#frankie morales fic
Text
stalemate
pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader
words: 7.2k
summary: Frankie Morales is your best friend — until a drunken hookup tears you apart.
warnings: 18+ minors dni; friends -> enemies -> lovers, TF characters without the TF plot, no Tom (in this house we hate Tom), alcohol consumption, smoking, angst, jealousy, pining, Frankie & reader being idiots in love, explicit smut, size kink, brief mentions of drunk sex, bad / regretful sex (between reader & OC), oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, multiple orgasms, use of pet names (bebita, querida, baby, etc.), grilled cheese as a love language, happy ending, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!
a/n: thank you so much to @javisashtray & @pedgito for beta-reading this for me <3 this is for all my frankie lovers out there (aka bitches with good taste). dividers are by cafekitsune. follow @joelscurlsupdates for fic notifications! enjoy :)
Frankie Morales makes the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had. Perfectly golden bread; gooey, melty cheese — just the thought of it makes you drool. He says he has a secret ingredient. Won’t let you in the kitchen while he cooks for you, lest you find out.
Sometimes, upon entering his apartment, you can already smell melted butter. He’ll have started on one without even asking if you want it. He knows you always do.
Sit, he’ll shout from the other room. I’ll be right there. Feel free to put something on — but please, not 13 Going on 30. You’ll thank him and question his distaste for Mark Ruffalo in the same breath: you’re the best, but it’s not my fault Matty is the dream man.
He’ll bring you the wafting plate along with a Corona, and insist that you eat before it goes cold while he makes one for himself. Ever the gentleman, ever the friend — at least he was.
Because the two of you haven’t spoken in a month; not since the drunken hookup that you’re both pretending didn’t happen.
You’d laughed the entire cab ride home from the bar. That last round of tequila shots had left you feeling good, all warm and giggly, and Frankie mirrored you in the backseat with his drunken grin. Eyes glassy, lips pulled wide, he’d smacked you lightly on the shoulder as you recalled Santiago’s pitiful loss in that third game of pool. “When he pocketed the eight-ball…” he trailed off into another fit of laughter.
“And then—“ you attempted, voice caught in your throat as another giggle barreled out. “—the cue hitting his drink!” Your entire body folded over, hands braced on Frankie’s thighs as the two of you struggled to regain composure. Through labored breaths, you squealed. “He’s never going to live that down!”
After a few particularly stressful months at work, you lived for these nights out with your friends. You’d met Frankie through your best friend Mal, who was dating his friend Benny, and your circles had eventually meshed into one. Sometimes it felt like it had always been that way, like you’d known the guys your entire life.
Especially Frankie.
Your friendship was a special one — punctuated by frequent trips to the movies to watch the latest horrible slasher film; by nights spent yapping on the phone about nothing in particular. He’d become a constant in your life. Never, in your right mind, would you even dream of doing anything to jeopardize that—
“You look really hot tonight, by the way.”
He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have. But then it was you who leaned in closer, you who rested your hand on his hip and plucked the Standard Heating Oil cap off his head, placing it atop your own.
It was you who kissed him first.
He deepened it though — that was all him — large, restless hands grasping at your sides, your back, your face; tongue pushing past the seam of your lips to press against yours. He’d groaned into your mouth when the cab stopped at the curb in front of your building. Cursed under his breath when you pulled away.
And then, your voice ragged and breathless, you’d asked, “do you want to come in for a bit?”
It was a mistake. A horrible, blissful mistake. Waking up with sticky thighs and Frankie’s thumbprint bruised into your hip, you’d found his side of the bed cold; your inbox empty. He hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Still hasn’t.
The aftermath is cursory glances. Half-assed greetings and pleasantries murmured across the bar. Which you don’t mind, really. You don’t want to speak to him. He’d probably just feed you some lie about losing track of time, not remembering what happened that night.
You wish you could forget it.
The visual is fuzzy; fleeting. But his voice — god, his voice — it still rings in your ears, drips at the nape of your neck like a leaking tap: fuck, baby, knew you’d take my cock; feel so good wrapped around me.
Your friends don’t know. They can’t; they wouldn’t let you live it down. Benny has made plenty of offhand comments already about you and Frankie being perfect for each other, having the same stubborn disposition. Mal does nothing to shut him up. Instead, she encourages him. Tells him he’s so right.
You’re pretty sure your eyeballs are going to fall out someday from glaring too hard.
Because you’re not perfect for each other — far from it, actually. Fuck, you can’t even communicate effectively. How could you ever be in a real relationship?
Not that you want that. Frankie is…well, Frankie. Sure, he’d felt undeniably incredible on top of you, inside of you — but he isn’t the type to settle down. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Frankie talk about dating.
Besides, he’s clearly not interested in being anyone’s anything right now. Not even your friend.
It hurts; cuts deeper than you care to admit. Just weeks ago, you’d spent an entire weekend at his place, marathoning the X Files and gorging on cold pizza. Now, he won’t even look your way for more than a few seconds.
Won’t make you a fucking grilled cheese.
It’s a Friday night, which means you’re meeting your friends at Sid’s. The glow of neon seeping through the windows of the old dive bar is warm and inviting as you step out of your rideshare and make your way toward the doors.
Frankie is sitting at the bar with Santiago when you enter. Hunched shoulders, narrowed eyes trained on his bottle of Corona, he appears detached from whatever Santi is saying to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you stroll up to them — not until his friend’s hand lands hard on his back, pulling his attention away from the beer. He offers a half-assed hello and an even more half-assed half-hug, and then he’s sliding back onto his barstool.
Ever-oblivious, Santiago doesn’t seem to notice the way Frankie curls in on himself; the way your back is up like an agitated cat’s.
Mal and Benny turn up minutes later, immediately ordering a round of shots for the group. You down the liquor eagerly, not bothering to lean on salt and lime to numb the sting. You want to feel it. You order another before joining Mal and the guys at a pool table in the back, letting the acid slide down your throat with no more than a wince as Santi racks the balls.
“Alright Fish, you’re up,” he says. “Me and you. Whoever loses buys the next round.”
You watch as Frankie quirks a brow at him. Takes a swig of his beer. “You sure you want to make that bet, Pope?”
Santi grins; nods confidently. “Hell yeah, I do.” The rest of you don’t bother to suppress your laughter. You catch a glimpse of Frankie, head thrown back, his broad, glistening neck exposed, and you have to fight to ignore the sudden panging in your chest.
When Santi inevitably loses, you order a vodka soda. You’re already feeling a bit tipsy after two shots in less than twenty minutes, so the drink goes down smooth; quick. There’s a rush to your head as you settle back at the bar and fiddle with the wrapper to your straw, letting the slightly soggy paper roll between two fingers.
You barely notice when Frankie slots in a few seats down, your attention drawn only when you hear his voice. It’s deep — sounds just like it did when he had his chest pressed to your back in the dim light of your bedroom — and his intonation nearly gives you whiplash.
When you snap your head up to look at him, you find he’s speaking to a woman. Her back is turned to you, long, dark hair tossed over her shoulder and her elbow resting casually on the bartop, but you imagine she must be beautiful by the way Frankie is visibly fawning over her. You’re staring, you hear her tease. Can’t help it, comes his reply.
Something like discomfort builds in your throat. Rises up up up. You take a long sip of your drink, letting vodka and sugar push it down.
You’ve never seen Frankie flirt with anyone, apart from you. It’s strangely unsettling, listening to him smooth-talk her. I’m a pilot, you know, he brags; could take you up in the sky someday if you wanted. Her giddy squeal comes seconds later; really? You’d do that for me?
You feel bad for her. She doesn’t know yet that all he’ll do is disappoint her.
He feeds her lines as you sip on your drink, citrus and grain burning only when he tells her: yeah, I came with friends; they’re all over there. Gestures toward Benny, Mal and Santi standing around the pool table in the back.
Scoffing, you stand from your seat at the bar and retreat to the patio. You don’t bother to check if Frankie is looking.
It’s cooler here, a sobering breeze carrying salt air with it as it wafts by. A few patrons have spilled outside, most smoking on faintly glowing cigarettes as they talk and laugh boisterously among themselves. You’d planned to sit alone, to plant yourself on a bench and enjoy your drink in solitude. But then a stranger is approaching you — a man, cigarette grasped between two of his fingers — and he’s asking you for a light.
He’s in his mid thirties, if you had to guess. Curly, dark hair sprouts every which way from his scalp; rounded, green eyes studying you as he awaits a response. He’s tall, though not as tall as Frankie. His shoulders aren’t nearly as broad and his chest isn’t quite as wide. His t-shirt hangs loose around his torso, swallowing his narrow frame — dissimilar to the way Frankie’s button-down clings to him.
Then again — why are you even comparing? Maybe the opposite of Frankie is exactly what you need.
You’ll have to seduce this stranger first, though. Not that it seems like it’ll be very difficult. His eyes are already raking over you, lips turned up at the corner as you take a casual sip of your drink.
“I don’t smoke,” you admit apologetically.
“Ah — that’s alright.”
He has an accent; midwestern, maybe? You don’t bother to ask. You don’t care, really. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is—
“You here all by yourself?”
“Yeah,” he laughs at your lack of subtlety. “Are you?”
“No,” you say. “My friends are inside.” Lowering your voice, you add, “but I was thinking about leaving soon.”
“Why’s that? Early morning tomorrow?”
You shake your head. Rub at your neck as if working out a knot, a contented hum pushing past your lips at the press of fingers into skin. Your stranger’s eyes trail rather conspicuously downward.
“Just over it,” you sigh exasperatedly. “I’d much rather be home…in bed…out of these clothes.”
You pull gently at the strap of your dress, as if you can’t bear the sensation of it against your shoulder any longer.
Your stranger’s gaze darkens, and the grip on his box of cigarettes grows tighter.
“You uh — want some company — once I find a light?”
Too fucking easy.
“Sure,” you giggle.
He slips away only for a minute or two, giving you just enough time to second-guess yourself. You know nothing about this man, not even his name; only that he smokes American Spirits and smells like tobacco. Should you really go home with him?
But then you think of Frankie inside — talking up a woman at the bar, pretending that you don’t exist — and that just about makes up your mind for you.
Your stranger reappears, now-lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The tip of it rages red and angry, and you think you know how that feels.
He smirks at you as he stuffs the pack into the front pocket of his jeans. An unceremonious silence hangs in the air as he sucks on the filter and puffs out a string of smoke. You wait patiently for him, quietly.
He snuffs the butt of his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. Takes your empty cup and discards that too.
Can’t wait to get you home, he whispers in your ear then. You feign arousal, peering up at him and batting your eyelashes. Me neither, you mewl. Let’s go.
You lead him back through the bar, finding Mal and letting her know that you’ll be going. She seems a little perplexed, quirking a brow at you as you grip tightly onto your stranger’s arm, but she tells you to have fun anyway. Text me, she mouths as you make your way to the exit.
You only get a few feet, though, before you’re intercepted.
Frankie is blocking the door, arms crossed, a panic-stricken look on his face that you can’t quite comprehend. “Hey,” he says, “can I talk to you real quick?”
Your stranger backs off. Lets go of your arm and starts out the door. “I’ll wait outside,” he says, slipping away with a wink before you can protest.
The bar is bustling with noise, people in every corner drinking and laughing and dancing. Strangely, though, you’ve never felt so alone. So vulnerable. And you hate that Frankie has this power over you, the innate ability to make you feel so fucking small. It’s infuriating, it’s—
“Are you sure you want to leave with him?”
“Excuse me?” you scoff.
Frankie stares you down, face red, eyes inky-black. “You don’t know this guy, do you? What if he’s a murderer or something? Or like — a pervert?”
He’s grasping at straws, you know it. It’s why you laugh; roll your eyes.
“What are you, my keeper?”
“No, it’s just — I’m just concerned for your safety, okay?”
You’re briefly stunned. After weeks of ignoring you, he cares about your wellbeing? How can he be so hypocritical?
“I’m fine,” you bite back. “Why don’t you go back to your girl at the bar? Worry about getting yourself some instead?”
He’s wounded, if only slightly. His lips part like he might retaliate, but he’s silent. Dejected. Satisfied, you brush past him. March out the door without so much as a parting glance.
Finding your stranger leaning against the bar’s brick exterior, you force a smile. He outstretches a hand and you take it, reluctantly. “Ready to go?” he asks.
You’re not so sure anymore, but you nod anyway. Squeeze your stranger’s bicep and preen under his lustful gaze when he tenses in your grip. “Yeah,” you purr. “I’m ready.”
Cold air bites at your toes the following morning. It wakes you from a deep slumber; bitterly pulls you into consciousness. Confused, you yank at the covers. But a mysterious weight holds them in place, and only then do you remember then that you’re not alone.
Eyes sliding open reluctantly, you scan the room. Your dress from the night before is draped over the chair in the corner, your stranger’s clothes piled up on the floor nearby. He snores next to you, an arm raising to hang above his head, and you shift. Slip out of bed and pull a t-shirt on before padding into the bathroom.
Early morning light spills across tile, bounces off the mirror above the sink. You squint, shuffling over to the window and yanking the blinds closed. Then you check for damage in your reflection. Your makeup from the night before has stained your cheeks and your eyes look as tired as you feel, but otherwise there appears to be no physical evidence of your rock bottom.
The sex wasn’t great — not even good, really. Your stranger had lasted all of three minutes, had fanned his hot breath across the shell of your ear as he came, and then collapsed on top of you. Rolled over and drifted to sleep. He’d started snoring before you could even process what had just happened.
Cold water splashed across your cheeks does nothing to cool the burn of regret that scorches your skin. You feel uncomfortable, almost as if your body is tainted, now, remnants of your stranger leaking from between your thighs as you steady yourself at the edge of the sink.
He must’ve heard the tap, or maybe the pounding in your chest, because he emerges seconds later. He yawns and stretches, feline-like, in the doorway. “Hey,” he mutters. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good,” you say, eyes twitching slightly as you will them to stay put above his waistline.
“You always up this early?”
You nod. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that you’d nearly jumped out of bed at the sight of him still there. He doesn’t need to know that for a split second, you’d almost hoped it was Frankie.
He asks if you want to get breakfast. You shake your head in faux-sympathy. “Sorry, can’t. I was hoping to get some cleaning done.”
“I could stick around and help,” he offers.
Jesus Christ. Just take the fucking hint.
“That’s so nice of you; I’m just more efficient by myself,” you lie again.
If Frankie were here, he’d grab the cleaning rags out of the closet just off the kitchen. He knows where they’re kept: second shelf, on the left. He’d wipe down the counters and the coffee table while you’d work on clearing dishes, disposing of pizza scraps. And he’d probably put on his dad-rock playlist — against your wishes — though you’d inevitably find yourself dancing to Foo Fighters and giggling when he’d sing along and mess up the words.
It begins to sink in then, as you shoo your stranger, now dressed, out the door, that your attempt to use sex as a way to get Frankie out of your head was useless. He’s still there, refusing quite adamantly to budge, all mussed curls and big eyes and deep voice. There’s no evidence that he’ll be leaving any time soon.
The revelation renders you nauseous. You spend the rest of the day with a hangover that you’re sure has not been induced by alcohol. And by the time night falls, darkness descending over your bedroom like a fog, you still feel sick.
A week later, you drag yourself to Benny and Mal’s for their monthly game night. You’d tried to get out of it, told Mal you haven’t been feeling great — which isn't a total lie — but she’d begged you until you broke.
Will is coming, and it’ll be the first time we’ve all gotten together in over a year, she’d whined through the receiver.
And then-
I know things were weird between you and Frankie last time at the bar, but you can’t let that stop us from seeing each other.
How do you know that, you’d asked, chewing on your bottom lip, the phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder.
He basically moped around the rest of the night after you left. Kept bitching about you leaving with that guy. He seemed really…agitated. You don’t have to tell me what happened, just please don’t bail.
So you’re here, steeling yourself as you climb the steps to the front door, hoping that if nothing else, you can make it through the night without strangling Frankie for his lack of discretion.
You enter the house with baited breath.
Your eyes immediately catch Frankie, tucked into the corner of the sectional, fingers wrapped tightly around his beer. He meets your gaze briefly before letting it slip to the floor by his feet, as if he’s trying to pretend he hasn’t seen you at all.
“Hi,” you try.
He looks back up at you, or rather past you. Taps his fingers along the bottle for a long moment. “Hey,” he says finally, to the wall behind your head.
“How have you been?” the words come out forced, almost foreign. You shift your weight awkwardly and he sighs.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“Right,” you mutter. More silence. “Me too, in case you were wondering.”
“Good,” he says, voice cold. “That’s good.”
You’re not sure whether you want to slap him or kiss him. Because as infuriating as he’s being right now, he looks gorgeous, denim shirt hugging his biceps, his shoulders; stray curls peaking out from under that stupid Standard Heating Oil hat. You yearn to rip it off his head, run your fingers through his hair, nip along the sharp line of his jaw; the broad expanse of his neck.
You long to feel something other than the prominent ache that’s permeated your body for weeks, now. And you fear that he’s the only one who’d be able to alleviate it.
Your mouth opens again just as Benny emerges from the kitchen. Whatever words you were about to utter are lost in the ether as he pulls you into a suffocating hug and thanks you for coming.
“Mal’s in the kitchen,” he says. Grabs a handful of Lays from a bowl on the coffee table and shovels them into his mouth. Still chewing, he adds, “we got those wine coolers you like; they’re in the fridge.”
With a hurried thanks, you slip away unscathed.
You find Mal crouched in front of the open fridge, rustling through a produce drawer stocked with beer cans.
“Hey,” you announce.
She seems almost surprised to see you when she cranes her neck toward your voice, despite your promise to show. Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly agape, it’s as if she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulls another drawer open. Fishes out a wine cooler and passes it to you with an outstretched arm.
You take it in one hand. Help her up with the other.
“You’re here,” she says, and it sounds like more of a question than a statement.
“Yeah. I said I would be.”
“I know, I know. It’s just — I wasn’t sure. The whole Frankie thing…”
“It’s nothing; I promise,” you lie. “Water under the bridge. We’re fine.”
She quirks a brow at you, disbelief coloring her features, but she lets it go. Closes the fridge with a thunk and adjusts her sweater at the hem. “Good,” she says. “I don’t want you two ruining game night.”
It’s half a joke, but you know deep down she means it. She takes this all very seriously. Back in college, she’d forced you and your suitemates to play Cards Against Humanity with her every weekend. None of you had the heart to tell her when it started to grow monotonous, and so the tradition carried on well past graduation, eventually evolving into a new tradition with new friends.
Games bring people together, she’d said once over a round of Monopoly that had stretched well into the night, resulting in delirious laughter and a warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest.
You’d believed her at the time. Now, you’re not so sure that it’s foolproof.
The two of you rejoin the guys in the living room, Santiago and Will having shown up in your absence. You greet them as Benny pulls out a stack of game boxes. Settle on the couch, as far away from Frankie as you can manage.
It starts during the second round of Charades.
The first round had gone fine — good, even. Teamed up with Santi and Will, you’d avoided eye contact with Frankie for the whole of it. Focused only on guessing Santi’s horribly-mimed clues in between handfuls of trail mix and sips of watermelon-flavored bubbles.
It’d felt a bit like old times, all of you in one room again. Mal snuggling into Benny on the loveseat; Will catching his brother up on time spent touring the country, giving motivational speeches to recently discharged veterans. He’d asked you how you’ve been as Santi studied his next word, and you’d remembered then that everything was very much not how it once was.
And you hadn’t missed Frankie’s discomfort at the question; the way he set his beer bottle down on the table with a bit too much force, glass clanging against wood. Though if Will noticed too, he hadn’t said anything. Just moved into a story about some woman he met on the road that reminded him of you.
Santi’s turn had ended with a whopping zero points for your team, and now Frankie is standing at the front of the room, unfolding the scrap of paper in his hand and reading it to himself. In the lull, you find yourself staring at him, eyes near glazing over at the sight of the tiny paper pinched between long, thick fingers. Fingers you remember the reach of, the weight of.
He crumples the paper and stuffs it into his pocket, signaling that he’s ready to go. Mal flips over the sand timer on the table. And you almost don’t notice at first when he starts, mind occupied by equal parts lust and annoyance, that he’s fucking mouthing the phrase.
You watch, enraged, as Benny squints to read his lips. He raises his hand excitedly and jumps to his feet; yells out the answer with a sureness that Frankie affirms with a nod.
“That’s right. It’s the Empire State Building.”
“That’s fucking cheating!” you shout, a bit angrier than the situation calls for, and the room grows quiet. Fury coursing through you, you add, “are you fucking serious, Frankie?”
You feel the eyes on you; the awkward sheen you’ve cast over the room. Mal shifts across from you, glaring when you turn to face her, and you laugh defensively.
“What, nobody else thinks that’s unfair?”
“Please,” Frankie sneers.
“No, she’s right,” Santi tries — ever the peacemaker. “We’ll just add a rule going forward; no mouthing the words.”
“Fuck that,” you hiss. “I want their point taken away.”
Frankie scoffs from the other side of the room. “Bullshit! We earned that before the rule was added.”
You’re fuming now, standing to get a bit closer to his height; though he still towers over you. Mal is right on your heels, placing a hand on your shoulder in an attempt to placate you. You brush her off. Take another stride toward Frankie.
“There shouldn’t need to be an official rule against it, Frankie. It’s common fucking sense — which clearly, you have none of.”
Visibly offended, he says nothing. Just tenses his jaw.
“Why did you come tonight?” you continue, voice more level now; direct.
You hear your name uttered behind you, tone pleading, warning. You ignore it.
“Seriously, why?”
He’s quiet for a long, drawn-out moment, eyes pointed at the floor again.
“What are you talking about?” he spits, finally.
You laugh, amused and irritated, and these things somehow feel one in the same. “I mean, clearly you don’t want to be in my presence or even acknowledge my existence — unless it’s to cockblock me — so why are you here?”
His brows furrow; lips twist. For a second, you think he might actually leave. He adjusts his cap, jangles the car key in his pocket — but Benny stops him before he can take a step.
“Just — cut it out, okay? Both of you.”
“He’s the one-“
“I don’t care,” Benny interjects. Scanning the room, you catch sight of Santi and Will and Mal, all visibly agitated, and you sigh.
Guilt washes over you, then. The twisting of Santi’s face, Mal’s doleful stare, the wordless look exchanged between Benny and Will. All confirm your fear that you’ve effectively ruined their night.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
Frankie echoes your apology. Still, the others aren’t impressed.
“I don’t know what’s been going on lately with you two, but you need to figure this shit out,” Benny says. He sounds like a parent: stern and slightly disappointed. “Can you please just — go in the other room and talk through it?”
Though you haven’t much cared for Frankie’s opinion as of late, you still turn to him to gauge his reaction. He appears just as hesitant as you are, just as guilt-stricken. But something more lurks behind his eyes — something like fear, anxiety. Why, you aren’t sure.
You raise a brow at him, a wordless question. He answers with a sigh.
“Fine,” you both say at once.
“Thank goodness,” Mal chimes. Herding you two like cattle with a hand on each of your backs, she leads you out of the living room and into the adjoining hallway.
Her voice drones behind you as you make your way toward the third door on the right. Shall we continue the game?
The guest room is primly kept. It appears almost untouched at first glance, though you know that to be untrue. You’ve stayed here before, after blurry nights spent drinking shitty gin and singing karaoke. That must’ve been years ago now, though, after Mal and Benny first bought this house, and you begin to wonder if your tumultuous friendship with Frankie only made you neglect your friendship with her. And that only adds to the anger stirring inside of you — because what was it all worth, if it’s ended up like this?
Frankie closes the door behind him with a click, and the air in the room feels exponentially thicker.
“What the fuck was that?” you hiss.
He scoffs. “Me? You’re the one who freaked out and started an argument over nothing!”
“It wasn’t nothing. You were cheating.”
“Please.” He rolls his eyes. Takes two steps toward you. “That’s not what this is about and you know it.”
“Oh,” you laugh, “so you are aware that you’ve been an asshole?”
He says your name, voice suddenly lower, softer. Your entire body tenses as you struggle to keep strong, to not think about how it sounded in your ear in the midst of pleasure.
“I wasn’t trying to be-”
You throw a hand up; silence him. “Well you have been,” you groan. “You’ve been a huge fucking asshole. You hurt me, Frankie. You were my best friend, and then you just… stopped returning my texts. You won’t even look at me when we’re in the same room together. Did you regret it that much?”
The room goes still. You watch as Frankie’s chest rises and falls arduously, his eyes settling on you. They’re dark, pupils blown wide, squeezing shut as he exhales long and hard.
“No.”
You quirk a brow at him, confused.
“No?”
“No,” he repeats, averting his gaze. “And that’s the problem — I didn’t regret it at all.” His eyes lift slowly, finding you again, voice more sure when he adds, “I’ve wanted it for a long time”
You can barely comprehend what he’s saying, your heart climbing its way out of your ribcage and up your throat. You gulp, feeling the shape of it there as saliva slowly slides past.
He takes another two steps forward, mere inches from you now, and your breath hitches.
“Do you know how difficult it’s been to look at you without getting fucking hard?” he whispers. “How many times I’ve fucked my fist in the past month imagining it was you?”
Your mouth falls open, stunned. “That girl at the bar-”
He shakes his head. “I thought maybe if I fucked someone else, it would help.”
“And did it?”
“I didn’t — I didn’t go home with her,” he admits, a little bashfully. “I couldn’t do it.”
His hand lifts, then, cautious and shaky. It finds its way to your face, grazes your jaw so softly you’d think you imagined it if you couldn’t see.
“Why not?” you squeak.
He nods, as if he’s finally accepting something he’s known to be true, admitting it to himself before he does so out loud.
“Because she wasn’t you.”
It feels as if your entire world has spun on its axis.
Without thinking, you wrap your hand around Frankie’s neck and pull him toward you, crashing your lips into his with a groan. He’s quick to respond, desperately tangling his fingers in your hair and winding his tongue around yours, a broken moan slipping from his throat.
