking at him in what you hoped was a seductive look. Either way, it was your husband, he was a goner for you either way, “but…I’m still hungry.”
“Oh,” his pretty brown eyes widened.
“Wanna help me out?” you stood up and held your hand out towards him. He watched you in silent awe before nodding eagerly and taking your outstretched hand. Before you could lead to him towards the stairs, he pulled you towards him, crashing his lips on yours hungrily. He kissed you like his life depended on it, refusing to part from you until you were both dizzy and out of breath “I see you do wanna help me out.”
“As if that was ever a question,” he stole a few more kisses, making sure to get a good feel of your ass before dragging you towards the living room.
“Frankie! Upstairs - bedroom,” you snickered but he shook his head, messy curls bouncing roguishly.
“No time,” he insisted, his hands already dancing under the hem of your shirt, “need you now, baby.”
“You’re too much!” but you were putty in his hands anyway.
“But you love me.”
“But I love you,” you shrieked happily as he gently pushed you onto the couch, pinning you underneath him. His eyes were as hungry as you felt, “Frankie.”
“As much as I love you in these leggings,” he tugged on the waistband, his voice low and raspy, “they need to come off.”
“Yes, please.”
#frankie morales#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales imagine#frankie morales one shot#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x you#pedro pascal x reader
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summary: of course, you had been saving it— for a man that would never have it. a man that was off limits. him.
pairing: fem!garcia!reader x frankie morales, brief santi garcia
contents: nsfw/18+/smut, brother’s best friend trope, reader losing her virginity, mutual pining, frankie being the king of soft dirty talk, oral (fem receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, fluff, a touch of angst
wc: 6.3k (this got VERY OUT OF HAND)
an: this is a universe where frankie and santi have been best friends since they were in diapers and end up roommates! i don’t usually like to age characters/reader but for the sake of some details they’re both just a few years older than reader when this takes place and she’s mid-twenties.
pedro characters masterlist | requests are open
You aren’t quite sure how you ended up here. Well, that’s not entirely true— the two of you had gotten in his truck and he’d driven you both to his apartment. That you understand, but this; sitting on his fire escape under the moon, the way his shoulder is pressed against yours, the tenderness in his eyes as they skim every detail of your face is a little less clear. In fact, it’s nothing but a murky mess that you aren’t sure you feel comfortable wading through.
This is Frankie you’re talking about. Santi’s best friend. Isn’t there some unspoken rule about having feelings for your brother’s best friend? Even if there wasn’t, Santiago would invent it the moment the word feelings flew out of your mouth.
Nevertheless, you remember everything about Frankie. You know the meaning of every expression you’ve ever seen grace his face, you know his order at all the restaurants in town. And though you were just 6 years old, you remember the wide grin on his face when Santi’s parents— your parents— brought you home from the adoption agency.
Frankie’s been what dreams are made of since the day you were brought to your forever home and he will continue to be until the day you die. You accepted that years ago.
So why is your heart beating a little quicker in your chest when he looks at you this way? Why for the first time are you not sure what the look in his eye means?
“You okay?”
You blink, drawn out of your trance. You give him your best smile, “Yeah, I’m alright.”
“Do you feel sick? We’ve got pedialyte,” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the window.
“No, I’m alright really. I drank a lot of water, I just…well you know how my parents are. They think I’m some princess who does it all right.”
“Aren’t you?” He teases, bumping his broad shoulder against your own.
“I’m not,” You say firmly, chin tilting up in a defiant manner that makes him chuckle.
He raises a brow at you, looking playfully skeptical, “You had three drinks, and would only dance with people you knew. You’re worried enough about your image to come here instead of going home to your parents. Hell, I mean, Santi thinks you're still a virgin at 26.”
He knows right away that he’s said too much. It can’t be the alcohol— it left his system a while ago making it safe enough for him to drive home. But he’s so comfortable, so at ease. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 2 a.m. and the two of you are home alone. Maybe it’s the way that your warm body is pressed against his, the way your eyes shine in the light of the moon.
You glower at him, “That asshole should mind his own goddamn business.”
Frankie tilts his head at you in disbelief at how defensive you get, mouth dropping open for a moment before he’s able to form words. “Tell me he’s not right, querida.”
When you stay silent, your gaze faltering, he reaches out, running his hand comfortingly along the length of your thigh. His hand lingers there, “It’s not a bad thing. But you’ve…you know what pleasure is, yeah? You’ve— uh, shown yourself, right?”
“Oh my god, Frankie.” You groan, embarrassed; so embarrassed that it’s easier to ignore the way your heart jumps in your chest at his delicate touch. You bury your face in your hands, refusing to look at him as you say, “Yes, I know what pleasure is. Fuck this is– can we not talk about my lack of sexual experience?”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. C’mon, it’s fine. You want to know what it’s like right? You’re just…saving it? You could if you wanted to?” He asks, trying to understand.
His line of questioning is even more mortifying because it makes you confront your delusional thinking. Of course, you had been saving it— for a man that would never have it. A man that was off limits. Him.
“Stop, please, I can’t— I can’t talk about this. Not with you.”
“It isn’t easier with me? I’m not your brother or your parents, I’m not gonna give you shit or make you promise to save it for marriage I just—“
“Frankie, please. Stop.”
“Help me understand.”
You frown at him, confused, “Understand?”
“It makes no sense to me, there have to be men and women lining up for you. You’re…well you’re you.”
Now it’s your turn to look at him in disbelief, a soft chuckle leaving your throat. “I’m me?” You repeat skeptically.
“Yes. Beautiful and kind— intelligent— silly, silly’s a really important one,” He teases and you bite away your grin.
Your heart feels as if it stops before it begins to beat quickly, driven by the deep yearning you have for him. It starts there in your chest and spreads throughout your entire body. You crave him.
Before you can think better of it, you say softly— so softly he almost doesn’t hear it, “I was saving it for…for someone I could never have.”
Frankie simply stares at you for a moment, trying to digest what the words could mean. He doesn’t want to assume that you’re talking about him. Many circumstances could make someone off limits, not just the fact that he happens to be Santi’s best friend. But, his heart aches with hope, wanting it to be him.
“And who’s that?” He asks softly.
Panic rises in your throat. “Frankie…”
“Is that your answer?”
You look away, and you brace your hand on the fire escape, prepared to get up and leave, “I— I can’t. We can’t, this is... I should go.”
His grip on your thigh tightens as if to say don’t go, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Tell me. Say it, please.”
“You…what?”
“Say it,” He urges softly, cupping your cheek in his large, warm palm.
You lean into his hand on instinct, some of the fight leaving you. “You. I was saving it for you. I had this stupid idea that somehow you’d…it’s silly. Silly just like me, like you said.”
“It’s not silly, querida. That I’d want you? I do. I want you.”
“Don’t. Don’t get my hopes up, please, not if you don’t truly mean it,” But even as you say these words, your eyes flicker to his plush mouth.
Your plea breaks him— his heart, his resolve, his brain. He holds you still, surging forward until his mouth is pressed firmly against yours. You freeze for a moment, a dreamy haze taking over your limbs as you try to convince yourself that this is truly happening. Frankie nips at your bottom lip and the hunger inside of you has your hand finding its place in the curls at the nape of his neck as you lick eagerly into his mouth. He groans, the hand on your thigh gripping you tighter and pulling you closer so that you’re almost in his lap. The shuffle makes the kiss a little awkward, and you pull away, resting your nose against his as the two of you try to catch your breath.
“Fuck, Frankie, you could’ve given me a heads up,” You gasp again him with a chuckle.
“I’ll remember that for next time. Was that okay?”
“It was perfect. I…I want you, Frankie. If you want me,” As you speak, your voice grows softer, more timid.
He nuzzles his nose against yours, whispering breathily, “As much as I want to take you here, I won’t scandalize you on this fire escape, especially not on our first go.”
His words make you tremble. They speak more, that this won’t be the only time. But you don’t want to get ahead of yourself.
“Do you always say insanely arousing things like that?” You ask breathlessly.
He purses his lips at you, like he’s in disbelief, “You found that arousing?”
All you can do is nod, your throat dry, almost closing as your body hums with anticipation. He grins, it’s a little sly but very sweet and he leans in once more, pressing one last kiss to your lips before he scoops you up in his arms with no problem. You feel tiny, weightless in his arms like this. His hands are firm, one curling around your waist.
Despite the shared current of eagerness sparking between you, Frankie is patient and gentle. Once he’s carried you to his room, to your surprise he sets you on your feet in front of the bed and drops to his knees. His calloused hands are warm and sure as he drags down the zipper on your leather miniskirt. The moment the skirt pools at your feet, his hands rise to knead your thighs, marveling at how soft your skin is.
He looks down at you with wonder and lust, eyes slowly drinking in every inch of you. This sight…he would’ve bet his life that he’d never see it but here you are. You’re in nothing but panties, strewn out across his bed like you belong there. There’s a bit of moonlight streaming in through his blinds, making your skin glitter. He traces every curve with his gaze and it’s like you can feel his warm hands on you.
“Frankie,” You breathe shyly, head turning to the side to break away from his intense gaze. Your eyes fall to the pile of aviation magazines that rests on his desk— stacks and stacks of his dreams.
The bed dips as he lowers himself to lay beside you. His hand rises to cup your cheek, tilting your head towards him so that your gazes meet.
“You have to look at me, pretty girl,” He teases softly.
“I know, I’m sorry but you make me so…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain what you’re feeling.
“Yeah? You don’t think my heart’s jumpin’ out my chest right now?” He asks. To prove his point he takes your hand and presses it against where his heart beats erratically.
“It’s just me, Frankie. You’ve seen everything.”
“Not everything, not this,” He murmurs, sliding his hand through your breasts, and down your stomach to cup your clothed sex.
“Oh god. I feel like I’m gonna pass out. Is it— is it supposed to feel—“
“So overwhelming? Yeah,” His voice is gravelly, full of need as he answers.
“Overwhelm me some more,” You whisper bashfully. The sound of his voice and the hunger in his eyes makes your entire body feel as if it’s on fire.
“Trust me, I will. I’ve gotta take my time with you, so you can take it all. Every single inch of me,” He breathes against your neck, continuing to kiss his way down.
His handling of you is some confusing, erotic combination of tender and commanding. He’s so gentle and yet you bow under his touch. He doesn’t use much force though he absolutely could. But there’s something about his confidence that you will allow him to move you wherever and however, you want that makes the arousal in your lower belly burn hotter.
He kisses and sucks every inch of your skin, soft moans sending shivers through you, eliciting goosebumps. His path is clear, and when he settles in between your legs he removes your panties and then uses his hands to firmly pin you to the mattress. The groan he lets out at the sight of your glistening sex is deep and broken, close to a whimper.
“Fuck, you saved all this for me?” He whispers, almost to himself. You aren’t allowed to answer, not because he forcefully prevents you but before the first word can even form in your brain he leans in to lick a stripe up your pussy.
Frankie’s starved for you. His mouth works you over with a desperation that’s grown inside of him for years. He’s wanted you for so long, and to have your thighs around his ears, your taste in his mouth, and the scent of you buzzing in his brain like a colony of bees, drives him insane. He pulls away for a moment just to nuzzle his nose against your clit, breathing in the rich, heady scent of you. It makes him hungrier and soon his mouth is on you again. He sucks and licks and thrusts his tongue deep inside of you.
Your whines have him smiling against you, and his eyes raise to meet your cloudy gaze, “Makin’ me the luckiest man on earth right now, you know that?”
You’ve cum before, sure, but this— the combination of his words and his mouth makes you feel as if your body is fit to burst with pleasure.
“Frankie,” You whine, unable to think of anything else to say. He consumes you, surrounds you and this is just the beginning. You aren’t sure how you’ll survive the rest of the night, but you’re determined to. This may be the only time you’ll ever have him, and you refuse to give it up.
You hear the grin in his voice, “I can hear it, you’re close. Give it to me, querida. Cum all over my face.”
