Tumgik
#frankie morales x you
Text
Maybe, Baby?
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
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.”   
Tumblr media
“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.” 
Tumblr media
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. 
Tumblr media
“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.”
Tumblr media
Taglist:
@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @whyjuliaaa @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24 @3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @messinadress @milly-louise @jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog @hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild @copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog @amyispxnk @samgirl4life @pigeonmama @pedr0swh0r3
426 notes · View notes
endlessthxxghts · 2 days
Text
New Beginnings [Masterlist]
Frankie’s daughter, Elena, gets enrolled into a new school for prodigal children. It’s going to be a new adjustment for Elena, but Frankie underestimates just how much life will change for him, too — especially after meeting you. | first chapter coming April 3! |
teacher!reader x student's dad!Frankie Morales
Tumblr media
General Content/Warnings: AFAB&fem reader (she/her pronouns). Reader is able-bodied. No other physical descriptions used. Implied that reader knows some Spanish. Implied that reader is bisexual (references in passing, blink and you’ll miss it). No use of "y/n." POV switching. Lust (love..?) at first sight. Sexual tension GALORE! Semi-forbidden love trope. Single dad trope. PTA Drama, jealous moms and dads! Inherent angst (with a happy ending). Canon divergent to TF storyline. SMUT 18+ MDNI (See specific chapter for specific content). ENTIRE SERIES - MDNI.
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
SIMILAR TO AO3'S "AUTHOR CHOSE NOT TO APPLY ARCHIVE WARNINGS" - SOME CHAPTERS WILL OMIT CERTAIN WARNINGS TO SAVE ANY SPOILERS (* INDICATES WHICH CHAPTERS APPLY TO THIS).
* indicates explicit material is present
All places/school programs/locations/weather/etc. mentioned are fictional; however, they are inspired by real places that exist where I am from (Las Vegas)!
Photos do not represent reader in any way shape or form; used to give imagery/set the vibe for situations/scenarios.
MAIN MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG || (LIST BELOW CUT)
Tumblr media
Storyline
ONE: new beginnings, 8.8k ** (coming April 3!) TWO THREE FOUR FIVE
(Total chapter count undetermined)
Tumblr media
Extras
Want to read more like this? Check out @frenchiereading's Shared Breaths series! It contains a similar trope with you being a teacher and Frankie being your student's father. It is a must read!🫶🏼 Another very noteworthy and honorable mention where you’re a teacher (no children of Javi, at least not in the beginning😏) — @javierpena-inatacvest’s It’s Never Too Late series!! It’s for Javier Peña, but nevertheless, the SWEETEST and SEXIEST story to ever exist, and it’s written by my sweet sweet best friend. I love u to the moon and back, babe. 🌚🌝
Tumblr media
Floral dividers courtesy of @saradika-graphics 💚
157 notes · View notes
undercoverpena · 3 days
Text
7. honey cream
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself
Tumblr media
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.9k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. bad tool names. anxious!reader. an: can i just say a massive thank you to all those who show up EVERY SINGLE WEEK. i adore you so much. thank you. if you're new to the ride, also welcome. even if i loved this story so much, i never expected people to love it even half as much as me, never mind the love i keep getting. so thank you.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
Tumblr media
Nice forearm in your story.
Thanks, It’s this guy I met in a hardware store? We’ve been kind of seeing one another.
Oh, tell him he has a nice watch.
I’ve been told to tell you that you have a nice watch.
You’re hilarious.
I try to be.
You can say no to this, but do you want me to call you later?
That’ll be nice. I’ll be working late so I'll take a break when you do.
Tumblr media
Tomorrow, I just need to grab some bits from the store and then I’ll be with you.
Are you sure you want to spend your day off helping me paint?
I was promised to see you in overalls, so yes.
They’re nice, but please lower your expectations.
I bet they look great on your ass.
Everything looks great on my ass.
Including my hand.
Yes, specifically when you slipped your fingers in my jeans pocket on the way to brunch.
I can’t wait to see you.
Drive safely, Butterscotch.
Tumblr media
“I feel bad that your day off is spent painting.”
Flicking the lid off with a screwdriver, Frankie just smiles—eyes looking up at you from under his cap.
When he looks at you, you might as well be a fly irresistibly drawn to the brilliance of it, captivated by it.
He’d come in clothes that were long since paint-splattered. A set, you assume, he wears most times—an over-washed and over-loved flannel over a greying white tee, and a pair of cargos that have more pockets than you know what they could be used for.
It had been more natural when he’d arrived this time. A sweet kiss at the door, a long hug where he walks you in and his heel kicks your door shut. A muttering of 'you smell nice', into your neck—grinning over his shoulder because you’d sprayed far too much of your perfume.
“Don’t—I want to be here.”
“I think I’ll likely apologise another three times, at least, before we’re done.”
Standing, wearing a slightly twinged expression on his face, he steps over the clean trays and folded step ladders. His hand rises, turning the beak of his cap around, before he’s in front of you, staring at you before he kisses you.
Kisses you like he wishes to rid you of your worries and make your guilt wash away. Like he wants to empty your mind of things you’ve once been told, make you forget them, purge them. Fuck, his mouth almost does.
“So, rule of thumb—ceiling, walls and then kickboards, window sills.”
“Did you… Did you really just finish kissing me and immediately talk about painting?”
Grinning, he chuckles, bending down to grab a paintbrush. “Did you want me to linger on why you feel bad, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?"
You hesitate for a moment before taking the brush, fingers brushing over his. “I guess I’ll get dirty, since it’s with you.”
He seems to swallow, gaze holding yours as a soft smile tries to tug at his lips before flattening out to a line. Then, you just watch as he pours the off-white paint into the trays—its thick, glooping contents filling it quicker than you’d banked on, but he took it perfectly in his stride.
The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, forearms flexing as he tilts the larger tub until he appears content with the measurement in the tray.
You know a thumb covered in paint shouldn’t cause your throat to dry, but it does. Your mind thinking up all the places he can leave a stamp of it, a trail of it, turn you into a map showing where he’s been—over a thigh, collarbone, your —
“Race you to the end of the wall?”
Blinking, finding him already readying his roller on the blank, sun-stained wall.
Before you can respond, he's off. The roller glides smoothly across the wall, leaving a trail of fresh paint in its wake. You laugh, shaking your head at his competitive spirit before joining him, your own brush meeting the wall—cutting in.
In time, the room fills with the rhythmic sound of brushes against the wall, the occasional laughter, and gentle conversations. The room transformed over the hours, looking fresher, already a thousand times better than it had this morning with the patches off filled in holes and cracks.
Taking the brush from your hands, you step back to the middle, looking around, not initially aware of how he’s looking at you. Not until you spot a satisfied smile and a glint in his eye.
“We did good, didn't we?”
You shrug. “Think you could do better—put your back really into rolling next time.”
Shaking his head, he throws your brush into the used tray before he’s grasping, tugging, your body connecting with his in an oomph—his reflexes quicker, arms longer than you’d expected—as laughter escapes out as you slide your hand around the back of his neck.
“Thank you. For helping me.”
“Sure,” he whispers, cheek close to yours, fingers on your hip. “Have I told you how good you look in your overalls?”
Rolling your lips, you slowly turn in his hold—all set to turn his cap for him again. To whisper to him that they’re easy to remove too, that he could slide his fingers up, even slant your mouth back over his again.
But you hear his stomach. It rumbles—practically thunderous.
“I haven’t even offered you food,” you confess, words laced with guilt. “I should make you food.”
���You don’t have to…”
Fingers entwining with his, you pull him—finding him happily following, even as he mumbles about cleaning up, that the paint will dry in the tray. You don’t loosen your hold until the two of you are in the kitchen, a hand needed to open the fridge, both required to pull out some ingredients.
“You cooking for me?”
“I’m going to try, if that’s okay?”
He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft smile.
“I'd love that, baby,” he says, the affection in his voice making your heart flutter like it keeps doing.
Before you’ve even sliced the first vegetable, Frankie excuses himself—a kiss to your cheek, all domestic, normal. It not feeling weird even as he goes back to the “project room” and you hear him tidying.