For a long moment, that’s all it is. It’s clashing teeth and restless hands; the draw of blood and the taste of it, earthy and metallic on your tongue. It’s the two of you, reconciling for lost time and unshared feelings and the overlooked need for each other through tangled bodies.
And when you finally pull apart, his lips are swollen and his eyes are glazed over, and you’re sure you don’t look much different.
“Frankie,” you whine as his mouth latches to your neck, warm and wet. He doesn’t retreat; just hums against you.
“Need you,” you say breathlessly. “Need you to touch me.”
His large hand skates down your front, under the waistband of your leggings. He presses two fingers against your clothed clit, and your knees buckle. You lean into him, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest as he begins rubbing small, deliberate circles into cotton.
Lips trailing up to your ear, he nibbles at the lobe. Presses his tongue just behind the shell of it and sighs. “Been wanting this since that night. Want to make you feel good. Want to do it right.”
You mewl in response, high-pitched and too loud, and you have to bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out again. He’s still working you toward the brink, pace relentless, beseeching you every time you buck into his hand.
There you go baby, that’s it; I got you.
You know he does, can feel the support of his unoccupied hand at the small of your back, holding you to his strong body. And god, how you’ve missed the feeling of it pressed to yours. You think that that alone could make you come.
You feel yourself slipping as your orgasm approaches, legs slumping underneath you more and more with every pass of his fingers. “Frankie,” you warn, teeth still anchored in his skin. “I’m going to-“
The words are muffled, but he gets it. Presses down harder and works his fingers faster. “Come on baby,” he growls in your ear, “come on.”
Your orgasm hits you so hard that you collapse, your body dead weight in Frankie’s grip as you writhe. He grasps onto you tightly, working you through it with his unyielding touch, swiping back and forth, back and forth as the final waves crest.
You’re panting when it ends, and still when Frankie helps you to the edge of the bed. Perched there, staring up at him with glassy eyes, you realize you’ve never felt so sated and so needy at the same time.
“Frankie?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Please fuck me.”
He should probably say no. After all, you’re in your friends’ guest room, people just a few hundred feet on the other side of the door. But then again, he’s already made you come.
You watch him consider it, eyes flickering to the door and back to you, dark and deep and pooling with want.
In the end, he can’t help himself.
“Can you be quiet, querida?”
You nod, though you’re sure that even if you said no, he wouldn’t care. He’d do just as he’s doing now: pressing your shoulder, encouraging you to lay down on the bed; helping you pull your sneakers off, then your leggings, then your shirt; stepping back to marvel at your half-naked form before him.
“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and your entire body heats from the inside out. You feel like you’re on fire, his stare keeping you alight as he undresses down to his boxers.
He climbs over you with a hand on either side of your head, pressed into the mattress. The lip of his hat bumps you, and you immediately rip it off of him, tossing it aside and tangling your fingers in dark curls.
You tug at them, dragging him down until his face is hovering just above yours, and he responds with a strangled moan. His body pressed to yours now, you can feel the weight of his hard cock against your clothed pussy. Your mouth finds his again in a languid kiss — slow and deep. You feed each other sighs and moans, taste each other’s longing. His hips roll into yours with every exhale, teasing you — reminding you, and you feel like you’re steadily going insane.
He pulls back, panting. Rests his forehead on yours.
“Can I take this off?” he asks, plucking at the strap of your bra. You nod furiously. Lift the upper half of your body so that he can undo the clasps.
Breasts suddenly exposed, you feel your nipples begin to harden. Frankie groans at the sight of them, so pert and needing. Wordlessly, he dips his head, buries his face in your chest. His tongue wraps around one of your nipples and you cry out, hand flying to your mouth in an instant.
“Oh fuck,” you moan into your palm.
“Feel good?” he asks, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he shifts his focus to the other nipple. You feel so sensitive everywhere, the heft of his tongue going straight to your clit, and you can barely answer him. A shaky yes tumbles from your mouth — the best you can do. He hums, so low the vibrations burrow under your skin and barrel through you, and you keen at the sensation.
“God, you sound so pretty,” he sighs as he rolls one of your stiff peaks between two fingers. His other hand drifts down your body, dips between the two of you and pulls your panties aside.
“Fuck,” he curses, fingertip brushing over your seam just barely. “You’re soaked, bebita. That all for me?”
“Mhm,” you whine. “All for you Frankie; fuck-“
He’s shifts down your body, hooks both arms under your legs and drags you toward him in one swift motion, leaving you no time to process before his tongue is on your pussy. “Have to taste you,” he babbles drunkenly, plunging into your leaking cunt and lapping at you.
“Oh, oh shit,” you moan as he drags his tongue up to your clit. “Please baby, please.”
“I know; I got you,” he soothes. Then he begins to lave your clit with the soft flat of his tongue, warm muscle encircling the throbbing nub. Wide eyes staring up at you, he observes intently. Responds to every sound, every tell with a switch in direction or an increase in pressure. He’s so attentive, so desperate to make you come on his mouth, and it sends you into a sort of delirium.
Your second orgasm hits you out of nowhere, slams through your body with so much intensity, you don’t even have the strength to warn Frankie before your release is gushing all over his face and, undoubtedly, the bed below.
He growls against your cunt. Comes up for air and kisses you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he tugs his boxers down and frees his aching cock. Notches at your entrance without detaching his lips from yours.
It’s a stretch — you recall it being so last time too — though the alcohol had done wonders to loosen your body. Now, you feel every devastating inch of him as he pushes in. He’s gentle. Tells you how good you’re doing as he feeds you more and more of his cock. There you go, that’s my girl, taking it so well for me. And for some reason, him calling you his nearly makes you come again.
He notices the way you preen in response. Thumbs across the slope of your jaw as he settles inside you. “You like that, baby? Like me calling you mine?”
“Yes, Frankie — fuck. Want it.”
You don’t specify whether you mean him or his cock. You’re not entirely sure. Not that it matters. You know he’ll give you both, give you anything. Can feel it in the way he gazes at you through heart-shaped eyes as he lets you adjust to him.
“So fucking beautiful, you know that?”
Your eyes roll back and saliva pools in your mouth. “God,” you breathe.
“I’m serious,” he says, finally beginning to move. The slow drag of his cock brushes your g-spot and you gasp. “Was so stupid before, fucking you drunk. Wanna remember every second, every noise you make, every inch of your perfect fucking body.”
“Jesus, Frankie.”
He pushes back in with one deep thrust. Sets a pace that, while not rough, definitely isn’t gentle. You begin to babble and writhe under him. Hook your legs around him so he can get even deeper.
He groans. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”
“It’s so fucking good,” you cry. “Feels like fucking heaven, Frankie.”
“Nah, that’s you.” He lets his head fall on your shoulder, drives into you faster. Pants into the crook of your neck. “Perfect fucking pussy.”
It ends all too quickly — with your fingernails dug into his back and his sweaty curls sticking to your forehead. Your cunt clenching around his cock, pulling his orgasm out of him just as yours begins to roll through you. You free fall from the cliff’s edge together, breathless moans spilling between your slotted mouths, his warmth flooding you and leaking from the place you’re still connected.
As the room around you slowly comes back into focus, you hear the sound of distant laughter. Benny’s boisterous chuckle and Mal’s much softer one. Clearly distracted, they’re likely blissfully unaware of what’s just happened. You giggle, covering your face as Frankie pulls out.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, prying your hands away.
“We’re gonna have to get them a new bedspread. We just defiled this one.”
He stands, then, pulling you upright with him. You squeal as blood rushes to your head and your vision goes staticky.
“Worth it,” he smirks. Gives you a chaste kiss. “Got my girl back.”
You dress and rejoin the group as inconspicuously as possible. Pray they don’t notice the way you’re wobbling on your feet, or the sheen of sweat that’s coated your skin.
“You sort everything out?” Santi smirks knowingly as you reassume your place on the couch, Frankie settling back into the corner.
“Yeah,” he mutters, refusing to make eye contact.
“It’s about time,” Benny shouts from the kitchen. Frankie’s head shoots up, pivots toward his voice.
“What do you mean?”
He emerges in the doorway with a shit-eating grin. Mal stifles a laugh from the loveseat.
“Just saying it’s about time,” he shrugs. “That’s all.”
Shit; apparently you hadn’t been as quiet as you thought.
The others chuckle as you and Frankie exchange a mortified look. The embarrassment is short lived though, Will clapping his hands together, asking what game you all want to play next.
An hour later, after a couple rounds of Codenames and another wine cooler, you head out the door with Frankie right beside you. It feels odd, not hiding anymore. But more so, it feels right.
He leans you against your SUV under silver moonlight. Kisses you with plush, soft lips against yours; restless hands roving up your sides. Pulls back with a suspiciously large grin.
You cock an eyebrow at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says. “Just glad I stopped being an idiot.”
“I don’t know about that,” you tease, and he smacks you gently on the arm.
“Come over?” he asks, his hand draped over your waist.
You think on it for only a second. Nod. “Yeah. As long as you make me a grilled cheese.”
“That can be arranged.”
end notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please consider commenting and/or reblogging :)
#Frankie Morales#Frankie Morales x reader#Frankie Morales x f!reader#Frankie Morales x female reader#Frankie Morales fic#Frankie Morales smut#Frankie Morales fanfiction#Triple Frontier#Triple Frontier fic#Triple Frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal smut
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Maybe, Baby?
Summary: You and Frankie aren't trying for a baby just yet, but when your weird symptoms start to throw your body for a loop, you start to wonder if you actually might be pregnant
Pairing: Husband!Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)
Word Count: 5.4K
Warnings: SMUT (18+), Unprotected p in v sex (wrap before u tap, silly gooses), creampie, praise kink, size kink (if u squint), unintentional breeding kink (lmaoooo, it's me, sorry not sorry), birth control/family planning, pregnancy (or maybe not? part 2 maybe? hehe) symptoms, Frankie and reader mention being closer to 30 than 16 (turns out when you're an adult, it's not a teen pregnancy anymore), reader has hair that can be played with, Frankie being the sweetest husband alive (all the gold stars for him), Frankie is so excited to be a dad that I just may pass away
A/N: I know y'all voted for me to finish chapter 20 but i lied (I'm so sorry), but I wrote this in a day and husband Frankie was really speaking to me on this one 😭 This one is brought to you by my raging baby fever and perhaps some real life inspiration WHOOPS, art imitating life on this one ig 💀 Poorly beta'd bc that's how I roll!!!
Ever since getting off birth control a few months ago, your body had felt… different.
While you were glad you had made the change for yourself, you still found yourself shocked every month when a new sort of symptom decided to appear at some point in your cycle that you had never dealt with before- acne in new places, weird cramps, and crazy mood swings that showed up out of nowhere before your period were just a few of the things you were learning to manage as you figured out your body post birth control.
Another symptom you hadn’t expected was that now, you were insatiably horny.
All the time.
While Frankie had been more supportive and caring in helping you deal with all of your not so pleasant symptoms than you could have hoped for, he was also more than happy to help you with your newly found positive one, too.
The only problem was, after so many years of not having to worry about the consequences of your sex life on birth control, you and Frankie were finding it very hard to adjust to be more… careful.
As you got hornier and hornier, the box of condoms that Frankie had bought after you stopped taking the pill had been seeing less and less use, and to be honest, hadn’t really seen the light of day from the back of his nightstand drawer in about a month an a half- and if you were being even more honest, on top of that, Frankie’s pull out game was almost nowhere to be found.
You both knew that you wanted a family in the future- That was a part of your reason for getting off birth control to begin with. The two of you had agreed to hold off at least for a little longer to try and get your life more in order before bringing a baby into it, but with with your new lack of protection when it came to sex, and constant horniness around the clock, you both were beginning to have a feeling that that your agreed upon timeline for having a baby might be harder for you to maintain that you thought.
Especially when you found yourself morphing into an unspeakably horny monster when you were ovulating.
So little did you realize, that as you were brushing your teeth in the bathroom as the two of you were getting ready for bed and you caught a glimpse in the mirror of Frankie, stripping out of his shirt and jeans, leaving him only in his boxers as he searched around in your dresser for pajamas, that was the reason you nearly spit out your entire mouthful of toothpaste to try and get a mouthful of something else.
You couldn’t help but ogle at your husband's broad body and freckled tan skin, muscles flexing as he shuffled through your drawers, pulling out an old, worn gray t-shirt and tugging it over his head, running his hand through his messy, curly hair before searching for his pajama bottoms.
At this point, you had honestly braced yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter to keep yourself from falling over at how mouth-watering he looked, already feeling the wetness beginning to pool in the cotton of your underwear at the thought of wanting to rip his clothes off just as fast as he had put them on.
Letting out a yawn, Frankie raised his hands above his head so a sliver of his soft belly peaked out between his waistband and shirt hem before making his way into the bathroom, sleepily padding along the tile floor until his body was behind yours, chest flushed against your back and arms wrapped around your waist. Even more prevalent, his bulge pressed against your ass, making the wet spot in your underwear grow damper by the second.
“You ready for bed, querida?” Frankie cooed, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder and smiling at your reflections in the mirror.
While you were absolutely ready to get into bed, sleeping was not going to be your activity of choice.
“I think that maybe…” You paused, turning around to face Frankie, his body caging yours against the counter, palms splayed flat on either side of your hips, looking down at you with his sweet, brown eyes, “I think that maybe we should do something else before we go to sleep.”
“Something else, huh?” Frankie smirked, raising his eyebrows at you as your hands began to run up and down his arms, slightly squeezing the muscles of his biceps as your fingers crept under the fabric of his shirt sleeves. “And what might that something else be, Hermosa?”
“You know exactly what it is, Fransisco. You expect me to watch you just roam around shirtless in our bedroom and not get all hot and bothered? God, you’re so fucking hot.” You moaned, letting your hands run up his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him in for a long, electric kiss.
“Damn, what’s gotten into you, babe?” Frankie chuckled, trying his best not to blush at your comment, sliding his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.
“I don’t- Fuck, I don’t know, I just know that if you don’t fuck me right this second, I think I’m gonna explode.”
While your statement may have had a flair for the dramatic, it was just about as close to the God’s honest truth as you could get- You were so worked up, you felt practically feral, the ache in your core so strong that you really did feel like you were on the verge of implosion.
Before you even gave Frankie time to respond, your lips were crashing into his with a ferocious intensity, your hands grabbing fistfulls of his t-shirt as you stumbled back towards your bedroom, bodies bumping and bouncing against the walls and door frames, mouths never parting as the back of Frankie’s knees finally hit the mattress, forcing him to fall backwards onto the bed.
Crawling overtop of him, you were already straddled over his hips, grinding your bottom half on the bulge growing in his pajamas as your hands crept under the hem of his t-shirt, running along the tanned, soft skin of his chest, making him let out a low groan that rumbled in his throat.
Frantically shuffling himself further onto the bed, Frankie’s hands dug into your hips and over your ass as your hands slid down from his chest to his waistband, fingers tugging at the elastic to shuffle his bottoms and boxers down his legs, quickly followed by your own, dropping to a crumpled pile on the floor.
Feeling your fingers wrap around his cock, already painfully hard, you swirled the precum leaking from his tip with your thumb before dragging your hand up and down his length, leaving Frankie sitting up in surprise while he watched you begin to hover over him, dragging his dick through your folds.
“Hermosa, are you sure you don’t need me to-” But before Frankie could finish the rest of his protest to make sure you were ready to take him, you were already sinking down onto him, whimpering at the sweet sting and stretch of his fullness, followed by the ragged moan escaping Frankie’s lips.
“Oh fuck… Nuh uh, Frankie. I need to feel you, baby. Needed to feel you inside me.” You whined, taking Frankie cock inch by inch until he had bottomed out inside you, his tip kissing your cervix, the fullness making you cry out in pleasure.
Normally with Frankie’s size, you would have needed to warm you up first, but with how wet and worked up you already were, you were able to take him with ease, desperate to feel him buried deep inside you.
“Jesus fucking christ, queirda, you’re so fucking wet. Fuck, baby.” Frankie moaned, feeling you begin to slide up and down his length, coating him with your arousal with each swirl of your hips.
Arching your back, you jutted your hips forward, bracing your hands on Frankie’s strong thighs, circling your bottom half against his, whimpering at his fullness and the hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your clit, selfishly already longing to chase your own high to ease the ache that had been burning in your core.
“Fuck, Frankie, you feel so good. Feel so fucking full with you in me.” You whimpered, bouncing even harder and faster on Frankie’s cock, the lewd sounds of your skin slapping his and wetness dripping from your heat coating the walls of your bedroom.
“Yeah? This what you wanted, pretty girl? Wanted me to stretch this pretty little pussy out and fill you up?” Frankie groaned, gritting his teeth as he began to jut his hips up into yours as you rode him, the added depth of his thrusts making you cry out in pleasure.
And for as fucking good as it felt, the horny monster you had morphed into had you greedily craving more- to have Frankie stretch you open in a way that had you seeing stars, so much that you could still feel the next day, long after the two of you were finished.
“I-I want more, p-please, baby. Fuck- Fuck me harder, Fransisco.” You cried, your sweet voice whimpering his full name turning him almost as feral as you were, letting out a low growl as he grabbed you by your hips, flipping you so that your back hit the mattress and he was caging his broad body over yours.
Practically ripping the t-shirt still covering your upper half off your body, Frankie dove face first between your breasts, groping one while hungrily sucking at the other, flicking your pebbled nipple with his tongue, his free hand reaching down to line his cock back up with your entrance, sliding back in to your aching core with ease.
Frankie let himself sink all the way back in, filling you to the brim before hooking his arms around your knees, pressing your legs against your stomach, smirking to himself at the ragged moan you let out as the new angle opened you up even further.
“You want me to fuck you harder, Hermosa?” Frankie mewled, slowly dragging his length out of your heat, looking down to see your shiny slick soaking his cock before looking back at you and the wrecked expression plastered across your face, frantically nodding in desperation. “Tell me how badly you want it, sweet girl.”
“Fuck, I need you so bad, Fransisco, please.” You begged, damn near close to tears with how deeply you needed to feel Frankie ease the emptiness inside you. “Please, baby, I- oh fuck-”
Before you could even finish the rest of your plea, your breath was already hitched in the back of your throat as Frankie began to pound into you at a relentless pace, tightening his grip around your thighs while he pressed them closer to your chest, grunting with each rut of his hips into yours.
“This what you want, querida? Meirda- so fucking wet and tight, baby girl. You feel so fucking good, holy fuck.”
It didn’t take long for the all too familiar tingle at the base of your spine to start spreading through your body like a wildfire as Frankie continued to slam into your g-spot, making you chant his name like a prayer, your brain at a loss for any other words than “Fuck, Fransisco.”
And as if you already weren’t close enough, when Frankie reached down to thumb at your clit, rubbing in relentless circles against your sensitive nub, you knew you were a fucking goner.
“That’s it, Hermosa. Cum for me, baby. Want that- oh fuck- want that prefect pussy to fucking soak me.” Frankie groaned, feverishly pounding into you, desperate to feel you come undone for him giving him long enough to fight off his own high that was rapidly building in the pit of his stomach.
A few more thrusts were all it took to have the coil snapping in your belly, crying out Frankie’s name as you came, orgasm ripping through your body with a blinding intensity, eyes scrunching shut and jaw hanging open while pleasure and euphoria flowed through every ounce of you.
Still blissed out and wrecked out of your mind, your eyes shot open as Frankie’s mouth crashed into yours, swallowing your whimpers and moans in a messy dance of tongues and teeth.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum. Jesus fuck- fuck, I’m close too, baby. W-where do you want me, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, barley holding on long enough for you to answer, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as his hips began to stutter, gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow with every ounce of self control he had left.
Still barley coherent enough to form a sentence, your brain blurted out the only thing you could think of, and the only thing that you really wanted in the moment.
“Inside, Fransisco. Fuck, cum inside me, baby.”
That alone was almost enough to send Frankie over the edge, letting out a long, low groan, sloppily rutting into you as his brain went blank alongside yours, starting to babble incoherently.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck- you want me to fill you up, queirda? Fuck, I’ll fucking fill you up so good you’ll be dripping out of me for days. Oh fuck, shit baby, fuck, oh I’m gonnaahhhhhh-“
Just like that, Frankie took one last thrust, spilling deep inside you, coating your walls with his spend as his body slumped into yours, the pair of your chests rising and falling in sync as you both came back down to earth.
“Jesus Christ… Holy fuck, Frankie.” You giggled quietly to yourself, blissfully filled with post orgasm ecstasy as your husband carefully pulled himself out before rolling over next to you on the bed, pulling you close against his chest.
“Fuck me, Hermosa, holy shit.” Frankie chuckled, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead, tracing small circles on your back as he held you, heat radiating off of each other's sweat-ridden bodies. “God, I love you. We should probably get you cleaned up. You wanna shower?” He asked, smirking as your face lit up at his nearly rhetorical question.
“Only if you’re up for round 2, Morales.”
“My eyes are up here, Fransisco.”
“Hmmm? What did you say?”
“Exactly my point. Can you stop looking with your man eyes and look with your normal, helpful people eyes to help me decide on a dress for Benny and Victoria’s wedding?” You sighed, laughing to yourself as you raised an eyebrow at Frankie, his gaze still fixed on your chest.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be helpful.” Frankie huffed, overdramatically rolling his eyes at you, playfully throwing his hands up in defense as he leaned back against the dressing room door, looking you up and down in one of the cute floral dresses you had picked to try on for your friends’ upcoming wedding. “It’s just that… Nevermind.”
“It’s just that what, Frank?” You asked tilting your head in confusion at your husband as his eyes traveled back to your breasts, furled look in his brow like he was really staring there to prove a point.
“It’s just that- Baby, I don’t know if it’s just the dress or what, but your boobs look huge. Like, they always look good, believe me, but like… Whew.” Frankie whistled, practically shaking his head in disbelief at how good you looked.
“Really?” You asked, turning around to face the mirror in the dressing room, gently cupping your breasts, grimacing as you held them in your hands. “Yeah, I guess they do… Honestly, I was gonna complain about how sore they’ve been all day. I wonder if maybe my period is just coming early?”
“Maybe? You did ride me pretty hard the last couple nights and put on a good show, so maybe they hurt from all that bouncing and-”
“Frankie! We are in public!” You playfully scolded, giving him a flimsy slap to the chest to cut off the rest of his thought, the two of you quietly giggling to yourselves and trying to “Shhhh” each other from drawing too much attention to your dressing room stall. “The dress, you goofball, yes or no? Sooner we pick, the sooner we can go get food, because your wife is starving.”
“I vote yes on the dress. You look beautiful in it, querida.” Frankie smiled, stepping behind you to press a kiss on the side of your head.
“You just like it because it makes my boobs look huge.”
“What? Can you blame me for wanting to stare at my gorgeous wife’s boobs all night?”
“God, you are ridiculous, Fransisco. Fine, boob dress wins. Now let’s get out of here and go get some food before you get stuck in a titty trance and I die of hunger.”
While the rest of your Saturday was spent enjoying the delicious Mexican food that you had picked up on the way home and a much needed night in on the couch with Frankie, there was a tiny part of your brain that couldn’t seem to shake his comment from earlier about how big your boobs looked.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t agree with him, because truth be told, they felt huge, too. They had been sore since you had woken up this morning, and while you had chalked it up to what you and Frankie had been up to the past few nights, or bad PMS symptoms, there was still just something about you that felt off.
Later that night, during your movie marathon, you had paused whatever new action movie Frankie had been begging to watch since it had popped up on Netflix a few days ago for a popcorn refill.
While Frankie meandered around the kitchen waiting for the next bag of popcorn to finish popping, you stayed curled up with your blanket in your corner of the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, until a sharp twinge began to cramp in your lower stomach. The feeling took you by surprise, digging your fingers into your side to try and ease the dull and achy sensation as your face scrunched in confusion, wondering why in the world you had what felt like period cramps in your belly.
“Hey, you okay, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, returning with popcorn in hand, his face painted with concern to see the pained look scrunched between your brow as you curled deeper into the couch.
“Oh, y-yeah, I’m fine. I just um, I just had a weird cramp I guess. Probably just ate all that popcorn too fast.” You replied, trying to convince yourself just as much as you were trying to convince Frankie that you were overthinking whatever mystery symptoms had just flashed through your lower half.
“Here, lemme just set this popcorn down and then I can rub your back while we finish the movie, okay?” Frankie smiled softly, setting down the bowl on the coffee table before crawling back under the sea of blankets on the couch with you, laying your head against his thigh like a pillow while his hand traced up and down along the small of your back.
“Thanks, Frankie.” You whispered quietly, taking a few deep breaths as the familiar warmth of your husband’s palm worked up and down the worn fabric of his shirt that you had put on earlier.
“Of course, baby. If you need anything else, just let me know, okay? Just promise me you’ll take it easy on the popcorn if you have any more there, Killer.”
The two of you laughed quietly as Frankie leaned down to press a soft kiss into your messy hair laid across his lap before picking up the remote to let the rest of the movie play as your eyelids began to get heavier and heavier as you slowly drifted off to sleep.
“What’s inside this box?”
“Open it up and find out! It’s a surprise for you!”
“Okay? Huh, why is it just a pregnancy test in there?”
“It’s yours! Congratulations! You’re having a baby!”
“Ahhhhh!” You shrieked, panting as you woke from a cold sweat, shooting up from the couch. “What the fuck…” You whispered to yourself, coming to and realizing that you were now awake and had only been dreaming moments before this. Running your hands over your face, you blinked a few times to be greeted by the dim light of the TV still flickering in the background, Frankie sprawled out and snoring by your side where the two of you must have fallen asleep on the couch during the movie.
“What a weird fucking dream…” You sighed to yourself, shaking your head as you quietly pushed yourself off the couch to stumble to the bathroom, pulling your phone out of your sweatpants pocket to check what ungodly hour of the night it had to be since the two of you had crashed on the couch.