Your body breaks at his permission, and you cry out loudly, hand flying down to ground yourself by gripping at his hair. He groans but doesn’t stop, his tongue greedily wanting to lick up every drop of your release.
You’re just starting to recover, your breath slowing when Frankie gently presses a finger inside of you, any air that you’d gathered in your lungs escaping in a gasp of surprise.
He lets out a filthy groan against your thigh, pressing a kiss to the skin there, “Look at how well you’re taking it. One more? Can I give you one more and I’ll give you whatever you want, yeah honey?
“Yes. Yes, please.”
Your yes is all Frankie needs to press another finger inside of you, stretching your further. He doesn’t want to hurt you once he’s truly inside of you, but he wants to give you all of it, all of him. It will be a tight fit, he can tell by the way your pussy clenches around his fingers, but he will make it fit. He wants to be buried as deeply inside of you as he can get, to be deeper than you’ve ever been inside yourself. Part of him, some delusional part that he rarely indulges, believes that you were made for him, and that part of him knows that you’ll take all of him.
“More, Frankie. Need more. Can I have more?” You gaze down at him between your legs with desperate eyes.
He pulls his mouth from your thigh to grin up at you, chin and beard glistening with your arousal, marking him as yours. “Yeah, let’s get you opened up for me,” He murmurs, adding a third finger with an ease that makes him moan again.
Your hips pivot up, as you feel yourself flutter around him. “So good, you feel so good,” You gasp, feeling that knot in your stomach twist tighter.
“Taking me so fucking well, baby. D’you see?” He leans in to press a soft kiss to your clit, and you shiver again.
“Just for you, Frankie.”
“Just for me. All for me. Nobody else,” Each word is accompanied by the wet sound of his fingers thrusting deep.
His possessiveness, the feel of his fingers, the wet sounds of sex, they all come together to overwhelm you. For the second time tonight you fall over that edge, though this orgasm is softer, more relaxed than the first, your walls gently clenching around Frankie’s fingers. He guides you through it with the sweetest, filthiest praises, kissing at your thighs as you shake and shiver against him.
Gently, he cleans up all of your release with his tongue, before kissing his way up your body until his lips meet yours. You can taste your saltiness on his tongue and eagerly lick into his mouth. This taste is proof of the two of you together like this and you close your eyes, memorizing it.
“Oh…oh my god,” You breathe into his mouth, smiling weakly into his kiss.
Your entire body is tired, exhausted from the two mind-shattering orgasms he’s already given you but you want more. You want to truly feel him, want to feel him pressing against you and inside you and all around you all at once.
He smiles at you, eyes focused intently on your face, like you hold the world, “You alright? Should we take a break, querida?”
“No,” You whine brokenly. “No, no, need you, baby, please.”
Your beg, sweet and desperate has him shuddering against him and he nods, gently settling his hips between yours. His cock slides against your clit, making you shiver and twitch from sensitivity but you’re still eager, pivoting up against him.
“Slow, we’ll go slow. Keep your hips still for me, alright?” Even as he asks you, his hand drops to your hips, holding them steady.
You nod frantically, not wanting to waste your breath or any time protesting when you’re so close to feeling him.
The first press of him inside of you makes your limbs tingle, though it is shallow and gentle. He’s made you cum twice already to open you up for him but still is cautious, wanting there to be minimal discomfort for you.
“How’s that? You okay?” He asks, eyes roaming your face.
“T-there’s no way you’re playing fair. Does it— is it all like that?” You ask him breathlessly, staring up at the spinning ceiling.
“I’m pulling out all the stops for you, baby.”
Slowly and so delicately, as if you’ll break, he grinds his hips more firmly against yours until he’s as deep inside you as he can go. The kisses the two of you were sharing cease because his mouth goes slack, a soft depraved sound coming from the back of his throat now that he’s fully inside of you.
“You— okay?” You choke out, your fingers buried in his unruly curls.
“It’s your first time and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”
“I thought there was more…thrusting involved. You aren’t moving,” You say shyly, looking away when his mouth pulls up into a grin.
You don’t know what you’re asking for, that much he’s sure of.
He guides his hips back slowly, withdrawing, and though you’ve asked for it, though you know he’s going to fill you right back up, you whine at the loss of him. The first thrust of his cock into you is gentle, you can tell by the way his neck strains and the broken moan that leaves his throat, but you can’t think about that very long because the stretch.
Your head falls back, eyes screwing shut as you try to handle taking all of his cock, breathing out, “Francisco—“
Frankie leans in, kissing your now exposed neck, “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here, it’s okay. You can take it for me.”
You nod but that’s all that you can do as try to breathe through the delicious feeling of him splitting you open with each thrust. His hips are flush against yours and grinds, causing your pussy to clench around him.
“You’re so fucking tight, so wet for me, do you hear? Listen.”
You try to lower your loud, erratic breath to hear the sound he talks about, and you do, the wet squelch of you taking him even louder than it was when it was just his fingers.
As he continues to thrust into you, your hips begin to recognize his rhythm. Guided by your neediness, your hips pivot to meet him thrust for thrust, driving him even deeper than before. He groans into your neck, bracing one arm so that he can press your hips down, keeping you still.
He grins down at you, bending to press a kiss to your mouth “Let me do the work, honey. I want you to lay there and take it. All you have to do is cum on my cock, okay baby?”
“B-but, deeper,” You beg, blinking up at him.
“You want it deeper? Want me to stretch you further, fill you up even more?” He asks, and you whine, nodding desperately beneath him. “My sweet, naughty girl.”
He readjusts, taking the weight off of his knees so that his legs are fully extended and grinds— stealing both of your breath. The tip of his cock presses deep, so deep that you could swear you feel him in your tummy.
“This deep enough for you?”
“Mhmm, don’t stop, please, wanna cum for you again.”
“Squeezing me so tight. Can I— fuck, can I cum inside you?”
“Yes, god, please,” You plead, reaching up to brush back the hair that's fallen into his eyes.
Frankie leans into your touch, the soft hazy look on his face in contrast with the way he’s pounding you into the mattress, “You’re perfect. Cum for me one more time. Need to feel you.”
If there was any doubt that your body was his, it is washed away with your last release. You tighten around him as soon as the words leave his mouth, gasping and sputtering beneath as every nerve in your body sings with pleasure. You force yourself to keep your eyes open to see him reach his peak.
The flutter of your pussy around him pulls him down. His hips stutter against yours, before he grinds again, filling you up with his warm release. The heat of him makes you shiver, but you tilt your hips up, wanting to keep all of him. After a moment, he rolls onto his side, keeping an arm around you to bring you with him and keep him inside of you.
“How was that?” He whispers against your temple.
You look up at him, pressing a hand against his chest as if to admonish him, “How was that? Are you kidding me?”
He grins, wide and boyish, with a shrug, “Maybe.”
“Good. You were so good, so gentle with me.”
“You’re incredible,” He breathes, capturing your mouth with his in a chaste kiss.
You’ve never felt so sated in your life. The two of you lay tangled together for what felt like an eternity until Frankie suggests a bath. You aren’t as wired as you were just 30 minutes ago, but a bath sounds lovely, especially since Santi won’t be back until morning.
This is your little sliver of peace, laying back between Frankie’s legs in steaming hot, fragrant water. He presses a kiss to the back of your head before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly close.
You hum, turning your head so that you can nuzzle your temple against his mouth. That feeling that you’ve gotten over the years since being adopted by your family— the one that tells you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be— rises in your chest. There are so many words that you want to say to him, and you think you might find the courage to when a loud sound comes from down the hall. Your blood runs cold as you look at Frankie with wide, scared eyes.
“We have to be quiet, Fish’s sleepin’,” You hear Santi say in a shouted whisper. If you weren’t so afraid you’d find it funny how loud he is while insisting that they must be quiet. But you can hardly form a word, let alone a laugh, your throat suddenly dry.
“Baby—“
You shake your head, swallowing away the panic, “I have to go. When he gets her into his room, I have to go. He thinks you took me home.”
“No,” He says firmly.
He’s just gotten you, finally gotten you— there’s no way in hell that he’ll let you go. Not even for Santi.
“Frankie—
“Don’t think or worry, just trust me?”
“Alright.”
“We’ll wake up early, I’ll take you to breakfast and drop you off at home. How does that sound?” He cups your face, running his thumb over your cheekbone soothingly.
You look at him skeptically for a moment but with the pleading look in his eye, you know that you’ll agree to it. With how drunk Santi sounds, and the late hour, he’ll be asleep most of the day. It should be safe. There’s still a lump in your throat despite his plan because it doesn’t make the future clear. Sure his words in the best of passion spoke to doing this again but they could be just that; words.
He drops you off and then what? The two of you pretend this never happened? You’re set to graduate from your masters’ program in a few months and then you’re off across the country to start your doctorate. What then? There is no forgetting Frankie— not before tonight and certainly not after it.
But you say none of this, clearing your throat once more to whisper, “Alright.”
Frankie helps you out of the water as slowly and quietly as he can. He drives you both off quickly, though his hands can’t help but linger, brushing against the curve of your hips, dancing across your collarbone. Once you’re both dry, he wraps you up and carries you across the hall to his room before falling into bed with you in his arms.
He kisses you breathless for several minutes until you pull away with a yawn.
“I’ve kept you up long enough, get some sleep.”
“Thank you, Frankie,” You mumble, nuzzling further into the crook of his neck.
He feels the exact moment you fall asleep, noticing the way your body melts into his. He kisses your temple, murmuring three words so softly that his ears don’t register them. Then, he slips into sleep with you.
—
Santi doesn’t even bother knocking. Any other morning Frankie wouldn’t mind but a morning like this— one that he will remember and cherish for the rest of his life— is the exception.
“Fish, c’mon—“ Santi stops his tracks, eyes wide. When he finds his voice it's filled with disbelief and anger. “What the fuck am I seeing right now?”
You jump at the sound of Santi’s voice, immediately remembering where you are from the scent of Frankie beside you. Frankie’s reaching for the sheet, pulling it up to your chin before he gives you a look that clearly means to stay quiet.
He looks to Santi, raising a hand, “I can explain.”
“Yeah, you better fucking start. What the fuck?”
Frankie gets out of bed quickly—in nothing but his boxers— and pushes Santi by his chest out of the room and into the hallway.
You hear Santi’s voice coming through the door. In turn, you hear it all, their entire conversation.
“Tell me what the fuck I just saw because I did not see her in your bed, Frankie.”
“Santi, if you just—“
“I should kill you. Rip your throat out. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“It’s not what you think.”
Santi narrows his eyes, “It’s not? I didn’t just see my baby sister in your bed?”
Frankie shakes his head with an exasperated sigh, “She’s not a baby, Santi.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t you fuckin’ know?”
Frankie grimaces, “Pope—“
Santi lunges forward, pressing Frankie into the wall with a thud as he asks, “Did you deflower my baby sister? Did you take advantage of her?”
His words rub Frankie the wrong way, and for the first time, some anger bubbles in his chest. He struggles against the shorter man, before pushing him away and straightening.
“She’s not a baby, she’s a woman. And I would never take advantage of her.”
“So you didn’t? She’s still a virgin then,” Santi stares at Frankie waiting for him to agree with him. But Frankie just stares back at him and Santi’s vision starts to blur, his rage getting the best of him. “Where’s the scissors? I hope you aren’t too attached to your dick because I’m cutting it off.”
“I love her,” Frankie blurts out. “I’m in love with her. I always have been.”
Your heart jumps in your chest at Frankie’s declaration of love. He loves you? The boy you loved all your childhood, the man that you’ve seen him grow into with all his hopes and dreams and potential. He loves you? You stare up at the ceiling, a bashful smile spreading across your face.
“Don't you say that if you don’t mean it. I won’t let you get her hopes up. She’s been looking at you with those lost puppy eyes all our lives Frankie and I swear to god, if you just used her—“ Santi says, and your heart swells at his attempt to protect you. You know he has good intentions even if he’s going about it the wrong way.