Because it’s not odd in the slightest him being here.
A thing you turn over as you continue to prepare ingredients, cutting and marinating. By the time he’s returned, sporting an amused smile on his face, you’re about to begin frying things.
“Can I do anything?”
Shaking your head, you glance at him over your shoulder, finding he’s taken up his earlier spot. “Just keep me company.”
And he does. Asking you things, questions—some about your childhood, your family, friends. Every word spoken, he hangs onto. Staring like he’s making notes in his head, committing them to memory, somewhere inside that beautiful, amazing mind of his.
“Should I get used to you cooking if I come round and help you with your project?” he teases, taking a water from the fridge like you’d instructed.
“You better not get used to it,” you retort, throwing a small piece of bell pepper at him playfully. He ducks, laughing. “I batch cook most of the time—easier when you eat for one.”
His eyes follow as you move around the kitchen with a fondness in his eyes, you focusing on not burning anything. Stomach knotting itself when it comes to dishing it up, placing it down, and watching him slide into the stool.
When he takes the first bite, you swear you are frozen—unable to move, or think. Eyes just focused on his, watching, waiting, until you breathe a sigh of relief at the way his eyes light up. “This is really good, baby.”
You can't help but feel a little proud. “Thank you.”
He raises his water in a toast. “To more cooking then,” he proposes, and you laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly.
As you stick your own fork in, it's easy to find comfort in the shared silence, a contentment you continue to be amazed at. The atmosphere all at ease. There's no need for words as you both eat, side-by-side, a relatively normal thing for most, but not for you.
But, none of it feels weird, awkward. It never has—even if part of you continues to wait for it. If anything, it continues to be comfortable, right.
Even as the food effortlessly vanishes off both of your plates, it's not until you've reached your fill that you clear your throat.
“So, how often do you have Luca?”
Chewing his food, he puts down the remainder—wiping his fingers on the napkin. “It’s a weird rota. But it works? I’ll have him in the week for two nights and then overnight on a Saturday one week and then one night in the week the following and then Friday to Sunday, and then I’ll have him for three nights in the week the following. Sometimes, extra if I have time off or I want to take him to see family.”
Nodding, you take a sip of your drink.
“Does that… bother you?”
“No! No, of course not,” you grin. “He’s the most important, in all of this. It was just curiosity, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work out the pattern.”
Chewing his cheek he smiles. “You trying to work out when I’m free?”
Shrugging, you look away, aware of the heat warming your cheeks. “Well, someone did post about brunch on their Stories…”
“I remember someone else posting my forearm on theirs.”
Smiling, you plate your cutlery down. “It’s a very nice forearm.”
Shoulder nudging you, Frankie chuckles—cutlery lined up on his plate, your hand moving to take it. Sliding around the kitchen as he begins debating what part of him will appear next, a thigh, an ankle.
“I can include all of you next time, if you like?” Hand testing the hot, soapy water filling the bowl.
“Yeah?”
Licking your lips, you smile. “I don’t cook for anyone, Morales.”
Shifting to meet your gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Is that right, Rainy? I must be pretty special then.”
“You have no idea,” you reply, your voice a mere whisper but the words carry an immense weight, one you suspect has snuck out, and embedded itself into him.
You're quick to turn your back to him, hide the heat and shyness, as you carefully rinse off the dishes. Only hearing the stool shift at the last moment, the sound of his sock-covered feet padding around until he's standing behind you.
His presence is unmistakable, more so when he places his hands on your hips. “I think I'm beginning to,” he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.
You turn to face him, the plates forgotten in the sink. Looking up into his eyes, seeing a reflection of things fluttering in them.
“You better,” you say, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “because I'm not planning on posting anyone else’s arm for a while.”
His grin widens at your words, his hands pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "Good, because I don't plan on trying brunch with anyone else."
And as he leans down to kiss you, he pauses, mouth hovering over yours. “Speaking of…”
Narrowing your eyes, you retract your head, soap suds sliding off your wrists.
“My friends… they want to meet you.”
His words catch you off guard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Meet...me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
As soon as he confirms with a simple nod, you feel a tightness in your chest. An explosion in your mind. A vortex of thoughts, all overwhelming, non-stop.
Each second you try to breathe, the knot in your chest tightens, sitting, carving a bigger hole where your happiness had just been—
“Yes,” he confirms, his hands soothingly rubbing circles on your hips as though noticing your sudden tension. “I think, maybe, I’ve talked about you too much?”
Running your teeth over your lip, you feel a piece of skin. One sticking up, not as smooth as the rest. Lip balm would solve it, fix it—but you pick at it anyway, pick, pick, pick—
Running your teeth over your lip, you notice a stray piece of skin, protruding slightly, disrupting the otherwise smooth surface. Lip balm would fix it, effortlessly smooth it out—but despite knowing this, you find yourself unable to resist the urge to pick at it. Listening to him as he explains, hearing names, a day suggested. As you compulsively pick, pick, pick—
Until he says your name.
Soft. Gentle. So cautiously spoken it makes your heart do a double take as you taste copper on your tongue.
“Are you sure? I mean, I want to. I just… don’t want to intrude or anything,” you reply, and you know it’s left your mouth shaky, bathed in nerves.
Attempting to shake the suds from your hands, hoping to fling off the worries with it, you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. Mind a flurry, a snowstorm of ifs, buts and maybes.
Because meeting his friends is a significant step—a thing you’re happy about, pleased he feels the same way. Yet, you're also terrified.
Digging your hip into the counter because of it, rooting yourself as you flex your fingers.
“Hey.” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to look up at him; eyes full of warmth and reassurance. "You wouldn't be intruding, baby. They're… they’re like my family and… I want them to meet the person I can’t stop thinking about.”
Shoulders sliding down from your ears, you move to rest your hands on his waist. “You really talk about me that much?”
Scrunching his nose, he smiles. “A bit.”
“Okay,” you agree, your voice sounding more confident than you feel. “I'll meet your friends.”
“Great,” he grins, his relief evident. He pulls you close, hugging you tightly. “Benny—the one who fights—that's who we'll be supporting.”
“When?”
He frowns, but vanishes it away as though realising you hadn't been listening. “Not this weekend, but next. They’re going to love you, I promise.”
“I hope so,” you whisper into his chest, your heart rate trying its best to slow down.
Tumblr media
I need you to tell me what I need to do with the office room, if your friends happen to not like me. They’re going to like you. But if they don’t. Rainy, they will. Introducing you is more so they don’t think I’ve made you up. You have a habit of making up people? No. But apparently, the way I talk about you makes it seem like you’re made up. Why? Because you’re perfect. I am not. You are, but let’s have that battle another day. What are you worried about?
It sits there, in your fingers. The answer to his question.
Foot kicking out at your kitchen island, laptop light illuminating your face as you roll your tongue over your lips.
Foot kicking out nervously at the kitchen island, the harsh glow of the laptop casting an eerie light across your face, you roll your tongue over your lips.
A nervous tic. One you find yourself repeating—letting it trace over the same path again and again, desperately seeking a sense of calm that seems perpetually out of reach.
The question doing its rounds, spinning and swirling: What are you worried about? What are you worried about?
Like a bell has been wrung, it blares out. The answer.
It vibrates through your bones and comes back to you in an echo. Almost a chorus: That I’m not good enough.
A thing you’ve done well to ignore, to stuff down. But now, it's crawling up out of its boxes, the tape having barely kept it down, flapping about in the whirlwind of worries in your head.
As your phone screen dims, memories flood, recalling the evidence. The words flung at you, feelings you’ve wrestled with in bathrooms at loud parties and brutal quiet nights; arguments in places that don’t feel like home and tears against brick walls that cut shoulders.
Unlocking your phone, you tighten your jaw because he's not like them. He's good, kind. A sudden unwillingness to bend to insecurity roaring inside of you as you list every good thing about him; not willing to let a good thing be ruined by things that could never happen.
Sliding your fingers over the screen, you type words that seem easier, less difficult to confess:
Living up to the stories you’ve said. No stories, just a mention of your name and apparently a smile they’ve not seen in a while.
With a mouth-closed grin, you purse your lips.