2:07 A.M.
You let out a low grumble, pushing your sweatpants down to your ankles as you sat down to pee, blinking your eyes open wider to look through the notifications piled on top of each other on your lockscreen. Mindlessly swiping through a few junk emails and text messages from group chats, one notification in particular caught your eye, rousing you from your half awake state.
“Feeling down? As you begin your Luteal Phase of your cycle, it’s normal to be less cheerful compared to last week when you were Ovulating! Click to track your cycle symptoms for today!”
Oh shit.
You could feel your heart beginning to race as you opened up the app, scrolling to the calendar tracker for the month. Swiping through the days, it didn’t take you long to realize that despite all of your weird symptoms you had been chalking up to PMS, you were almost two weeks away from starting your period. Frantically scrolling backwards, you began to try and rack your brain of all of the times in the past week that you had sex with Frankie while you would have been ovulating, and out of that number, how many times he hadn’t finished inside you, let alone even attempt to pull out.
And that number was a big, fat zero.
That’s when it hit you like a fucking freight train- You weren’t PMS-ing.
More than likely, you were pregnant.
“Holy fuck…” You whispered to yourself, your voice trembling and heart pounding as you buried your face in your trembling hands, your mind flooding with a million different thoughts all at once.
How could you not remember that you were ovulating? Would Frankie be upset? The two of you weren’t even trying for kids right now. Would you be a good Mom? What were you even going to need to do to prepare? Your house was starting to get small for just you and Frankie, let alone a baby. How were you going to find a new place to live in 9 months? And get a new car? How were you-
“Baby, you good in there?” Frankie groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he stumbled into the bathroom, letting out a yawn as he opened the door, bright light flooding into the hallway and revealing the sobbing mess you had become, still pants down, hunched over the toilet.
“Woah, hey, hey, hey. Baby, baby, what’s going on? Talk to me, Hermosa. Are you okay? What happened?” You could feel Frankie’s demeanor immediately switch as soon as he saw you in the bathroom, instantly dropping to his knees by your side, his hands gently grabbing your face to shift your gaze towards him, carefully swiping his thumb to dry the tears that had been streaming down your cheeks.
“Frankie, I- I- Fuck.” You stuttered, gulping hard as you tried to catch your breath, fighting back your nervous sobs as you locked eyes with Frankie, wondering how in the world you were ever about to brace him for the news you were about to tell him.
“Hermosa, what is it? Please, tell me baby, what’s wrong?” Frankie pleaded, softly squeezing your face in reassurance as he waited for your response.
You took a few more deep breaths, composing yourself enough to at least try to get a coherent thought out, swallowing hard as the words left your mouth.
“Frankie, I-, Frankie, I think- I think I’m pregnant.”
Frankie’s eyes went wide, his jaw practically hanging open as he tried to process what you had just told him, wondering if he hadn’t heard you right in his groggy state.
“W-what?”
“I think I might be pregnant, Frankie.”
Before you could even bear the thought of looking at his face again, filled with fear that it would be a look of shock and disappointment, you buried your face in your hands again, fighting with everything in you not to cry and keep your composure.
Frankie sat quietly for a moment, his hand covering up the gaping hole his jaw had made as it nearly hit the floor, shaking his head in disbelief before wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulling your hands to look at him.
“R-really? You- fuck- You really think you’re pregnant?”
As your eyes met his, you couldn’t believe the look on your husbands face- Not only was Frankie practically grinning from ear to ear, the sweet brown of his puppy dog eyes were welling with happy tears of their own, waiting on your every word as if he still didn’t believe what he was hearing. Silently, you began to slowly nod your head, biting down on your tongue, your heart feeling like it was about to shoot out of your chest.
“You’re...y-you’re not upset?” You stammered, sitting up a little taller at Frankie’s reaction.
“Upset? Hermosa, why in the world would I ever be upset?” Frankie laughed quietly, gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as his other hand cupped your jaw. “Querida… There’s nothing more I want on this earth than to have a family. And-fuck- The fact that it gets to be with you? That you might give me a family? How could I ever be upset about that?
“Well it’s not like we were really trying for a baby, Frank. We said another year or two. With the house and money -”
“Hey. We’ll figure it all out, okay? I promise, we’ll be more than okay.” Frankie smiled, his goofy grin still stretched wide between his cheeks, finally easing some of your worry.
“I don’t even feel like I’m old enough to have a kid. I feel like I need to call up MTV to tell them I’ll be on the next season of 16 and Pregnant.” The two of you snorted, shaking your heads in awestruck disbelief that a stupid joke about a reality TV show could soon become your reality.
“Well considering we’re married, have a house, and most importantly, are much closer to 30 than we are 16, I think they may have a hard time pitching the show “Married Couple Has a Baby”.” Frankie teased, giving you a playful nudge as the two of you laughed, giving you a few seconds to catch your breath before trying to dig into details. “Did- Did you take a test? How long have you known?”
“No, I don’t know for sure yet, Frank. It’s… It’s just a feeling, I guess. But the huge, sore boobs, weird, period-like cramps and the fact that we really haven’t been the most careful are all pretty good clues.”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know, we’ve tried to be care-”
Before Frankie could even finish the rest of his thought, you were already giving him the sassiest look you could muster in your overwhelmed and sleepy state, making the two of you laugh again he let out a sigh of defeat.
“Okay, yeah, we really haven’t been that careful at all. Sweetie, listen, I- I know it’s not what we had planned, but… I mean, if you are pregnant…” Frankie paused, smiling at your stomach as he gently place a hand over your belly, tears welling in his chocolate brown eyes, “Baby, I would be so excited. Nervous as hell, but so fucking excited.”
“Me too.” You sniffed, looking down at Frankie’s palm splayed across your stomach, heart swelling at the thought of Frankie being dad, thinking of how sweet and caring and perfect he’d be as you grew your little family together. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled Frankie in close, letting out a shaky sigh, whispering your words through happy tears.
“I love you so much, Frankie.”
“I love you so much too, Hermosa. More than anything.”
For the sake of Frankie’s shoulder, you pulled away to wipe your tears to keep from soaking your husband’s shirt, quietly laughing to yourself at the fact that this whole time you had been talking to Frankie, you had still been pantsless, hunched over the toilet.
“It probably would have been way more romantic to tell you all of this not at 2:30 in the morning, pantsless and hunched over the toilet like a little gremlin.” You snorted, Frankie following suit as he shook his head, running his hand through the sleepy curls of your hair.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way, mi amor. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed.”
As the two of you sleepily trotted your way upstairs, curling together under the warmth of your comforter with Frankie’s chest pressed against your back, you couldn’t help but smile as his arm draped over your stomach, hand resting on your belly while his thumb traced soft circles on your skin, imagining what it would be like if a few months from now if you really were getting ready to add another member to your family.
The next morning, as the sunrise began to spill through your curtains, casting bright orange and pink shadows on your bedroom walls, you couldn’t help but stir as the familiar scent and warmth of Frankie’s body was missing from his side of the bed.
As you sat up in the sea of blankets and comforters, softly rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you saw Frankie’s frame quietly sneaking through the bedroom door, fresh mug of coffee and bag of breakfast in hand with a stupid smile plastered across his face as he was greeted with your barely awake grin.
“Good morning, beautiful.” Frankie cooed, setting down the coffee and breakfast down on your nightstand as he sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, pressing a tender kiss into the sleep-ridden ends of your hair before wrapping his arms around you in a long embrace.
“Good morning, handsome.” You yawned, stretching your arms over your head, letting out a little grunt and laying your head on Frankie’s shoulder. “What’s all this for?” You asked, gesturing towards the coffee and oversized McDonald’s bag, assuming it was the reason for Frankie’s absence when you woke up.
“I- I don’t know, I uh- I was just really excited when I got up this morning. It was early, and I didn’t wanna wake you up, so I made a trip to CVS to buy some pregnancy tests for you and figured I’d pick up breakfast on the way home.” Frankie smiled sheepishly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, brushing past his untamed morning curls. “I know- I know you can’t really take the tests yet- I spent a lot of time reading the boxes in the store and wasn’t really sure what the best one was to take, so I got like, 4 different ones for when it's time.”
“God, you’re so sweet. You’re the best, you know that? It’s about to be a long week of waiting before I can take one of those. Do you- fuck, Frankie, do you think it could really be positive?” You asked, tears beginning to well in your eyes again as you smiled up at your husband, already beaming back at you, picturing the two pink lines showing up on all of the tests he had bought for you.
“Maybe, if we’re lucky.” He smirked, gently cupping your face, swiping his thumb across your face. “But if it’s not, then maybe… Maybe we start trying for a positive one on purpose.”
“R-really?” You grinned, biting down on your lip in excitement.
“Really, really.” Frankie replied, bringing his lips to yours in a long, slow kiss, soaking in the sweet taste of you on his tongue. “And maybe…”
“Maybe, what, Fransisco?” You giggled, bringing your mouth back to his in a sweet and sloppy kiss.
“Maybe…. We start trying right now, ya know, just to be sure. Wouldn’t want all those pregnancy tests to go to waste.”
Taglist:
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#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfic#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal character#frankie catfish morales#narcos fanfiction#francisco catfish morales#francisco morales#francisco morales x reader#francisco morales x you#frankie morales#frankie morales fanfic#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fluff#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x female reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales fic#triple frontier fic#triple frontier#triple frontier fanfic#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal fandom#joel miller smut#fransisco morales
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the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍
pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader
summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend
warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets
word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)
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When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.
You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.
The mom had tattoos.
Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.
One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.
They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.
But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.
As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.
His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.
Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.
One: do not enter his room ever again.
Two: no touching his stuff.
And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.
You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.
So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.
It’s like old times.
“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”
Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.
You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.
“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.
“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”
He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”
You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”
He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.
“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.
“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.
“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”
Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”
Mal snorts.
“Hey, lil Santi!”
You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.
“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”
“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”
“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.
It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.
By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.
But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.
Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.
Well. All but one.
Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.
Always have, always will.
He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.
You hated him. Fucking hated him.
And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.
You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.
“You here to poison my drink?”
“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.
“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”
He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”
Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.
“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”
“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”
“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”
Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.
“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”
You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.
You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.
You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.
“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.
He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”
“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.
Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.
It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.
The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.
She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.
“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.
She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”
“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”
Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.
“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”
“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”
Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”
You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.
“Alright. Fuck it.”
You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.
The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.
“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.
He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.
But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.
Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.
Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.
You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.
“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”
He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”
“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.
“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”
You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”
His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.
“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.
“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”
Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.
“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”
“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”
“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”
“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”
“No way. Mom would kill me.”
“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”
He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”
“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”
Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.
“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.
Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”
He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.
“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”
“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.
You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.
“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.
“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.
But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.
“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”
He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”
You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”
“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.
On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.
“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.
Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.
“Just tell me when.”
“When what?”
“To start going easy on you.”
Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!
One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.
Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.
The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.
“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.
He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.
The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.
Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.
It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.
He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.
“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.
Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.
“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”
You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.
“It was a good attempt,” she says.
“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”
You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”
“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”
You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.
“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”
Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”
“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”
He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”
“I think you should mind your business.”
“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”
“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”
He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”
You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.
Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.
Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.
The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.
He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.
So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?
Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.
“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.
You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”
“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”
You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.
“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”
“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”
“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”
“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”
You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.
“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.
She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.
“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”
“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”
You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.
It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.
You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.
As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.
“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”
“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”
“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.
“Are you lost?”
He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”
“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”
He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.
“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”
Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”
“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”
He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.
Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”
You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”
The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.
It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.
So then, why can’t he walk away?
You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.
“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”
“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”
He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.
His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.
“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”
“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.
You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.
“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.
“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”
“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.
Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.
But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.
“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.
He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.
“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.
Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.
“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”
“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”
“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.
“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”
He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.
“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.
He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.
Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –
“I’m the asshole.”
He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.
His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.
Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.
“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”
And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.
“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”
“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.
Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.
If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.
The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.
The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.
You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.
And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.
You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.
You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.
“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.
He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”
“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.
Frankie nods again. “I should go.”
You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.
You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.
And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.
Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.
He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”
You cock your head. “Hm?”
“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”
He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.
Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.
“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”
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#frankie morales#frankie catfish morales#frankie morales fic#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales smut#francisco morales#bbf!frankie#bbf!frankie morales#pedro pascal#pedro pascal frankie morales#pedro pascal characters#triple frontier#triple frontier fic#enemies to lovers#frankie morales enemies to lovers
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driving home for christmas | frankie morales
Summary | With a long drive ahead of you to reach your parents for Christmas, there's only one thing to do to pass the time.
Word Count | 2k
Pairing | Frankie Morales x F!Reader
Warnings | This is basically porn without plot. Mentions of family Christmas, oral sex (M), allusions to oral sex (f), road head (pls be safe y'all), smattering of cock worship, lil bit of competency kink, dirty talk (y'all this man has hell of a mouth), a little bit of cumplay if you squint.
Authors Note | I don't even have anything to say other than, I love this man and this has made me realise I need to write him more. Enjoy!
Divider by the amazing @saradika
Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.
There’s something that always happens to you when you sit in the car alongside Frankie. The way he can effortlessly drive with one hand on the wheel, his fingers tapping along to the sounds of the radio, the way his free hand only leaves the top of your thigh to turn the wheel when it’s needed or to change gears and the way he always put his hand on the back of your seat when he’s reversing – it all makes you feel hot, watching his competency in action. It makes you want to fuck him.
But you’re already running late. Overslept this morning, Frankie’s fault for spending so long between your thighs the night before. Your parents, waiting at the other end of the journey to celebrate Christmas together for the first time, a text from your mother suggesting she’s slightly perturbed at your delay – her Christmas Eve meal pushed back a few hours, the bottles of champagne chilling but unopened until you arrive.
“If you take a picture, it’ll last longer, hermosa.” Frankie chuckles, catching your eyes trained on him, specifically the way his arms bulge when he shifts lanes on the highway.
“I don’t need one,” You shrug, “You’re always right here.”
He smiles lightly, watching as you pull your hands from your lap, set it on his knee and start slowly dragging your fingers up his jean-clad thigh. Frankie looks at you through the side of his eye, smirk splaying over his mouth as your hand moves higher.
“You’re insatiable, you know that?”
You shrug, “You shouldn’t be so fucking attractive then, should you?”
“That desperate to suck my cock that you can’t wait until tonight?” He teases, as your hand splays over the bulge growing in his jeans.
“Are you complaining?” You ask, eyebrow raised.
“Not at all, baby,” He shifts in his seat a little, moving himself down so your fingers can work the button of his jeans, “You knock yourself out.”
It’s all the permission you need to unclip your seatbelt and lean over the centre console. Frankie shifts just a little to let you reach a warm hand beneath the material of his jeans and his underwear to pull his cock free, running your hand gently up and down his length. You revel in the way his head tips back against the seat, his eyes fluttering closed a little before he realises he has to keep an eye on the road.
You languidly move your hand up and down his cock, there’s no need to rush, you still have a few hours between you and your destination, and you like the way that Frankie sounds when you tease him a bit, when you know exactly what he wants but won’t give to him just yet. The way he sucks that plush bottom lip into his mouth to save himself from begging, but always ends up doing it anyways.
You watch his face closely as you drag your thumb over his head, flushed red and leaking, the way he inhales gently from his mouth as you drag that slick around the head of his cock, dragging your fist down and back up a few times before you pull your hand away altogether. You can’t help the smile that drags across your face when he groans at your hand being gone, head turning to watch you as you keep your eyes on him, spit fully into your palm before it’s circled back around the base of his cock, fingers tighter around him this time as you drag your hand back up and down, Frankie’s head hitting the headrest, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
“You okay, baby?” You ask, sickly sweet as your hand continues to move up and down his cock.
“Would be even better if you put your mouth on me, cariño.”
“What’s the rush?” You shrug, hand squeezing around his length a little, “We’ve got hours to go.”
He clears his throat when your thumb runs over the underside of his flushed head, over that sensitive spot that always makes him grip his hand in your hair when you flutter your tongue over it.
“Because there’s a high likelihood that I’m going to have to pull over once you’re finished and eat your cunt, baby.”
His words make you gasp, heat settling in your stomach and a sharp strike of want right between your legs. The thought of him so desperate for you that he would pull over, spread you out on the backseat and eat you until you cried, like he always did, and there was no getting around it, that would take time, he liked to take his time with you, and you were already running late.
You shift in your seat, sink your body down so you can lean over the centre console. Your hand still gripping his cock, you press your lips to the tiny sliver of skin just above, where his jeans are undone and his t-shirt ends, tongue darting out to taste his skin as your hand keeps pumping him gently.
Your hand grips him near the tip of his cock, holding him still so you can press your hot mouth to the base of him, soft kisses pressed to his entire length until you reach the head of his cock, flushed an angry shade of red now. You smirk to yourself as you dart the tip of your tongue out, running it gently across the head, catching the bead of slick that sits on the slit of him as you go.
His taste drives you wild, it always has. Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant, salty and musky and something distinctly Frankie too. When the first taste hits your tongue, there’s a switch that flicks in your brain, you want more of it, you want every drop that he can give you, so you finally do what he’s been pleading with you to do, you wrap your hot mouth around his head, free hand slipping down to cup his balls in your palm, tongue swirling over his head before you start moving your mouth down slowly on him, pulling your lips off him, hand following up and down his cock to spread the wetness your mouth has left all over him.
“I love your cock so much, Frankie.” You speak softly, nuzzling his length with your nose, watching as your hand squeezes as it moves up his cock, bead of precome pooling at his tip, your tongue licking it into your mouth.
“That right, baby?” He asks, tone low.
“Yeah,” You sigh, subtly trying to rub your thighs together for some relief, “It’s so perfect, always makes me feel so good.”
“You gonna show me how much you love it?” It almost like a dare, and you’ve always liked a challenge.
So with one hand still cupping his balls, fingers moving gently against them, you wrap your mouth back around him and take him as far down into your mouth as you can before he hits the back of your throat, your other hand working across the length of him you can’t fit in your mouth.
“Shit baby,” He chokes out as you set a pace of moving your mouth up and down him, hand following, spreading spit all over him, wetness pooling at the base of his cock, “Yeah, that’s it, just like that.”
His praise makes you weak, makes you wet, you can already feel the slick pooling in your panties, but you know he can do better, you know he can be nicer to you. You relax your jaw a little, move your mouth down a little further than you had been, tip of Frankie’s cock hitting your throat. You hold yourself there for a moment before you bob your head right there where you are, his cock punching at the back of your throat, the wet sounds of him thrusting up into your mouth filling the car until Frankie hits just a little too far down, making your throat constrict around him, gagging and spluttering on him, tears forming at your waterline as you pull off him, string of saliva keeping your mouth attached to his cock as you catch your breath.
Frankie brings a hand down, cupping your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, “Too big for you, huh, baby?” He asks, winking at the end, “Put your mouth back on me,” He always gets a little demanding when he’s getting close, “You know I love it when you choke on me.”
Your tongue darts across your bottom lip before his hand on your chin tangles in the back of your hair, pushing your head gently back towards his cock, pushing your mouth down onto him as far as he thinks you can go. He fists at your hair, flicker of pain settling across your scalp as he uses the leverage to move your head up and down in just the right pace that he can push your throat down onto him, but pull you back off just in time to save you from gagging on him.
He’s getting louder with his moans, and you can feel the slight tightening of his balls in your palm, he’s close. When he drags your head up the next time, you tease the underside of his head with your tongue, which has him gripping your hair tighter, keeping you still right there.
“Jesus, fuck,” He groans out, “Do that again.”
So you do, you keep the tip of your tongue flicking at the underside of his cock, one of your hands coming back to the base of him, pumping his length as you work your mouth over him.
“God damn it, baby, I’m gonna come.”
You moan around him, all the permission he needs to start moving your head again until he keeps you still with your lips wrapped around the base of his cock. You can feel the warm spurts of his cum before he lets out a ragged moan into the air of the car, that taste you love so much spreading out across your tongue, thick and viscose as he drains himself into your mouth.
You’re both still for a moment - you can hear him sucking in breath from above you, his hand loosening it’s grip on your hair to let you sit back up in your seat.
Much like he did before, he grips your chin in his hand, turns your face to his, “Show me.”
You open your mouth, stick your tongue out a little to show him the milky white pool of his cum in your mouth. He tilts your chin down, pad of his thumb dragging across your tongue a little before he closes your mouth for you, raised eyebrow waiting for you to do exactly what you want and swallow him down, opening your mouth again, sticking your tongue right out this time to show him that it’s all gone.
“Good girl.”
He finally lets you sit back properly into your chair, seatbelt back on as he moves to tuck himself back into his jeans.
“Nice work, Morales.” You chuckle, eyes settling on the road ahead, “Road head whilst it’s snowing and we’re still alive?”
It’s snowing a little now, not enough to prove a problem, but enough to make the bubble of excitement meet the bubble of want in your stomach. Christmas is here, you think, warm hand slipping over to rest on Frankie’s thigh, his own free hand coming down to cover your own, smiling at you.
“Well, would you look at that,” He tilts his head towards a sign, “Somewhere to pull over.”
His eyes are expectant, your eyes are wide, thighs rubbing together a little at what that means.
“Want me to eat your pussy, baby?”
But of course, it’s a rhetorical question, because of course you do, his fingers already tipping the indicator down, switching lanes so he can pull off the highway.
“Merry Christmas to us, I guess.”
#Frankie Morales x reader#Frankie Morales x you#Frankie Morales x female reader#Frankie Morales x f!reader#Frankie Morales smut#Frankie Morales#Frankie Morales fic#Frankie Morales fanfic#Frankie Morales fanfiction#frankie morales fluff#francisco catfish morales#francisco morales#Pedro pascal#Frankie Morales Pedro pascal#triple frontier#triple frontier fic#triple frontier fanfic#triple frontier fanfiction
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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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Crash
Sequel to Cravings
Frankie Morales x F!Reader
Summary: Frankie is reeling from the night you two had sex and can no longer differentiate between his addictions.
Notes: Great y’all, now he's got feelings . Hope you're proud. Anyway, thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive feedback from Cravings: alas, here’s part 2! There will be a part 3 finale following after this (because it was getting too long and I like making you all suffer). Thank you all again for the love and reading so far!
Warnings: Oral (m and f receiving), F and M masturbation, dry humping, drunk reader, slight dub con drunk sexual activities, references to sex, mentions of drug usage, language, Frankie is kinda mean in this one :( , poor communication King and Queen
18+ONLY
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Frankie feels like a stranger who's overstayed his welcome in his own home. When he knew you were deep asleep, he crawled out of bed and sat on the couch for what felt like a simultaneous eternity and quantum leap of time, wrestling in his mind over what just happened.
He knows you'll be waking up soon, and the thought of seeing you now makes him feel so anxious. In direct contract to how he's felt seeing you every morning since you moved in. How much of last night stuck with you? You were tipsy, but not as fucked up drunk as he was. Did he come on to you too strong? Misread your signs? Did he force it on you? Would you regret it?
And even if you wanted it, was it just all for him? Was this just another "helping Frankie get over his coke problem"?
He can't just go back to seeing you as a substitute for his "problems". His hands shook at his side, leg bouncing. You were slowly transitioning from being the solution to his problems to becoming the reason for his new problems. He's never been afraid about how to act around you before, and that even includes trying to touch and kiss you in front of some guy you were flirting with at the bar.
God, what a shitty friend he is. You should have had the chance to go home with that guy, not have to deal with your coke addicted friend so he hog your cunt all night for himself.
Then again, why would you want to go home with that fucker anyway? Like he would know your body as intimately as Frankie does. As if he could even come close to bringing to the edge black out pleasure and back over and over all night. Catfish doesn’t pride himself on much except two things: flying a chopper under any condition, and making you cream on his tongue.
He feels even more guilty as his cock hardens in his pants, the memories of your sweet moans and perfection flood his mind. How he'd wanted it for so long and was so sure he was dreaming. But he could never mistaken: the hot tenderness of your sweaty skin, hair sprawled over his pillow, your nails sifting through his curls and scratching along his shoulders, the way your legs shook around his head, the taste of your over flowing juices needing him more than before, the sounds like honey pouring from your lips, the insatiably tight, wet grip of your pussy swallowing around him like a perfect fit, and the way you wrapped yourself around him like you never wanted to let go.
He wants you. Again. And again, and again. So much that he doesn’t think he can trust himself around you anymore.
-
You wake to a cold bed. It takes you a moment to orient yourself, recognizing the room is not your own.
You sigh relief when you hear Frankie shuffling in the kitchen, the smell of burning toast filling the air. You quickly run to the bathroom to freshen up, wiping your messy eyes. And surprised to find the once mess between your legs from last night had already been cleaned, probably while you had slept.
You can't help but feel like a shitty friend, hogging his bed, having him clean up after you when he was the drunk one who needed caring to.
You bounce into the living space, announcing your presence with an exaggerated yawn.
You rub his broad shoulders over his shirt, feeling him tense at your sudden touch. Slowly, your hands snakes down the chiseled lines of his back, wrapping around his waist. You felt his strong forearms flex the spatula in his hand.
He turned to you, his eyes warm but clearly sleep deprived. His breath is short when looking at you, eyes dilated. He can't stop your hands drifting south and feeling the clear tent in his pants that has been there all morning. He closes his eyes and groans as you palm his erect cock.
"Why didn't you wake me?" You asked, turning off the stove as you stare up at him.
Frankie swallows the lump in his throat. He brushes your hands off his crotch and holds them in his. “I’m okay. Besides, you needed your rest." He leans down to kiss your cheek, lacking his usual affection despite the gesture before coldly turning back to his cooking.
You pull away and sit down at the table, just a moment before he's plating your breakfast.
Frankie cooked you breakfast?
He brushes your hair out of your eyes before leading himself down the hall and into his room without another word.
Sheets, pillow cases, clothes, all of it gets balled up and tossed in the wash. He glances at you down the ball, your feet dangling over the island stool as you catch up on your news feed.
You couldn’t be any more oblivious to how much his heart is shattering—just from doing absolutely nothing.