“I love her, Santiago. I do,” Frankie says firmly.
“Did you tell her that?”
“I was planning to, but her fuckhead brother’s got me hemmed up first thing in the morning. We have plans.”
“Plans.”
“A date, I’m taking her out. If you release me.”
Santi’s eyes narrow, and the two stare at each other quietly for an eternity, “I’m talkin’ to her first.”
“I’d…give her a minute?”
Santi’s glare sends a chill up Frankie’s spine.
“Just let me tell her to, uh, cover up.”
You hear the dilemma and lean over the side of the bed, looking for your clothing immediately. The graphic tee you wore was just fine, and you shrug into it, but having the talk of shame in your brother’s best friend wearing the mini skirt he slid you out of not even 12 hours ago isn’t ideal.
Frankie peeks his head in and gives you his best smile though you can see the anxiety in his eyes. Maybe even some fear.
“Hey, Pope wants to talk to you. Get dressed for me?”
“Do you…could I maybe borrow some sweatpants?”
He nods to a set of drawers, “Last drawer, take anything you like. I’ll go make us some coffee.”
“Alright,” You whisper, rising out of his bed. Your shirt is a little big, falling to the middle of your thigh.
Frankie’s eyes fall lower, drawn to your bare skin and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you make your way to the drawers and bend to search for pants.
“The coffee, Francisco,” You remind him with a chuckle, still able to feel his eyes on you even as you chose a pair.
Frankie flushes, his eyes darting away from you as he realizes he was staring, “Right. I’ll be out there if you need anything, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Thank you, Frankie,” You smile shyly at him over your shoulder.
He wets his lips before returning your smile, “Don’t mention it, sweet girl.”
“Hey, watch it!” You hear Santi yell, and then Frankie’s eyes go wide as he’s seemingly pulled back, the door slamming shut.
You hear some shuffling and a bang before the hall goes quiet. A minute goes by and then there’s a soft knock and Santi calls through the door for you. You slip into the sweatpants and sit on the edge of Frankie’s bed before telling him to come in.
He can’t look at you once he steps inside, standing right in front of the door with his arms crossed. You can’t completely decipher the look on his face but you can see some betrayal and confusion.
“What the hell is this? Some way to hurt me?” He asks quietly.
You roll your eyes, “This isn’t about you, Santi. Not everything is about you.”
Santi glares at you, pointing at his chest like an indignant child, “He’s my best friend.”
“He’s more than that to me, he always has been.”
“He’s only ever been my best friend to you,” He challenges.
“It’s not like I could tell you I had feelings for him. Clearly,” You add, returning his glare.
He comes to sit beside you, brow furrowing as he thinks this through. He sighs, looking over at you, “You have to let him down easy.”
“Let him down— Santi, I heard what he said and I love him too. It’s always been him. I can’t just walk away from that.”
“What if he hurts you? We’ll both lose him. I’ll have to kick his ass. It won’t end well for anyone.”
“He’s Frankie,” You say as an explanation.
The words are loaded with meaning— Santi knows that Frankie is one of the most decent men on this earth. That he would never think about hurting you, let alone do it.
“Yeah, he is.”
“He’s not gonna abandon you, Santi. Neither am I. I’m not taking your place.”
“I know. I know,” He repeats when you look at him skeptically.
“Good,” You wrap your arms around him, squeezing him tightly. He pretends to hate it but hugs you back before ruffling your hair. “I’d really like to go on that date now, if you’re done throwing a fit?”
“I wasn’t throwing a fit.”
“I heard you knocking his head against the wall.”
Santi’s mouth twitches, “What else was I supposed to do when he had my baby sister in his bed?”
“I’m not a baby, Santi.”
“I know. He said that. I know.” He’s quiet for a moment before looking over at you, “Are you gonna marry him?”
You choke on nothing, coughing to clear your throat, “Jesus Santi, from one extreme to another, huh?”
He shrugs, bumping your shoulder with his, “Don’t know, just always thought I’d make a good uncle. I’m fit for it.”
“Alright, now you’re really out of your mind, kids are a ways away.”
“Yeah, but they’ll get here eventually.”
“You two done in there?” Frankie calls out nervously.
Oh thank god.
Santi’s brows furrow further as he stares at the door, “Have you been eavesdropping, pendejo?”
“Be nice,” You whisper-yell at him, elbowing him in the side.
He lets out a grown and pushes you over, “Just because you two are in love or whatever doesn’t mean I’m not gonna give him hell. Come in, Fish.”
Frankie comes in with two steaming mugs of fresh coffee. You light up at the sight of him and his heart flutters like he’s some teenage fan girl meeting her idol.
“Thanks for the coffee, Frank,” Santi reaches for a mug once Frankie is close enough.
“This isn’t for you. Get out.”
Santi smirks at him as he begins to lean back into the bed, “You know, I think I’ll get nice and comfy.”
“Y’sure you wanna lay down in that bed after last night?” Frankie asks with a smirk of his own.
“Francisco,” You scold, feeling embarrassed.
Santi pretends to throw up but quickly rises to his feet, “Insufferable. Disgusting. I’ll leave you to it.” He makes his way to the door and gives you both one last once over. Though his nose is wrinkled in disgust you can see the happiness in his eyes.
If two of his favorite people in the world love each other, who is he to complain?
“Keep it down,” He quips before closing the door.
You and Frankie both let out deep breaths once the coast is clear. He takes a seat next to you on the bed and holds out a mug for you. “Hi,” He says tiredly.
“Hi. Thank you,” You nod to the mug.
He leans over, pressing a kiss to your temple, “No problem, baby. You alright?”
“I’m fine. Are you? I heard some tusslin’.”
“I’m fine. Good, now,” He wraps an arm around your waist, resting his head on yours.
“Yeah, me too. Did you…how much did you hear?”
“Enough to know we’ll be doing this for a long time. I hope.”
“I heard you too.”
“I thought us overhearing the other would make this easier to say.”
“Not the case I see,” You tease nervously.
“You can always go first.”
“Frankie.”
“I’m kidding,” He points down at the mug in your hand. “Got a good grip on that mug?”
“The goodest.”
His gaze is so soft and tender, the words sit in his eyes even as he says them, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He leans in, hand resting at the base of your neck to hold you still for his kiss. It’s deep and exploring like he’s kissing you for the first time but much less frantic than last night. When his tongue slips in beside yours, your brain goes gooey, whatever signals it had been sending to your hand to hold the mug in your hands blinded by the sweetest of Frankie’s mouth. The mug slips right out of your hand, spilling warm coffee all over your legs and feet, but thankful stays intact.
You yelp into his mouth, pulling away with wide eyes, “Okay so maybe it wasn’t the goodest, but you’re also really good at kissing.”
Frankie can’t argue with that, not when you’re boosting his ego and looking so cute doing it. His mouth is pursed in disapproval though it twitches as he tries to hold in his laugh. He helps you up carefully, then bends to grab his mug off the ground which is full. Lifting you so that your feet won’t get any more wet than they are, he sits you down once he gets you to the chair in the corner of his room.
“Sit down, and here,” He hands you the mug and immediately cups his hands around yours. “Tight grip, please,” He teases.
The grin that spreads across your face is so wide it makes your cheeks hurt, “It’s tight, I swear.”
“I’ll strip the bed, and when I get back I’ll get you set up for a shower. Do you still want to get breakfast?”
“I’d love to.”
He bends, resting his hands on the arms of the chair to cage you in as he kisses you, soft and sweet, “I love you.”
You smile into the kiss, “I love you, too.”
“Insufferable! Nauseating!” Santi yells through the door, making you jump.
You and Frankie share a look, though you’re already giggling.
“Go away!” You and Frankie yell in unison through hushed laughter.
frankie morales taglist: @honeybrowne, @jazzelsaur, @lesbianhotch, @mccn-bcys, @angstyvirgin001, @jxvipike // and a few who seemed interested on my post about this fic: @jettia, @soft-persephone, @howaboutcastiel, @marvelcriminalhoe, @love-the-abyss, @mikaylabtzk
#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales#santi garcia#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales smut#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier fic#not sfw#arson writes randos
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i only have eyes for you
summary: your boyfriend frankie has biannual eye exams for his pilot’s license, and the results of this last one were not what he was hoping for. to his dismay, frankie needs glasses. and you’re not available to help him pick them out.
wc: 2.3k
warnings: none, pure fluff really. ending has mature themes mentioned, but this is really just a sweetie frankie moment 🩵
a/n: this was born out of @northernbluess and I discussing the frankie vibes of the photo(s) above, and then me running off with a delusion of frankie needing glasses. so wholesome, so shy, so sweet 😭
“Seriously? Doesn’t your boss know you have plans with me?” Frankie groans from his place on the couch, flannel stretched across his shoulders and his Standard Oil cap on his head. Dark chocolate curls peek out of the hat, ringlets curving around the edges and his ears, while his plush bottom lip juts out in a pout.
Crossing the living room, you plant yourself on the area rug between his open legs, one hand reaching down to grab his chin and tilt his head to face you, eyes exposed from under the brim of his cap. His umber brown irises reflect hints of a tawny, golden color in the light; one look into his eyes and you’re surrounded in their depth and wrapped up in warmth, like coming into a heated home after a frigid winter day.
Matching his pout with your own, he shakes your hand off with another huff, crossing his arms over his chest. His knees pull together, trapping yours with their effortless strength, years of multiple miles a day in basic training and deployment giving him thighs and calves as thick as tree trunks and virtually as strong as them. A breathy laugh leaves your lips, one hand further hiking your work bag on your shoulder.
“And how d’you think my boss would react to me skipping out on the deadline ‘cause my boyfriend needs to go pick out glasses?” One eyebrow arches in questioning, Frankie shifting on the couch and shrugging as he stands his ground. You know his play; he’s going to pout and say he won’t go unless you’re coming with — you’ve been reminding him constantly over the last week about this appointment, a follow-up to his bi-annual eye exam for his pilot license that he had the other day.
Lately, Frankie had been squinting a lot more, holding books close to his face when he was reading; you even caught him increasing the size of the text on his phone in order to read his messages. He definitely needed the exam, and you knew he was going to need glasses. He grumbled the whole time, avoiding making the appointment until the last possible minute and waving your concern off when he came home with the results.
He was farsighted, which is why he was usually fine while flying. Years of experience meant he knew exactly where the controls were, the blurring of his vision not necessarily deterring his abilities to fly. Clinging to the fact that he’s been fine for the past few months at work, Frankie was refusing the fact that he needed to get glasses. But since he has to submit his results, his hand has been forced to head into the optometrist’s office and pick out a pair.
Which is where you were supposed to come in. Frankie claimed he didn’t care about the look of them, asking you to tag along with him and select some for him. The logic was that “I’m only seeing through them, you’re the one who has to look at ‘em the most. Should be the one to like ‘em.”
“This is a life-changing decision! He should understand that,” his voice drops in volume, eyes flicking away from yours, “I don’t wanna pick out a pair that makes me look silly to you.”
“Oh, baby, I think you’d look cute in any pair of glasses. ‘Cause I think you’re cute.” Folding forward, you steal a quick kiss before standing straight again, lifting one of your legs up and over his knee to free yourself. “Really, Francisco, you would never look silly to me, and you need glasses to go to work. Gotta go get ‘em, baby.”
Another groan rings in your ears, and you roll your eyes at his overdramaticness. Pushing himself off the couch, he stands in front of you, a playful glare on his face, “You’re paying the out-of-pocket price if my insurance won’t let me change them when you hate them.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright. That’s not gonna happen. Now I have to go, and you have to leave for your appointment in an hour. I’m going to check your location, so don’t even think about skipping out,” you warn as you walk toward the front door, hearing him call out to you before you shut the door behind you.
“Tell your boss he’s a dick for makin’ you come in on your day off!”