Reading over the message again and again as your teeth sneak out to bite your lip, thumbs darting out over the phone’s keyboard.
Would it be okay to pick you up? You want to pick me up? I do. Yeah, sure. I was going to offer to pick you up. I think I’d like to pick you up, and if I don’t make a fool out of myself, would you like to stay over? I’ll pack your robe.
Tumblr media
As soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into your car, you feel at ease.
The drive over to grab him had been a combination of whispered mutterings about how it was going to be fine and a mind full of all the ways it wouldn’t be.
It’s further helped when his lips press to your cheek, allowing hands to loosen on the steering wheel, and when that low voice sweeps over you as he greets you—as other words hang there unspoken.
You almost say it on sight, I've missed you.
Because you have. A week and a half of messages and phone calls sufficing, but you’ve missed his presence, his face, the chance to brush your fingers over his cheek.
“You look nice.”
Eyes widening, he stares down at himself, palms brushing out over his thighs. “Me?”
“No, the ghost you brought with you—of course, you.”
Snorting, he fastens his seatbelt. “Says you, hermosa.”
“Smooth talker.”
The drive to the fight continues with similar, gentle teasing, all comfortable conversation filling the vehicle. He begins to fill you in on the new developments in the saga of Luca’s newfound love for blanket forts rendering the living room a disaster and you about the sign-off on the work you'd been worked up over.
As you navigate the roads, excitedly sharing about how you've picked a wallpaper you like, Frankie's warm hand finds a home on your thigh, his thumb idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your jeans as he continues talking.
No smirk, nothing. Just the usual smile, as if he'd done this before.
Yet, he hasn't. Unfamiliar sensations surge through your body, catching you off guard, body all ill-prepared for the way it warms you. It almost urges you to shuffle in your seat so his hand rises north; Electricity crackles along your veins, accompanied by a tightening in your abdomen that refuses to dissipate. And, it only worsens when he coughs and his hand grips you a little tighter.
As more of the cityscape flits past your windows, you steal glances at Frankie. His profile illuminated intermittently by the passing street lights, shadows highlighting the rugged contours of his face.
By the time you're pulling into the parking lot, you wish the drive had been longer. Momentarily, you press your thighs together, for reprieve. Only doing so when his hand moves to open the door, the liveliness and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as he comes around the vehicle to take your hand.
“So, where will your friends be?”
Frankie tightens his hand on yours, leading you, holding the door open. “They’ll be in the locker room. Will is Ben’s non-official trainer.”
Nodding, you smile, letting him lead until the two of you come to a stop at the bar—him asking you what you’d like, giving you a look that says please don’t fight me as he takes out his wallet.
“You not needed there?” Shaking his head, ordering drinks as he faces his head forward but his eyes slide down to you. “And what are you, what's your role?”
“His other non-official, less present trainer.”
“You slacker.”
Shrugging, he shakes his head, paying for the drinks. “I know, so much free time to do it too.”
Grinning, you follow him to a spot out of the line, sliding your arm around his back, curling into him—the ice cubes in your plastic cup colliding in the fizziness of your drink.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Because you missed me?”
His mouth opens, parts—the tip of his tongue peeking out as you feel his chest expand before relaxing. “Yeah. Nine days was too long.”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide your hand under his jacket, it taking a moment, more awkward than full of ease before you can fan your fingers out against him.
“Technically, it was five—if you count me half-waving to you when I came in to get a screwy.”
Almost spluttering as he takes a sip, he clears his throat, staring down. “You can’t call it a screwy?”
Narrowing your eyes, smirking away. “And why not, Morales?”
“Because suena mal... dirty,” he argues, trying to suppress a laugh.
Your eyebrow raises in question, but before you can retort, his lips are on yours, effectively silencing you. The place around you is all of a sudden silent, muted—as if no one else is around at all. The ring, the lights, and all of the people blurring into nothing, not as your fingers tease over his chin, as your mouth reminds itself what his feels like.
Pulling back, mouth hovering close to his. “So, what do I need to know about your friends? Outside of the obvious.”
The obvious is that they all served together. Frankie had explained it one night as you cooked for yourself, him on a shelf—face filling the screen as you sliced and brewed on the stove.
It was clinically given, top-level you'd been sure. Just the need to know—the need to understand.
“Well, Ben is loud—but he’s gentle. Will is a bit protective, especially since we've all been through a lot together," he begins, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. “But they're good people. They're upfront and honest.”
“Does Harold like them?”
Tutting, he pauses as he lifts the plastic cup to his lips. “The only person Harry likes is you. And his own family.”
“I’ll be sure to drop that in conversation then. Show them I’m one stamp approved already.”
Tilting your chin up, he licks his lips—slowly, intently. “You have nothing to worry about, alright?” You nod, trying to take in his words. “I mean it.”
“Okay.”
Kissing the top of your head, Frankie keeps his arm around you. Even when Benny's name is shouted and the crowd goes wild.
Tumblr media
I think they like me.
Are you texting me from the bathroom?
Maybe. But, I think it’s going well.
Baby, are you peeing and texting me?
No! I dried my hands and then messaged you.
So you’re leaning against a dirty wall texting me.
Are you grinning like an idiot at your phone?
Don’t answer I can see it.
Shut up.
If that’s the grin you wear when I message you, no wonder they wanted to meet me.
Basta!
You're cute when you're flustered. Can see the red climbing up your neck from here.
Come back and keep me company.
Grin a bit more and I might.
Rainy.
Fuck you're handsome, Butterscotch.
Tumblr media
NEXT CHAPTER ->
an: while the meeting happens off-paper (haha wanted to say off-screen) all meetings won't appear like this 👀. we knew they'd love her, and in time we'll see how much. also, her texting him in the bathroom may be my fave thing she's done off her own accord (i am merely just a body and fingers when rainy begins talking to me)
194 notes · View notes
inklore · 1 day
Text
eyes on me
Tumblr media Tumblr media
prompt: you look so pretty right now
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
contents: m receiving oral, dirty talk, praise, deep throating, love bombs, frankie’s soft as hell | wc: 554
note: this man could sweet talk me out of these undies and i’d gladly throw them at him as i twirl my hair. that’s my truth!
Tumblr media
Before Frankie, you never thought this could be intimate.
That there could be softness in the way his hips push up, the way his hands splay against your arms, fingers in your hair light and feathered, and digging into your scalp with such care. A need that goes beyond simply getting off.
And, while there were times when this—you on your knees between Frankie's legs, cock hard and thick against your tongue—felt dirty and rough, tonight was not one of those nights.
It was one that made your entire body feel more alight. 
More attentive to the rough palm running up your forearm. More butterflies in your lower belly with the soft whimpers and sighs Frankie’s letting slip. The slow roll of his hips pushing his cock further down your throat done with a loving hand at your neck.
The gentle “that’s it” and “always so good”’s making your cheeks warm. 
Making something in your chest flutter in the same breath your pussy does. 
Before Frankie, you only viewed blowjobs as something messy, quick, a means to get to another step in sex, or a quicker, less time consuming way to get your partner off. 
It’s silly, laughable, and embarrassing the way you used to look at a lot of things before him.
Before he came into your world, and tilted it completely off it’s axis. 
You hadn’t known intimacy—the difference between fucking and making love. 
Frankie Morales had completely changed you.
And you loved it.
Just as much as you love the way he sounds right now. Love the way the further he goes down the throat, the deeper the noises coming from his open mouth sound. How even with how out of it—how into it and completely consumed by you he is—he’s still so gentle. Still so slow with the way he thrusts into your mouth. 
Not only savoring your mouth, but making sure you’re enjoying this just as much as he is. 
His palm brushes against your cheek, and his thumb briefly slips between your lips as he pulls himself out of your mouth. “Suck the tip,” he says too affectionately. His eyes blown out with pleasure. Too soft for how his chest is heaving. For the want and desire that’s coated in love in both your bloodstreams. 
Your eyes lock on his as you do what you’re told. Your mouth wrapping around the tip of his cock, hollowing your cheeks slightly, sucking, the tip of your tongue coating in precum. 
The sound Frankie makes makes your thighs squeeze when your tongue runs along the head of him. Pushing you to do it again and again, until he’s hissing and looking down at you with a sheen in his eyes. 