-
He's annoyed at how well you carry about your business from then on. So much so that he's trying so hard avoiding using you as much. Yes he WANTS to fuck you again, wants to ravish your cunt every waking minute of the day like before, and then fuck you until you're pleading him to stop, tell you how good you look taking him, and how you were clearly made for him. But how much of it did you want for yourself?
After the first night, he’s been doing everything in his power avoiding sex with you because it’s dangerous. Because he can't control what happens next. Can't keep it platonic, and pretend he’s ok with it just staying sex. He almost lost it and confessed everything the first time—and what would happen when you didn't want that from him? If you didn't feel the same?
You'd leave him.
So of course you make it that much harder for him to resist you everyday since.
Did you realize how sexy you looked wearing nothing but panties, bending over your bed with the fan on after a shower to cool off? you left your door open, casually waving to him, breasts smushed between your chest and the soft blanket on your bed. Did you know he swells with pride when can he still see the obvious markings of his fingerprints bruised on to your hips, your thighs, your stomach, after spending so much time holding your shaking body against his mouth? The way your nipples pierce through his t-shirts that you manage to dig out of his closet, and how they do nothing but aide the memory of you underneath him, begging for him to use you?
Every time he sees you, he gets hard. And he immediately tries to ignore you, walks away, goes to do anything other than giving in to the desire of pushing you down, spreading your legs and taking his frustration out on the one who's causing it all now.
He can tell you're starting to catch on. You notice his curt attitude, the way his eyes avoid you when you’re in the same space.
You two were sitting on the couch watching tv as always, but he was uninterested, leaning back against the sofa with his eyes closed almost in annoyance. You had interpreted it as a sign of him holding back his urges. Sliding down the couch, you glide your hand across his chest, starting to undo your buttoned night gown. when he opened his eyes and saw the first sliver of your breasts opening for him he stood abruptly, throwing you off. He only mumbles 'goodnight' and headed straight to his door.
It's been a few days since the last time he ate you out, last time he really cared to touch you. And you should be glad, really. He's getting so much better. Clearly craving you less. That was the whole fucking point of all this.
But FUCK if you aren't needy as of lates. You can feel the hot flush of embarrassment as you drag yourself to your room. Wet and bothered and for the first time in months, left unsatisfied to your own devices without Frankie's tender and a bit selfish care. You don't remember the last you needed to masturbate, let alone wanted to.
It shouldn't be embarrassing. And yet as you dip your fingers down your panties and through your slick folds, you feel wrong. Empty. Like something isn't there thats supposed to be. The idea that you're so used to him getting you off whether you asked for it or not that you're now incapable of doing it yourself is—troubling.
You huff in frustration and try your best to work yourself to a minimal slickness, remembering all the times Frankie has brought you over the edge again and again. But thinking about him only makes you slightly perturbed by the fact that he's right down the hall and could be doing this himself, if he only needed you as badly like he used to.
You don't notice your friend is right outside your closed door, ear pressed against the wood as he listens to your hushed sighs. His cock is hard in his hand, pumping it with long strokes to your beautiful yet strained moans. He wants to be buried between your legs. Wants his tongue to lap at your folds, fingers craned deep in that tight hot wet heat thats been calling his name all night. Make you flinch away when the stimulation becomes too much, because he knows you'll still take it like his good girl until he decides to stop. He knows all the right places to push, nothing secret between the two of you. In fact, in the amount of time thats passed with your fumbling attempts to get off and his pulsing dick in his hand, he could have made you cum twice now.
His body has been on overdrive trying not to take you again. Trying to be respectful for a change. Everything hurts, even his cock, which no matter how much he tugs on it, it's nowhere near close to giving him that sweet release. He's feral, nails digging in his thighs with the need to feel you against him again. Needs to just fuck, let it out, and then he can deal with his brain, his guilt, afterwards.
And when he hears you softly moan his name, he can't stop himself from barging down your door, wild eyed, dick slapping against his abdomen as he crawled over top of you and captured your lips.
Stop, stop stop, he's telling himself. But with the way you're wrappings your arms around his shoulders, deepening the kiss, delicate hands cupping his aching cock, all his needs he's been denying for days have overtaken his movements.
You're so bad for him. An unavoidable addiction.
Worse than candy, worse than coffee, worse than cocaine.
He flips you on your stomach, his hand engulfing the entirety of your lower back, pinning you there as his elbows spread your knees. He lies between your thighs, ass up in front of his face, and spreads your soaked folds, enamored with your clit twitching for him. Your little hiccup goes quiet when he presses his face into your mound, nose dragging along the line as his jaw works you open, fingers pulling your cheeks apart so he can suffocate himself properly.
His fingers dig into your waist, and he's rocking your body back and forth, dragging so deliciously against the sheets below you. His tongue is plunging in and out of your hole, and you realize he's fucking you on his tongue. You hum in relief, rocking with his movements, earning you stinging slaps on your ass cheeks. He kisses them better before biting your folds and gorging himself on your slit again, his appetite voracious after denying himself of your sweetness all week.
He ignores that bubble of guilt wedged deep in his stomach as he let's instinct bring him the relief he desperately needed, your squelching cunt and satisfied sighs tampering his cravings for you once again.
He watches you shake with your orgasm, encouraging him to keep taking. You babble: "Thats it, baby" "so hungry today aren’t you?" "Use it the way you like" and he closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the clear direction of how you saw this transaction. You were never this vocal before, but now when he's tossing and turning all night with his thoughts about wanting you, here you are telling him plainly. Almost as if you're reminding him the truth, discrediting his hopes for a different outcome.
He sits upright and slaps his cock between your ass cheeks, grinding down on you so you're still pressed flat on your bed. God, he wants to do it again. Spread your folds and split you in half with his fat cock. Make you weep and pass out, and then fuck you again. "Gorgeous fucking ass, mi hermosa. So pretty under me," He grunts as he slicks his member up with your arousal, just barely holding on the last bit of sanity he has by refusing to enter you. You whine in protest, but he has both hands on your lower spine, crushing your hips into the mattress as he uses your ass. "So good spoilin' me. Always there for me." He grits his teeth, rutting his cock against you, occasionally sliding back down to your folds to lather himself up. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He growls as he spills his cum over your lower back, breath catching in his throat.
The guilt creeps back in to his clear mind, and he's angry at himself again.
He can't stop himself.
"Frankie, why didnt—“
Before you could finish, he was storming out your door and slamming it behind him.
-
He used to be so loving. Used to worship your body, warm praises about how perfect you are for him. Sometimes he'd take his time, and other times he'd be fast, but still always with warm hands, attentive to your reactions, even when he was so fucked out of his mind needing you.
But now he's rougher. More sporadic than before, even as he decreases the number of times he's engaged with you. Silent now, too. fewer loving praises, less warmth behind his touch or his eyes, and in fact, spends more time having you in positions where he doesn't have to look at your eyes. He leaves you cold afterwards every time.
He's been acting like it a lot more lately: ignores you all week, being uncharacteristically polite when you corner him but managing to ditch whenever possible. And then he caves all at once, crashing in on you and takingtakingtaking, before going back to ignoring you. It should be a good thing: that he needed you less. That his cravings were subsiding more and more that he could actually go a while before needing a hit. It really should have been like this from the start: Cold. Transactional. Indifferent.
So why did you feel so awful now?
The only reason you haven't lost all hope is that very occasionally, that sappy, wet puppy dog of a mess shows his warm side again. You were showering when you heard him slip the curtain open behind you and step in, his arm immediately wrapping around your stomach, loving kisses adorning your shoulder, neck, and up to your ear. You sigh, relaxing in to his touches. He just held you there and kissed your body. He didn't even try to touch you, although you knew you were growing a different wetness between your legs. He didn't let you touch his obvious erection either. Just peppered you in kisses, dragging his lips over your stomach, combing through your hair, up to your elbow then down in the palm of your hand. There was no rush behind hid actions. No urgency. All gentle.
All Frankie.
YOUR Frankie.
But incidentally as he brought his eyes to yours, his chest seized with coldness again, and he's suddenly leaving you and the now cold shower without a word.
You didn't know how to make it better anymore.
He was so agitated again recently, and you could tell he didn't get any sleep again. You suggested he take the day off, the two of you could spend it "however he wanted", slyly offering yourself to him to take the edge off. But when he ignored you and went to watch the football game, two beer bottles dangling between his fingers, you rolled your eyes.
So fed up with his change in attitude, you spent an hour getting ready in your room, walking down the hall in heels, your tightest shortest shorts, and a low hanging crop. It had been a month since you and Frankie first fucked: combined with his recent behavior, stress with work, and lack of action, you needed a night out, needed to get wasted. Needed to stop being the baby sitter.
You needed sex.
"Where the hell are you going?"
"Out."
You grabbed your keys and left.
You hadn’t even closed your car door before opening your phone and texting Frankie that you were going out with Santi to help alleviate any worries he might have of the company you're keeping. Pope’s just as close a friend as Frankie is: he shouldn't have any problems about the fact that you’re in good hands tonight and just need some time to drink and be out.
Away from Frankie Morales just for the night.
-
It’s like you’re perfectly doing everything wrong to him.
She's out with Santi. Fucking Pope. The same Santi who told Frankie years ago you're smoking hot, and he wouldn't hesitate to jump on you if you let him. His best friend, the one who knows him better than himself, and yet here he is making a move on his girl—
But you aren’t his.
In fairness, he has been a total ass. He keeps trying to curb his desires, punch away his uncontrollable feeling about you, only caving all at once on you like a bullet train. Then the emotional brick wall of regret builds immediately after release, desperate to shut out his overwhelming feelings and the rough actions he’s taken against you. It keeps repeating.
He vainly hopes he'll actually stop wanting someone who doesn't want him any more.
He curses himself for only having enough alcohol to get slightly tipsy. It's been a week since the two of you did anything sexual, a month since "the incident" so it's a good thing you're out.
It doesn't make him feel better.
To his annoyance, his phone buzzes next to him as Santi's contact pops up. He puts it on speaker, can hear loud giggles and music outside, barely registering his friend saying you're completely wasted and need to be taken home. He doesn't even send a reply, already throwing his jacket and cap on and walking out the front door.
-
"FISHY!"
You're leaning over Santi outside the bar when you spot Frankie walking towards you two. Your mascara smeared across your eyes like you had been wiping them all night. You're mumbling incoherently, throwing your head back in a fit of laughter. Pope is barely holding you up right, sheepishly smiling to keep your morale up.
"Hey man. I’m sorry, She lost her keys and I walked here. Otherwise I would have..."
"It's fine. Gimme her," Frankie said curtly. How Santi would ever let you drink this badly, he'd have to berate him later.
"M' Pinocchio!" You gasped as Frankie slung one of your arms over his neck and hoisted you up on one of his shoulders.
Why? Full of lies? he wonders.
“I’m gonna be swallowed by a great big FISH." You hiccuped, cackling upside down with a nice view of your besties tight ass. Frankie readjusts your body like a sack of potatoes on his shoulder and stands up, holding your thighs securely. If Santi wasn't here, he'd smack your ass to get you to shut up.
Frankie nods once at Santi and goes to turn around.
"Hey Fish? Take—take care of her. Please."
No shit.
Frankie is pushing open the apartment door as you're mumbling "fishy fishy fishy—hic!— squishy fishy."
He drops you down carefully on your bed. "Get undressed."
You giggle even more, seductively biting your lips as you pull yourself up to his body, hands roaming his abs and down to his hips. "You first."
He stared down at you, your lust ridden eyes meeting his, as you're pulling your shirt off so you're only in a push up bra. He tried avoid staring at your supple tits, the faint bite marks and bruises from his past ministrations almost completely faded by now. A fresh canvas practically begging to be marked up again...
He shakes his head. "We're not doing this. You're getting in your pj's and going to bed," he said, scolding you like a brat.
"Ppfftttttt." You ignore him, lifting his shirt and kissing his belly button, tracing down his happy trail and pausing at his belt. "At least someone here misses me."
He hasn't even noticed how hard he was in his jeans until you were rubbing your cheek against his clothed bulge, doe eyes staring up at him. He hears the soft pop of his pant's button undone, zipper slowly being dragged down by your teeth.
"When was the last time I blew you, Fishy? Let me relax you. I know you've needed this..."
His jaw clenched as he avoided your eyes.
“Know you want me,” you purred.
Those fucking words again. If you KNEW how much more he actually wanted from you...
"He's positively aching, Fish. Shouldn't ignore a big man in need."
He doesn't stop you when you pull his cock out of his pants, having foregone the underwear in a rush to get you. He closes his eyes when your pretty nails wrap around his thick length, lips ghosting over his tip as you press an innocent kiss to his slit.
You hadn't blown him in a long while, and not often enough as you would have liked. you don't normally take charge, but he's been so distant lately that you can't help but use the alcohol in your system as a newfound confidence to forcibly get him to unwind. Your cunt throbs with need, forgetting just how indescribably big he is until felt him swelling in your mouth. It's sinister how well his dick reacts to your tongue, like you had been practicing as often on him as he had intimately gotten to know your pussy.
Your lips suction his tip into your mouth, causing him groan. His stomach flexes above your forehead. He's resisting again. Your tongue swirls around the tip as you lightly bob your head, swallowing an inch more and pulling out with a pop, teasing him slowly. You needed to get him worked up so he could let go, relax for once.
Maybe not be so cold to you for a while...
He feels your hands gently grasp his own that were down by his side, guiding them up to the back of your hair. You squeeze them in permission before returning your hands to wrap around the length of his cock that didn't fit down your throat.
You experimentally swallow around his shaft, eliciting a soft "fuck" from his breath. He collects your hair in a makeshift pony tail in his hand so that he had a full view of your face, submissively staring up at him as you gulp more of his cock into your inviting mouth.
You feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth, the veins in his v-line in front of you throbbing. Other than holding your hair up, he continues to let you set the pace. His eyes are fixed on you, head slightly titled to the side, entranced by your spell, his tongue just hovering between his teeth.
You push your face a little further, nose brushing against his public hairs, the first jolt of your esophagus resisting the intrusion. y|You hold yourself there, holding your breath for a moment before sucking him again. He's breathing deeply with long, staggered huffs.
You tilt your head back up, eyelashes fluttering as he watches his shaft rest on your outstretched tongue, slowly tracing the veins on the underside of him.
He fists your hair a little tighter, struggling not to grab your face and fuck your throat raw until you choked.
You swallow around him once before letting his dick fall from your mouth with a slick plop.
You stand up, eyes challenging his dominance despite the height difference as you drag him to sit on the bed, and while his eyes are emotionless, body stiff, he doesn't try to stop you. He rests against the headboard as you crawl over his lap. You waste no time to kiss him.
He’s not accepting your tongue, just letting you work over him. What the fuck is his problem? it's never taken him this long to give in. You can tell he WANTS to kiss you back, his jaw clenching so hard he could shatter his teeth. It's never stopped him before.
Truthfully, what you didn't know was that he was tired of you today; from trusting Santi over him for fuck knows what reasons, then having you come home drunk out of your mind, trying to tempt him with more emotionless sex. It's putting him off of your antics mentally. He wanted you, but not like this. He couldn't handle the aftermath of giving in to you again, but not having you.
Sexually, his mind was losing the war over his body's needs.
If it wasn't coke, it was you. And if it wasn't you...
It can only be you.
And Jesus, just when he thought he had a grip on being able to block you out for good tonight, you somehow managed to be an irresistable siren:
"'M so wet for you," you slurred seductively against his lips.
He can't hide the growl rumbling lowly in his chest. His lips part to let out a breath he had been holding and you take the chance to engulf his mouth with the hot kiss you'd been dying to get all week. His lips quickly mold to yours as you whimper pathetically, his hands sliding down to grip your ass in his warm, rough hands. You prop yourself higher on him, cupping his face in your hands, forehead nudging his Standard Oil cap off. You can feel his hot breath panting quickly against your cheek, his resolve crumbling.
He's right there. He's so close to relaxing. Just a little push...
You pull away, his lips almost chasing after yours. "C'mon big boy, wasn't it soooo good?" You playfully bite his ear. "You've got suck a nice cock here," you whisper, fisting his dick once again with the remnants of your spit, pumping his shaft easily. "Shame if it wasn't pounding me tonight...C'mon. Let's do it again."
He finally brings his eyes directly to yours. Your pupils were blown wide, crowded with evident lust. But it was what he could see beyond your eyes that told him exactly what he feared all along:
Nothing.
He doesn't stop the words from tumbling out of his month. "Why? so you can just use me for sex?" he said matter-of-factly, his face relaxing into a mix of coldness and spite.
You stop giggling and pull away, eyes widening with the most seriousness, and hurt, he'd ever seen on you. "And how is that any different than how you've treated me for the past year?"
His jaw is slack with panick, immediately wishing he could take back what he just said. No I—shit, I didn't mean —I didn't mean it like that—“
You get off of him with a hostile sense of urgency, ignoring his hands trying to caress your elbows, to keep you on him. You dig in your back pocket and then you're throwing something hard at his chest. "No, you know what? Fuck you, Frankie." You storm off to your bedroom and lock it.
He covers his face with both hands and leans back against the sofa. Looking down at his lap after a minute, he sees the pair of keys you've had to his apartment for the past year.
What he'd give to be high right now and to forget everything.
-
You spend the entire night packing. He's right at your door first in the morning when you open it, his stomach churning with pain at the image of your eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, hangover, and tears.
You brush past him before he can even apologize, settling your belongings on the kitchen counter. As you toss your scattered items in to your tote, he watches you, fingers twirling in on themselves with anxiety.
Now, now, do it now! he's screaming in his mind.
“I—“
You interrupt him, and it's only now that he sees you're not shaking in anger—you're trembling in tears: "I'm s-sorry that I snapped at you last night. I wasn’t— in the right head. I c-came on to you. You had your reasons for doing what we've done, and last night I was just genuinely u-using you for no other reason other than self interest and I'm s-so sorry." You swallow and take a deep breath before continuing: "I gave up a lot coming here, trying to help you, letting you use me to get better. But I can't do it anymore. I wanted to help you, but then when we had sex, I didn't know if things would change, I didn’t want things to change, and when I woke up, you weren't there, and then you treated me so coldly afterwards. I don't know what I did wrong.” Your voice cracks, sniffling away the running of your nose. “And it felt awful. I just wanted to go back to the way things were. But you s-seem like you hate me now, and I—“ you pause, rubbing your eyes on your sleeve, suddenly changing tone in a polite manner, like you were address a principle and ignoring your previous breakdown. "I'm very happy you're clearly doing a lot better and don't need me anymore. Sorry, I don’t—I don't mean to cry like this.”
Frankie is frozen.
You're crying. You're crying in front of him, which wasn't a first; you've cried to him about stupid boys before. But what IS a first is that you're crying for the first time over the stupid boy right in front of you. You're crying, Because. Of. Him.
Just tell her tell her tellhertellhertellherNOW
But as he opens his month, his words get caught in his throat, like swallowing a lump of coal and puking a ball of fire all at once. His chest aches unlike anything he'd experience before. All he can say is "I... understand."
Nononononoyoudumbfuckwhatareyoudoing!
You nod and sniffle, clearing your throat. "I'd like to just go back to being friends. Before all of this. I'll still support you, I swear. I want you to still feel like you come to me for anything else. But I need some time. To get myself in check." You calmly collect your things and make for to the door.
"Wait!" he goes to grab your arm but his hand freezes up, like touching you would give you painful blisters. You pause and look over to him as he stands a bit closer. “I—I think you should keep this." He puts your key in your hand. "In case. Something happens."
Your lip quivers with empathy, eyes softening for him. "Please. I don't... I don't want to think about..." I don't want to think about seeing you lying face down OD'd on the carpet.
"Just. Hold on to it. Just in case. I'm asking as your friend. We're still that at least. Right?" The words feel like hot iron in his mouth, a heaviness in his heart desperately trying to convince himself more than you.
He wants to hug you. but if he did, he wouldn't let you leave. The warmth of his hand draws away from you after depositing the key in your palm.
You nod, rub his shoulder affectionately yet with clear distance, and leave.
He stands there like a statue in the hall, unable to comprehend just how much quieter and colder the apartment is now than it has been in months.
- - - -
Tagging people who either requested a part two or directly requested to be tagged. At least what i can remember (sorry if I missed you!)
Part 3: Insatiable
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what she wants, anywhere
frankie morales x f!reader
summary: trying to hide the fact that you're horny from frankie while on an international flight leads to unexpectedly joining the mile high club
word count: 4.4k
warnings: E (18+ mdni!!!) dubcon, smut, porn w very little plot, pet names, established relationship, unsafe p in v, airplane sex, slight breeding kink (special just for cami hehe) creampie, reader uses frankie's hand to try and get off, no mention of age gap so read how you’d like :)
notes: this idea has been in my head for a few months but I never really knew how i wanted to write it, then an unreleased harry styles song came on shuffle (complicated freak - iykyk) and that just kinda fed the brainrot even more and…. now here we are. i'm also very aware that this is pretty unrealistic but it's fic so!! also let's pretend that airplane bathrooms aren't super gross i'm sorry. thank you to the loml @javiscigarette for always beta reading and listening to my insane rambling, i don’t know what i would do without you and our single shared braincell ILYSM xo
i also hit a new follower milestone this past week so i just want to say an extra big thank you to everyone that reads, likes, comments, reblogs or follows 🤍 enjoy!! :)
You and Frankie have had this trip planned for almost 6 months now, the two of you needing a vacation from work and day to day life. Now the only thing standing between the two of you and a week long vacation in Italy is an eight and a half hour flight.
From the second you got to the airport you were on edge, worried about your bags, your tickets, your passports, if you had forgotten anything in your carry on, up until you got to security when you finally calmed down. When you got up to the belt, Frankie grabbed a few plastic bins throwing both of your carry ons into one as you removed your jacket and shoes. As you stuffed everything into your bin, you glanced over at him, watching him intently as he started to take his jacket off.
You watched the way his biceps flexed as he slipped his jacket off of his broad shoulders and tossed it into the bin. Next he removed his hat, running his calloused fingers through his tousled curls, pushing them back before preparing to remove his belt. At that point you were noticeably gawking at him, watching the way his thick fingers unfastened his belt buckle before rapidly pulling it out the belt loops of his jeans and tossing it into the bin as well.
He looked over at you, giving you a quick once over before asking, “That everything?”
You weren’t able to conjure up any words, just a quick mhm and a nod of your head as you two moved forward. When he stepped into the metal detector, your eyes were glued to him the whole time. As he lifted his hands above his head, his shirt lifted the slightest bit, causing a small sliver of his soft tummy to peek out. A warmth started to build deep in your core from that moment forward.
Once the two of you were through security, he slipped his belt back on followed by his jacket. You swiped his hat before he could grab it, quickly stuffing it into your carry on.
He laughed, head tilting to the side as the dimple on his cheek deepened. “C’mon” he shot you a look. “Give it.” He held his large hand out towards you.
“We’re inside now, don’t need it.” You smiled at him sweetly, a warmth blooming in your chest as his eyes met yours.
He grunted, grabbing your bags with a small smile still plastered on his face before turning to walk towards your gate. Your eyes are glued to him as you walk, keeping a few steps behind him.
By the time you finally sit down at your gate, the heat in your lower stomach has grown even more and Frankie is painfully unaware of the way you’re watching him, desire growing each second. The terminal was crowded and there weren’t many seats, so you sat across from him a bit upset at the distance while also enjoying the view of your man.
You sit across from him with a book in your hand, legs crossed as you peeked up over the top of your book every now and then to admire him. He was leaning back in the chair, one arm on the armrest and the other casually resting between his legs, right where you want him most. His legs were spread wide, hair perfectly tousled, one leg bouncing from nerves and brows furrowed as he focused on something on his phone. How could you possibly not stare?
He caught you once, eyes lingering on him a little too long, causing heat to rise from for chest up to your cheeks. Your eyes roamed up his body, checking him out, before locking with his own as he shifted in his seat.
Hm? He raised his brows, a smirk growing on his face.
You quickly shook your head, looking back down at your book as a shy smile formed on your face.
Boarding the plane went by quickly. You stood close to him as you waited for your group to be called and he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into his side. The comforting feeling of his warm body pressed against yours worked you up even more, if that was even possible, and Frankie held your hand the whole time during take off.
Now you're seated on the plane, his thigh resting against yours, fighting the urge to keep your hands off of him and satisfy the throbbing need in your core. He’s surely noticed the way you’ve been squirming in your seat, crossing and uncrossing your legs a million times and the not so subtle staring.
You turn on the screen in front of you, switching to the live map and checking the time on the screen. It’s only been 45 minutes, this is going to be impossible. You clear your throat and let out a deep sigh as you look out the window at the dark sky, only a small peek of blue light shining over the horizon now.
“What’s wrong?” Frankie’s soft voice in your ear startles you slightly as you turn to see him leaning in close to you. “You nervous?” He moves his hand to rest on your thigh.
You swallow before answering. “No.” You blurt out causing him to raise his brow in curiosity. “I mean, it’s not that.” Your eyes land on his lips after the last word leaves your mouth.
“Then what is it?” He rubs your thigh lightly and you bite the inside of your cheek.
He sounds concerned, but there’s no way you’re telling him that you’re horny with 7 hours left of this flight. All you can do is hope that as the time passes the ache in your core dulls, or better yet goes away.
“Just-“ you try to think of an excuse on the spot. “Excited actually.” You smile up at him and he returns it, the dimple on his cheek growing.
“We’ll be there soon baby, the flight will be over before you know it.” He lifts his hand from your thigh and rests it on your cheek, rubbing your soft skin with his thumb before pecking your lips.
You nod in agreement, closing your eyes as you toss your head back and lean into your seat. If he only knew.
You’ve been looking out the window for who knows how long, the lights in the cabin are low, almost completely off now, and the flight attendants haven’t walked up the aisles in almost half an hour. You look at the time on your phone again, only two hours in, how is that possible? The ache in your core hasn’t subsided.