The end of the day rolls around before you know it, and you’re more than eager to get home to see Frankie and his new glasses. Graciously, your boss told you to take tomorrow off instead, a relief settling in that you can actually enjoy a day with Frankie, who’s out of work until he gets his vision adjustments settled.
Excitement turns in your stomach when you park in the driveway of your shared house, following the path up to the front door of the bungalow and heading inside. Your shoes end up in a pile near the door and your bag ends up dropped next to them, bare feet padding across the tile floor.
Part of you, just a sliver, was feeling a bit anxious about Frankie’s choice. You genuinely meant you would love anything on him, but he’s been avoiding the task and trying to deflect it to you, which made you guess that the whole change had him feeling insecure. To you, there was nothing wrong with the addition to his look, but he must have been feeling much differently to be so worked up about the situation. In his world, surrounded by younger co-pilots and forced to disclose things like this in any applications or license renewals, you imagine it must be like showing up to elementary school or middle school as one of the few kids with braces or the butchered haircut your mom gave you in the bathroom the night before. Totally uncool.
You just wanted to hug the little, shy kid inside of Frankie; wrap him up, and tell him how much you love him and how cool you think he is. A kid like Frankie would’ve been your best friend when you were younger — he’s your best friend now.
“Frankie baby, where ya at?”
“Living room!”
Swerving from your direction toward the kitchen, you cross over into the living room, a wide and enthusiastic grin on your face as you anticipate what kind of glasses he chose. You’d been swarmed with text messages while he was at his appointment:
Are you sure you can’t take lunch now and come help me?
Way too many options here.
An older woman who works here is trying to help but I think she’s coming onto me…Please come over here baby!!
I feel like a dweeb in all of these.
Receiving the last one nearly made you pack up your things and rush over to help him, but with your boss breathing down your neck about a submission by the end of the day for this large project, you couldn’t sneak away. Instead, you sent reassurances, asking for photos but never receiving any from your boyfriend.
From where he sits on the couch, Frankie turns his hatless head away from the movie playing on the TV, sending a soft smile to you, “Hi, cariño. How was your day?”
No glasses.
God, you actually might kill him if he went through all of the theatrics only to come home empty-handed. Or empty-faced, more like it.
“My day was fine, but more importantly, how was your day? And why don’t I see glasses on your face?” you plop down on the couch next to him, body turned toward him while he continues to focus on the TV, humming dismissively.
“I got some. Jus’ don’t like wearing ‘em if I don’t have to,” he mumbles, sinking further into the couch cushions.
“Baby, you’re not going to get used to them if you don’t wear them regularly. Can’t be living in a blurry world.” Inching closer, you rest a hand on his thigh and the other cards through the curls at the nape of his neck, slowly turning his head to look at you, “I wanna see them. Please? Pretty please?”
Embraced again by those cocoa-brown eyes, this time filled with timidness and hooded with anxiety.
“I feel ridiculous in them. Like they make my ears stick out and they don’t fit under my cap and…they just look stupid on me.” His sentences mush together in his dejected tone, eyes falling from yours to stare at where his fingers are anxiously toying with the hem of your satin blouse.
The image of shy, little Frankie at school tugs on your heartstrings again; instead of showing your cards, you hide your anxieties with a soft, bright smile.
“Frankie, you could never look stupid to me. You never look stupid to anyone. Well, unless Pope’s around, but he can shove it.” That brings a subtle grin to his lips, a breathy of a single chuckle exhaling. “You are the most handsome to me, and a little pair of glasses isn’t going to change that. Can you please show them to me? I promise I’ll be honest, but I can guarantee that you think they are exponentially worse than what they are. Knowing how you are, they probably make you look hotter. Which, like, should be physically impossible, I mean look at you—”
“Alright, alright. I’ll show you the glasses. Quit makin’ me blush…” he scolds lightly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips and his dimple poking through on his cheek. You scoot back to allow him to get up off the couch, watching as he disappears down the hall to your bedroom and comes back a few seconds later, stopping right before he’s in view.
“Close your eyes.”
“Frankie, c’mon, I said—”
“Please?” His tone is so innocent, guileless in his clear nerves around you seeing him with the new accessory.
“Okay, they’re closed.” You confirm once you have shut your eyes, sitting up as you eagerly await. His steps grow louder and you can feel the couch sink when he sits back down again, shifting to cheat his body in your direction. A silent beat drums between you two before he clears his throat with a defeated sigh.
“Okay, you can look.”
Opening your eyes, the immediate reaction is to press your lips together, holding back the overexcitement about the new look to not startle Frankie. Circling your eyes over his face, you study the thick oaky frames that stand out from his strong features, complementing them with a statement of their own. Rounded square shapes hold the lenses, the bridge of them perched perfectly on his hooked nose. The arms of them extend back to his ears, and he was right, they do make the tops of his ears stick out minisculely. But most of that is covered by the way his dense curls flick out around the glasses, poking out in the most adorable way.
And of course, they do nothing but create the perfect perimeter around those beloved brown eyes, the curvature of the lenses making them appear just the slightest bit larger. More for you to stare into.
The lack of reaction as you take it all in has perturbed Frankie, a groan identical to his this morning rolling from his chest, “See I knew these were no good, I’m not wearing ‘em. I look silly.”
One of his hands lifts from his lap to grab for the frames, your own hand quick to intercept the motion. Quickly shaking your head, the words spill out to stop his spiraling, “No no no, absolutely not. You don’t look silly at all, baby…”
“But you don’t like them?”
“I love them. They’re exactly what I would’ve chosen for you myself. You look so handsome, my Frankie.” Without holding back anymore, a blinding smile lights up your face and you shift to your knees to crawl over and straddle his thighs. Your arms wrap around his neck, pressing yourself against him in a tight, squeezing hug. His own arms snake around your back, keeping you flush against him. The two of you sit in that embrace for a few moments, only pulling back a few inches to look at his face again. Delicately, you lift a finger to trace the shape of the glasses, grinning sweetly when your eyes focus back on his.
“You look hot. Like a sexy professor or like…a cool movie star.” Frankie laughs and shakes his head, fingertips tracing up and down your lower spine. “Can’t wait to christen the glasses. Kinda want you to keep ‘em on later tonight.”
Frankie’s head twists in curiosity, a smirk settling easily on his face, “That so? Guess it is going to be nice to see your face clearly again. Think that was my sole motivator for getting the damn things finally…” He grins when you laugh, pushing his lips out in a pucker and his eyes widen as a thought pops into his head. “Pretty sure they’ll get all fogged up when I’m between your le—”
“Oh my god, don’t even finish that sentence. The glasses come off when you’re doing that, Francisco.” You shove his shoulder gently and he laughs brightly, his eye glittering in the warm light behind his lenses. His hands at your back pull you in closer again, his nose nudging yours before he catches your lips in a soft, supple, slow kiss. The feeling of the plastic frames against your skin is foreign, but welcome.
“Love you, baby,” he whispers against your skin before he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips.
Leaning back again, his hands coast up and down your sides while you reply, “Love you too, Frankie. Glasses or no glasses.”
taglist: @northernbluess @atinylittlepain @swiftispunk @joelsversion @mrsquill @ilovepedro @lovers-liability @deathwife @undrthelights @atticrissfinch @casa-boiardi @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @fishingforpike @msjarvis @walkintotheriveranddisappear @sugadolly @yazsos @peppesgirl @pastawench @addictedtotlou @anoverwhelmingdin @wolfbook87 @mswarriorbabe80 @harriedandharassed @decemberdolly @laiisleitte @fierce-bab @pertinentpostmortem @livingdeadmaria @bitchwitch1981 @its-nebuleuse @marini03 @piercethevic03 @joeandpedrosimp @kiwisbell @planet-marz1 @jrosie25 @vee-bees-blog @joelsflannel @k-k0129 @cartoon-garbage04 @nostalxgic
#writing#frankie#frankie morales fanfic#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales fic#frankie morales fanfiction#triple frontier fic#triple frontier fanfic
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Tonight you belong to me
Series, ongoing
Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.
Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?
Set a few months after the TF events.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader
Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.
Rating: Explicit 🔞
TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.
A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡
A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.
Chapters
Prologue - In The Beginning
Chapter 1 - Dirt
Chapter 2 - Closer
Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier
Chapter 4 - Frankie
Chapter 5 - ...
Chapter 6 - ...
Epilogue - ...
Playlist
#HAPPY FRANKIE FRIDAY#I’m scared#tonight you belong to me#tybtm#Francisco Catfish Morales#frankie morales#the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x ofc#frankie morales / fem!reader#frankie morales / you#frankie morales / ofc#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fic#frankie friday#will miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#william ironhead miller#Spotify
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Summer House
Coming sometime in 2024
Explicit 🔞 NO minors allowed
Frankie Morales x F!Reader
Series tags: is it even going to be a series? Who knows 🤷🏻♀️ | childhood friends to enemies(ish) to lovers | virgin!Reader | college AU | infidelity | summer romance angst | probably will be a very open ending, you've been warned | no physical descriptions of Reader
I tried to fight it, I really did. I was convinced that I didn't have the time or the headspace to start a fic, and I still am not entirely convinced otherwise, but this idea just won't leave me alone.
It's literally been a year since I teased this fic (I've already written a soulmates AU of it before the fic was even written lmao), and it has pivoted, so it's not exactly the same idea as it was when I first conceived it. It's 'edgier' than my other fics, we're going full in messy with this one besties (inspired by none other than my love @imaswellkid).
I can't promise when this will be written, and I don't know what form it will take or how long it will be, but I've scribbled down dialogue and scenes and they're just playing and replaying behind my eyelids when I try to go to sleep. I'm itching to get it down on metaphorical paper.
For now, a roughly edited sneak peek:
You should know better. You know you shouldn’t. Not when it’s your first time, not when his girlfriend is asleep in his bed two floors above, not to mention the rest of the guys - what they would say, what they would do if they ever find out -
But it’s Frankie. Your Frankie. Not that it matters he’s not actually yours. Not when he’s staring down at you the way he is right now, teeth catching his full bottom lip, sleep-tousled curls brushing those eyes you’d know anywhere.
#summer house series#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales smut#frankie morales imagine#frankie catfish morales#francisco morales
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𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, romance, minors dni
word count: 1.6k
summary: you have trouble sleeping after your favorite character's death. luckily frankie is there to help.
warnings: established relationship, grief, brief sleepy makeout, sexual situations but none explicit, mention of a past altercation between a sleaze bag and you at a bar
a/n: yes, I am so lonely that when my fave fictional character dies I need to write something with another fictional character comforting me ✌️
Also, the character or the book won't be mentioned so as not to spoil anyone who might read the book and I feel like it makes it more inclusive not to mention it either. But if you're curious about which book just send me an ask 💜
You’re way too sensitive, you conclude staring at the dark ceiling. There’s no reason you should be tossing and turning like a mad person over a fictional character’s death—scratch that, your favorite character’s death. The “favorite” part is most likely the main reason as to why whenever you close your eyes you repeat the scene in your head over and over, like a sick lullaby that did the opposite of lulling you into sleep.
A soft summer breeze gently drifts through the open window, rustling the curtains with a tender touch. The sheer fabric sways lazily, as if in a dreamlike dance, while the cool moonlight peeks through the gaps, casting gentle shadows on the floor. For a moment, you see the muted blue of the sky, and, for a moment, you want to get up and just stare at the stars.
But you don’t. Instead, you turn for the hundredth time tonight and stare at Frankie’s back. He’s sleeping peacefully. Unaware of your sleeplessness driven by an irrational feeling. You count the freckles on his back. One. . . two. . . five. . . you want to press your lips between his shoulder blades.
With another sigh, you turn towards the window again. You’re restless. So tired, yet sleep, the cruel mistress that she is, only taunts you. You try closing your eyes, try to think of something—anything else but it’s no use. Opening your eyes, you stare at the curtains. You think about the characters in your book, about how they could’ve done something differently to prevent the death of your favorite. You also think about what the aftermath might be since you haven’t read that far yet.