“Fuck,” he swallows, out of breath. “You look so pretty right now.”
You want to tell him he looks just as pretty, if not more. 
Want to reach up and push his hair off his forehead because it’s making him look too freaking pretty and you can barely handle it. 
It doesn’t take much longer—a string more of compliments and commands and I love you’s before he’s about to come. Before his thumb rests on your cheeks, his breath puffy, eyes droopy with pleasure as he looks down at you and says, “look at me. Look at me, pretty girl.”
135 notes · View notes
swiftispunk · 15 days
Text
acts of service | frankie morales x f!reader
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
masterlist | frankie masterlist | kofi | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 7.9k
summary: an unexpected admission leads frankie to make you an offer you can't refuse. this surely won't come with any consequences. OR you've never had your pussy ate and your best friend frankie helps you out. warnings etc: [pre-triple frontier] smut, childhood best friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love are lying to themselves and each other, shy!reader, kind of insecure!reader, pet names in both english and spanish, literal porn, piracy, the US military, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), a little handjob action, frankie morales has a huge cock, reader is curvy coded but i think anyone could read this fic, pov swapping, this has kind of a bittersweet ending i'm sorry. no use of y/n.
a/n: these two kind of just swept me up and took me on a ride. i headcanon this girlie eventually becomes frankie's "lady," which i tell you now bc i fear i might have accidentally made this sad. thank you @joelscruff for the beta and thank you @adamantiumspy for the notes on the spanish.
“I should get going soon, huh?”
“No.”
“Okay, then,” Frankie shrugs, requiring no more convincing than that.
He hadn’t really wanted to leave anyway. He was just trying to be polite. He knows he doesn’t have to worry about that with you, but still. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome or anything.
It's just that the times he gets back home are rare, and even rarer are the times he gets with you. His best friend. He doesn’t know if that’s still what you’d call him, but that’s his own stupid fault. Maybe he’s known you the longest but he knows you’ve been busy building your own life, a life far removed from the years you’d spent growing up together.
You’ve got all kinds of friends now. People he’s never met, people that came into your life while he’d been deployed. Hell, you’ve spent the better part of the last six months dating some guy you’d met on a dating app (he didn’t even know you could use those things for anything other than fucking) but that relationship had fallen apart before he’d even gotten the chance to meet the guy. Your first real boyfriend, as you’d put it.
It’s probably for the best anyway. Frankie’s sure he wouldn’t have liked him.
Frankie’s not sure he’ll like any guy you’re dating who’s not him.
But you don’t need to know that. He’d chosen this life, for better or for worse, and the last thing he’s going to do is burden you with his stupid, inescapable feelings when he knows he’s just gonna have to leave again anyway. 
So instead, he overstays his welcome. 
The bowl of popcorn you share sits half finished on the end table, your cozy little living room cast in the faint glow of a colourful glass-shaded floor lamp, that one you’d proudly boasted about finding at the antiques market. He remembers the ache in his chest when you’d sent him that picture, that painful longing for a simple life with you, complete with antiquing and brunch and nights like tonight; your feet in his lap, splayed out together on your sectional while Frankie flips aimlessly through your seemingly never-ending list of channels.
“Jesus, how much do you pay for this?” he demands, honestly just curious now as he clicks towards the channel-800 mark, waiting for the numbers to circle back to 1–which he really thinks should have happened by now. “Who even needs all these channels?”
He jumps past a slew of news stations that all appear to be from different countries, perfectly punctuating his point. 
Your sweet laughter fills the air. God, he loves that sound. He’s missed it.
“You think I pay for this?” you say. “Frank, this shit is like, so illegal.” 
“Excuse me?” He rounds on you, pausing his scrolling on what appears to be a soap opera from Indonesia, “So you’re a criminal?” 
“No,” you insist, making grabby hands for the remote, which he deliberately holds just out of your reach with a smirk. “My dad set it up, I don’t even know how it works. I only use it to watch Housewives, anyway.” 
“Sure,” he teases as you squirm a little closer, your legs draping over his thighs almost to the knee now. His cheeks warm at the proximity but he pushes down the butterflies in his stomach, twisting away from you as you reach across his body for the remote. “Next time I come home you’re gonna be running some kinda underground piracy ring on the dark web.” 
“Whatever.” You slump back into your spot on the couch, adorably mock-grumpy about it. But Frankie can still see the smile tugging at your lips. 
“No, seriously,” he presses on, “If I’m gone long enough, I’m gonna come back and find you in jail.” 
That quickly wipes the smile off your face. Your mouth forms into a hard line and a sharp twinge of guilt punches Frankie hard in the gut. 
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t go away for so long,” you grumble, and there’s no hint of teasing in your voice anymore.
Frankie’s own face falls and he swallows tightly against the sudden lump in his throat. He shouldn’t have fucking said anything. And worst of all, you keep looking at him with these big, sad eyes, like you’re heartbroken at the thought of him going away again and goddamnit if you keep that up, he might start to believe it means something more than it really does.
Whatever anguish he’s feeling inside must be showing pretty clearly on his face because before he can even open his mouth to make it right, you’re apologizing to him. 
“Sorry, I made it weird,” you quickly amend, shaking your head and forcing a smile. Like it’s your job to alleviate the tension in the room. You’re always doing that. Always making sure everyone else is comfortable. But Frankie’s not gonna let you get away with that. Because you have every reason to be mad at him and he knows it.
“Hey, no,” he sighs, sitting forward and anxiously rubbing at his scruff. “You didn’t make it weird. I’m sorry.”
He’s not sure what for. For leaving, for bringing it up, for loving you. The sympathetic smile you offer him feels less forced now, at least.
“It’s okay,” you nod. You take a deep breath through your nose and Frankie’s relieved to see you let your guard down again, your head falling back into the couch behind you as you exhale. Your eyelids flutter closed for a second and he feels almost envious of how relaxed you look. That is, until a cacophony of blood curdling screams begin erupting from the television and your head is quickly snapping up at the sound.
“What the fuck are we watching?” you demand, your voice coated with genuine laughter again.
“I think she just found out he was having an affair,” Frankie posits, trying his best to make sense of the drama currently unfolding on screen.
“I don’t know, she could be screaming about how much she loves that other woman’s outfit.”
“She’s crying.”
“Maybe she’s just passionate about fashion, Francisco.”
He snorts and for a few minutes, you watch in comfortable silence, taking turns guessing what the hell is going on until you give up and nudge at his leg with your socked toes.
“Keep looking,” you suggest. “I don’t know what else is on here, I’ve honestly never gone this high in the channels.”
“‘Kay,” he agrees easily with a smirk. He’s always loved how you let yourself get a little bossy with him. You’re not like that with everyone. You’re quiet with most people, always trying to make yourself smaller or sweeter or softer. But not with him. And that’s how he likes it. He’d never want you to pretend with him. 
He clicks his way higher and higher through the channels, waiting for something to catch his eye or yours. He quickly flies over a long string of radio channels, 60s, 70s, 80s, Easy Listening…he’s flicking through them so fast he doesn’t catch the moment the channel titles lining the bottom of the screen change to XXX–Adult, 24/7 Porn and you’re suddenly being slapped with the image of a woman laid out on a kitchen counter, bare beyond a pair of stilettos, moaning out obscenely while her male scene partner buries his face in her pussy.
“Oh, Jesus,” you groan. You cover your face with your hands, poking an eye out from between your fingers, a sight so fucking cute Frankie forgets for a second that he should probably change the channel.
The woman on screen cries out as the man between her legs devours her–a little overzealous, in Frankie’s opinion. Frankie swallows tightly, pushing down on the unconscious twist of arousal the sound inspires. He’d be lying if he said the images on screen combined with your legs still slung over his thighs weren’t having some kind of effect on him. 
“You’ve really got everything on this thing, huh?” he chuckles, working to keep his tone light. 
You keep peeking through your fingers at the screen and inexplicably, Frankie finds himself torn, hesitating with his hand on the dial. What would it be like to watch this with you? Would you want that? Why does it feel like crossing a line? Why does he kind of want to?