You look over at Frankie watching a movie on the screen in front of him, Top Gun, before reaching for your carry-on bag under the seat in front of you. You grab the sweater you stuffed into it and throw it across your lap.
“Cold?” Frankie’s voice is soft yet gravely as he leans in close to you, whispering for just the two of you to hear.
You look at him, eyes slightly widening. “Yeah.” You aren’t lying, the cabin is chilly, but that’s only half of the truth.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he takes in your features in the low light. You scoot closer to him, leaning into his side as you get comfortable. Frankie smiles and plants a kiss on your temple before turning his attention back to the screen in front of him. You lay your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his bicep as you watch the movie with him.
It’s not long before you’re distracted again, letting go of your grip on his arm and laying back in your seat. Your eyes linger on the way his pants hug his thighs. He’s not wearing his jacket anymore, the way he’s sitting with his arms crossed give you a full view of his strong forearms and biceps.
You’re not sure how much longer you can ignore the heat pooling in your stomach. You decide to test something and reach your right hand over to rub the side of his thigh, resting there for a moment. He doesn’t move, eyes still on the screen, and you take that as a sign to keep going. You slowly inch closer towards where his cock is confined in his pants, resting your hand on the inside of his thigh and keeping it there for a few moments. He doesn’t react, but you hear his breathing picking up.
As you start to rub small circles on the inside of his thigh and inch ever so slightly closer to where his member is hidden, he grabs your wrist.
“What are you doing?” He whispers.
His large hand is still wrapped around your wrist as you lean in, resting your chin on his shoulder as you look up at him. “Nothing.” That’s a lie, and he knows it.
“Querida...” His eyes burn through you as he stares back at you. He knows.
You clear your throat and tilt your head up to whisper in his ear. “I’ve been worked up since we went through security.”
“Hm.” He nods his head, the deep vibration causes goosebumps to raise on your skin.
You pull back and he looks into your eyes again. His hand finds yours on your lap, warm as it wraps around yours and squeezes lightly.
“Once we land and get to the hotel, promise.” He raises his hand to rest on your cheek and plants a feather light kiss on your lips.
You let out a small sigh as his hand moves from yours to rest on his lap and you turn to look out the window, trying to distract yourself from the pool of heat that burns in the pit of your stomach.
You’re not sure how much time has passed now, when you look over at Frankie his eyes are shut, mouth slightly parted as you admire his features. A small smile forms in your face as your eyes roam over him, landing on his hand still resting on his lap.
At that exact moment, an idea comes to your mind. Something that could possibly give you a small amount of relief. For now. It’s not your best idea, but it could work.
You look back up at his face as you reach over to rest your hand over his, he doesn’t open his eyes. You stay still for a moment, making sure you won’t wake him from the movement. When you think the time is right, you lift his hand, quickly resting it on your lap. Your eyes land on where his hand now lays over your sweater on your lap, so close to the dull thrumming at your core. You bite your lip and look back over to be sure he hasn’t woken up, you smile at the way his soft lashes rest on the tops of his cheeks as he rests, a warmth spreading through your chest.
You keep your eyes on him as you slowly move his hand underneath where your sweater lays to rest on your inner thigh. His warm hand burns straight through the fabric of your pants, causing your skin to heat up from the touch, and your stomach to churn. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, so you take that as a safe sign to keep going, slowly moving his hand up your thigh until it rests over your clothed heat.
A low whimper escapes your throat and your eyes widen at the realization, looking back over at where Frankie lays with his eyes shut. You watch him take a deep breath, letting out a sigh as he shifts slightly in his seat, head rolling slightly to the side as he stirs. You stay still for a few seconds, making sure he hasn’t woken from your movements.
You look away from him, back to where his hand is touching you under your sweater, and you begin to press the heel of his hand into your clothed cunt. You let out a long, relieved breath from your nose and your eyes fall shut. The pressure of his large warm hand resting over your sensitive nub is just enough to give you some of the relief you were looking for, but it’s not enough.
You take a deep breath before grinding yourself against the palm of his hand in a slow rocking motion that causes the seam of your pants to rub over your clit. Trying your best to be quiet, you bite into your cheek as your hips buck forward. A low groan escapes your throat and you let out a shaky breath.
You're lost in the moment, relishing in the feeling of his large, warm hand resting over your clothed sex as you grind into it. Suddenly you feel him move and your heart leaps into your throat. His arm tenses up, hand grabbing at your clothed cunt as he applies more pressure than before. Your eyes fly open wide and you turn to look into his own. Heavy lidded as a small smirk forms on his face in the dim lighting, he leans in closer to you.
“Bathroom at the back of the plane. I’ll be there in five.” He says slowly, just above a whisper.
You blink, mouth agape as his words sink in. “W-what?” You watch the way his chest rapidly rises and falls as you wait for his response.
“Now.” He presses harder into your clothed core before pulling his hand away.
You let out a gasp, reaching for your seat buckle as fast as you can before standing up. As you squeeze past him and make your way into the aisle, you take a quick glance around to look for the flight attendants. They're nowhere to be found, and as you walk towards the back of the plane you notice that almost everyone on the plane is asleep, has their nose in a book or eyes glued to something on the screen in front of them. You try not to walk too quickly as you make your way towards the back of the plane where the vacancy sign is glowing brightly.
Your heart is racing and you feel giddy as you approach the door, pulling it open and stepping inside before closing it behind you. As you wait in the small stall for Frankie, you stand there for a moment with your back against the door, eyes falling shut as you take a deep breath in anticipation for what may happen next. Then you hear a light knocking on the door, causing you to flinch as you reach to pull the door open.
Without giving you a second to think, Frankie pushes the door open causing you to step back, closing the door behind him and locking it before guiding you towards the sink. It's a tight fit with the two of you in there but right now you could care less. He presses close to you, causing your lower back to press into the small plastic sink as his hand flies down to grab you where you're wet and aching for him, the other grabbing your wrist.
He leans in, nose grazing your cheek before speaking low in your ear. “This what you wanted?” His voice sends a shock straight to your core as he applies more pressure where he's caressing your clothed core, causing a moan to slip from your mouth.
“Frankie,” you say breathlessly.
“Shhh.” his hand leaves your wrist to lightly cover your mouth. “Gotta be quiet for me baby, don’t want anyone to catch us committing a fucking felony now do we?” A small smirk covers his lips and your chest flutters with excitement at his words.
You look up at him with wide eyes and shake your head, then he removes his hand from your mouth and plants a needy kiss to your lips. Your eyes close and you melt into it, hands gripping his shoulders as his tongue parts your lips to tangle with your own. You press against him, slightly bucking your hips to feel the growing bulge in his pants. He groans before breaking the kiss, pulling away to catch his breath as his eyes roam over you. His large hands grab at your waist as he looks back into your eyes.
“Turn around.” you do as he says, turning your back to him and pressing your hips flush against the tiny sink while your hands grab onto the edge bracing yourself.
Frankie’s large hands land back on your hips, smoothing over the fabric of your jeans to rest on your ass for a moment, squeezing lightly before moving back to your hips. he presses his hardening cock into your ass and lets out a low grunt as your eyes flutter shut, your head falling forward as you sigh.
His hands leave your hips and you hear the sound of his belt buckle. “Gotta make this quick.” his voice is low and gruff, you lift your head to look at him through the mirror in front of you.
You watch him as he looks down between the two of you to unbutton his own jeans, stray curls falling onto his forehead. His muscles flex, the fabric of his shirt stretching as he pulls his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring out. His head snaps back up, dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. His hands snake around to the front of you, reaching for the button on your pants, his thick fingers moving quickly to undo it before pulling at your zipper.
His eyes never leave yours as he tugs your pants down just enough to expose the soft skin of your ass along with your soaked heat. Your mouth falls open as his hand moves towards your core and you stifle a moan as his fingers start to glide through your slick folds, his other hand resting back on your hip.
“Been thinking about me filling you up this whole time, huh?” You take in a deep breath, pressing your lips together as you try to hold in a moan. “Thinking about me filling you to the fucking brim with my cum?”
You frantically nod your head, unable to form a single word. Frankie watches you through the mirror as your head falls back onto his shoulder and you press yourself back into him. A small gasp leaves your mouth as you feel his stiff cock press against your bare ass. He starts to rub small, slow circles on your clit and you raise your head to look at him through the mirror again. Your eyes immediately meet with his having never left you, and you watch him as he leans in closer to you.
“Wish there was time for me to taste this perfect pussy.” His nose grazes the side of your cheek, his low voice vibrating through your whole body.
You bite your lip trying to keep quiet, squeezing your eyes shut as he applies more pressure to your swollen clit. You also wish there was time. He plants a kiss on your neck, scruff slightly scratching you as his warm lips press against your skin. It’s like he read your mind.
“Once we get to the hotel, I promise.” He lightly squeezes your hip, pulling his other hand away from your sensitive nub causing you to hold your breath. “Bend over for me baby.”
You do as he says, bracing yourself on the sink once again as you slightly lean forward. One of his hands stays on your hip, the other lines his cock up with your soaking wet entrance. Your eyes are still glued to him in the mirror, your beautiful man. He’s focused as you watch him, and when you feel his tip slowly start to press in, you watch the way his face relaxes. You close your eyes, relishing in the feeling of him slowly filling you to the brim.
“Fuck.” You watch as his head falls back, a blissful look on his face. “Feel so good cariño.”
He stays still for a moment, taking in the feeling of your wet cunt pulsing around him. You’re not sure how long you’ve been in here, but you know that the two of you should hurry up before someone notices what’s going on. You wiggle your ass back and forth against Frankie to try and get his attention as you bite your bottom lip while looking up at him through the mirror.
He lifts his head up, dark eyes meeting with yours. A deep almost growl comes from deep in his chest as he pulls out and slams his cock back into you. Your body jolts forward, mouth falling open as you brace yourself for his brutal pace. You’re not sure how long you’ll last, the feeling of his cock pumping in and out of you bringing you so close to the release you’ve been waiting for.
You watch him in the mirror, transfixed on the way his biceps strain the fabric of his shirt as he holds onto your waist for dear life. The feeling of his cock splitting you open so perfect. He leans down and wraps an arm around your torso, pulling you to stand straight up with your back against him as he continues to fuck you at the same brutal pace.
His hand roams over your body and his eyes follow, finding the hem of your shirt as he slips his large hand beneath it. You press further back into him, a sigh leaving your mouth at the feeling of his warm skin against yours.
“Francisco…” You murmur.
His hand continues to travel up your body, leaving goosebumps in its trail up towards your breasts. You suck in a breath as his hand finds the cup of your bra, slipping underneath to caress the soft skin of your breast. He’s still staring at you in the mirror, tracing over your soft skin and curves with his eyes as he moves his hand to lift your shirt up to your chin.
“So beautiful,” he whispers right beside your ear. “Look at you.”
You’re just looking at him, the way his large hand is splayed over your chest, the light flush on his cheeks from being cramped in this stuffy bathroom, and the way his hair has fallen over his forehead. The coil in your stomach is ready to snap, any second now as he slows down his thrusts. He can feel it, the way your walls flutter around his thick cock. His hand slides back down your chest, stopping to rest on your stomach as he holds you against him.
“Come for me, come on baby.” His deep voice travels straight through you to your core.
“Oh my-” Frankie’s hand flys up to cover your mouth before you can finish.
“Shhh, quiet.” The vibration of his deep voice whispering in your ear sends you over the edge and a white hot feeling spreads through your body, radiating from your core as your orgasm takes over.
“There you go.” He whispers, nose grazing your cheek as he speaks.
Your hand reaches behind you to pull at the curls on the nape of his neck and you squeeze around him as your orgasm comes to an end. He lets out a deep moan as he buries his face into your neck, muffling the sound. He thrust one last time, stopping when he bottoms out, hot cum spurting out and filling you up. His shoulders rise and fall as he catches his breath, head still buried in your shoulder and your head lays back on his. Both of his arms are wrapped around your torso and you rest yours over his, squeezing his forearms lightly as he stays there for a moment longer, making sure all of his seed stays put.
He kisses your neck before lifting his head up and looking between the two of you as he pulls out, pulling your underwear back on quickly to make sure his come stays put. His hands rest on your hips as you fix your shirt. You slide your pants back on and spin around to face him as he buttons his pants, watching the way his fingers move. A smile forms on your face as you watch him, a warmth growing in your chest.
“Hm?” He looks up at you through his lashes as he fixes his belt.
You shake your head, reaching to rest your hands on his shoulders as you kiss him. He sucks in a deep breath, making a content sound as he kisses you back and wraps his arms tightly around you. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes roam your features before speaking.
“We should go back.” One of his hands comes up to caress your cheek and he pecks your lips one last time.
“You go first.” You lean into his touch, squeezing his broad shoulders.
His thumb rubs your cheek before pulling away and turning to pull the door open. He slips out, quietly closing the door behind him. Once he’s gone you turn towards the mirror to fix yourself up and wash your hands before going back to your seat. You replay what just happened in your mind as you wait a few minutes to leave.
Once you think it’s safe to leave, you slip back out into the dark cabin. You glance around, still no flight attendants in sight as you make your way back to the aisle where Frankie is sitting and waiting for you. A smirk forms on his face as you squeeze in front of him to take your seat at the window. You get comfortable, resting your head on his shoulder as his hand finds a spot on your lap and you close your eyes. As you start to drift off you feel Frankie shift in his seat.
“Don’t think I forgot about my promise either.” He whispers for just you to hear.
Your chest flutters, a quiet laugh leaves your mouth before you drift to sleep. Only 5 more hours, you’re almost sure you can wait this time.
thank you for reading <3 any feedback is appreciated and my asks are open!! xo
tagging a few moots: @ilovepedro @gracieheartsspedro @sapphic-gardn @northernbluess @tieronecrush @joelsversion @pr0ximamidnight @daydreamingmiller @hearteyesforjoel <3
#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales fic#frankie morales#francisco morales#frankie catfish morales#frankie triple frontier
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worship
A/N: last night..I was hornknee on the main and this was the result
~word count: 1.5k~
Summary: cock worship with Frankie Morales
Pairing | Frankie Morales x f!reader
Warnings: smut with no plot, cock worship, body worship, handjob, mutual masturbation, filthy talk, oral (female receiving) subby!frankie vibes, intimacy, established relationship, fluff, soft!frankie, boyfriend!frankie, no age gap, reader has no physical descriptions such as skin color or body type, translated Spanish from both Frankie and the reader. Pet names: querida, cariño, princesa, hermosa. +18 minors dni!
paciencia - patience
No es necesario mi amor - not necessary, my love
es necesario para mí, Frankie - its necessary to me, frankie
tócame, querida. Por favor - touch me, darling. Please.
“Baby, I want tonight to be all about you, okay?” Your boyfriend, Frankie Morales has always been a people pleaser in every aspect. Even though you have reminded him at least 100 times in the bedroom that his pleasure is also important, he always brushes it off and turns the attention back on you.
Well, tonight is going to be different. You’re going to show him just how much he really means to you.
“Hermosa,” he softly rasps. “I feel good when you feel good. You don’t have to provide me with any special attention, baby.”
You lean over his chest and gently press your pointer finger against the seam of his plush lips. “Shh. Please, Frankie. I want to show you just how much I really love you, and your cock.”
He’s stunned to say the least. His brows raise in unison as he brushes his hand across the apex of your bare thighs, stroking his thumb back and forth in a soothing motion. He visibly swallows hard, eyes flitting upwards to meet your gaze. “Querida, No es necesario, mi amor.”
You replace your finger with your lips, kissing him sweetly as your fingers gently skate across the patches of his beard. “es necesario para mí, Frankie.”
He licks into your mouth at a snail's pace so he can really get a taste of you on his tongue while your hand drifts slowly to his lap where his half-hard cock lay beneath the soft confines of his sweats.
“Hard for you already, querida.” His breath catches in his throat when you delicately trace the outline of his cock with the tip of your nail. His hips shift upwards, already desperate for more contact.
“I know, baby.” You smile into the kiss, letting out a breathy, soft sigh when he gradually presses your thighs open further for easier access. The panties adorning your body are a pair that he picked out himself, and you looked so beautiful in them.
“Can we keep these on, princesa?” He hums, low and deep as his fingers toy with the little pink bow at the hem of your panties. “The lace looks so pretty on you, baby.” He hooks his thumb through the elastic and snaps it back playfully, eliciting giggle to slip past your lips while your own fingers trail upwards, drawing patterns through the dark, coarse hair on his happy trail. His stomach clenches inwards from your feather light touch.
“Cariño.” You coo, “This night is about you, Frankie. If you’d like for me to keep them on, then I’ll keep them on for you.” You lightly gasp into the connected kiss when his fingers slowly glide upwards against the covered seam of your pussy. He breaks the kiss away momentarily, only so he can glance down and see just how wet you’ve grown for him already. He licks his lips, wetting them before he’s drawn back to his own pleasure as you nip playfully at the junction where his neck meets his collarbone. Teeth graze his bronzed skin as you bite down, drawing blood to the surface. His head tilts to the side to allow you better access to his skin. His lashes flutter shut, lips parting as he moans softly.
You trail your lips further, teasing, biting at his collarbones, and slide your hand southwards. His cock twitches in excitement as you make quick work of pushing his sweats down just enough to free his cock.
His hot breath fans your face when one large hand comes to grasp your jaw, pulling your face back upwards to his lips to meet in a bruising kiss.
“tócame, querida. Por favor.” He whimpers through the kiss, hips bucking upwards when he doesn’t immediately feel your soft touch.
There isn’t a minute in the day where Frankie doesn’t yearn for you, and your touch. He thinks about you morning, afternoon, night, and even in his dreams.
“Paciencia.” You tsk playfully under your breath and slowly slide your hand down the underside of his cock, feeling every vein and ridge beneath the soft pads of your fingertips.
He huffs through his nose, a chuckle vibrating up his chest as he shakily inhales your tongue licking into his mouth. “That’s my line, querida.”
“Hush, baby. Let me take care of you, Frankie. Let me take care of you and your pretty cock.” You drop your hand further, gently cupping his balls, squeezing them delicately, earning another breathy moan to escape his lips.
His head slowly falls back against the plush pillows. If his eyes weren’t shut in bliss already, they would be rolling back into his skull. His fingers begin to toy with your covered clit in languid, circular motions. He loves playing with you like this, feeling your slickness begin to build, and your pussy flutter.
“I’m so fucking hard for you, cariño. And your pretty pussy is so wet for me.” He’s already salivating for a taste, to bury his head between your thighs and delve into his favorite meal of the day; you.
“Feels so good, Frankie.” You praise him adoringly. “Does it turn you on when I say that you have such a pretty cock? It’s so beautiful, cariño. You’re so beautiful.” You gush, kissing him deeper as his hand cradling your face pulls you in even closer. If he could, he’d crawl inside of you and stay there forever.
“Fuuck.” He skin flushes from your words, cheeks turning ruby red, heart swelling in his chest as his thumb gently strokes your jawline. “Tell me I have a pretty cock again, please.”
You drag your hand upwards once more, hand wrapping around the base of his cock as you slowly twist your wrist in a corkscrew motion. You can feel him growing harder in your palm as your thumb swipes across the ruddy head, collecting pearls of precum that have begun to leak and dribble down the underside of his shaft.
“You have the prettiest cock I have ever seen, Frankie.”
His hips buck upwards into your hand pathetically as he whimpers your name over, and over again.
His mental state is at the most vulnerable, yet he has never felt more safe than with you. His lips break away from the kiss, a string of saliva keeps you both connected for a moment, like an invisible string. His head tilts down, cheek resting against the crook of your shoulder, hot breath kisses your skin as he lets himself fully indulge in unabashed pleasure.
“I’m so lucky to have you, cariño. Y-you’re so beautiful, and good to me.” He chokes out, teeth grazing your shoulder as he bites down. His fingers on your pussy begin to pick up their pace, wanting you to feel the same level of pleasure that he is experiencing. His attention stays focused on your clit, and between the steady pressure, and the fabric adding friction, you’re close to hitting your own high.
“You’re so pretty, Frankie. Always so pretty, but even more when you’re on the edge of coming.” You whisper as your freehand rests along his bare shoulder, before slowly sliding into his hair, playing with the soft curls at the back of his head, nails scraping at his scalp.
Perspiration has already begun to build and pool along his bronzed skin. Shiny, wet, slick, needy.
He bites down on your shoulder harder, drawing blood to the surface, eyes squeezed shut, whimpers falling against your skin.
“Oh fuck. I’m going to come, querida. I’m—I'm so close, baby.” He groans as you pump your wrist faster, feeling his cock tense and pulse around your palm.
“Good boy, Cariño. Come for me, Frankie.” You breathlessly request, and he obeys, letting himself go, crying out your name as he paints your hand and his bare stomach in his release.
His softened cock laid still against his stomach, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath. You kissed him sweetly, brushing a few stray curls that were stuck to his forehead with sweat.
His eyes were hooded as he watched your lips descend down his body, between his pecs, down his stomach. You dragged your tongue through his release, lapping every drop up from his sweat stained skin before his strong arms were pulling you back up to his face.
Even in his post-orgasm haze, his kisses were desperate as he tasted himself along your tongue.
“My turn.” He whispered and grabbed ahold of the hem of your ruined panties and yanked them down in a haste.
You couldn’t help but giggle when you felt his curls tickle the inside of your thighs, and the light, gentle scrape of his patchy beard against your sensitive skin.
He spelled his name out against your clit, over and over again, till you positively had nothing left to give him.
In the midst of it all, he found himself growing hard again, and eager, very eager, but now he focused on worshiping you, the same way you worshiped him. He came again with his hips rutting into the comforter as you leaked onto his tongue.
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#frankie morales#frankie morales smut#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fic#Frankie morales fanfic#frankie morales fluff#francisco morales#francisco morales fanfiction#francisco morales x you#francisco morales x reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales triple frontier#triple frontier fanfiction#francisco morales smut
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Loser [frankie morales]
Frankie Morales has always been a total fucking loser. Maybe, at least, you can teach him how a woman likes to be touched.
my masterlist!
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
rating: 18+ (mdni)
word count: ~ 7k
tags/warnings: loser!frankie, frankie loving women so much he's terrified of them, inexperienced frankie, experienced reader, dry humping, premature ejaculation, subby!frankie, we’ll call him “takes directions well” frankie, pussy eating king frankie morales, overstimulation, oral sex (m and f receiving), body worship, dirty talk, frankie likes being called a good boy, begging!frankie, whimpering/whining, reader is pope’s sister, pining, lack of self-confidence, anxiety, affectionate brother-sister name-calling, birthday blowjob
read on ao3!
a/n: hi lovelies!! this has been a mini passion project of mine for a while - the phrase "loser frankie" hasn't stopped rattling around in my head since i thought of it. thank you to my besties @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for being so supportive and unhinged as always in your support of loser!frankie, and for beta'ing this silly little fic. i hope you enjoy, friends, and please tell me what you think!! xoxo
LOSER
Nobody ever decorates for a house party. Apparently, you thought it would be worth it.
A holographic Dollar Tree paper banner strung from one wall to the opposite, HAPPY BIRTHDAY blaring bright red-green-blue-yellow in the entryway to Santiago’s home. Helium balloons swaying hello on either side of the makeshift archway, equally obnoxious and slightly less ugly. Foil-wrapped paperweights tether them to the ground, but it doesn’t matter because the second Benny arrives, he’s tossing a dart from the board in the next room through a balloon and letting the lonely string flutter, flaccid, to the ground.
Fumbling their way through tone-deaf renditions of “Happy Birthday” are Will, Benny, and a handful of other friends. Beer pong tables are set up in the kitchen and the sharp crack! of pool balls echoes up the stairs. House music pounds through the shoddy Bluetooth speakers that aren't quite equipped to handle these volumes. It feels like he's back in college, dragged from frat house to frat house where his much-more-suave roommates chatted up pretty girls as he hid in the corner.
You’re so beautiful. It's rare that he can be in the same room as you and retain any moisture in his mouth. Tonight’s no different. He can hear your enchanting laughter from every corner of the house as he quietly follows you from room to room without ever getting close enough to let you notice him. Sometimes you'll bring your manicured hand up onto someone’s shoulder and honey will drip from your tongue as you ask so sweetly: Have you seen Frankie?
It’s his birthday, after all. And he’s been avoiding you all night.
Frankie sips his sweating beer as he watches you and Pope arm wrestle for the last Pilsner—or, more accurately, you're wrestling to decide who gets to not drink the last Pilsner.
“I’m not gonna arm wrestle you. I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.” This from Pope, already half in the bag, the consonant-to-vowel slide a little slurred, knocking back the remainder of his (sixth? seventh?) Bud Light.
And you, not-quite tipsy, in your tight Levis and your low-cut shirt, the picture of poise—if Frankie considers that nearly everyone else in the room is hammered apart from you. And himself. “What are you, a pussy? Put ‘er there, Santi Claus, and let me see what you've got.”
Pope sighed and placed his elbow on the table, locking his thumb around yours, as Benny slapped a “Three, two, one, fight!” on the surface of the table.
Pope is victorious, slamming your hand down on the table and whooping along with Ironhead. Benny, who’d bet on you, smacks his brother upside the head. You take your loss like a champ and crack the Pilsner open on the edge of the table, gulping it down while the guys cheer your name. Your fist chugs in tandem with their cries.
Frankie, rubbing his clammy palms along his thighs, swallows hard as he looks on from the couch. Some of the beer dribbles down your chin, pooling in the hollow of your throat, spilling over, waterfalling, between your tits. He downs the rest of his beer—not a fucking Pilsner—and flees to the front porch while patting his pockets for a cigarette. The music muffles to a distant cry.
“You mind if I bum a light?”
Frankie feels a distinct sting in the nape of his neck as he jolts in the direction of your voice. He whirls on you and sheepishly scrapes his hand through his hair. His muscles still twinge.