You sigh, again.
And Frankie stirs.
He mumbles something in spanish, voice nothing but gravel. You make a sound, or maybe you voiced out a one-syllable question, you don’t remember but whatever you’ve done, he understands and rolls around. His arm slides to your waist, fingers softly drawing various shapes over your stomach. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you answer in a sharp whisper, guilt already gnawing at the soft flesh of your stomach. “Sorry.”
“You didn’t wake me, I was peeing in my dream and got worried it might be happening for real,” your sudden laughter is loud, the type that shakes your chest. His lips touch your nape and you feel him smiling as he playfully squeezes your stomach. “Now tell me what’s wrong, querida. I want to know.”
“You’re going to laugh. . .”
“I won’t,” he says in one exhale. “Promise.”
His hand slides up under your shirt, resting on the underside of your breasts. With a hum, you press closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth enveloping your own. He kisses the sensitive skin under your ear. A shudder rolls through you. “Fine,” you say. “My favorite character died in the book I’m reading.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” you hear it in his voice, the smile, the amusement. You huff half-heartedly, gently nudging him with your elbow.
“I knew you were going to laugh.”
“I’m not laughing!” he interjects, then nuzzles your neck. “I just think it’s cute how you care so much.”
“Now I just feel silly,” you mutter. It does feel a bit stupid that you’re saying it out loud now. Though, it’s not like you didn’t know it was a dumb thing to begin with. Only now it’s downing on you exactly who you’re admitting this grief to; A veteran. Someone who has actually stared death in the eyes and lived through it. If you had known your brain would behave like this you wouldn’t have read your book before bed, Frankie was already fast asleep by then.
He softly croons, “Why were they your favorite?”
Frankie is completely unaware of the weight that lingers in your head, screaming at you to just tell him to forget about it. You fight against it. He’s not mocking you, he’s asking you questions about it, he’s interested. Frankie Morales might be one of the most understanding people you know. You inhale a slow breath, your shoulders relaxing on the exhale.
“I’m not actually sure,” you answer with a soft chuckle. “They were kind of the one holding everything together, at least that’s what I felt. They were kind, nice, extroverted.”
“Did you see yourself in them?”
“Not exactly,” you chew your bottom lip. “I guess it was more like they were someone I wanted to be like. And I have an affinity for kind people. They were just about to get their happy ending too, and it could’ve been avoided, if they were only more selfish.”
“Reminds me of someone I know,” he smiles.
“I’m not that nice, Frankie.” you can’t help but smile alongside him.
He clicks his tongue, “Don’t you remember the time a guy was hitting on some girl and you intervened when I was in the toilet? When I came back he had you by the neck, the fucking asshole.”
You do remember that night. You and Frankie had just started going out, it was either your third or fourth date. He’d gone to the bathroom and as you were waiting at the bar some creep made a move on a woman who was sitting a couple of seats away from you. The man started getting handsy which prompted you to step in, you didn’t think he would get so violent. Briefly, you thought he was going to throw you over the bar. Luckily before the worst could happen Frankie stepped in, bending the man’s arm and shoving him down to the dirty floors. Frankie was a regular at the bar, there were no questions asked.
However, he was quite angry with you, much to your surprise. In the end, the night had ended with him between your legs, edging you until you cried for him, apologized between sobs. It was a different kind of release, one that you had enjoyed.
You can still hear the anger in his voice though, the irritation. Without a word you turn, cupping his cheeks as you attempt to wipe away the crease between his brows. “What else was I supposed to do? He was being a jerk.”
“You could’ve come and get me. You could’ve gone and gotten Benny and Will, you knew they were there.”
“Baby. . .”
He heaves a resigned sigh, lips finding the heel of your palm, the hairs tickling your skin, “Fine, sorry.”
You inch closer, pressing your mouths gently together. He groans into your mouth, large hands grasping your waist. You lick yourself deeper into his mouth. The rock of his hips eager to meet yours, parting away, you grin at how disheveled he looks; hooded eyes, parted swollen lips, a soft red tint to his cheeks. You kiss him again, quickly this time before parting away.
“You know,” you say. “When my favorite character died in books I would kiss my fingers,” you demonstrate by kissing two fingers gently. “Then I would press them over the character's name,” and you press your fingers against his lips, a smile forming on your face. “I’d say ‘You’re not dead, you’re alive’ and I would just continue reading. Once I told this to my friend and she said it was unhealthy because I wasn’t processing death properly.”
He remains silent, his lips gently meeting the touch of your fingers.
“I don’t know why but her saying that bothered me,” your voice falls into a whisper, your gaze dropping to where his mouth and your fingers meet. “It made me feel broken. Wrong. I don’t know why I’m still thinking about it, after all this time. But I guess my relationship with death has always been crooked. I don’t think I react normally. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset now. I keep thinking of it. Maybe I’m just trying to make up for the silence I showed in the past.”
“Define normal,” he challenges, pulling your hand away. You spread your fingers across the expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I don't want to play the veteran card, but I've witnessed numerous people grieving, and each instance was vastly different. Some remained silent for weeks, while others screamed and lashed out. And some. . . looked for alternative means to help them forget." He presses your foreheads together, his nose brushing against yours. He still has trouble admitting that side of himself to you. "You're not broken for dealing with it in your own way."
Your breath catches in your throat, tears building in your eyes. You’re not sure why though. Some part of you has been dying to hear those words, to hear that you’re normal, that you’re not some emotionally constipated—or overly emotional—person. Finally, finally, someone is there to hold you without you having to ask them to. Frankie’s there, deep brown eyes boring into yours as he pulls you impossibly close. You feel your bottom lip starting to quiver. A sudden, odd, choked-out sound reverberates in your throat and he smiles. He captures your bottom lip between his teeth and kisses you.
“Mi amor, my sweet girl,” he whispers, the words warming your skin. “You can let it out, I’ll catch you. No matter what. I don’t care if it’s over a fictional death or not, I’m here. Okay?”
“Okay,” your answer comes out in a whimper, you nuzzle his chest, hands becoming tight fists as hot tears slide down your cheeks. You’re not sure why you’re crying. Are the tears for the unfortunate character in your book? Or is it for finally being understood, to have someone there for you, promising to stay?
You don’t know. But it doesn’t matter anyway.
Frankie will be there.
#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie catfish morales#frankie morales x you#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier fanfic#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal characters
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The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 30
We left Frankie in a pretty bad state at the end of the last chapter and now we need to get through that as his girl and the guys begin to really worry about where his actions are leading him. And Joel steps in of course, but perhaps not in the best way.
I just want to add too, that this chapter included a conversation that has been a long time coming but it was very hard to write since neither man wants to talk about it and I can just hope I did them both justice.
I just want to add too, since some people are nervous about it; I LOVE hearing your thoughts and comments on what I write, even if the chapter is months and months old! It's my favourite thing about posting here and on Ao3, hearing your thoughts as you read through the fic, so please, share with me!
Series Master List
Chapter 31 - Warnings have their own post - Word count: 7.7k
You wake with a start, your body jerking you awake with panicked breaths. The bedroom is light, the window faces south and a weak sun is glinting through the closed curtain which means you slept far longer than usual, the sun rises late in the Massachusetts winter months. You rush to push back the comforter and hurry out into the living room. The blanket is pushed back on the couch and Frankie is not there, and not in the kitchen either. As you turn to the bathroom you see what’s missing, his boots, his jacket and backpack.
“Fuck!” you groan loudly and run back to the bedroom, grabbing your clothes from last night and rushing to put them on. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You feel an urgent need to get to Frankie, to talk to him. It’s not like him to leave, certainly not in the middle of an argument, and never, ever, has he left in the morning without saying anything to you. Something is not right, it feels like the two of you have crossed a line that you need to get you both back behind.
You tie your boots and shrug your winter coat on, your first stop is Pope’s place. You hammer on his door and he throws it open, his face falling when he sees your expression.
“Frankie came home drunk last night and now he’s left again, I don’t know where he is!” you blurt out as Pope lets you into his apartment.
“Slow down, hermana,” he says, grabbing hold of your shoulders, steadying you, “From the beginning.”
“Frankie and I got into an argument about what he did when he was on that run with Will, he couldn’t understand why I thought he was too violent,” you say, trying to calm yourself, but your hands are shaking and Pope grabs them, holding them together between his own. “Then Joel came by, right in the middle of it, something about planning a new run, and Frankie just left with him, saying he needed to think. And then he came back late last night , really drunk and passed out on the couch, and now he’s gone! He never leaves without saying goodbye and I don’t know where he is!” Your voice breaks on the last word and Pope lets go of your hands, bending down to grab his boots.
“We’ll go find him, we’ll go to Benny’s first, Tommy said something yesterday about meeting there.” He looks up at you while he laces his boots, “Don’t worry, hermana, it’s early still, he can’t have gone that far.”
…
“Tell me again what this FEDRA guy told you about the raiders?” Benny asks Joel as they duck under a broken piece of the highway and head into an old sewage tunnel.
“A small FEDRA patrol saw a bunch of them down in Dorchester, if we take them out, we get to keep the supplies,” Joel replies, stepping around a dead rat.
“And you trust this guy?”
“Yeah, he owes me a favor, I saved his ass a couple of times. And he’s given me tips before, they’ve always been solid, nothing this big though.”
“Alright, as long as you think it’s a legit tip,” Benny nods and falls back a bit, Frankie’s right behind him, Tommy taking up the rear.
“You ok, Fish? You look a bit pale,” Benny says, his voice lower for the benefit of his friend.
“Yeah, just slept like shit, and we had a fucking early wake up call,” Frankie grumbles, pulling the bill of his cap down lower over his eyes.
“Tell me about it,” Benny sighs, “Eve just woke up to say goodbye, then she went right back to sleep. Wish I could’ve stayed in bed with her.”
“Mmhm, same,” Frankie mutters, pausing as they come to the end of the tunnel.
“Ok, on your toes now, we've got to go out in the open here,” Joel says, waving the other three men forwards.
…
The trek down to Dorchester is smooth, and it doesn’t take long for them to find the raiders' small camp. They’ve set up on the top floor of an office building and Benny and Frankie silently take out the two guards at the bottom of the stairs. It gets messy when they reach the top and they have to open fire but Joel tosses in a homemade smoke bomb and after that they can just pick off the raiders as they come stumbling out.
They pick through the raider’s supplies and fill their packs, it’s a pretty good haul and Benny starts searching for any food they might’ve hidden, coming across a door that’s been blocked off with a filing cabinet.
“Hey, Catfish! Give me a hand with this!” he calls to Frankie, “Cover me in case they’ve locked a fucking infected in here or something.”
Frankie stands a few feet from the door with his rifle raised as Benny puts his shoulder to the filing cabinet and pushes it out of the way. The door swings open and Benny jumps out of the way.
“Oh fuck, shit! Man, that’s foul!”
The dead boy of a young woman falls out across the doorway, her body must’ve been propped against the door, and judging by the stench, she’s been dead a while. The body of another young woman is curled up on a dirty mattress, she’s less far gone, her emaciated features still clear. Both women are naked and Benny swallows hard and glances back at Frankie as they both realize why the women were locked up.
“We should’ve killed those fucking raiders slower,” Frankie growls, turning away from the room and Benny follows him.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here and back to the QZ”.
Back down at street level again Joel takes the lead and moves down the way they came, covering a couple of blocks before Benny suddenly signals for everyone to halt.
“Heads up, I hear a car,” he calls in a low voice to the others.
“More raiders,” Joel says, “C’mon, we’ll ambush them, this is the only cleared street.” He looks around the block they’re on and points to cars that have been pushed aside on either side of the street. “Frankie, Benny, hide behind either car, cover me. Tommy, get behind me. I’ll make them stop, usual way should work, if not, just shoot ‘em.”
“Joel, you sure?” Benny interrupts, “How do we know they’re raiders? We should hang back and observe, see if they go for the base we cleared.”