“Frankie, turn it off,” you beg and that easily settles it. If you don’t want it, then neither does he.
He mumbles a hurried, okay okay, continuing his exploration upwards through the channels but…it doesn’t stop. Just channel after channel of actors in various states of nudity and debauchery.  
“Fuck–there’s a lot,” he notes, more to himself than you.
He combs past a few orgies and some painfully inauthentic lesbian stuff. He knows he could just hop back to the guide instead of skimming through it all, but it’s kind of funny now to see just how much porn is baked into this highly illegal cable device your dad had apparently set up for you. 
He only pauses when you make a small comment, just as he comes upon another video of a man shouldered between a woman’s thighs, the camera zoomed in close to his face as he flicks his tongue over her clit.
“Ugh, why do they always have them doing that?” 
Frankie turns to face you, letting the video continue on in the background. Your hands aren’t covering your eyes anymore. Instead, you assess the scene with furrowed brows and your lips curled upwards in disgust. 
“What?” 
“Like, there’s no way either of them enjoy that,” you continue, waving your hand at the screen like he should just know what you’re referring to. 
Now Frankie frowns, turning back to the TV in case he’s missed something horribly wrong. But no…as far as he can tell, it’s just a man feverishly eating pussy. 
“You’re talking about him eating her out?” Frankie asks. 
“Yes!” 
You say it like it should be obvious. 
You watch together now, and Frankie tries his best to take in the scene pragmatically. Which is hard, considering the wet smack of the man’s lips against the woman’s pussy is making his ears burn and the blood rush to his cock.
The male actor is…enthusiastic. Lacking some finesse maybe, but certainly giving it his all. His eyes are closed, mouth glued to her cunt as he rocks his head back and forth. He’s on his knees in front of her, dick hard as a rock between his legs. Frankie can’t really see the problem, but you’re still cringing away beside him.   
“I mean, she’s over acting a bit but he seems to be enjoying it,” Frankie shrugs.
At that, you scoff.
“What?” 
“No guy actually enjoys that,” you say insistently.
His first reaction is shock; you’re a smart person and he’s never heard you say anything more wrong. But the initial disbelief quickly turns to rage the second it dawns on him that there’s no way you could have come to that conclusion on your own, which means someone else must have convinced you it was true. 
“Who the fuck told you that?” he demands. 
It comes out angrier than he intends.
“I–”
All at once, you shrink in on yourself, dropping your head and staring down at your hands. And all at once, Frankie feels like an asshole because he can tell you really fucking believe the lie.
“Nenita,” he says, softening his tone.
He turns the volume down on the TV and twists to face you full-on. The obscene images on screen play on in the background but they’re easier to ignore without the wanton moans of the actors. He wraps a hand around one of your wrists and you peer up at him shyly. 
“Who told you that?” he repeats. 
You take a deep breath.
“You remember that Tinder guy I told you about?”
Any attempt at softness dissipates in a second. Your voice is so timid and Frankie’s blood boils because you’re not supposed to sound that way with him. About a million furious thoughts cross his mind, like how much he’d love to fucking kill the loser who’d made you feel this way, who’d fed you the most absurd, bullshit lie just so he could deny you pleasure–
Jesus. Your first real boyfriend. How many times had you sucked his cock, maybe even let him fuck you and he–
The goddamn injustice of it all has him too mad to even respond. He just makes some noise between a huff and a scoff and squeezes his fingers tighter around your wrist. 
“I don’t know, that’s just what he said,” you go on quickly, always trying to diffuse the tension. You shake your head and look down at your hands again. “He said he didn’t like it and any guy who says he does is lying.”
“Well, I like it,” Frankie says reflexively and your eyes snap up to meet his at once. 
One thing about you and Frankie is that you rarely ever talk about sex. You’ve been with people, he’s been with people–you both know this. But you don’t…talk about it. Frankie’s not one to kiss and tell anyway, plus, maybe part of him had always thought that if he’d been too explicit about his experiences with other people, you might start to think he hadn’t been dreaming about you through every single one of them. 
It’s why this admission, here, in your apartment, on your couch, with some second rate porno playing in the background, has you staring at him wide-eyed. Because it feels like crossing a line.
But Frankie holds his ground, staring right back at you until he sees you nod. 
“I fucking love it,” he continues, like he needs you to really hear it. “And I’m not lying.”
You nod again, and even though you still don’t look fully convinced, he leans back into the couch, prepared to let it go but–
“Wait, so.” He sits upright again, and he really shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t go crossing yet another line but some sick, masochistic part of him needs to know. “Does that mean he never even–?”
You just give him this look before dropping your gaze back down to your lap and Frankie sighs, pulling his cap back to comb an exasperated hand through his curls instead of saying what he’d really like to say.
It probably is for the best he never got the chance to meet this guy.
“I mean, it’s fine, I didn’t want it anyway,” you insist with a shrug. “Or…I don’t even–I don’t even know if I like it.”
That’s fair, he guesses, but also–
“You probably just haven’t had anyone do it right.”
Every woman he’s ever been with had seemed to like it when he’d done it, anyway. He’s certain if he got his mouth on you…
Don’t even think about it.
But it’s too late; he already is thinking about it. Thinking about your messy little pussy and how warm and wet it would feel against his lips and how your sweet juices would stain his moustache and beard. How your soft thighs would feel pressed against his ears and how you’d writhe when you came for him. How he’d like to ruin you for anyone else so you’d never again have to doubt how much you loved it.
He’s thinking about it before you even quietly admit, “I haven’t had anyone do it at all.”
And the admission breaks his heart, because you deserve it. You deserve to feel good. He could make you feel good. 
He blurts out the offer before his brain can catch up in time to stop him–
“Can I?” he asks in a breathless rush. “Can I do it for you?”
Your eyes widen and something fiery burns in his belly, a tingling, nervous heat expanding outwards to his extremities with a kind of electric shock. Adrenaline, he realizes, coursing in his veins after crossing yet another uncrossable line.
“Frankie,” you breathe and he swears he can feel the same waves of anticipation that are currently flooding his senses rolling off of you in turn. 
“Just as a friend,” he lies, inching closer to you on the couch, experimentally resting his hand on your thigh. You both stare at it in wonder, shared breaths coming faster between you. 
“You can say no,” he whispers. Please don’t say no.
Your breath catches as he moves his hand higher, intoxicated by the warmth radiating between you. He gets as far as the soft crease of your thigh and then your hand is flying down to cover his, stopping him in his tracks.
“Frankie,” you repeat. He thinks you sound sad, and that’s not right. He lifts his stare from your conjoined hands to carefully watch your face, trying to make sense of the fear there, while you shake your head and nervously avoid his gaze. 
“You don’t need to do me any favours, Francisco,” you murmur.
“It’s not–” he starts, cutting himself off with a deep breath as he tries to collect his thoughts. 
A favour? Yeah, right. How can he find the right words to tell you he’s dreamt of this a million times? That even if he hadn’t been in love with you since he’d first laid eyes on you, getting the chance to eat you out would still be the sweetest fucking gift in the world?
He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up so he can see your eyes. You glance up at him from under your lashes, doleful and shy, shoulders bunched up to your ears. No. You’re not supposed to look like that with him, you’re not supposed to make yourself small for him.
He presses his fingers down into the meat of your thigh and your lips fall apart as a shallow breath passes through them.
“I want it too, querida,” he rasps. He can hear years and years of pining and desperation underscoring his words. He hopes you don’t. 
-
You’re treading on dangerous ground and you know it. 
I want it too, querida. 
His whispered words ring out between you and you allow yourself to believe that they’re true. Frankie wants it, he wants to see your pussy and he wants to put his mouth on it, he wants to give this thing that no one’s ever given you before–
As a friend. 
It’s fine, you can ignore that part. You can pretend. This is just a friend helping a friend and not the man you’ve always wished would love you back and it’s definitely not going to fuck you up forever to let him do this.
You’re too blinded by arousal to think straight, too caught up in the heat of the moment as he moves your legs off his lap and pulls you down so you’re lying on your back and he’s hovering above you. He slowly strokes his hands up and down your thighs over your leggings, like he’s trying to get a feel for you. And he kind of is, you think. He’s never touched you like this before, all reverent and patient with it as his thumbs near the apex of your thighs before trailing his touch back down to the tops of your knees, over and over until you’re so turned on you don’t even care how much of a mistake this is. 