“Uh, I—yeah. No. Don't mind.” He fumbles around in his back pocket and gives you his lighter because he doesn't trust his trembling fingers not to drop it. You smile at him graciously and light your cigarette, turning the flame on his own.
“Thank you, Cat.” You rest your elbows on the porch railing and blow your smoke through the pinhole of your parted lips. It dissipates into the dark sky with his own. “Are you enjoying the party?”
He’s rigid, his hands white-knuckling the railing, lips suctioned around the filter. The sticky-hot flush of anticipatory humiliation lingers high on his cheeks. Your expensive perfume sticks to the inside of his nasal passages. He thinks this is what drowning feels like.
“Yeah,” he rasps, disgusted by the sound of his own voice. He clears his throat and takes another drag. “Yeah, it's great. You did a good job.”
Your lips twist in self-reproach. “You’re very sweet, Frankie, but I spent a whole of twenty bucks on the décor. You deserved better than the Dollar Tree.”
He shakes his head, scratching his beard. “Nah. Don't need much. ‘n you were away ‘til yesterday, and—”
“And my brother is an idiot who wouldn’t remember the date if a calendar gave him a colonoscopy.” Frankie snorts his agreement. He can't meet your eye. If he does, he’ll see distant lamplight gleaming in them and turn to stone. “So, if you see him around before he passes out drunk, give him a slap for me, will you?”
He dips his head in subservience to your wishes. He has no problem smacking Pope around a little. “How was your trip?”
You sidle up a little closer to him and his cheeks burn. “Cat, honey, I can't hear you.”
He clears his throat and meets your eye only to drop his gaze again. His ears are scorching. “How was your trip?” he says louder.
You hum sweetly and he feels his shoulders drop. “It was relaxing. Got a little too much sun, drank a few too many margaritas, but it was nice. Kel and Valerie told me all about their new relationships and that only made me drink some more.”
Frankie didn't know you were single. Last he heard, you'd found some asshole at the bar. Frankie had spent too many hours subject to Will and Benny’s teasing about how he didn't get in on time and would never have a piece of that ass. He’d watched the guy, Eric, drop you off at Frankie’s shop so you could get the car he’d been fixing up.
He tries to smile but it feels like pinching a nerve. “That’s good.”
“I was excited to come back and see you.”
He blinks at you. Swirling ribbons of smoke dance away on the slight breeze.
“What?”
“Imagine my disappointment”—your lower lip juts out as you prowl toward him and he isn’t sure why you’ve ever called him Cat when it’s you who stalks so silently after your prey—“when the birthday boy doesn’t even give me the time of day.”
His mouth feels like chewing cotton, and he’s grinding his teeth for another cigarette. You beam across the room at him, producing something from the back of your waistband.
His cap.
“Forgot this,” you tell him, reaching up and fitting the hat back over his head.
Fuck. You’re so fucking close. He can smell your perfume and the cloying scent of beer you haven’t yet cleaned from your chest and he’s fairly fucking sure you’d feel his erection through his jeans if you stepped any closer.
You always know how to get under his skin. And he always lets you because every first glance, first syllable, first touch, feels like the first descent of morning sunlight through the window. You've always warmed his skin a touch too hot. But he burns up in it. You smell so sweet.
“I… uh…” Frankie swallows, floundering, instinctively tucking his curls behind his ears. “Thanks. For the hat.”
Jesus fucking Christ, Morales. In your fucking forties and you still don't know how to talk to a woman.
Stop looking at her tits. Fucking hell, man.
Stop. Fucking. Looking.
“Frankie, honey.” Your soothing lilt draws his eyes back up to your mouth, and he feels bone-tired, molten, fairly sweaty. Your brows are drawn together in the middle. “Are you okay?”
He licks his lips. “Wh—what?”
You sidle up a little closer, your fingers playing along the rim of his cap. “You're quiet tonight,” you say softly. “Did I do something wrong?”
Funny. Frankie can't recall a single moment in his years of knowing you when he was able to string together a coherent sentence. Sure, he fixed up your car over the summer while you were away on a work trip and he set up your new phone after you broke the last one partying. He's happily lapped at your heels and fixed what was broken and done everything you never asked him to.
Every platonic touch met with blushing aversion, a couple days’ retreat to the garage, going dark, no-contact, fixing up more cars and bikes and choppers. Every Thank you, Frankie met with relative silence, a tight nod, a tactical drag of his cigarette.
“Is it because he’s my brother?”
Frankie’s jaw ticks.
You've always been untouchable—the goddamn Venus de Milo. Yeah, Pope would rip him a new one if he knew the things Frankie dreamed about his sister. But you’re the one touching him. You’re the one whose hand drifts slowly down his face, cupping his jaw in your hand, eyes warm and gooey, making a choice with every inch your soft hands explore.
“I like you, Frankie,” you tell him. “Do you like me, too?”
He nods frantically, his hands flexing at his sides. “Mhm,” he manages, tight-lipped, his voice breaking.
Like is such a plain word. How does one merely watch the sunrise? How does someone walk past you on the street? You’re meant for indulging, for pleasing, for theses and soapboxes and megaphones. You’re more than idle like. He nods anyway. Coward.
“Then Santi shouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “None of it should matter. I threw this party for you. I wanna know you’re having fun.”
“I am,” he says hurriedly. “Fuck, I am. It’s fun. You—you did everything right.”
You’re such a fucking moron, Morales. Tell her how you feel.
You smile, brushing the pad of your thumb under his bearded chin. “Good. Will you stay for a while afterward to help me clean up?”
Frankie nods again, and you pull him in for a tight embrace. He stiffens, his eyes instinctively shuddering closed as your body presses up against him. Your nails scratch at the nape of his neck and he feels his cock twitch, filling his boxers against your thigh. He should be panicking, scrambling to escape your grasp before you can feel the thick weight of his desire for you, but he’s frozen, immobile, his brain poisoned by the heady smell of your shampoo and perfume. His hands are pressed firm to his sides, blunt fingernails biting his palms.
“Happy birthday, Francisco.”
He barely registers that you’ve spoken, his lips absently parting in to inhale the warmth radiating from your throat as he begins to lower his head, and fuck—he’s never been touched this way. Instinct begins to snap and growl when you pull away, but you’re beaming up at him, soothing the animal, and pressing a kiss to his patchy beard.
“Thank you,” he says, the newborn deer on trembling legs. You disappear inside the house, leaving him alone on the porch, throbbing house music reverberating through his chest. Frankie staggers on his feet, bracing himself on the railing.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuckin’ Christ.”
Around two o’clock in the morning, he's stuffing beer-soaked tablecloths and balloon weights and banners into a garbage bag. The faint clinking of glass echoes from the kitchen as you gather empty bottles into the recycling bin. Frankie has been sporting a hard-on all night, and he’s two minutes away from jerking himself off in Santiago’s bathroom.
Pope himself is upstairs, passed out drunk on his bed, thanks to you. Apart from him, you and Frankie are alone in the house. It's getting harder to ignore the pull of arousal in his belly, the cloudy haze in the back of his head that makes his hands lag behind on simple tasks.
He thinks of all the times he locked himself in the bathroom at a bar because you wore a tight shirt or a short dress, fucking his hips into his fist until he came with a quiet shudder into his palm. He thinks of all the words he wants to give to you. He thinks of the blood-red ribbon tied taut around all the jumbled syllables and he thinks of all the men you’ll date because he can't even ask you for one.
His chest is a wick pinched between two fingers. He will never know you the way he burns to.
“All done,” you sing as you emerge, dropping the bin by the front door. “How’s it coming, Cat?”
He groans as he stands, hauling the garbage bags to the front door. Brushing past you on the way outside, he feels your body heat course through him.
Frankie stumbles for only a moment as the fog settles lower. You're waiting for him in the foyer.
“Come on, Frankie,” you purr, winking as you pass him, your hips swaying as you make your way into the kitchen. He follows you eagerly into the next room, tail wagging.
You’re rummaging in the refrigerator for the leftover birthday cake and sliding a piece each onto some plates. Handing Frankie his share, you gently collide your plate with his to emit the echoic clink of china. “To getting older.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. Your perfume lingers in his hindbrain. “To getting older.”
“I remember when Santi introduced me to you,” you tell him, “the week you all came back for good.”
“Bad first impression?” guesses Frankie.
You tut. “The opposite, honey. Thought you were sweet. I mean, there are very few guys out there willing to fix my stupid fucking car without expecting even a flash of tit in return.”
He scoffs. “You get that a lot?”
You level him with a playful glare before you lift a sliver of cake to your mouth. “Any of those pretty girls ever ask you to flash your dick?”
Frankie ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Can’t say they have.”
“You get a lot of pretty girls in your shop?” You pout, tracing the prongs of the fork around the circumference of your plate. “I’d be real jealous.”
“You're fucking with me.” He doesn’t meet your eye, his chin practically tucked into his neck as he continues to prod around his piece of cake. The dread of your imminent rejection burns in his lower belly.
He sees your hand on his arm before he feels it. “Francisco, look at me.”
He reluctantly raises his gaze to you. You gently brush your knuckles under his chin. “I wouldn’t tell you how to fly a helicopter. Why should you tell me who I choose to go after?”
Frankie’s throat constricts. “Is—is that what you're doing?” he chokes. “Going after me?”
You shrug coyly, your fingertips dancing over his forearm. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. “Would that make you uncomfortable?”
Vehemently, he shakes his head before you finish your sentence. “No. No. Just… I just didn't think you were interested.”
You take a jolting step backward. “Are you kidding me?”
He shakes his head again. Not quite as aggressively.
You begin to laugh, and this is more like the reaction he's used to from women.
“Fuck, Cat, I’ve been trying to get in your pants for two goddamn years.”
Frankie’s lips part. He’s fairly certain a minute squeak meanders out of his mouth.
“Wh… But—but you…”
You nibble on your thumbnail as your pupils expand, your eyes darkening to something wicked, indulgent, catlike. “What did you think I meant when I told you I like you, honey?”
“I—”
Another bubbling laugh slips from your mouth. Frankie wants to drown in the sound of it. Jesus, he wants you to humiliate him every day for the rest of his laugh if gets to hear that.
“Do you think I’m pretty, Francisco?”
“Yeah,” he rasps. “I do.”
“Say it.”
The command is coaxing, guiding, and it presses up against the pool of his belly, tension winding tight in his core.
“You're pretty,” he says dumbly. “You're really pretty.”
You take your bottom lip between your teeth and he’s shuddering, his cock uncomfortably trapped under layers of cotton and denim, fingers twitching at his sides.
“Come with me, Frankie,” you say, stretching out your hand, palm-up, like a peace offering to a stampeding animal.
“What are you…”
“Do you trust me?”
He scans your body—the curve of your throat, your collarbones, your breasts, thighs, hips—and swallows thickly. “Yeah,” he rasps. “‘Course I do.”
“I have something I need help with,” you tell him, coaxing him gently toward you with the promise of doing a good deed.
Of course, he goes easily after that.
You lead him to the living room, now in the relative state it was before the party, and gently urge him to sit on the couch. “Frankie,” you say, lowering yourself next to him, “do you have a girl to keep you company?”
His head jerks up from where it was bent in a demure aversion to meeting your eye. “What? What—no.”
“Do you want a girl to keep you company?”
A strangled, high-pitched cry lurches halfway up his throat before he suppresses it all. “You… you want to…?”
You’re already nodding your head, winding your arms around his neck, sliding into his lap, sitting on his hard cock like you were fucking meant to—
Oh, God. Oh my God. Holy fucking, shitting, screaming Christ.
There’s plenty of layers between your body and his. It could hardly be called sexy at all, what with both of you stuck inside thick denim and surrounded by the aftertaste and aftersmell of beer. But it is. Fuck, it is. He can see all of you from here, looking up at you, hair haloed by the sickly yellow pot light behind your head. The cut of your jaw shifts as you take him in. Your chest heaves and he lets himself imagine for a moment that you’re really here, the jaundiced light shifting over the planes of your chest and shoulders.
“I’m going to kiss you, Frankie.”
He swallows hard, the electric jolt of your core lowering onto his length causing his fingers to flex instinctively, uselessly, against the cushions. “O—kay.”
You bite your lip when you smile, leaning in with a hand on his jaw and slanting your mouth over his.
He can't believe this is fucking happening. Frankie sighs into your mouth, his hands shooting up, hovering over your hips, not quite touching. He moves his mouth with yours, letting you part his lips and slide your tongue along his. He groans softly, hands trembling over the divot of your waist and hips, accidentally brushing gently over the velvety fabric of your top. Frankie flushes with shame and drops his hands. He shouldn't be touching. You're giving him a gift. If he makes one wrong move, you’ll take it back.
You laugh into his mouth, breaking away to drop your forehead to his. “You can touch me, Frankie, baby, it’s okay,” you tell him, gently raking your fingers through his hair. “It’ll make me feel good if you touch me.”
Frankie nods, lifting his hands to your waist and settling them apprehensively on your body. It feels like a switch flicks, a closed circuit, heat irradiating the tremor in his fingers. The planes of his palms explore your body, slow, the intricate care he takes in marking your topography melting you in warm shivers against him. He's making you feel good.
Some of his deep-seated pride gurgles up his chest. He's fucking touching you.
“Your hands are so big, Frank,” you whisper, gently rolling your hips. He makes a strangled noise, gripping your waist to stop you or encourage you. “You’re so fucking pretty. So handsome.”
He preens, blushing, dropping his head between your tits and nuzzling his cheek into your sternum. “M’not.”
“Yeah, you are.” Another slow grind against his cock and he’s baring his teeth, panting from the effort not to come so quick. Fuck, you'll never touch him again if he comes in his jeans. “You should be told every day. So gorgeous, Frankie. My Frankie.”
He's addicted now that he's got a hit. His hands won't leave you, curling around your waist until they're splayed against your spine, fitting you tighter to him, dipping tentatively toward your ass. And you're guiding his chin up, kissing him again, moaning softly into his mouth, and he's so fucking giddy he could weep.
His hips buck up against you and he feels your thighs tighten around his hips as his erection nudges your puffy clit. You like that, he notes. It feels good for you when he does that. You gasp into the kiss, your fingers tightening near-painfully in his hair, and Frankie does it again just to feel that prickling ache.
Give and take. He feels himself learning as you do, carving one another’s tells into your ribs. He needs this, yes, but he's beginning to realise that you do, too.
You're grinding on him a little more desperately now, hands feverish, selfishly seeking that rough pressure on your clit. And Frankie wants you to have it. Fuck, he needs it so badly. He aches to learn what you look like when you come.
But his dick is fucking throbbing, and you aren't relenting, and it's been so goddamn long that he’s already close.
He breathes through his teeth as you begin to lace warm kisses up and down the veins on his throat. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”
You hum, and the vibrations travel from his neck to his cock. He's so close. He’s…
“Talk to me, Frankie. Tell me how it feels,” you coo, licking a stripe up the side of his throat.
You want him to speak? Christ, he isn't sure he remembers words. “Muy bien… No puedo… F-feels good. Feels reall—fuck, really good.”
He feels your smile against his neck and whines when you nibble his earlobe. “Yeah?” you whisper. His entire body cavitates with a shudder, and you nip him again. “Like it when I do this?”
He groans, squeezing your hips in erratic pulses. “Mhm. Mhm.”
You roll your hips slow and hard against the length of him. You're panting, too, your pupils nearly engulfing your irises. “Use your words, baby,” you say breathlessly. “Let me hear you, Frankie, honey.”
Frankie chokes on his own tongue. “G—fuck. Goddamn, I… Please, please—”
“Please is a good start.” You suck on the spot below his ear and he sees fucking white.
“Please, I can’t… mierda, no puedo… please, I’m gonna—”
He comes with an embarrassed shout, muffled in your temple, his hand shooting up to rest at the crown of your head and fist your hair. Pleasure skitters up and down his spine as he spills into his own jeans and warms your cunt with the wet spot that blossoms on the denim.
You stop rolling your hips, still tucked safely in his arms. He can't meet your eyes. He's buried in your throat now, breathing hard, while your nails scratch at the nape of his neck.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, bucking helplessly as the last of his orgasm depletes his body. “I’m sorry.”
You're clicking your tongue, smoothing his sweat-matted curls away from his forehead. “Hey, hey. Frankie, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Soothing him with your kind hands, you guide him to look at you. He's flushed high on his cheeks. “Give me a kiss.”
He obeys, unable to deny you, his lips naturally parting to let you in. “Didn’t mean to—”
You press a kiss to his Cupid’s bow, the corner of his mouth, and one of the patches in his beard. “Nobody’s angry with you, Frank.”
The shame toils hot, churning up his guts. “Wanted to—to come inside you.”
You make a close-mouthed noise of understanding. “I know. You wanted to make me feel good, hmm?”
He nods, eyes dipping.
“You did, Frankie,” you tell him.
“You didn't come.”
“I don't always have to come to feel good.” You're still smiling, a still-aroused, heavy-lidded smile, and Frankie shakes his head.
“Wanna make you come. Tell me what to do.”
You sit back gently in his lap. “Are you sure, Frankie?”
“Sí, I’m fucking sure.” He won't leave it like this. He needs to watch you fall to pieces. If it takes all fucking night, it takes all night. It's his birthday, for Christ’s sake.
You lick your lips and drop your voice to a whisper. “Take off my clothes.”
He scrambles, lifting the hem of your shirt up over your head and fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Both items fall haphazardly to the floor elsewhere, and you stand briefly to give Frankie a good view of your body.
You're so fucking beautiful.
Lurching forward, he wraps his arms around your naked waist, pressing his palms to your slick spine and putting his lips to your belly. He kisses his way up your chest until he finds one of your stiff nipples and clumsily latches his mouth around it. “Oh, Frankie,” you gasp, petting at his hair, enjoying the tremors of arousal that pool in your core. He sucks and bites at your nipples until they're raw, and by the time he gets your jeans down your legs, you've soaked your panties through.
“Fuck,” he mutters, staring unabashedly at your aching core.
“I’m going to sit, Frank. Get on your knees.” And he goes, settling on the floor in front of your spot on the couch. Face-to-face with your dripping pussy, he wets his lips. He's never wanted to taste something so terribly as he does now.
“Take off the rest.”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your lacy panties and drags them down your legs, a jolt of arousal twitching in his pants as he sees your glistening cunt for the first time.
“Girls like to be touched,” you tell him. “Do you want to touch me?”
“Fuck,” he says, his voice pitching high. “Fuck, yes. Let me, please.”
“Some of us like to be teased. I’m sensitive here”—your hands trail gently along your upper thighs—“and here.” Your fingers rise to your sternum, splitting to play idly with your nipples. “You can use your mouth, too. Okay, Frankie?”
He nods, testing his fingertips upon the divots of your knees. You’re soft here, and you offer no resistance as he slowly spreads you wide open, fitting himself between your legs. Frankie’s heart soars out of his chest at your first shudder. He slowly trails his fingers along the soft planes of your inner thighs, learning you, delighting in the play of his rough hands on your skin. He squeezes your thigh and lifts it up onto his shoulder so he can crush his mouth into your flesh, smattering you with wet, open-mouthed kisses that have you squirming in his grasp. His name leaves your mouth like a discrete, whispered ballad. Your muscles twitch and flex under his touch as Frankie loses himself in the soft, sweet taste of you.
“That’s so good, baby,” you sigh, reaching for the brim of his cap and knocking it off his head. He grunts, able to bury himself deeper this way, head spinning, his brain folding you neatly inside. His hand migrates up your belly and blindly squeezes your breast, kneading your flesh in his palm, flicking his thumb over your nipple. “Yeah, Frankie, yeah. That feels good.”
Your words of affirmation go right to his not-quite soft dick. He kisses and gropes and licks until he reaches the apex of your thighs, peeling back to meet your eyes as he greedily squeezes your thighs in his hands.
“Do you know where my clit is, Frankie?”
He nods. He's watched porn. He's taken anatomy classes. They’re practically the same fucking thing.
“Show me.”
He lifts his hand to put his fingers to your clit, but you shake your head and he stops instantly.
“Not like that,” you say, your naked chest heaving with anticipatory energy. “With your tongue.”
Holy fucking shit.
He'd be goddamn delighted. Frankie lowers his head between your legs and, hit with the heavy, cloying scent of your hormones and arousal, feels his brain begin to lag behind. He parts your folds with his thumbs and guides the flat of his tongue over your little pearl.
You sigh happily, your head falling back against the cushions. “That's it,” you gasp as Frankie flicks his tongue against your clit. “Oh, Frankie, that's it.”
The praise settles proudly in his chest. He wraps his arms around your thighs to keep them spread wide for him as he shoulders his way between your legs. Your tang lingers on his taste buds and prickles his adenoids. He needs more.
You watch him blink up at you and curl your fingers in his hair. “Lick my pussy, Frankie.”
He groans when he gets his first real taste, his eyes fluttering as he licks through your slit. His nose crushed to your clit, Frankie greedily teases his tongue around your tight, wet hole, and the answering twitch of your thighs pleases him.
“Mmmyes.” Your eyes shutter, but Frankie does not close his. He isn't yet certain he's awake, and he refuses to miss a moment of the idle grinding of your hips, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you suck in breaths through your parted lips.
Frankie growls as you tug on his hair, spitting on your clit and spreading his own saliva around with his tongue. You cry out, back arching, and he absently humps the air like a goddamn dog as he begins to stiffen in his jeans.
He's… good. He listens, fine-tuned, to your gasps and moans, learning what you like best. Forsaking any desire for air, he suffocates himself between your thighs, possessed by your smell and taste and the honeyed moans that leave your mouth. He’s always been overeager to help assuage your worries, to fix what was broken. This is different altogether.
“Fuck!” you gasp, the backs of your thighs on his shoulders, ankles locking around one another, your fist in Frankie’s hair keeping him tethered to you. “That’s fucking it, baby, yesyesyes… Just like that, Frankie, fuck!”
The encouragement makes him lightheaded. Drunk on the taste of you, Frankie moans, licking your clit relentlessly, your thighs twitching at the warm flat of his tongue. He refuses to let your legs close, fingers dimpling your flesh, lips latching around your clit and sucking.
“Ah! F—Frank! That feels so fucking good, baby. Fuck, lick my pussy just like that. My good boy.”
Frankie whines, alternating between pulling gently on your clit and licking through your pussy until he's making out with you, his cock filling out his damp jeans once more. He doesn't want to stop. He never wants to leave, tucked in your thighs, engulfed by your warmth. Your clit begins to pulse under his tongue and he suckles wetly, greedily, sloppily. Fixed to your cunt, he groans as your hips begin to buck up into him, your fingers curling painfully in his locks.
“I’m gonna come, Frankie. Fuckfuckfuck, baby, I’m—ah!”
Head thrown back, hips grinding relentlessly against his nose, you reach your climax under Frankie’s tongue. You cry out, muscles locking, thighs trapping his head between your legs. Happily, Frankie continues to lap at you, dipping his tongue into your pulsing hole to taste what he’s drawn from your body.
He groans into you, eyes fluttering shut now that he’s watched you ride out your orgasm, fingers squeezing your thighs and dipping to your ass. He uses this leverage to fit you flush to him, pressing himself firmer to your pussy. You gasp his name, the muscles of your inner thighs twitching as you begin to tense once more.
He’s still going. He’s still fucking going, pussy-drunk and licking up your release which mingles with his own saliva.
“Frankieeeee, fuck!” You can't hold your head up anymore, lolling against the cushion, as Frankie maintains a vise around your thighs and slides his tongue over your sensitive clit and it's too much, it’s—
“Just like that, baby. Fuck, that's so good, Frankie, yes! Oh my God, ohmyGodohmy—”
Frankie can't seem to open his eyes anymore, lost in the winding path of pleasuring you, unable to pull himself away from the thicket. Your scent, desire and musk and perfume, is all he cares to know. He slowly flicks his tongue up and down your clit until it’s fucking unbearable, and your only choice is to come again, your stomach tightening and a weak, gooey cry gurgling up your throat.
“I… g—God, Frankie, I’m com—coming—!”
And you do. The rhythmic contractions of your clit roll over his tongue and your hole soaks him in your release, wetting his beard. He’s absently bucking his hips into the couch, his cock straining against his zipper, so fucking desperate for release that he’ll happily come in his jeans again.
Frankie drinks you down, moaning into your pussy, provoking aftermath vibrations that infuse your muscles with electrical stimulation. You slump backward, your hand releasing his hair, thumb stroking his patchy jaw. “Mmm, my sweet Frankie,” you mumble, thighs still hooked over his shoulders. “S’good, baby.”
He litters your inner thighs with kisses. “I did good?”
“Really fucking good.” You tilt his chin up and force him to meet your eyes. He's less afraid to look at you now, his pupils blown wide and his gaze faintly faraway. Your smile glows, satiated and proud. “You did so good for me. Gonna make some of those pretty girls very happy, baby.”
Frankie shifts slightly to lift his mouth to your belly, trailing his lips upward until he can rest his cheek on your chest. His fingers fit into the grooves between your ribs. “You taste so good,” he says softly. “Wanna do that all the fuckin’ time.”
You laugh, feeling his erection prod your bare thigh as he moves. “You're hard again, Frankie.”
He wraps his arms tight around your waist and pulls you on top of him as he lies sideways on the sofa. “‘m okay,” he says, back to hiding himself in your throat. You feel the warm weight of his hand on the back of your head and his other on your back, slick with sweat. “That was good. Really good.”
Smirking, you begin to travel down his body, nuzzling your cheek against his belly, still covered in a now-damp T-shirt. Frankie chokes on air when you squeeze him over his pants, blinking hard to clear the film from his eyes.
“I think such a good boy deserves a reward for all his hard work,” you purr, letting the zipper catch on every groove as you drag it slowly down, slipping the button through its slit. Frankie’s chest heaves, a refusal on the tip of his tongue.
“Y—you don’t have to—”
“I know.” You hook your fingers in his waistband. “Do you want me to, Frankie?”