“No, then we just have to clear them out again and this time they’ll be on their guard,” Joel scowls, “Get in position!”
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Benny shakes his head, looking over at Frankie who’s already moved into cover, “Fish? You ok with this?”
“Joel’s right, it’s probably the same group of raiders, we need to take them out.”
“Get in position, Benjamin, or stay the fuck out of our way, they’re almost here,” Joel points to the other car, staring at Benny. The younger man takes a deep breath, glancing over at Frankie again who motions with his head to get behind the car.
“Fuck!” Benny growls and grips his rifle, ducking behind cover with an angry scowl.
Joel quickly gets into position as the rumbling engine comes closer, keeping an eye out for the car. As it gets closer Benny sees it, it’s a small beat up sedan with several bullet holes in the sides. He glances over at Frankie and gives him a hand signal, indicating three people inside. Frankie nods and passes on the message to Tommy just as the car drives down the block they’re on. Ahead of him, Benny suddenly hears Joel give up a loud shout, stumbling out of the alley into the path of the car, his hand clutching his side, the other raised to the driver.
The others watch, guns ready and hidden out of sight, as the car barrells towards Joel, who’s staggering across the road. Suddenly the driver slams the brakes and the car skids to a halt in front of Joel. From his hiding place Benny sees the driver open the door and step up on the instep, aiming a gun at Joel.
“Hey, I-I need help, p-please,” Joel stutters, holding up the hand that’s not holding his side, where he’s conveniently hidden his handgun.
“What’s wrong with you?” the driver calls as Joel stumbles closer, the man is still half hidden behind the door and Joel’s trying to get around to his side so he half falls to the side, taking several stuttering steps sideways.
“You infected?” the driver says, following Joel with his gun, “Can’t help you then I’m afraid.”
“R-raiders,” Joel coughs, “ran into a whole bunch.”
Benny looks over at Frankie, he’s got a clear shot at the driver and he’s aiming at him. Benny signals at him to hold his fire, these guys don’t sound like raiders, but Frankie’s shaking his head, squeezing his rifle as the man continues to keep his gun on Joel.
“Be careful, Dan!” a man in the car suddenly calls and Joel straightens up, pulling his gun, aiming at the man. A shot rings out and the driver slumps forward, a clean shot though his head.
“God dammit, Frankie!” Benny yells, lifting his own rifle as the man in the car dives for the fallen man’s gun. Joel fires on him but misses and the man takes off running. On his right Ben hears Tommy open fire on the third person in the car as Joel yells.
“Shoot his leg, Frankie, take him down alive!” The man is running as fast as he can down the block but two shots ring out and he yells, tumbling to the ground as blood bursts from his thigh.
“Secure him, Benny,” Frankie yells and advances on the car, rifle raised. Benny keeps his gun on the fallen man and moves up to him, he’s splayed on his back, gripping his thigh, whimpering.
“Oh fuck, please, please don’t kill me!” he says, trying to crawl backwards away from Benny.
“Just stay still, I’m not gonna hurt you unless you give me a reason,” Benny says, keeping his distance as he glances back at the car. Frankie’s jogging towards him and behind him, Joel steps into the car and a woman screams.
“No, no, don’t hurt her! She’s my sister!” the man on the ground shouts and Benny turns his head back to him as Frankie joins him.
“What’s going on, Fish?” he says in a voice low enough for the man not to hear.
“The third passenger is a woman, Joel’s questioning her about who they are and where they’re going.”
“Fish! These guys are obviously not raiders, what the fuck are we doing?” Benny glances back at the car as another high pitched scream comes from the woman and the man on the ground shouts.
“Get off her you fucking prick! I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Frankie raises his rifle and aims at the man, “Easy there, he’s just questioning her.”
“What the fuck, Frankie, this is not how we treat civilians!”
“What fucking civilians? We can’t trust anyone, Benny, you saw what the raiders did to those two women!” Frankie growls.
“Yeah, but these guys are barely armed!” Benny nudges the dropped gun on the ground with his boot, badly maintained and rusty.
“And how the fuck were we supposed to know that?” Frankie asks, his rifle still trained on the bleeding man who’s whimpering, clutching his leg and looking towards the car.
“Maybe we don’t attack just anyone who drives past!” Benny hisses at Frankie, his eyebrows drawn tight with anger and frustration. “This is so fucked up, Fish!”
“Is he still alive?” Joel barks as he walks over, leaving Tommy to watch over the woman in the car.
“Yeah, but he’s bleeding, we need to get a tourniquet on that leg soon,” Benny replies, “Joel, what the fuck are we doing here? These guys are not raiders.”
Joel doesn’t reply, instead he walks up to the man on the ground and kneels down, Frankie’s gun is still trained on him, but Benny has let his drop, pointing it at the ground instead.
“You sister is it?” he asks of the man, putting his hand over the gunshot wound on the thigh.
The man nods, looking petrified under Joel’s hard stare.He yelps loudly when Joel’s hand squeezes the injured area, digging his fingers in.
“Your sister told me where you came from, and where you’re going. You’d better tell me the same thing she did, or I’m telling my guy over there to shoot her knee off, you understand?” Joel’s voice is hard and low, slowly squeezing the man’s leg tighter.
“Worcester!” the younger man blurts out, “We came from Worcester, and we’re heading for the Boston QZ but we got attacked and got lost. Please don’t hurt her, she’s my only family!”
“Have you got any supplies apart from what’s in the car?”
“No, no, I s-swear, we’ve got n-nothing!” the man stutters, groaning under the pain of Joel’s hand digging into his injured leg, “Please, we’ve got nothing!”
“Good boy,” Joel growls, easing off the man's leg and standing up.
He comes back to Benny and Frankie, wiping his hand on his trouser leg, “They both say the same thing. I say we leave ‘em and take the car, we can trade for it or stash outside the wall, might come in handy sometime.”
“Fuck, Joel, we need to take them with us, we can’t leave them out here,” Benny says and looks to Frankie for support but he just gives a hesitant shrug.
“I don’t know Benny, we can’t trust them,” he says.
“What fucking choice do we have? Leave them injured out here with no guns?” Benny snarls back at him.
“They’re not our responsibility!” Joel snaps, “Let’s fucking- “
All three men freeze as the first tell tale sounds echo between the buildings, the snarling shrieks of dozens of infected reaching them.
“Runners! Runners!” Tommy yells from the car, “Come on, we need to fucking go!” He rushes to the driver’s side of the car, jumping in and the woman sees her chance, bolting from the car and running for the alley.
“Leave her, just leave her!” Joel yells as he grabs Frankie and starts running towards the car, “Just start the car, Tommy!”
“Benny, no! Leave him!” Frankie shouts as he sees Benny moving towards the injured man on the ground. “Fucking leave him!”
“Please, please…just kill me” the man begs, looking back over his shoulder and Benny follows his gaze.
“Fuck!” he gasps, frozen to the spot for a second before he raises his gun and fires, the man slumping onto the asphalt. Benny spins around and starts running after Frankie, the horde of infected barrelling down the street screeching loudly.
“Benny! I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Frankie yells, “Get in the car!”
Tommy’s already got the car moving as Benny catches up, grabbing hold of Frankie’s arm and getting pulled into the back seat.
“Floor it, Tommy!” Joel shouts, looking back over his shoulder, out the back window.
…
Thank fuck Tommy’s a good driver, he speeds through the streets, leaving the horde far behind. He only slows down once they enter the area around the QZ and turns off onto a narrow street that Joel directs him to.
“Here, down there, park between those two cars and we’ll throw some trash on it.”
The four men quickly make the car look unusable and head towards the QZ, splitting up as they get inside, stepping out into a quiet alley a few blocks from the wall..
“Alright, good run, except for the fucking infected,” Joel says, clapping Frankie on the back, “I’ll see you guys at the bar in a couple of days.”
Frankie nods and Benny throw the brothers a two fingered salute as they leave.
“Hey Fish, wait up, we need to talk,” Benny says as Frankie turns to leave too.
“If you’re gonna yell at me for how we handled the people in the car, fucking save it, I already got an earful from Will after our last run,” Frankie says, his shoulders hunched and eyebrows pulled tight, “I don’t need another lecture on how we’re using army tactics on civilians.”
“Frankie, man, c’mon, you’ve got to admit, that was pretty fucking bad? We should’ve just observed them, not fucking attacked,” Benny rubs his hand over his face, “I mean, why the fuck did Joel even pull that stunt with forcing them to stop? And why did you open fire? I’ve never seen you jump the gun like that, Fish.”
“The guy in the car, I thought he was about to pull a gun on Joel, so I shot first.”
“And the interrogation technique? You taught him that?”
“So what? We do what we need to do to survive.”
Benny shakes his head, “That was not about survival, I don’t know what the fuck that was!”
“Just fucking leave it, Benny! Ok?” Frankie snaps, scowling at his friend, “I’ll see you later, I need to get something done.” He shoulders his backpack and heads off in the opposite direction of the apartment.
“Fish, c’mon!” Benny calls after him, but Frankie just gives a dismissive wave of his hand without turning his head as he rounds the corner.
“Fuck…” Benny mutters and stalks off towards the radio office, he needs to see you.
…
It feels like deja vu when you find Benny outside the building where Sean lives and has the radio office.
“I’ve got to talk to you about Frankie,” he says and you feel like your heart stops, you’d been trying to find Frankie all morning, until you had to go to the radio office. Pope promised he’d keep looking, checking back at the apartment during the afternoon.
“Did something happen to him? Pope and I have been looking for him all day!” you say, grabbing hold of Benny’s arm and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“He didn’t tell you we were going on a run with Joel and Tommy today?”
“Benny, is he ok?” You feel like shaking him but you limit yourself to grabbing his arm tighter and Benny nods.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine, he’s fine, he came back with me but he said he had to do something when we got back.” Benny takes in your anxious looking face as it slips into relief and returns your grip on his arm, putting his hand over yours. “He didn’t tell you and he hasn't come to see you yet? Is something going on with you guys?”
You sigh and feel yourself deflating, your shoulders sagging with relief that Frankie’s ok, but at the same time, that lead weight settles in your stomach as you worry about his behavior again.
“Walk me home, Benny, please,” you ask, “if you have time?” You feel like Benny’s friendly presence next to you is the only thing that will make your feet move down the street as you chew on your bottom lip.
“Sure, I’ll walk you, I need to get back to Eve but...but maybe that can wait, what’s going on?”
“Tell me what happened when you were with him today,” you say, taking his arm and leaving the front entrance.
Benny looks around the two of you as you start walking down the street, checking that there is no one near that can overhear first and then he tells you the whole thing.
“Fuck…” you sigh for what feels like the twentieth time as Benny ends by telling you that Frankie took off after they got back. “His PTSD has been getting worse and both Pope and Will brought it up in the past few days. That last run with Will, things went bad and Pope’s been noticing his behavior being off too.”
You’ve reached the door to your building and you stop, looking up at Benny’s frown. “Yesterday I tried telling him that I think he shouldn’t go on runs with Joel anymore. Joel triggers something in Frankie and…I don’t know…I feel like maybe they aren’t good for each other. They’ve both suffered an unimaginable loss, in the worst possible way, and when Frankie got help, Joel seems to have had to deal with it on his own and it’s made him…just…very dark, like he’s just ‘existing’ and doing what he needs to do to survive…”
“And he has no empathy for others,” Benny fills in, “he didn’t even stop to consider that the people in the car could be just people trying to get to the QZ, and he left them with no second thought when the infected came, it was all about eliminating a potential threat and then about saving himself and Tommy.” Benny swipes his cap off his head and drags his hand through his hair, sighing. “I’m not even sure he would bother to save Frankie and myself, if we hadn’t gotten to that car in time.”