“You’re so fucking hot,” he hums, almost to himself as his big hands curl around your hips and his fingers play just under the edge of your shirt. 
He sounds so genuine. There’s no way this is real. 
Instinctually, you roll your eyes. “Frankie, come on.”
“You are,” Frankie insists, reaching up beneath the hem of your shirt to glide his palms over your bare sides. He exhales shakily at the feeling of your naked flesh under his hands and your cunt throbs in response, your will to argue with him fading in an instant. 
Then he licks his lips, flitting his eyes up to your face as if to ask permission for whatever he’s going to do next. Whatever it is, you nod your acceptance. 
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, appearing to steel himself before he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and begins to tug them down your thighs and– 
Reality hits you like a ton of bricks. Frankie’s about to see you naked. Francisco Morales is about to see all your imperfections and your curls and your pussy. 
“Frankie, wait.” 
You clench your legs together and Frankie stops at once. He looks up at you like a wounded puppy, brown eyes all wide and unsure, eyebrows raised in questioning. 
Oh god, he’s so beautiful. He has no idea how beautiful you’ve always found him. Not a clue how inadequate you’d started to feel beside him when he’d begun to grow up into such a handsome, desirable young man while you’d stumbled awkwardly through your teen years, always feeling like you’d never be worthy of love or pleasure, least of all from Frankie.
Of course you know now that’s not true; you’ve had plenty of suitors and casual hookups since Frankie’d gone away. Although, you’d never felt comfortable enough with any of them to let them do this for you. And then your stupid ex had to go and make you feel so ashamed for even wanting it that you’d been forced to just accept your fate, that this just wasn’t something you were ever going to get to experience.
And while you have to admit there’s probably no one in the world you feel more comfortable with than Frankie, you’ve also spent years convincing yourself he would never love you the way you’ve always loved him. That he’d never look at you the way you’d always wished he would.
If he’d wanted to, surely he would have done it by now. Right?
“You want me to stop?” he asks. 
“I just–”
You do but you also really, really don’t. You throw an arm over your face, debilitating nerves co-mingling with the electrifying need coursing through you. You can’t fucking think. 
You take a long, steadying breath, prying your arm away from your face to find him still looking down at you with that stupid, beautiful face. 
You’re about to offer him an out but the earnestness in his eyes makes you say something honest instead. 
“What if you don’t like what you see?”
The confusion on his face dissolves into something like shock as he huffs out a disbelieving laugh. You frown, embarrassed, and Frankie quickly reins himself in.
“Corazón,” he says, working to sound more serious even as a smile continues to pull at the corners of his lips. He grabs your arm and much to your surprise, places your hand over his crotch. Your mouth falls open with a sudden gasp. 
“Feel that? Feel how fucking hard I am?” Frankie murmurs gruffly and you do. Even through his jeans, the thick, prominent outline of his cock is firm and solid under your touch. You don’t think you can speak without moaning, so you just bite your lip and nod in answer to his question. 
“Créeme,” he grunts, pressing your hand down into his bulge like he’s trying to prove his point. “I already like what I see. Are you gonna let me see me more?”
You nod frantically, the evidence of his arousal all the convincing you need for now.
“Yes?” he presses expectantly.
“Yes–yeah, Frankie.”
You think you hear him say, ‘kay, under his breath, and then he’s shifting, considering the couch around him like he’s trying to decide how he wants to do this. 
“C’mere,” he suggests, not really giving you much of a choice as he guides you towards the corner of the sectional, maneuvering your body until your legs are dangling off the end of the couch. He locates a cushion and places it under your neck and then he falls to his knees on the floor before you. 
You’re now face to face with the muted porn on your TV screen, the actors having now advanced from cunnilingus to rabid fucking. It’s kind of a debauched backdrop, you guess, but no more debauched than the sight of Frankie throwing his cap off and darting his tongue out between his plush lips as his fingers make their way under your waistband again. He starts to tug, and this time, you let him. 
“Lift up just a bit for me, babe,” he instructs you gently when the fabric bunches around your ass. You angle your hips up and Frankie hums appreciatively, carefully pulling away your leggings and underwear. He keeps his eyes on his hands while he strips you from the waist down, moving without an ounce of haste. 
You bring your knees together out of habit once you’re fully bare but Frankie isn’t even looking where you expect him to. He’s looking at your ankles and shins as he draws a line up your legs with his hands, that same up and down pattern he’d painted on your thighs earlier. 
“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” he marvels softly.
Your heart rate quickens into overdrive when his hands eventually move up to rest on your knees. Something seems to overtake him then as his soft eyes darken and go a bit glassy, dull fingernails digging into your skin with barely-contained desperation. 
“Shit, baby,” he breathes, his voice almost a whine. He leans forward into you, teeth grazing at the flesh of your thigh as he peeks up at you from under his dark lashes. ���Can I please look at your pussy?”
“Yeah, Frankie,” you squeak. How could ever say no when he sounds like that?
You urge your muscles to slacken as Frankie coaxes your knees apart, pulling back to look at you when he does. You can’t help it; you squeeze your eyes closed and hold your breath, waiting nervously for the moment he decides to end this.
“Fuck me,” Frankie groans. 
What does that mean? Is that good? 
“Holy shit, baby,” Frankie continues, shaking your leg a bit to get your attention and against your better judgment, you open your eyes. You look at him, rather than your own body laid out like this, because it’s easier that way. 
He’s ogling you, sitting back on his haunches with his hands on your knees, mouth agape as he takes in your pussy for the first time.
“You’re so wet,” he revels quietly, glancing up at you curiously. He looks…thrilled about it. “Do you always get this wet?”
You’re not sure you’ve ever been so wet in your entire fucking life actually.
“Mm-mm.”
Frankie smiles. 
“Just for me, huh?” he hums, then he’s looking at your pussy again and it’s like it entrances him. He growls, hinging to kiss your inner thighs. He inhales deeply through his nose and you try not to get too embarrassed at the thought of him breathing in your scent. Anyway, he seems to like it, if the ragged sigh he exhales and his fluttering lashes are anything to go by.
“Oh my god, you’re gonna taste so fucking good,” he grits through his teeth.
You’ve imagined your first kiss with Frankie thousands of times. But you’ve never imagined it quite like this. Never imagined his lips on your knees or his scruff on your thighs, his fingers tracing the stretchmarks around your hips like he’s drawing a map across your skin. Every touch, every patient, adoring graze of his hands and his mouth and his teeth both calms and excites you. 
“Can I tell you something?” he whispers after several long moments. 
“Yeah.”
“You have a perfect pussy.” The smile in his voice is audible and it quickly breaks the spell.
“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, playfully kicking a leg out at him. “You don’t have to do all that.”
“Do what? I’m being so fucking serious,” he retorts, his sweet smiling fading. “It’s…so pretty. I’m not lying. Okay?”
You nod and choose to believe him. “Okay.”
It’s getting hard to argue with him now, as his hands glide up towards the apex of your thighs, spreading you open wider as he slowly nears your centre. Your heart pounds in your ears, chest light with anticipation as his thumbs brush your outer lips and your eyes snap shut again. 
“Can I touch you, baby?” he asks, his voice all low and husky in a way you’ve never heard him sound before. 
“Please.”
He sucks in a long breath, which you mirror unconsciously, and then he’s swiping two thick fingers through the seam of your folds, spreading wetness from your hole to your clit. 
“Oh,” Frankie sighs reverently as you melt under his curious touch. 
Your breaths come fast as he plays with your pussy, running his fingers up and down through the mess of it, getting to know you here just like he had with his hands on your body. This part you know, most men have at least put the effort in to finger you. But the fact that it’s Frankie touching you makes every sensation more electrifying and new. 
Never mind that no one’s ever touched you with as much patience and attentiveness as Frankie does, quietly observing every response his fingers elicit from you. He spreads your lips apart and pinches them back together, stroking your clit just enough to make you squirm before pulling away. 