A faint whine leaves his mouth, and he presses his lips together with a tight nod. He doesn't trust himself to say more.
“Then I’m happy to,” you say, pulling down his jeans and boxers just enough to free his hard cock, sitting heavy against his belly and already slick with his own cum. Fuck—he’s big. His length, ridged with veins on the underside, is thick and warm in your hand as you hold him around the base.
“Such a pretty cock,” you muse, giving him a slow tug. Frankie gasps, precum pooling at the tip of his dick. “Such a shame to let this go to waste.”
You lick your lips and let a glob of saliva land on the head, and the answering twitch of his cock leaves you pleased. His fingers are fisting the cushions. “Just relax, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you.” You nuzzle your cheek against the length of him and he groans, his throat bared. “I’ll make it feel so good for you, Frankie. Do you trust me? Look at me, sweet boy.”
He lowers his chin so he can meet your eye down the length of his body, his pupils engulfing his warm irises. “I—fuck—I trust you. Not gonna… last.”
“You close again?” He nods frantically as you spread your spit and his precum around the tip. “That's okay, honey. I’ll give you somewhere to put it this time.”
His whimper makes you smile. You guide your tongue along the underside of his length, spreading your spit with your hand as you begin to pump him. You swear he stops breathing when you play with his balls in your other hand, licking at them like a fucking kitten.
Frankie shudders at the sight of your tongue on his cock. This is a fucking dream. If he doesn't wake up, then at least he's died happy. This isn't fucking real.
“Please, please, por favor—”
You lick a long stripe from the base to the tip of his cock. “Yes, Frankie? Use your words. Tell me what you like.”
He would be mortified if he weren't so fucking desperate to come. “Por favor… tu boca… Please, please put your mouth on me, please.”
You smile, jerking him a bit faster. His thighs twitch. “You want me to suck your dick, Frank?”
“Mmhmm,” he manages, grinding his teeth so hard they might chip.
Pulling back his foreskin, your lips seal around the head of his cock, tongue swirling, and he's whining your name, pleading for more, losing some of the filter his sober mind tries to maintain when you're around.
The slick noises of you taking him deeper down your throat make his head spin. Your eyes still fixed on his, you gently reach for his hand and guide it to the crown of your head. He understands your message: Use me to make yourself feel good.
Frankie just curls his fingers in your hair and lets you work him the way you like.
You seem pleased with his lack of desire for control, hollowing your cheeks and closing in the hot, wet walls of your mouth around his cock. “Oh, fuck,” he chokes. “Mier—fuuuuck.”
You hum around his length and he bucks his hips instinctively, making you choke on him. He tries to help you pull away, but you're dimpling your fingers in his thighs, eyes watery and bleeding mascara, and he realises you like it.
You keep sucking, your hand softly squeezing his balls and the other his thigh, grounding yourself, him, who-the-fuck-ever. Frankie can hardly see. He feels his orgasm pull up his balls in your palm, his stomach tightening with the telltale sign that he won't be able to hold back much longer.
You continue to bob your head up and down, the sloppy squelching sounds of saliva deafening. He keeps your hair pulled back from your face so he can see you, crying around his dick. Pride has no place here anymore. He's firmly lodged himself in the realm of disbelief once more.
He's begging: leg bending at the knee, chest heaving, body with nowhere to go but melt into your palms, pleading with you to Please let me come, oh fuck, please, I’ll be good, please! And because you've always been so sweet, you’re letting him without a word.
“I—” He cuts himself off with a squeak as you swallow hard around him, and his thighs begin to tremble. “Ffffffuck. I’m… I’m—nnngh, c-coming—”
Your warbling moan is so fucking greedy. His cock pulsates as he spills down your throat, coating your tongue in his cum. Frankie whimpers, his body tensing, deflating, putty in your hands. He watches you take all of his briny cum until a bead pools at the corner of your mouth and you pull off his softening cock, swiping up the pearly liquid with your thumb and cleaning yourself up. His throat emits a strangled groan.
You beam up at him, kissing your way back up his body and in the crook of his neck. “Such a good boy for me, Frankie.”
It makes him hold you tighter, pulling your naked body flush to his. He pants against your temple, leaving messy kisses to your skin. “Fuck,” he says.
“Yeah,” you whisper, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck, “fuck.”
He practically purrs with you against him. “When can we do that again?”
You laugh, nipping his earlobe. “Not many guys can come twice in one sitting, Frank. You gotta let yourself rest. You gotta let me rest.”
“Sí,” he mumbles, nose sliding against your temple as he nods, “okay. Okay.”
“Better hope we didn't wake my brother up,” you tease, “or he’s going to kick your ass.”
“Don't care,” he grumbles. “I can take him.”
You rear back and lift a brow, your finger tracing a heart over his chest. “You need a coffee to sober up, baby. Who are you and what have you done with Francisco?”
He finally got what he wanted, thinks Frankie. He reaches up and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Thank you,” he says softly.
You playfully drum your fingers along the flush on his cheekbones. “Thank you, Frankie. Girls love a good listener.”
He feels himself warm a deeper red. “Would you…” He swallows, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. “Would you wanna, maybe, do this again? I dunno, sometime?”
You give him a sickly-sweet smile and kiss him on the nose. “Yeah, baby, I would. But I need you to do something for me first.”
“Anything,” he says.
A soothing hand rakes through his sweaty locks. “Go out and find a pretty girl you like. Ask her on a date. Maybe have a nice night with her. Make her happy. I know you don't think you're capable of it, and you don't think you're the handsome guy I see when I look at you. But I’m telling you that you are. And there are so many girls out there who need to see that a guy like you exists.”
A fist squeezes his heart and doesn't let go. “You really think so?”
“I don't say anything I don't mean, Francisco.” You pin him with a serious stare. “And if you still decide, after all those pretty girls throw themselves at your feet, that you still want me, then I’ll be here. Okay?”
He frowns, examining the dips and contours and inlets of your face. The prettiest girl in the world is on top of him, telling him he’s handsome, that he's gorgeous, that he's capable, and he’s uncertain that he'll ever be able to shake you. For now, he’ll hinge his door on the possibility that you don't want him to.
But he nods and he fixes his hand around the back of your neck. “Give me a kiss,” he says firmly, and you happily slant your mouth over his.
(np) tagging some lovely moots who were interested in my last wip!!: @swiftispunk @mrsmando @amanitacowboy @party-hearses @joelscurls (thank you so much my loves as always) 🫶
#kiwisbell's fics#triple frontier#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales smut#frankie morales#francisco catfish morales#frankie morales x you#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales fic#frankie morales fanfic
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Masterpost
All content is rated +18, so MDNI. I write fem!self-insert, exploring different kinks, so make sure you read the tags to each piece of writing. No use of y/n, and reader's appearance as unspecified as possible for your pleasure.
* indicates smut
Requests are CLOSED.
TAGLIST: FOLLOW @notjustjavierpena-fics AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS 💖❤️💖❤️
Joel Miller
One-Shots
Cruel*
Diner*
Swelter*
Series: DILF!Joel
In chronological order
Three Times You Didn’t Kiss Joel - And One Time You Did - Introductions, Wasp, Fussing, Kiss* (Completed)
Hurried Morning*
Candy*
Tremble*
First - Time*, Date*
The Making of Ellie - Baby-Making*, Tempers*, Reveal, Libido*, Happy (Completed)
Series: Mean!Joel
In chronological order
Hate*
Mean!Joel slaps your face* (Drabble)
Hurt*
Him*
His*
Series: DBF!Joel
In chronological order
Switch*
Gush*
Eat*
Misbehavior*
Pillow*
Reunion - Tonight*, Clamp* (Completed)
Panties*
Painted*
Series: Sugardaddy!Joel
In chronological order
Perfect*
Wake*
Shopping*
Javier Peña
One-Shots
Are you staying?*
Buzzing*
Sucía - Birthday Girl*, Hungover*
Series: Husband!Javi
Masterlist
Series: Six Weeks
Chapter 1
Frankie Morales
One-Shots
Gum*
Lucien Flores
One-Shots
Five Minutes*
Ted Garcia
One-Shots
Practice Makes Perfect*
#pedro pascal characters#javier pena fanfiction#javier peña#javier pena narcos#javier pena fic#javi pena#javier pena smut#javier pena x you#javier pena x reader#joel miller x reader#joel x reader#joel x you#the last of us fanfiction#the last of us#narcos#joel miller#joel miller fic#joel miller smut#joel miller fanfiction#my writing#frankie morales fic#francisco morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales#frankie morales x you#frankie morales fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#frankie morales smut#lucien flores
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coffee and candor {one shot}
Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader
Summary: Frankie picks you up for date number three and he's got it all planned out. Unfortunately, you're a little out of your depth with what he has in mind...
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: insecurities, frankie being excited and adorable gets it's own warning, competence kink, kissing, matching clothing, this is so fluffy and soft, um i think that's it tbh
A/N: while i'm still taking a short break from regular fic updates, this was a commission by the lovely @whocaresstillthelouvre. the prompt was 'nervous frankie x not outdoorsy! reader go on a hike early in their relationship'. i rather like how this turned out! i am still taking commissions even if i'm not working on wips at the moment. anything helps, please check out this post and this post to know more about what's goin' on in my lil corner. no pressure all all lovelies, i know things are tough for everyone! love y'll and hope the day is good to you ♡♡
ao3 link || navigation || main masterlist || ko-fi
Body tingling with anticipation, you wait on for the rumble of a truck engine to round the corner. You were nervous, this is only your third date with the man you had met by chance at a coffee shop. A mix up of to go cups and you found yourself placating a very tired and embarrassed Frankie Morales.
He had picked up your drink by mistake. But if you were honest, it was totally okay that you had to wait an extra few moments to get it remade before you blipped off to work, because it gave you the chance to chat with him and scrawl your phone number onto the cup that was supposed to be yours. His kind smile motivating you to be a little bolder than you normally would.
The truck does indeed rumble around the corner and within minutes you’re sat in the passenger seat with the radio playing low and cruising down the highway.
“So what did you plan for us today? The truck looks suspiciously empty.” You eyed the cooler sitting in the extended cab, lid propped open and empty. Then the simplistic backpack beside it, it was always in the foot space between the two front seats. Frankie had admitted to you that it helped to ground him to know he had essentials within reach at all times, just in case. You hadn’t pushed for more of an explanation, knowing he had faced more than a few situations he felt less than prepared for.
But the rite in the rain notebook with the matching pen he had in his pocket along with his wallet at all times told you he was good at preparing for anything within reason. The situations he faced out of his control had not been shared with you quite yet but you would be content if they weren’t, only wanting for him to tell you if he was comfortable enough to do so.
With pink tinged ears he turns to you with a lopsided smile.
“The pack has everything we need, don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
“Not worried, just curious.” Your tongue peeks out from between your teeth and you see the way his adam’s apple bobs in response. His eyes snap back to the road and you feel a giddy sense of satisfaction at having flustered him a bit. He’d been the perfect gentlemen, his large hands only skimming around your body to lead you through doors, a tentative palm on your thigh as you sit beside him. No kissing, at least not yet. You were hoping today would be the day.
“I figured we would get out of the city a bit, go on a hike. It’s a really short one, only a few miles. Not too bad of an elevation gain, cleared out of poison oak, leads to a view I really think you’ll like. It’s an easy looped hike, so I figured we’d have a bite to eat at the midpoint. I packed up some snacks too, plenty of water. Even got some bugs spray and sunscreen.”
He rambled on, excitement obvious as he detailed the plan for the day, his face lighting up in the most endearing way. He was totally in his element and you….you were not. When you didn’t quip back immediately, he loosened a curled fist from around the steering wheel and reached for your thigh.
“That okay?” He jostled you slightly, worry seeping into his voice.
“Oh, um, y-yes.” You tried to muster up a smile, but it paled in comparison to the one he had only moments ago.
“I knew I should’ve run the idea by you. You don’t seem as excited now,” His bottom lip was taken between his teeth, worrying the skin of it as he regarded your profile. The slight furrow to your brow, the way your hands were wound around the flaps of your open overshirt. You had picked out a tank top and shorts outfit, tossing on casual button up over it, not sure what he had planned initially.
The first date had been coffee: to make up for him stealing yours. He had been nervous, his energy spiking and waning as he admitted he didn’t do this often. Date. Get random phone numbers. Have a lot of free time. He was a dad, to a bouncy and energetic seven-year-old. Nothing to worry about on the baby momma front, she wasn’t a part of the picture. A story you didn’t push on either, just making it as comfortable as possible between you two for him to want to tell you.
The second date had been dinner, with him in an ironed outfit and you in a slinky dress. It had been so much fun, the excitement obvious as you both hoped for another chance to see each other.
And now, the third: a hike.
You did not hike. You didn’t do anything considered outdoorsy if you were being completely honest. You were a lazy, take the day off to look through thrift shops kind of person. A curl up on the couch with a cup of steaming coffee or a cocktail and a book kind of person.
“Hey,” He breathed, soft brown eyes watching the way you had closed up. “It’s okay. We don’t have to, I promise I won’t be mad.”
“You’re so excited, though.” You move a hand to tangle your fingers with is, hand still on your thigh. Your stomach flutters, his skin is calloused and warm.
“I get excited about spending time with you, hermosa. It doesn’t matter what we do.”
“I want to do the hike.” You insist, wanting him to go back to the enthusiastic way he had talked about his plans.
“Please don’t feel like you have-“
“I don’t feel like I have to, Frankie, I want to. Because you want to. Simple.” You squeeze his hand in yours, placating him along with a soft smile.
“Simple.” With a lopsided grin and a press of his lips to your knuckles, the tension eases.
Gravel crunched underneath the tired of the truck as Frankie maneuvers off the secluded highway. Tall trees and various shades of green surround you. You both sat and listened to the clinking of the engine cooling down, taking a moment to breathe in the pine and cedar.
“I, uh, got you something.” He huffed a little as he reached for the back and hauled it into his lap.
“You didn’t have to- oh my gosh!” It was a hat, a baseball cap just like the one atop his head. Dark navy blue, emblazoned with a ‘standard heating oil’ patch. Your stomach fluttered at the implication.
“To help keep the sun off your head and outta your eyes.” He plopped it atop your head, the stiff thing just barely resting over your hair. “We’ll have a lot of tree coverage, but better safe than sorry.”
“We’re matching.” You can’t help the teasing smile that took over your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as you realized you would look like an official couple to any onlookers. Something you had thought about more and more as Frankie filled your thoughts and messages.
“Yeah, would you look at that.” A dimple in his right cheek had you reaching out to caress it, silently thanking him for his thoughtfulness. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted one like mine, but I’m really glad you like it.”
“I do like it! I like matching with you, Frankie.”
His smile was dazzling as he looked back at you over his shoulder. You perked up a little, not wanting him to see the way it was hard to catch your breath or the falter to your steps as your legs began to ache from the incline. The slight brush of the long grass and reaching limbs full of leaves tickled but you tried your best to ignore it, opting to focus on the broad set of shoulders carrying a backpack.
Another bout of time passed, allowing for sweat to dampen your brow and the small of your back. You had removed your overshirt, tying the long sleeves around your waist. The stray pieces of your hair that had escaped from your hat floated around your face as you puffed out a deep breath.
Frankie seemed to pick up the moderate pace he had been keeping, his boots thudding the ground as he turned to pivot from the path as it began to curve.
“Uh, the trail goes that way.” You pointed over your shoulder, having followed the man’s lead regardless.
“I know, got a map in the pack if it makes you feel better.” He tossed you a reassuring smile, over his own shoulder. His eyes alight underneath his cap.
You were about to respond when he took another step and suddenly the trees fell away from around you, leaving you stood on an overlook. Valley open and wide in front of you, the view took your already short breath away. Frankie looked from the view to gauge your reaction. And he broke out into a wide smile as he saw how much you were taken off guard by the beautiful view.
Removing is pack, he set it down and reached to turn you toward him.
“This last month or so has been so amazing. Getting to know you has been some of the best parts of my life, hermosa. I was worried dating again after so long and not even looking for it would’ve been another lesson learned but everything with you is just so….”
“Simple.” You allowed him to caress his hands over the small of your back, your own reaching for his shoulders. The bills of your matching hats bumped, easy laughter bubbling up from you both.
“Simple.” He agreed, tongue swiping out to wet his plush lips. His eyes flicked down to yours briefly and your heart fluttered as warmth blossomed in your chest. Pressing more into his space, your chest bumped his, giving him the nudge he needed to close the gap even more.
Out on that ridge where you never would’ve trekked to on your own, you shared your first of many kisses with the man who had taken you completely by surprise. His lips soft and pliant against yours, his warmth seeping into you much like the sun on your skin underneath the open sky. You were the one to lick into the seam of his mouth, something he readily allowed you to do. The slid of his tongue on yours like heaven.
Breaking away, Frankie peppered kisses over your face. Lips tasting the salt from your sweat but he didn’t seem to mind one bit. Turning side by side, he kept his hand around your waist and you mimicked him.
Maybe hiking wasn’t so bad.
dividers by the lovely @/cafekitsune
taglist: @tuquoquebrute @sawymredfox @jessthebaker @littlemisspascal
#dev writes#fic: coffee and candor#triple frontier#triple frontier fanfiction#francisco morales#frankie morales#frankie morales one shot#frankie morales fluff#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales fanfic#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fic#fluff#ao3 link#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#first dates#dating
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SEASONS OF YOU : a stardew valley AU
After moving into your grandfather’s farm, you discover what awaits in the valley is more than you expected…
I can’t thank everyone enough for cheering me on & showing so much love for this strange AU of mine & feeding my Stardew obsession lol you don’t necessarily have to know/even play to read, there will be references to the game but all will be explained!
So this series will work as two different worlds / universes - one where you romance Joel & the other where you romance Frankie
You get to pick which boy & their fic you want to explore!
✧ These two will stay separate and operate independently in their own fics (think of them as two different game files) - so sorry to my babes hoping for a crossover/poly fic… maybe someday!
✧ Also, mirroring the eased & relaxed spirit of the gameplay itself, this series will be updated without a firmly set schedule and I appreciate your understanding!
I am hope we can all enjoy romancing some cute farm boys ♡
-
1st Year:
Joel - Spring 🌱
1st Year:
Frankie - Winter ❄️
-
special thanks to these special farmers for the most beautiful guidance & support: @lowlights @swiftispunk @burntheedges @ahauntedcowboy @tightjeansjavi @perotovar @chronically-ghosted @nothoughtsjustmeds
#idk what to tag this ass but yeah…stardew#farmer!joel#Joel 🤎#Joel miller fic#blacksmith!frankie#Frankie 🤎#Frankie morales fic#seasons of you fic series#pedrostories
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Fics that Live in My Mind, Rent Free (Pedro's Version) - Part 1
Happy NYE! 🥳🥳
I read so many wonderful, hot, gut-wrenching, unforgettable, inspiring Pedro Pascal character fanfics... and I haven't been reblogging them 🫣 (it's me, hi, I'm the problem it's me). Don't hate me please - reblogging gives me so much anxiety, and I'm not even sure I could articulate why if I tried - and I see a lot of the discussion/discourse/posts re: reblogging and I truly understand all perspectives although it just seems to elevate my nerves about even more.
However, I understand the impact and moreover, I want to do it for the writers that bring me so much joy and inspiration, so I endeavour to try. I want to make it clear that this is a personal hang up of mine, and I have 100% absolutely no comments on how anyone else engages here; reblog/comment/like or don’t per your own preferences and you have nothing but love from me 😘
So it will be a 2024 personal goal of mine to be less shy about reblogging, but while I work up my courage/practice, I wanted to go back and compile a list of some of my fave Pedro boy fics; I think of each and every one of these fics often and have revisited them all (i.e. Exactly the fics I should have reblogged when I read them). I went deep in my likes so some of these fics are quite old; you may have already read them all! If you have or haven’t, I hope you love them as much as I do!
Din Djarin (The Mandalorian, GOAT)
Boxer!Din AU by @djarinsbeskar (Boxer and his masseuse, who relaxes him in more ways than one. I've mentioned before that this is the first Modern Din AU I ever read and it's cemented itself as one of the best. Making Safest with You Din an ex-boxer is my humble homage.)
Freu(Din)an Slip by @saradika (Is there space porn in the SW universe? Yes.)
Bare by @charnelhouse (part of an AU between Din and bounty hunter!reader; other favourite instalments include Come and Conquer and Din's Ex)
A Bond to My Soul by @whiskeynwriting (King!Din and reader, with a battle just outside the doors)
Mine also by @whiskeynwriting (Jealous Din, no need to say more)
Beloved series by @groguspicklejar (Din falls in love with Cyare; mind the tags - the writing is rich and the emotions deep)
Courting by @writerlyhabits (another Mandalorian tries to court you and Din's having none of that)
Hold me down by @starlightmornings (Din as your weighted blanket)
Be Mine by @spacecowboyhotch (Glove kink)
Save a Speeder, Ride a Mando by @sprout-fics (I love fics where Din is jealous of Cobb)
Helping Hand and Did you miss me? by @mellowswriting (Din smut and fluff; they're in love, okay?)
Fix you by @roguetonorth (Comforting Din)
Rough Day by @no-droids (I think everyone knows about this fic; Sweet Girl!Reader holds a special place in my heart)
Take me to Church by @frannyzooey (Western AU; seriously one of the hottest and most romantic series I've ever read. I cried several times 🥹)
Flowers & Sex by @221bshrlocked (Din and innocent!Reader)
Show me by @moralesispunk (A bounty gets mouthy)
Patience by @oscarseyebrow (Starts with cockwarming)
Close Quarters by @absurdthirst (One bed/bunk)
Reunion by @heybluechild (Breaking in the N1)
Significant by @softlyspector (Din calls Reader "Riduur"; I love, love, love Mando fics with lots of Mando'a; so much care is always taken by the writers to translate and weave the words into the story)
Din takes out his frustrations by @ourautumn86
Javier Pena (Narcos)
Burn for Me by @theshireisburning-so-mordoritis (Reader teases Javi; it backfires)
Use me by @toomanystoriessolittletime (Javi is frustrated)
Needy by @wheresarizona (Reader is going to be late for work 🤭)
Reader brings Javi dinner at work by @forthetears
Joel Miller (TLOU)
Bad Girl by @seventeenpins (The first in a hot stepdad!Joel Miller series)
The Boss' Bunny by @talaok (The first in a series about QZ criminal boss Joel and his insatiable bunny)
Help! I'm Stuck! by @nosesitter (Oof! Father-in-law!Joel Miller and his OF daughter-in-law; 2 in the series so far)
Stripped by @thot-of-khonshu (Mr. Miller goes to a strip club)
Stay in Bed series by @psychedelic-ink (Neighbour Joel, pre-outbreak)
A Man Like Him by @valerinaswriting (No one should question Joel's abilities)
Mine by @toomanystoriessolittletime (Reader wears Joel's shirt on accident)
You Are My Cinema by @itgetsdark-x (Camgirl!Reader)
An Afternoon with Your Dad's Best Friend by @elvinaa (I mean, it's in title 🤭; I actually always secretly wish for a sequel to this one)
Come and get your love by @sunflowersteves (Sunshine!Reader)
Francisco "Catfish" Morales (Triple Frontier)
Kinktober 2022 - Erotic Photos by @moralesispunk (Reader gifts Frankie a Polaroid camera)
Thirds by @haylzcyon (Reader visits new boyfriend Frankie at work)
Grass is Greener by @haylzcyon (Frankie mows the lawn)
Kinktober 2022 - Overstimulation by @flightlessangelwings-updates (This was my introduction to pussy eating king Frankie)
Cabin in the woods by @guess-my-next-obsession (The cabin is spooky but Frankie is there to take care of Reader)
Double Feature (and all of the Box Set Universe) by @frannyzooey (Frankie and Reader love movies)
Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)
Little Red's Shadow by @littlemisspascal (Werewolf!Pero 🥹)
In my dreams by @toomanystoriessolittletime (Princess falls for a mercenary)
Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion, all 48 seconds)
A Sight for Sore Eyes and Sir by @ozarkthedog (Semi-public sex)
Anything you say can and will be held against you by @jksprincess10 (Workplace rivals)
An Important Appointment by @boliv-jenta (Sex worker!Reader)
Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)
A present by @radiowallet (Lingerie prompt; Cat writes some of the best Marcus Moreno fics on here imho. This one is my personal fave)
First Date by @absurdthirst (Workplace FWB)
The Date by @wardenparker (Professor!Marcus but also Marcus on a motorcycle)
Part 2 of list
#fic rec list#fic rec#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal characters fanfiction#din djarin#din djarin fic#din djarin fanfiction#javier peña#javier pena fic#javier pena fanfiction#joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fic#frankie morales#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fic#tim rockford#tim rockford fanfiction#tim rockford fic#pero tovar#pero tovar fic#pero tovar fanfiction#marcus moreno#marcus moreno fanfiction#marcus moreno fic
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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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Something Right (Frankie Morales)
Summary: For your first Valentine’s Day together, Frankie goes all out. But can the evening be saved when his plans fall apart?
Word Count: 1.6k
Notes: minors dni; kissing, brief finger sucking, mutual mast., mentions of alcohol, eating/sharing food (chocolate), one tiny injury, afab reader wearing a dress, no use of y/n, Frankie is a sap and we love him for it
Frankie had been planning this date for weeks. Hours spent meticulously crafting a menu, tasting wines, arranging heart-shaped balloons in every corner of the house – anyone could tell that he was a man in love.
He’d ordered an abundance of long-stemmed roses, picked out the perfect card, and agreed to whatever other embellishments the young store clerk had recommended. The first Valentine’s Day as a new couple is meant to be a spectacle, and Frankie’s determined to show you how much you mean to him, no matter the cost.
The evening had started off without a hitch. The house was decorated, the table was set, and Frankie still had enough time to pull his old record player out from storage. Unfortunately, that’s where his luck ended.