“But Frankie doesn’t see it,” you say, “and when I asked him to not go on runs with Joel anymore because I think it makes his PTSD worse, we got in a huge fight,” you sigh deeply, dropping your eyes to your toes and you feel Benny’s hand on your shoulder. “He got really mad when I said I thought he was too violent with this guy, Frankie threatened to gouge his eye out. But Frankie said he only did what was needed to get the antibiotics for Sean’s grandkid.” You swipe your hand over your cheek as tears start to drip down, “Fuck, I don’t wanna cry again,” you say, anger seeping through your voice, “Fuck!”
You tilt your head back up and look at Benny’s worried eyes, “Come on, it’s you and Frankie, you’re everything to him, one fight doesn’t ruin it,” he says, rubbing your shoulder
“He walked out, Benny, right in the middle of the fight. He’s never done that before, he just took off with Joel. And then he came home really drunk and we started arguing again and he passed out on the couch, he said he thought I didn’t want him in my bed anymore. And then this morning he left again, without saying anything. He went outside the wall and didn’t even say goodbye.” Tears spill over properly now and you sniffle, trying to stem the flow, but the nerves of the day catches up with you. Benny starts rubbing his hands up and down your arms, trying to comfort you.
“Let’s get you inside, Frankie might be home already, you two need to talk it out, c’mon,” Benny gently hooks his arm around your shoulder and guides you through the door and up the stairs. You fumble out your keys and unlock your front door, opening up to a still dark apartment.
“Alright, he’s not home yet, but he’ll be here soon, I’ll wait with you until he turns up,” Benny says and starts to lift off his still heavy backpack and you stop him.
“No, please, go home to Eve. I know she’s worried about you since you went outside, get back home. I’ll be fine, and Pope’s next door if I need anything.” You put your hands on his chest and try, and fail, to nudge the big man towards the door.
“You sure? I’ll wait for him, and slap some sense into him if needed, just say the word,” Benny replies, tilting his head down to catch your eyes properly.
“I’m sure, Benny, please go home,” you give him another pointless shove and he gives with a small smile.
“Ok, if you’re sure I’ll go, but give me a hug first,” he says and bends down, capturing you between his long arms. Benny’s signature bear hugs are all encompassing and he lifts you up, shaking you gently and making you giggle through your tears.
“Just remember, it’s you and Frankie, you’re the love of his life. All he does, he does for you, if he’s lost his way, all he needs is for you to bring him back home. To you.”
“Benny, when did you become so insightful?” you smile weakly as he puts you down on your feet.
“Not insightful, I’ve just watched you two over the past, what is it? Eleven years now? And with Eve, I get it, what you two have. I’d do anything for her, and I know that’s all Frankie ever wants to do for you.”
“Get back to her, Benny, before you make me cry again,” you say, giving his arm a final squeeze before he steps through the door. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll come by the radio tomorrow and check on you, ok?”
“Ok, Benny, stay safe, love you!”
“Love you too, sis!” he calls as he jogs down the stairs.
…
You try to keep busy while you wait for Frankie; preparing dinner, cleaning the apartment, you even pull out your gun and start disassembling it on the coffee table to get it cleaned. It’s dark before he comes home, you hear his footsteps in the hallway first and then the key. Even before he opens the door you know something’s wrong, he struggles with the key in the lock, fumbling with the handle and you stand up, leaving the pieces of the gun on the table.
“Frankie?” you ask as the door shuts behind him, “Are you ok?” You walk over to the front door, and he glances up at you before he drops his backpack by the door.
“Yeah, ‘s fine,” he mumbles, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook. “Went out with Benny today.”
“I know, Benny stopped by the radio,” you say, your body freezing as he shuffles past, only briefly pausing to drop a peck on your cheek, perfunctory. He smells of whiskey, fresh whiskey, like he’s just been drinking.
You don’t even know where to start as you follow him into the kitchen, the argument last night, him leaving this morning without saying anything, his run with Joel today or the way he stumbles around the kitchen table towards the stove.
“Frankie…” you say again, making your voice soft, you feel like you’re talking to a child, or a wild animal, not your sweet Frankie who you know so well. When he doesn’t even react, let alone look over at you, you dig your nails into the palms of your hands, reminding yourself that this is his PTSD, this is not your Frankie.
“Frankie, talk to me please,” you start again, coming up next to him at the counter, you put your hand on his arm.
“What did Benny tell you? That we went out again?” he says, still not looking at you, his tone clipped.
“Yes, he said you took out some raiders and then…” you pause, you don’t know how to phrase it but Frankie does it for you. He steps away from you, and leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen.
“H-he told you we took out three people in a car, that I shot one of the guys when I shouldn’t have, right? That’s what he told you? T-that I’m out of control and violently torturing civilians?” His voice is harsh, there’s an edge to it you don’t recognise and he’s still not looking at you.
“He’s worried about you, Frankie, and I’m too,” you say, “you haven’t been yourself these past few months.” You try to find his eyes but he’s got the bill of his cap pulled low, eyes on the floor two feet in front and his fingers are twitching, nervously.
“I already told you, I do what I need to do, to stay safe,” he mutters, the edge still sharp in his voice, crossing his arms tight over his chest, crossing his legs too, closing himself off from you.
“Benny said they were civilians, just trying to get to the QZ- “ you start to say but Frankie suddenly flares up.
“We’d just taken out a gang of raiders! It could’ve been more of them! The guy was about to pull a fucking gun on Joel, so I took the shot!” He throws his arms out, meeting your eyes for the first time. “You can’t fucking trust anyone, it’s us or them and I do what I need to do to survive! They could’ve attacked and killed us instead, then what?”
“But you were never like that before, Frankie!” you can’t help but raise your voice in frustration. When he worked with Pope in Arlington, or when you traveled up to New York with Benny and Pope, he was never so calloused, so distrusting and rash. “You used to observe, calculate the risks, you never rushed into situations, but since you started working more with Joel…I don’t know Frankie, it’s like he rubs off on you.” You drop your hands to your sides, you suddenly realize you’ve mimicked Frankie and thrown them open but now you sigh, lower them and take a deep breath.
“Frankie…I know you’re capable of real violence,” you shake your head, sighing, “but you’re not a violent person, it’s like it’s getting away from you when you work with Joel and I do-”
“Maybe I am a violent person now? This is the person I need to be now, to keep myself safe, to keep us safe!” Frankie slams his hands against the cupboard and stalks out of the kitchen, turning and gripping the back of the couch as he gets to it, looking back at you. “I do it for you, don’t you get it?! Maybe this is the person I have to be now to keep myself safe, for you, to stay alive for you because I have to keep you safe!”
“Then stay here, stay in the QZ,” you follow him towards the living room. “I don’t want you to go out any more if this is what you have to do. It’s destroying you!”
“That's all I can do!” he shouts back at you, “That’s all I’m tra-trained for, I’m the b-best at it! It’s the only thing that makes a difference!”
“Frankie, you don’t have to-” you begin, but Frankie just shakes his head and starts pacing the living room like he can’t hear you.
“E-every time I leave you make me p-promise to come back safe, did you ever stop to think that this is what I have to do to keep that promise to you?! I have to stay alive to keep you safe, I promised you that and now you think I’m a monster for what I have to do?”
Frankie slams his hands hard against the wall and spins round, stomping across the living room again and you’re worried now, he’s spiraling out of control, his voice becoming more and more unstable. “I d-do this for you, I stay a-alive for you, don’t you get it! I would’ve fucking ki-killed myself after she died! I was so fucking close to it, so-s-so fucking close to just walking into that fucking lake and ending it! If-if it wasn’t for you still in that cabin!” His voice is rising to a shout, spinning around and slamming his fist into the wall again, “I just..I promise to come back every time, I have to come back but you still think I’m just violent, just a fucking monster, just a mo-monster, I-I can’t- “
“Frankie, c’mon man!”
You didn’t even hear the front door open but Pope suddenly walks into the living room. You’re frozen by the kitchen as Frankie paces, more and more agitated, back and forth, his arms waving in front of him as his mind whirls. You can see his glassy eyes, his breathing is starting to get erratic but you have no idea how to stop this. But Pope strides over to his friend and stands in front of him, forcing him to come to a halt.
“Francisco, cálmate, hermano. Por favor;” he tries to catch Frankie’s eyes, gently placing his hands on his shoulders and holding on as Frankie tries to shrug them off, looking at him with almost unseeing eyes.
“Frankie…fuck…” he sighs as he scans his face, “you’re high as a fucking kite. What did you take?”
At that Frankie’s eyes snap up to Pope’s, “Fucking nothing!” he snarls, wrenching himself away and stumbling back towards the couch.
“Fish, I’ve seen you high more times than you can remember, I know when you’ve been using, man,” Pope says as Frankie grabs the back of the couch again, hiding his eyes beneath the bill of his cap again, refusing to look at you or Santi.
“Frankie…” you try, your voice wobbling as you recognize the signs in him but he just shakes his head.
“I had a few drinks with Joel, I’m not fucking high,” he mutters but Santi shakes his head.
“C’mon, Fish, I know you’re struggling, she knows it too, we just wanna help you,” he takes a few steps towards Frankie, the frustration seeping through into his voice and Frankie backs away, turning around and going for his backpack.
“I’m not fucking high,” he snarls over his shoulder, rifling through his backpack.
“Fine, you’re not using,” Santi says, “then show us your pack.” He motions towards the bag at Frankie’s feet and the way Frankie reacts makes your stomach sink another notch. His hands clench instinctively around the opening, pulling it closer but Pope steps in and reaches for the bag. Frankie abruptly stands up and stumbles back, grabbing it but his movements are slow and Pope’s faster, he snatches the backpack from Frankie, holding it away from him.
“Coño, pendejo!” Frankie snarls, trying to grab the bag back from Pope, “What the fuck are you doing?!”
“What the fuck are you doing, Frankie?” Pope replies with a sneer, shoving him back and Frankie, already unsteady on his feet, stumbles backwards and falls onto the couch. “You told me yourself, never trust a fucking junkie.”
Keeping an eye on Frankie, while you stand stunned by the kitchen door, your hands gripping the door frame so hard your fingers ache, Pope opens the backpack and digs through it. It doesn’t take him long, under Frankie’s dull eyes he soon pulls out a small baggie with white pills. Pope sighs and holds it out to Frankie.
“What is it?”
“Painkillers,” Frankie mumbles, but his eyes drop from Pope to his feet, his lie so obvious it forces tears into your eyes.
“Frankie…” you whisper and he glances up at you and meets your eyes for a second before he looks away. But even in that brief glance you see the pain and guilt in his eyes and it pushes you to move, walking around the coffee table and sinking down on the couch next to him. You raise your hand to put it on his shoulder but before you touch him he’s on his feet, snatching the bag from Pope’s hand.
“It’s fucking painkillers, ok?!” he yells, his aggression flaring up as he stumbles towards the front door.
“Catfish, for fucks sake,” Pope shouts as his patience snaps, “get your fucking shit together, man!”
“Please, Frankie, you know this is your PTSD making you spiral, we’ve been here before,” you plead with him, standing up again as he stops with his back to you and the room. But whatever is in his system has control of him now as he shakes his head, his fingers twitching around the small baggie in his hand. Neither of you are getting through to him now, his body language closed off, even with his back turned you see the walls go up. But still, you go up to him where he stands by the door. His chin is on his chest, his shoulders up by his ears, you can feel the tension rolling off him as he fights whatever demon is in his mind. Gently you put your hand on his arm, and he trembles under your touch, giving the smallest shake of his head.
“Frankie…” you whisper, “please, stay with me, we’ve done this before, we can do it again, I love you.”
He shudders, a long held breath rushes out of him and he shakes his head again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “I love you, I’m sorry.” He pushes open the door and his arm slips from under your hand. You hear him run down the stairs and Santi comes up behind him, he’s got his coat on.
“I’ll follow him, I won’t let him get into more trouble, I’ll get him back,” he gives you a quick squeeze and hurries after Frankie.