You sneak an eye open just in time to catch him sucking his fingers clean, sighing long through his nose before he refocuses on your cunt. 
Well, he did say he loved it. Maybe you’re starting to believe him. 
He inches closer, broad shoulders finding space between your thighs.
“I’m gonna put my mouth on you now, hermosa,” he tells you. He reaches out to touch one finger to your dripping core. “Right here.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“It’s so wet there, Frankie,” you protest weakly. Why would he want to put his mouth on the messiest part of you? You can’t understand it. Frankie just smiles. 
“I know, baby. I wanna taste you.”
You can only whimper in response, Frankie so close now you can feel his warm breath against your folds. He plants one last kiss to the crease of your thigh and then at last, closes the space between his lips and your pussy. 
You feel him lick a thin stripe through the wettest part of you, the slick contact sending an emphatic jolt to every nerve ending your body. He does it again, widening his tongue this time, and your responding gasp is cut off when Frankie fucking moans. What does that mean?
Your head snaps up and you stare down at him in horror. 
“What’s wrong? Does it taste bad?”
Frankie detaches his mouth from your cunt, confusion mapping the crease between his brows.
“Bad?” he repeats. You just blink back at him with uncertainty written all over your face and he seems to recognize you’re being serious. His features soften.
“No, querida,” he insists. “Just tastes like pussy. Really fucking good pussy. Did it feel good?”
You nod–you can’t lie. 
“Good. I’m gonna do it again. Just relax for me, okay?”
He waits until you nod again and your tense muscles have loosened, then he dives forward for a second time.
Now, you trust that the breathy moan he lets out is one of pleasure rather than disgust. It’s not that hard to believe either; Frankie glides his tongue through the seam of your folds with ravenous interest, up and down, in wide circles around your lips and curious flicks over your hole, peeking up at you with each careful ministration to ensure he’s on the right track.
And, Christ, you may not have any frame of reference but it certainly feels like he is. 
It’s so…wet. So dizzying and warm and all-encompassing. Then Frankie dares to spear his tongue inside you–once, twice, a third time–and you keen at the welcome intrusion, moaning out a sound so pornagraphic you could probably rival the woman currently being railed from behind on your TV right now. 
You feel–rather than really see–Frankie smile against you. 
“Does that feel good when I do that?” he asks and then he does it again. 
“Yes, Frankie.”
He hears the silent plea beneath your words and quickly gets back to work. 
With his tongue still dancing over your fluttering hole, Frankie closes his lips. 
And that’s–oh–that’s so much more overwhelming. His mouth consumes your pussy as his tongue laps and lathes at your core, drinking down everything your body gives him. His eyes close and his brows furrow while his lips move hungrily against you and you imagine this is what it would feel like to kiss him–hot and wet and sloppy and perfect. 
He continues like that, making out with your pussy until your hips involuntarily begin to rock up into his mouth in search of more. Frankie groans, sucking at your folds before pulling away with a wet pop. 
“You’re so fucking sweet,” he groans. He gazes bearlily at your pussy, his lips coated with arousal and saliva. You don’t miss the way he drops a hand to his bulge. 
“Oh, fuck,” he sighs. Usually so controlled and composed, Frankie sounds almost delirious now. “Baby, I’m gonna lick your clit now. Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah–yeah, please, Frankie.”
Frankie makes a wild, guttural noise, leaning in to press a kiss into your pussy. 
“Tell me, baby, tell me where you want my tongue.”
But then he’s teasing his mouth over your hole again, making speech nearly impossible as he swirls his tongue around your opening–like a preview of what he’s about to offer the most sensitive part of you. 
Desperation takes over and any lingering nerves fade away.
“My clit, Frankie,” you beg him. “Please lick my clit.”
The order has him moaning against you again, the vibration alone enough to make you dizzy even before he’s gripping both your thighs to spread you open further and his mouth is moving to find purchase over your nub. 
A sound you’ve never heard yourself make before spills from your parted lips as Frankie begins to deftly work your clit with his tongue. Sparks ignite in your belly at the sensation, so different than how it feels to have someone’s hands on you here. It’s slick and it’s intimate and it’s so much more…concentrated this way. Frankie presses into you harder and flattens his tongue, focusing on drawing precise little circles around your clit that have you seeing stars. 
Jesus–did he go to school for this or something? How does he know to apply just the right amount of pressure? How does he never falter in his rhythm or even stop to come up for air? How does it already feel like you could come at any second if he keeps doing what he’s doing right now?
Fully intent on your pleasure, his messy curls frame his flushed cheeks and his hooded eyes. He’s coaxing towards your end like he’s been fucking training for this his entire goddamn life.
You get lost in it, indulge in the feeling and the fact that it’s Frankie doing this for you. Frankie is making you feel this good. Frankie is going to make you come. 
You grab at his hair and push his face into your cunt, past the point of caring if he’d be upset about that as your orgasm blooms hot in your core. Frankie just groans appreciatively, laving at your clit and giving you just that much more when he puckers his lips and sucks at the tiny bundles of nerves. 
“Oh, Frankie, fuck–fuck, do that again–”
-
Bossy. He loves when you get bossy. You’re so close and, apparently, that makes you bossy.
He smiles. He doesn’t hesitate to do as you ask, sucking hungrily at your clit and swallowing down your salty-sweet flavour. When he feels your muscles begin to tighten he offers you his tongue again, sucking and licking, sucking and licking. He thinks about the man on screen earlier and takes a page out of his book, slowly moving his head from side to side as much as he can with your hands in his hair–and, yeah, you seem to like that, if your wild, needy moans and your breathless little gasps are anything to go by. 
He doesn’t want to leave here ever. He wants to drown and die with his face in your cunt and your hands in his hair. He wants his last breath to be coated with your scent so he can be buried in the ground with it, knowing his life had been worthwhile because at least he’d got to have you this way even one fucking time. 
But your pleas are growing stronger and your chest is heaving faster and Frankie knows it can’t last–because you’re going to come. Suddenly, that’s the only thing in the world that matters. 
“Like that, Frankie,” you cry, when he finds a new rhythm with his tongue, broad, coaxing strokes over your twitching pearl. Your eyes snap open and find his at once, beseeching him. “Don’t stop doing that, Frankie–I’m gonna come.”
He hums against you and heeds your orders, never stopping or slowing the movement of his tongue. You chant for him–yesyesyes–and Frankie just hums and hums his encouragement. 
Come on, baby, come on, baby, he thinks. Let me see what you look like when you come for me. Let me know this part of you. 
“Frankie!”
The drawn-out cry of his name is the last warning he gets before your pussy begins to pulse under his tongue. 
Your climax is even more beautiful than he imagined it’d be. 
You arch up into his mouth and his hands are quick to hold you there, licking you through it as you quiver with the force of it. Wetness gushes from your core and Frankie laps at it greedily, drunk on your taste and your sounds and your writhing form above him. 
Years of service to his country, and somehow he thinks this might be his proudest achievement. He’s never felt more gratified than he does watching you fall apart for him right now. 
Meanwhile, Frankie’s cock aches, leaking and hard in his boxers and begging to be touched. He’s already so close, he could probably come too if he just–
With his mouth still closed over your pussy and your body still shaking with the swells of your orgasm, Frankie begins to palm himself furiously through his jeans, chasing his own high before you can come down from yours. 
But it’s too late. You catch him red-handed. 
“Frankie–stop, honey, don’t come like that.” 
You pry him off your soaking cunt and Frankie doesn’t fight you. You’re sitting up, watching him, gaze smouldering and fixed on the hand he’s currently rubbing against his clothed cock. He should be embarrassed but he just wants to come. 
“How, baby?” he asks you brokenly. 
“Take it out.” 
“Fuck, fuck–” 
He hurries to obey, straightening up off the floor and fumbling hastily with his belt buckle. It takes him three tries to get his fingers to cooperate long enough to figure it out, unzipping his jeans and yanking them down his thighs, completely forgetting this is the first time you’re ever going to see his– 
“Oh my god,” you gasp the second his cock is free from his boxers and he’s wrapping a relieving hand around himself. He looks up at you, momentarily concerned until he sees your eyes are trained on his cock. 