He’d chosen an uncharacteristically formal ensemble of dark slacks and a pressed button-down shirt, opting to retire his beloved ball cap for this special occasion. He’d slung a dark red tie around his neck, then switched it out for blue, then abandoned the idea entirely as his nerves began to fray.
The longer he stood in front of the mirror, the more he picked apart his appearance. His pants were too tight, his collar wouldn’t stay in place, and he’d run his fingers through his hair too many times, leaving his beloved messy curls in a state of disarray. Maybe he’s just not the fancy type.
Nevertheless, he moved into the kitchen with the hope that a nice, home-cooked meal would excuse his disheveled look. He’d chosen something simple enough that his rudimentary cooking skills would suffice, yet eloquent enough to still be called a ‘dinner date’. He’d really put in the work to make this evening perfect.
With the table prepared and the sound of vintage crooning love songs playing softly in the living room, there wasn’t much left to do except tackle the intimidating mountain of ingredients waiting on the counter. He sucks in a deep breath and runs a hand down the side of his face, trying to decide where to begin.
A drink first, he settles, aiming to calm his restless energy with a taste of liquid courage.
Cradling the wine in the crook of his arm and skillfully balancing two glasses between his fingers, Frankie rummages through the kitchen drawers in search of a tool to open the seal on the bottle.
The delicate glasses clinking precariously in his hand require the better part of his attention as he adjusts his grip and hunts blindly for the corkscrew he knows is somewhere in here and-
“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, jerking his hand free from the drawer.
In his distraction, Frankie had skimmed his thumb across the sharp edge of a knife disguised in the clutter of endless utensils. His sudden movement had also jolted the wine glasses in his hand, knocking them together harshly and cracking their fragile sides.
He exhales through his nose and places the wine and the broken glasses on the counter before bitterly tending to the cut running across the tip of his thumb.
The noise of the record player turns to static as the last track ends, and Frankie huffs and shoves his hand under the kitchen faucet to ease the sting and assess the damage done by his impulsivity.
Maybe this would turn out to be a drink-from-the-bottle type of celebration, after all.
Just as he’s drying his hands and returning to the feat of preparing dinner, the resounding chirp of the doorbell rings through the air. He freezes in his tracks, wide-eyed and panicked as he checks his watch. 7 o’clock. You’re right on time.
The walk from the kitchen to the foyer is a painful reminder of how unprepared he is for your arrival. An entire day spent getting ready for your date with nothing good to show for it. This day was supposed to be a monument to love, and he feels like he’s let you down.
He’s embarrassed and red-faced as he opens the door to greet you. The mouth-watering neckline of your dress is a cruel poke at his own shabby appearance.
“Frankie,” you drawl, drinking in the sight of his mused curls and the swell of his cotton shirt pulled taut over the muscles in his shoulders. “Don’t you look handsome.”
“Hey sweetheart,” he dips his head in a bashful acknowledgement, opening the door wider to welcome you inside.
You press a chaste kiss to his cheek as you pass by, handing off a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a sappy Valentine’s Day card with big cursive letters on the front.
“Couldn’t show up empty handed,” you mention as the corners of his mouth curl into a grin.
He follows instinctively as you move through the house, guided by the trail of decorations leading into the living room. You stop to admire the bouquet displayed proudly on the coffee table, running your fingers lightly over soft, red petals.
“Oh Frankie,” you gasp. “It’s beautiful.”
He nervously scratches at the scruff on his cheeks as he plants himself beside you. “I had so much planned but everything went wrong,” he confesses. “I tried to look nice and I was gonna make dinner and-”
���It’s perfect, Frankie.”
You cut him off with a kiss before his self-deprecating rambling can continue. “This is all I need for Valentine’s Day – just you.”
He melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist, humming a pleased sound against your lips. “You’re worth more.”
You pull back just enough to speak, chiding him as he follows your lips with his. “Knowing that you went through the effort is enough.”
His chest is warm under your hands as you smooth your palms down the front of his shirt. “Besides, I think you need to be rewarded for all your hard work.”
His subdued energy is quickly replaced with a reinvigorated interest. He tightens his hold on your hips, raising a brow in question. “Yeah? What’d you have in mind?”
“Since you planned dinner,” you begin, fingers tracing over the row of pearly buttons lining his shirt. “Why don’t I take care of dessert?”
You motion towards the couch and Frankie scrambles to follow your direction. He settles back against the cushions with your gifts placed neatly beside him, thighs spread eagerly as his cock begins to swell against the confines of his boxers.
With slow, teasing movements, you climb into his lap, thighs fitting snugly around his waist as you balance above him.
Frankie’s hands slowly wander up to your hips, bunching the hem of your dress in his fist as he inches his attention higher. When you tug on the waistband of his pants, he stops you with a hand placed over yours.
“Not yet.”
You pause to watch as he reaches beside him and grab the novelty chocolates you’d brought. He brings the heart-shaped box to his mouth, tearing into the plastic with his teeth and unwrapping the sweet treats.
The lid to the box is discarded somewhere to the side as he settles the box in your lap and pulls out a rounded, cream-filled chocolate and places it against your lips. When you open your mouth to accept his offering, Frankie’s fingers linger on your tongue, the taste of his skin salty against the taste of sweetness.
“Good?” he asks, dragging his fingers over your tongue before selecting a piece for himself and tossing it into his mouth.
Half the box is finished in a haze of shared kisses and the rich, fruity flavor of storebought chocolate. When you’ve finally had your fill, Frankie leans forward to deposit the rest on the coffee table, arm slung around your waist to keep you close to his chest.
“You’re too good to me,” he grins, dropping back against the couch.
The movement jostles you in his lap, pressing your core against his hardened cock; a glimpse of exposed skin peaks from beneath the hem of his shirt, providing the perfect chance to remind him of your earlier promises.
“Need to feel you.” Your fingers curl around the button on his slacks and Frankie is quick to agree.
He expertly pulls himself free and runs a hand up the up the underside of his length, slowly dragging his thumb over the head. “You want my cock?” he asks, thighs tensing subtly underneath you as a warmth spreads through your chest.
“Raise your pretty dress up, touch yourself for me.”
You gather a handful of material at your waist while Frankie lazily strokes his cock, watching intently as you slide your underwear to the side and press a finger to your clit.
“S’that feel good?” He speeds up his pace to match the messy tempo of your pleasure, finding his own motivation in the way your thighs hug his hips.
“Frankie,” you cry, chest heaving with the effort of keeping yourself upright. “Please fuck me.”
He swears under his breath and fights the temptation to lay you down and give you what you’re asking for.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he pants. “Need you to come first.”
Your mouth twists into a disconcerted frown, but your fingers persist, spreading a sheen of glossy slick over the apex of your thighs. You’re both chasing that same feeling, both hurtling towards the same end. Frankie’s free hand closes over yours on your hip like he’s anchoring you in place, urging you closer to your climax.
“C’mon sweetheart. M’so close.”
The pressure building in your gut finally reaches its peak, sending you into Frankie’s chest as you sputter through your release. Frankie follows with a breathless noise as he tips over the edge, spilling pearly rivulets of spend over his tight fist.
Your heart beats wildly in your chest, or maybe that’s Frankie’s pulse thundering over yours. His grip on your hand loosens and he cups the back of your neck, bringing your mouth to his in a hungry, determined kiss.
“Give me five minutes,” he pants against your lips, tasting of chocolate and heady desire. “And I’ll give you anything you want.”
#spacesisterssecretvalentine#Frankie Morales#frankie morales smut#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales fluff#frankie morales fic#triple frontier#triple frontier smut#triple frontier x reader
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birthday girl | frankie morales x plus size latina reader
Main masterlist
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Word count: ~3.5k
Summary: It’s your birthday, and Frankie celebrates his favorite girl.
Warnings: established relationship, unprotected PIV (wrap it up y’all!!!), oral (f receiving), fluff, pet names (princesa, bebita, querida, hermosa, baby, etc), Frankie being in love, slightest hint of insecure reader, reader is female, reader is plus sized, reader is Latina, but no mention of hair type/skin color/height, reader understands Spanish, NO USE OF Y/N, translations available at the end.
A/N: it’s my birthday meaning this is completely 100% self-indulgent lol no other reason behind this. i wrote it with me (a plus size latina) in mind, but i hope you can still find relatability in it! y’all know Frankie is one of my favorite P boys, and i’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. shoutout to @mandoisapunk for hyping me up to post this one ilysm <333 anyway, happy frankie friday!! i hope y’all enjoy!! i’m off to pamper myself, then get plastered at the club 🪩💃 this was written very quickly. not beta’d, all mistakes are my own. 🏃♀️
Divider by @saradika-graphics
Daylight peeks through the blinds, bleeding through the curtains. A gloomy morning, typical around this time of year. Stirring in the sheets, you feel around for your boyfriend. Instead, you’re met with cold sheets on his unmade side of the bed.
He must’ve been up a while ago.
You swipe your phone from your nightstand, catching a glimpse at the time while unlocking it.
10am. He’s definitely been up for a while.
Frankie is an early riser, waking with the sun. While you prefer to sleep in as much as you can, being a night owl and borderline insomniac.
Rubbing your eyes, you scroll and respond to the birthday texts you received throughout your sleep. A few missed calls, you make note to call them back later.
Sitting up, you stretch and let out a yawn. The urge to crawl back under the covers grows strong as the chilly air hits your skin. Just as you’re about to get out of bed, you hear those unmistakable footsteps.
The door gently swings open, there stands your Frankie - beaming with a tray in hand.
“Happy birthday, hermosa,” he says through his dopey grin as he walks towards the bed, balancing your breakfast. You let out a soft hum, touched by the sweet gesture.
“Babyyy, you didn’t.”
“But I did. And I don’t want to hear any complaints, it’s your day, let me spoil you.”
“But you always sp-,”
“Ah ah! Let me spoil you, bebita. It’s what you deserve. I even made your favorite,” he says, setting the tray down in front of you. A tiny gasp bubbles over your lips.
“Frankieeee,” you whine, bottom lip jutted out as tears well in your eyes.
It’s a simple meal, nothing extravagant, but not one you make too often with how time consuming it can be. Your favorite childhood breakfast - chorizo con huevo y frijoles and homemade tortillas - one your abuelita would cook on the mornings you went to her house as a little girl.
You’d told him about it one morning when he found you downstairs making tortillas from scratch to go with breakfast. A labor of love from both of you, as you taught him the same way your abuelita had shown you - a way to honor her legacy.
He remembered.
“You remembered,” you whisper, voice wobbly as you’re overwhelmed with the simple, sweet gesture. Glossy eyes meeting his soft gaze.
“Of course, baby. I remember everything you tell me,” he says, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your head.
“How did you make the tortillas?” you ask.
He chuckles, sitting down beside you.
“I told you, I remember everything you tell me,” he says while fishing out a crumpled up index card and placing it in your hands. It’s got all your abuelita’s instructions, measurements, and ingredients scribbled on it in his chicken scratch.
He’d written everything down.
“Wrote it all down after that morning. It took some trial and error, and they’re nowhere near as perfect as yours and your abuelita’s, but…”
“I- Frankie…” you sigh, tears pricking your eyes as you’re nearly rendered speechless. Cupping his face softly in one hand.
“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you,” you sniff, a stray tear cascading down your cheek as you smile at him through watery eyes.
He swipes his thumb on your cheek, wiping away your tear.
“Of course, baby.”
You capture his lips in a languid, sweet kiss. Sighing into each other as you wrap a hand around his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. Frankie cupping the back of your head, deepening the kiss.
Parting for air, he rests his forehead against yours - toothy grins adorning your faces.
“Come on, princesa. Eat before it gets cold.”
The two of you share breakfast in bed before getting ready for the day.
Frankie spends the rest of the day spoiling you - taking you to a surprise nail appointment he’d booked. He’d headed home unbeknownst to you, setting up something else.
He picked you up, and the two of you landed in Barnes & Noble. Letting you go rampant, Frankie bought every book you wanted. He’d tucked them away safely in his trunk, reminding himself to take them out in the morning. You’d both decided to grab some dinner before heading out to the bars with some friends.
The bars are loud, particularly this karaoke bar. Although he despises karaoke, his love for you trumps his disdain. Seeing you sing your heart out on stage with your friends - the people who always show up for you - makes his heart swell. Your happiness is his.
Frankie nurses a glass of whiskey the entire night, allowing you to have your fun with everyone. He can sense your exhaustion, your telltale yawn is his silent cue that it’s time to call it a night.
Bidding everyone good night, you and Frankie walk hand-in-hand to his truck. Heading home after a day well spent. Giddiness radiating from both of you on the drive home, excited to finally have some privacy.
You two could barely keep your hands off each other the second you stepped out of the truck. Both of you stumble into the house, giggling through the tender kisses. Frankie tosses the truck keys onto the table in the foyer and flicks on the lamp before cupping your face again. Both of you refuse to part for air as he attempts to stealthily guide you into the living room.
Something brushes against your head, making you break away and whip your head around. A soft gasp is punched from your lungs, your eyes glimmering at the sight in front of you.
Balloons hang throughout the living room leading into the kitchen as a bouquet of flowers sits on the coffee table. Frankie grabs your hand, pulling you out of your trance, weaving through the trail of balloons as he leads you into the kitchen. Tears well in your eyes at the gesture. A small cake in your favorite color sits on the table, next to a card and another vase of flowers - tulips specifically, your favorite flowers.
He fishes for a lighter in his pocket, showing you how prepared he was for this moment. Lighting the candles, he pulls you into his embrace, your back flushed against his chest.
“Surprise, princesa,” he whispers. A watery chuckle bubbles from within your chest, sniffling while he softly sings his own rendition of ‘happy birthday’ in your ear as he sways you side to side. The glow from the candles illuminating the blinding smile on your face.
“Make a wish, birthday girl,” he whispers, placing a tender kiss to the shell of your ear.
You close your eyes, wishing for this love, this life with him for eternity. Leaning forward slightly, you blow out the candles before falling back into Frankie’s arms. He gives you a gentle squeeze before turning you around to face him.
Gently kissing you, you yelp in surprise when he swipes frosting on your nose.
“Couldn’t resist, sorry, bebita. Que le muerda,” he says with a wink. Playfully scolding him, you reach behind you to scoop frosting on your fingers and smear it on his cheek.
Frankie smirks, “Oh you think that’s funny?” You nod, snickering as you lick your fingers. He reaches for the cake, gathering more frosting on his fingers. Smearing it all along your lips and chin, you burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Normally, you hate the tradition of taking a bite of the cake - it usually leads to having your whole face smashed into it, makeup ruined. But with Frankie, it’s not done with malice, not done to embarass you. It’s playful, fun - like the life you’ve built with each other.
Before you can retaliate, Frankie swoops in and slots your lips together. The sugar from the frosting combined with the glass of whiskey he had at the bar makes for a full-bodied kiss. Giggling like a pair of school kids, you and Frankie clean each other up with some paper towels.
"You missed a spot, bebita," he says, gesturing to the bottom of your lip.
"Oh!" You swipe your lip. "Did I get it?"
He grins. "Almost. Let me help you, hermosa," he says before crashing his lips onto yours.
Shared laughter resumes as he guides you into the living room, never letting your lips part. He accidentally bumps into the coffee table as he moves onto the couch. He smiles into the kiss as you laugh at his clumsiness. He plops down, grabbing your hips and tugging you onto his lap.
His large, rough hands squeezing your plush thighs before giving your ass a firm squeeze. Eliciting a surprised hum from you, you part from him with heavy eyes and a dopey smile. Frankie mirroring your expression.
“You have a good day today, baby?” He asks softly, timidly awaiting your answer.
You fervently nod. “The best. Thank you so much, baby - for this, for everything.” You say, gesturing to his hard work.
“Of course, bebita. Least I could do,” he rasps against your skin, littering kisses along your neck. A content sigh leaves your lips, basking in the love he showers you in daily.
“Baby?”
He hums in response.
“When did you find the time to even do all this?” You ask, carding your fingers through his hair as you straddle him, his lips still connected to your throat. He lifts his head, locking eyes with you.
“Did it all this afternoon while you got your nails done. I bought all the balloons and blew ‘em up on my lunch break yesterday and just kept ‘em all at work. The flowers, I went right after I dropped you off at your appointment to get them before I went to pick up the balloons and your cake from my fridge at work. Knew I could surprise you one day,” he explains with a wink.
You feel your heart grow 10 sizes bigger, a swarm of butterflies flutter throughout your tummy.
He’d done all this for you.
Tears sting your eyes again, a soft smile on your face - one only reserved for him.
“Frankie,” you whine in protest, your gaze shifting to the side as guilt floods you.
As if he can read your mind, Frankie grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“Uh uh. I don’t want to hear it. I wanted to do this for you. It’s your special day. Now I know this day isn’t the easiest for you, but I want to make it easy. I want to make everyday easy, the same way you make loving easy. You deserve the whole world and more. And I’ll work everyday to give it to you. Let me celebrate my favorite day, my perfect girl. Because on this day those years ago, the world got brighter. And 2 years ago, my world did too.”
Overwhelmed by his devotion, you shamelessly let your tears fall. Love seeping from your eyes and onto your cheeks, Frankie draws you in gently. Kissing you with such tenderness, cradling your face as if you were the most delicate diamond in the universe, your cheeks wetting his. He pulls back, swiping those tears, mirroring each other's small smiles.
“I love you, bebita,” he says, his voice hushed and husky.
“I love you too, Frankie. Thank you for today, for all of this, baby. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had, all thanks to you. You always make me feel so loved, and I hope you know just how much I love you. Eres el amor de mi vida,” you choke out.
“Of course, baby. I’d do anything and everything for you, princesa. Loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I do know how much you love me, you show me everyday, bebita. I’ve got you, baby. Always. Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. Eres mi todo. Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita,” he whispers against your lips.
Melding your lips together, your combined hums ring in the air as you vehemently consume one another.
He shifts his grip to your thighs, tightening his hold on you as he rises to his feet.
“Frankie, stop! I’m too heavy, you’re gonna hurt your back!” You yelp as he carries you up the stairs, the whispers of insecurity creep into your head.
“Hush, bebita. My back is fine. I’ve never thrown it out any of those other times I carried you before, and I’m not about to start now. You’re never too heavy. ‘Sides, how many times have I tossed your sexy ass around in bed? Hm?” He asks as he turns the corner, leading you to your shared room.
He immediately rids your mind of any insecurities as he’s met with your silence. Bashfulness coursing through your veins as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck..
“Exactly. That's what I thought,” he says as he kicks the door open, tossing you onto the bed. You yelp as you bounce in the air, Frankie’s pupils dilate - blown black and wide.
Your head resting on a pillow with dress ridden up your thighs, exposing your panties to him as your breasts nearly spill over the low neckline.
He pulls your shoes off, his following suit as tosses them off to the side. Snaking his hands up your thighs, he grabs the hem of your tights.
“I’ll buy you a new pair,” he warns before yanking them down, tearing them in the process. It’s unbelievably feral, how swiftly he ripped the tights in two. You gasp as another wave of arousal pools in between your thighs.
He hovers over you, hands trailing up your tummy and cupping your breasts. He captures your lips in his, patience thrown to the wind as his tongue invades your mouth. Sucking in your bottom lip between his teeth, you moan as he bites down. The slight sting only sending more slick to seep from your weeping cunt.
You eagerly fumble with the hem of his shirt as you moan into his mouth. His chest rumbles with a small chuckle, before parting from your lips. He quickly yanks it over his head and tosses it to the floor, refocusing on your lips.
He snakes his hands down to your waist where your dress is bunched up. Slowly raking it up your body, you lift yourself up so he can pull it off you. Frankie licks his lips. He knew you’d been wearing one of his favorite lacy bras, but it’s such a sight for him every time.
Sloppy kisses are exchanged while he slickly maneuvers to unhook your bra, lifting you slightly and discarding it on the floor. He kisses down your bare breasts, sucking a nipple in his mouth while he fiddles with his belt. Frankie releases your nipple with a lewd pop and shucks off his jeans and briefs, his hard cock throbbing.
Both of you bared naked, on display for each other.
“So fucking beautiful, baby. The most beautiful woman on Earth,” he rasps, nearly to himself.
Heat radiates throughout your body, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears and a fire simmering in your belly as he slides down to position himself in front of your bare sex.
Frankie insatiably licks his lips, feasting his eyes on your glistening folds. As if he’s about to devour the finest meal. He peppers kisses along your soft thighs, making you twitch under his grasp.
Your clit throbs, aching for attention. Whining, your hips buck up into his face as he presses a tender kiss to your mound.
“I got you, bebita,” he whispers against your core. He dives in, tongue licking languid stripes up your folds. Frankie groans at the taste, something he’ll never get enough of.
Flicking your clit combined with the vibrations of his groans draws out a high-pitched moan from you, your head sinking further into the pillow. His tongue prods your entrance, slurping up your slick.
“S-so fucking good, Frankie. A-always so f-fucking good to me,” you keen as the flames in your belly fan into a fully-fledged fire. Panting and whimpering, you squirm beneath his hold as he relentlessly flicks your pearl.
He grips your thighs tighter as he suckles your clit between his lips, humming into you. Stars burst behind your eyes as you're engulfed by your orgasm.
“I’m gonna cum, Frankie! I’m gonna-,”
You're cut off by a never-ending stream of moans, babbling incoherently about how good Frankie is. Tugging on his hair as you fall over the edge.
He lets out an animalistic groan as he laps at your slick, slurping up every last drop. Savoring the tangy sweetness seeping from your aching cunt, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the taste. He takes great pleasure in getting you off.
A thin sheen of sweat covers your body, glistening in the warm glow of the room. Frankie presses a chaste kiss to your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before towering over you.
Your eyes heavy and glossed over with bliss. Whimpering into him as he presses his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Sweeter than any fucking cake, bebita,” he jokes, getting a giggle out of you. You bring him down to meet your lips again. Humming as you feel his hard length graze against your bare sex.
Precum weeps from his tip, lightly smearing on your mound. A soft moan slips from you as Frankie lines his cock up with your pussy. He swirls the tip around your mound, gathering your slick on his cock as he teasingly prods your entrance.
“Frankieee, please. Need you inside me,” you whine, rutting your hips seeking relief.
“Relax, hermosa. Like I said, I got you.”
He slowly slips inside, your dripping pussy welcoming him in with ease. Your walls flutter around him, adjusting to his size. Moaning in tandem as he slides home, bottoming out. He’s so big, he’s already kissing your cervix.
You clench around him, panting as the sting from the stretch of his cock morphs into pleasure. Frankie lets out a moan, huffing as he tries to keep his composure.
“Don’t do that, baby. Or else it’ll be over before it even started,” he grunts above you.
“Then how about you fuck me, Morales? ‘S my birthday, I want you - need you, baby,” you whine.
“Oh I’m gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna have you fucking stumbling all over the place after this,” he slurs, nearly drunk on just being inside your warm walls.
Without preamble, he swiftly draws his hips back before slamming into you. You unabashedly scream, not caring that your neighbors will probably hear you.
Your noises drive Frankie wild, spurring him on to bring you to your orgasm. His pace picks up, unrelenting as he cants his hips into yours - pushing himself deeper and deeper with each thrust as he hovers above you.
His chest brushes against yours as his thrusts grow sloppy.
“Feel good, bebita? Huh? Feel me here, in your stomach?” He taunts, pressing down on your stomach as he punches your g-spot. The added pressure makes the coil in your belly tighten, burning white hot as he fucks in and out of you.
“Answer me, baby,” he growls against your lips, the angle he’s at hitting that spot just right.
“Y-Yes, Frankie! Feels s-sooo fucking g-good! Gonna feel you for d-days,” you shriek, hiccupping as tears prick the corners of your eyes. Squeezing around him as your second orgasm rapidly approaches.
“That’s right, baby. Your pussy feels so fucking good, so fucking tight. I could live between these fucking thighs. Like you were made for me,” he babbles, moaning as you clench around him.
“Made for you, Frankie. Only you,” you whisper, the air being punched from your lungs with every thrust.
“Cum for me, bebita. Dámelo, wanna see your gorgeous face when you soak my cock. Come on, baby,” he grunts, holding out on his orgasm - set on making you cum first.
His words toss you over the edge. The coil snapping in your belly as you writhe beneath him, riding out your orgasm, gushing all over his cock.
“Fuck yes, bebita. Good girl, good fucking girl,” Frankie grits as he continues to fuck you through your high. His own orgasm not far behind.
“Cum, Frankie, f-fill me up, baby, please!” You beg breathlessly as you come down from your high.
He moans, chasing his high as he ruts into you. Moaning in tandem as he fills you with his load. Both of you sticky and clammy, covered in sweat and cum. He topples over you, caging you in between his broad biceps.
Small lingering kisses trail along your neck as you bask in each other's proximity and warmth. The post-coital bliss sinking in. You wrap your arms around his taut back, running your fingers through his disheveled curls.
“Love you so much, Frankie," you whisper into his ear.
“Love you so much more, princesa."
Translations:
Que le muerda - bite it
Eres el amor de mi vida - you are the love of my life
Eres mi amor, mi luz, mi vida, mi luna y todas mis estrellas. - you are my love, my light, my light, my moon and all my stars. You are my everything
Eres mi todo - you are my everything
Te amo mucho, con todo mi corazón, bebita - I love you so much, with all my heart, baby girl.
Dámelo - give it to me
hehehehe can you tell Frankie is rotting my brain?
this was definitely my most vulnerable piece yet, as it contains aspects authentic to me so i was very nervy to post. like i said, i hope you found some relatability, and enjoyed!
anyway, happy frankie friday!! thank you so much for reading!! 🩷
tag list: @nostalxgic @sweetercalypso @undrthelights @gracieheartspedro @sapphic-gardn @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @tinygarbage @mandoisapunk @pedrostories @harriedandharassed
#happy frankie friday#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x plus size reader#frankie morales x latina reader#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x female reader#frankie morales x oc#frankie morales#frankie morales fluff#frankie morales smut#frankie morales fic#frankie morales fanfiction
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