…
Frankie rushes through the streets, the bag of oxy burning a hole in his pocket. He has no plan for where to go, he left his coat back at the apartment and the cold March air is making him shiver. Picking up his pace he turns at random, down a street, and then another, losing himself in the narrow alleys of North End, but it doesn’t surprise him when he finds himself in front of Joel’s apartment building, a dirty red brick block. It makes sense; to end up here. He pushes the door open and stumbles up the stairs.
Joel’s slow to answer his front door, Frankie’s almost given up, prepared to sit and wait by the door, when the older man finally opens up and looks him up and down.
“Hey Frankie, what’s up? You’ve got no jacket on.”
“I ran out on it, left in a hurry,” Frankie mumbles in reply, his mind is still foggy, he can’t quite focus on Joel. “I got some of your supply on me, Pope found it in my bag.”
“Ah, bet he wasn’t too happy about that,” Joel says, waving Frankie inside. “He ain’t too happy about me wanting to trade what we got up in Concord.” He closes the door and motions to the couch and Frankie slumps down on it as Joel goes to the kitchen and pulls out two glasses and a bottle.
“Give me one of those too,” Joel motions to Frankie’s pocket and sits down at the other end of the couch. Frankie pulls out the baggie and pour out the pills on the coffee table, handing one to Joel, taking another one for himself and they both down it with the whiskey.
Joel’s not one for talking much and Frankie’s grateful, he just needs a place to forget everything for a while. And for a long time both men sit at opposite sides of the couch, lost in their own minds as the chemicals take over. Frankie tilts his head back, his eye following the cracks in the ceiling until they slip closed and he just feels himself breathing, finally peace takes over in his mind as the fog settles.
Joel slips in another pill and another few large mouthfuls of the liquor, leaning back against the back of the couch and rubbing his eyes with his hand.
“You lost your daughter,” he says, almost surprising himself when the words come out.
Frankie doesn’t move, his eyes closed, “Yeah,” he squeezes his eyes shut, little sparks of red and yellow blossoming behind his eyelids, but he sees something else in his mind.
He tilts his head forward, opening his eyes and focusing on his hands, “Yeah,” he says again, rubbing his thumb over the fleshy part of his hand, he can almost see the blood on it. “I did, right at the beginning.”
“She got infected?”
Frankie balks at the question, the image of his little girl, mycelium under her skin, flashes up in his mind. He’s seen multitudes of infected since, killed so many, seen the thin white strands wriggle towards him as they attack and die in front of him, but he never lets himself commit what they look like to memory. This one is the only one that he remembers.
“Yeah,” he nods, “one of the first days.”
He and Joel have never talked about this before. He never talks to anyone about Lucía or what happened to her, not even to the one person who knows what he went through in the aftermath.
He glances over at Joel, he’s still leaning back on the couch, his hand rubbing over his eyes.
“D’you ever talk about Sarah?”
“No.” The answer is fast and curt.
Both men sit in silence for a few minutes, Joel shifts on the couch, looking over at Frankie, “Everyone’s lost someone. No one wants to hear about her.”
“How did she die?” Frankie locks eyes with Joel, suddenly it feels important to know how Sarah died. Joel knows how Lucía died, it feels important to know how Sarah died too. Joel meets his eyes for a few beats before he drops his gaze and stares at the wall opposite.
“It was the first night. We were trying to get away from town, ran into the military perimeter, a soldier shot at us. She…” Joel loses his words, his jaw clenching shut as he grinds his teeth, dropping his head between his shoulders.
Frankie feels the fog swirl around his mind, letting the minutes slip by while Joel stares down at his watch.
“I shot Lucía,” Frankie says, like a confession to Joel, to the man whose daughter was also shot. As if it makes a difference how they died. The daughters died and so did the fathers, when they failed.
The fog in his head clears slightly and behind the mist he sees the gun in his hand, aimed at his little girl, who no longer recognises him as she screeches and flails under the weight of her mother’s body. He reaches forward to the coffee table and takes two more pills, swallowing them down with the last of the whiskey in his glass, letting the fog cloud his mind again.
Joel blinks and looks at Frankie as if he has to think about what the other man just said, “You shot her?”
“I had to, I’d seen what they were turning into. I couldn’t…”
Joel leans forward, refilling his own glass and Frankies before he leans back, “I would’ve done the same.”
The two men sit in silence as the fog swirls through them, making thoughts slow to appear and slow to disappear.
“Sarah,” Frankie says, pushing a thought to the front of his hazy mind, “S-she was a great kid, L-Lucía loved her, fucking loved her. Didn’t stop talking about her for days after we got back.”
He grips the glass and takes a sip, shaking his head, trying to remember the comforting thought he just had, it’s stuck somewhere in his chest, he can feel it.
“I don’t…I do-don’t believe in God, I l-lost any faith I had in the army, you know. S-so many fucked up things that I saw, that I did,” he says, lifting his glass, motioning to the world outside. “I don’t believe in any god, any-anything. But I wish I did, because if Sarah d-died on that first night, that means that wherever they went, our kids, our little girls…Sarah was there waiting for Lucía. They weren’t alone,” Frankie pauses, he feels his chest constrict, that feeling like he can’t breathe threatening to overtake him. “I’d like to believe they weren’t alone,” he whispers, but in the quiet room, Joel still hears him.
Frankie slumps back down on the couch, spilling whiskey down his shirt, his burst of clarity suddenly spent, “They would’ve had each other…”
“We failed them,” Joel says, his voice low, Frankie can hear the fog in his mind too. “We should’ve kept them safe, but all we did was stand there. Couldn’t keep ‘em safe.”
Frankie nods, he feels his brain slowing down again, “I made so many mistakes…but she was the best mistake I made…couldn’t keep her safe,” he takes a large mouthful of the whiskey, it burns on the way down, distracting his mind for a second as he coughs.
“I don’t talk about Sarah, not even to Tommy,” Joel says, rubbing his thumb over the rim of the glass. “ ‘S’no point, just makes me angrier, I get by better if I don’t think about her.”
Frankie slumps down deeper into the couch, curling himself around the glass in his hand, watching the whiskey swirl around as the fog in his brain follows the motions.
“How do you stay alive,” he mumbles to the room and Joel tilts his head to look at the younger man, curled into the corner of the ratty old couch. The question is more for himself than for Joel but Joel answers anyway.
“For family,” he nods slowly, once, to himself, “for family, for Tommy. And for your woman, she kept you alive.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement and Frankie sighs.
“She doesn’t think I should do runs any more, and she’s right, I know she’s right,” he mutters, pushing his cap off his head and rubbing his temple with his free hand, the fog is lifting again and he feels the edge of panic in his mind, but he can’t remember what he’s should panic about.
“Why not? The drugs?” Joel motions at the dwindling pile of pills on the coffee table and Frankie grabs two of them, knocking them back with the whiskey still in his hand.
“My head is fucked up. From the army. ‘S’gets worse sometimes, ‘s’gets worse when I do runs, when I do violent things.” Frankie sighs, “She doesn’t like it.”
Joel snorts, a mirthless sound, “Men like us, you ‘n me, we do the violent things so others don’t have to, you keep her safe.”
“S’what I t-told h-her,” Frankie grumbles, he can feel his head getting heavier, the fog is so thick he can’t even push his tongue through it, it’s sticking to his teeth. “I do it-do it, t-to keep he-her safe.” He sinks further into the couch, his head leaning on the back of it as he wills his hand to lift up the glass to his lips and drain it. “I-I do it t-to come b-back t-to h-er.”
Through the fog in his own mind Joel sees Frankie tip forward, the empty glass in his hand, as he passes out. Joel’s glass clatters to the floor as he stumbles to his feet and staggers into the bedroom, falling onto the bed, passing out as his head hits the pillow.
Chapter 31
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#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales x you#pedro pascal character fanfiction#frankie morales fanfic#the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal#joel miller tlou#joel miller#triple frontier fanfiction#triple frontier au#triple frontier#benjamin miller#benny miller#santiago pope garcia#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales angst#the last of us fandom#the last of us fanfic#pedrostories#the pilot and his girl
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throttled control | frankie morales
-> pairing: frankie morales x pilot f!reader
-> wc: 760
-> content warnings: 18+ blog; smutty themes, established relationship, competency kink maybe, reader has call-sign but no reference to appearance or use of name
-> a/n: reposting from other account; this was a random thot after seeing frankie in that gif. this isn't beta'd, so all mistakes are my own.
masterlist
“All right, baby…. Come on, now.” His voice is low and staticy as it reverberates through your headset.
Those same words had ghosted over your naked body merely hours ago. Though similar in tone, the context in which they were uttered was vastly different. It’s evident that even at 10,000, they can still deliver an aching want where you need him most.
His hands flex over the cyclic, finger adjusting and readjusting their grip on the metal control stick that teeters in a forward position between his legs. Dexterous and capable in maintaining a steady pitch as the large aircraft flies over the terrain below.
Your mind wanders to last night, the vivid imagery still looping through your mind. His fingers working ardently to bring you closer and closer to the edge, a delicate pressure with an ample promise of sweet sweet euphoria. Those same hands holding you, gripping the meat of your delicious thighs as his cock thrust up into you. His movements were effective and shattering as he chased down the same dizzying path.
“Hollywood!” Frankie’s voice cuts through your lusty remembrance, your call-sign echoing through your headset, given to you by the guys after you had confessed to them during a drunken night of truth or dare your dream of becoming an actress when you were younger. That evening resulted in a not so humiliating call sign and a kiss with a handsome pilot— and now serious boyfriend.
“Hmm?” You lift your gaze from his hands to his handsome face, the golden hues of the sunset washing over his beautiful features.
“I asked you how the oil pressure is reading?” You can see the seriousness of his eyes from behind his aviators.
“Oil pressure is in the green and temp is stable at 180 degrees.” You tell him while making a note on your log sheet, the sway of the metal aircraft has you glancing back over to where his hands are taut as they even out the pitch.
“What’s got your head in the clouds?” He asks, his focus moving from the sky in front him over to where you’re sitting to the left of him in the cockpit.
“Nothin’” You lie, but the smile you’re incapable of concealing gives away your silent thoughts, looking back to his hands steadily at work then back to him.
Frankie follows where your line of sight had been, realization hitting him quickly. His tongue glides over his bottom lip as his right hand settles on your leg, the few gentle squeezes he gives you has your insides buzzing.
“You still thinkin’ about last night too?” He asks, watching the way his hand flexes over your fatigue cover thigh, noting the way you shift in your set at his touch.
“You looked so good, baby. Been thinkin’ about it all day, too. Might need a refresher tonight.” He winks at you then refocuses his attention on the flight path.
“Yeah— I like the sound of that. Might even let you do that one thing you’ve been wanting to try out.” You purr, anticipation already setting up in your core.
“You mind keepin’ your kinky shit off the comms? We don’t need to hear the shit you two do in your spare time.” Santiago’s grating voice cuts through the communication system.
“Fuck off, Pope. Jealousy ain’t a cute look for you. It’s not my fault what’s her name dumped your ass last week.” Frankie shakes his head, chuckling at your response.
“Speak for yourself, Pope. I for one would like to know what this thing is that Fish has been wanting to try out.” Benny pipes up from his seat in the rear of the helicopter. “Care to share with the class, Fish?”
“Nope.” Let the ‘P’ pop between his plush lips as he says it. “And you can fuck right off too if you think about asking her for it later.”
“Why don’t you rest your eyes? We’ve got another 30 minutes of air time before we touch down at base. You’re gonna need all the rest you can get for what I have planned for you later, Baby.” Frankie suggests, knowing he’s fully capable of handling the aircraft on his own— a nap sounds nice too, to make up for the sleep you didn’t have last night.
“Seriously!?” Santiago groans in annoyance.
“Fuck off, Pope.” Frankie and you yell in unison.
You adjust yourself into a comfortable position, placing your own aviators over your closed eyes. Your mind drifting back to last night with ease, gearing up for what’s to come later tonight.
#frankie morales#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x fem!reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#triple frontier#pedro pascal#wildemaven writes
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