And yeah, fine–sue him–his ego blooms for a second, watching your eyes widen at his size, breath leaving you in this adorable little sigh. 
“Frankie, you’re so–” 
“I know,” he interrupts. You share a smile, something so familiar, as Frankie strokes his cock over your cunt, something so decidedly unfamiliar. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna fuck you with it this time.”
This time. Fuck. He hasn’t even finished doing this with you now and he’s already planning when he’s gonna get to do it again. As if he even knows if you want that, as if he’s not leaving again in just a few weeks–
“You can,” you say hurriedly and the offer pulls him off the edge of spiraling and right back into the moment, cock throbbing in his hand as his head falls forward into his chest with a groan. “Frankie, you can fuck me.” 
He shakes his head. 
“Gonna come in two seconds if I do that, babe.”
He’s also not sure he has the self control to fuck you right now without hurting you.
Plus he really is so fucking close. Your fingers explore his belly and Frankie pumps himself faster. He watches in a lustful haze as your hand moves to hover over his cock, almost curious about it. 
“Can I help you, Frankie?” you whisper. Jesus, do you even know how alluring your voice sounds? He’s gonna fucking explode if you keep talking to him like that. 
You lightly touch your fingers to the back of his hand–and he’s never said yes so fast in his life. 
“Yeah–fuck, yeah, baby, you wanna help?”
“Mhm,” you nod, peering up at him sweetly as you take over.
“Oh, shit–fuck,” Frankie rasps the second you wrap your fingers around him. Then you start to stroke him in long, languid pumps and his eyelids involuntarily flutter.
“Yes, baby, just like that,” he sighs. He abandons the urge to come for a moment, letting his eyes slip closed and really trying his best to just savour the feeling of you touching him. His stomach lurches when he feels you swirl your thumb over his slit, smearing wet drops of precum around the head of his cock. His chest warms with something like pride at learning this about you, that you know what you’re doing when you get a cock in your hand. That you’re good at this. 
“Fuck…that’s so good, sweetheart,” he finds himself whispering just because he thinks you deserve to know. 
“Frankie.”
Your voice calls out to him through the fog of bliss and he dares himself to glance down at you. Still working over his length in deep, adoring strokes, you bite your lip and meet his stare with wide, faraway eyes of your own. He cups your cheek in his hand just because he can. 
“Hm?”
You smile and it’s so fucking beautiful and soft and you that he can’t help but smile right back. 
“You made me feel so fucking good,” you tell him earnestly. 
“Yeah?” Frankie strokes your cheekbone with his thumb and you tighten the grip of your fist around his cock. 
“Yeah,” you nod, just as your smile falters in lieu of something darker. “I want–I want you to come for me, Frankie. I want you to come on my pussy.”
“Jesus,” Frankie grits, nodding frantically as he shoos your hand away and takes his cock in his own hand again. “Yeah–yeah, okay.”
The request alone has him hurtling towards release and in a flurry of desperation, he reaches up under your shirt to palm at one of your tits with his free hand while he concentrates the pumps of his fist to the head of his cock. Your head falls back behind you when he gets one of your nipples between his fingers and you moan so pretty for him.
Fucking hell, he’s not gonna last.  
“You want me to come on your pussy, baby?” 
“Mhm.”
That pleading lilt in your voice makes tension coil in his core, heat rising up the back of his neck. He can hear the sound of his own heady grunting as he strokes and strokes himself for you, eager and impatient to give you what you’d asked for.
“Whose pussy is it?” he growls. 
He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe part of him just needs to know he’s really claimed this experience for you. That no one’s ever going to make you feel good as he had. 
Your eyes lock and you tell him exactly what he needs to hear–
“Y-yours, Frankie. It’s your pussy.”
“Yeah…yeah, it is–fuck!”
He comes with blinding force, his cock twitching violently in his grasp as he paints your mound and lower belly with white ropes of spend. Huffed breaths pass through his lips as the waves pass over him, his knees aching against your floor as he shudders and groans and milks himself over your pussy. His pussy. 
Once he’s emptied himself completely, his body still quaking with residual aftershocks, he hooks a hand behind your neck to pull you in closer. Sated, your features shrouded in bliss and gratitude…Frankie’s always loved you, but he’s never loved you more than he does right now. 
“Mi vida,” he breathes, clutching your face between his palms. “Can I kiss you?”
And even though it’s beyond backwards, to share your first kiss with your tang on his tongue and his cum on your skin, you nod, leaning into him willingly as he finally, finally presses his lips to yours. 
Somehow, even after waiting years for this, he finds it in himself to kiss you slow. You don’t seem to be in any rush either, sighing as you part your lips for him and let him spill his tongue between them. You press yourself closer, wrap your arms around his neck to deepen it and a glimmering warmth trickles down his spine. 
Breathless and charged, there’s a change in atmosphere, and suddenly everything feels painfully fragile. Like the moment he breaks this kiss, the earth will crack open under him and he’ll be pulled down into its molten core and it’ll never be like this again. 
So he just kisses and kisses and kisses you, finding his way back onto the couch and holding you hostage against his lips. But you make no attempt at escape. You just mould your lips against his and fist your hands into the fabric of his shirt and kiss him right back with just as much force and finality. 
He wants to tell you everything, but he doesn’t know how or if that would even be the right thing to do. 
I love you. I still have to leave. 
No. He can’t do that to you. 
“See how good your pussy tastes?” he asks between kisses instead. You laugh against his lips, but when he opens his eyes to see your face, he finds your eyes are wet with tears.
Shit.
“You know that’s not why I’m kissing you so much, Frankie.”
Reluctantly, he breaks away. He holds your face between his hands, his lips hovering just above yours. 
“Why are you?” he whispers. Is it the same reason he can’t stop? Is it that same feeling of impermanence he can’t seem to shake? 
The tears in your eyes spill over and pool in the webs of his fingers. 
“Because I’ve always wanted to,” you tell him shakily. And as quickly as his heart swells with the confession does it deflate with your next words, “And I don’t know when I’ll get to do it again.”
Frankie sighs, his forehead colliding with yours. 
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head. For so many things but mostly–
“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay, Frankie,” you assure him, scratching your fingernails into his scalp and slanting your head to steal another salty-wet kiss. He thinks he feels you smile, and it almost soothes the ache. “It’s okay now.”
1K notes · View notes
Text
listen
Tumblr media
summary: you’ve been serving frankie and his friends at your bar for months. despite your wishing and wanting, the shy pilot doesn’t work up the nerve to ask you out before santi introduces you to his buddy, joel.
swept off your feet by the sweet southerner, and charmed by pope, the boys come together to show frankie exactly what it is he’s missing.
grouping: f!reader x joel miller x frankie morales x santiago garcia
rating/warnings: 18+. MDNI. no outbreak (tlou) - but based after the tf mission. softdom!joel, softdom!santi, sub!frankie, sub!reader, voyeurism, exhibitionism, maybe MFM?, sharing the luuuurve, praise kink, one (1) count of spitting in mouth, dirty talk, daddy kink (heavy, sorry lmao), oral (f&m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it!), creampie, come eating, pussyjob?, so many orgasms i started to lose count, maybe a tiny bit of angst, m!masturbation, light choking, f!overstim, bad spanish, right okay we’re done.
wc: 14.7k. we aren't gonna talk about it.
an: this is fucking filthy. i’m sorry. don’t ask.
When you first started to hang out with them all, Will told you that Frankie was useless with women. What you didn’t expect was for him to be this fucking oblivious.
You had been bartending when you met him at a bar downtown - all industrial steel, burnished mirrors, and low light. Frankie and the boys would come in every so often, and you warmed to them immediately. It was hard not to. The four men were always respectful, always polite. They never overstayed their welcome, or their tolerance, and always asked how you were. 
Of course, it helped that they were also handsome, and you quickly fell into the trap you were sure they wove for all hospitality staff. The lingering glances from their table, the crooked smiles at the bar. The competition they seemed to enjoy amongst themselves of who could lather you with the most attention.
Will and Benny did particularly well. The elder brother saved a special, particularly mischievous smile and a wink for you every time he came to order, and saved a special, bruising elbow to the ribs for his brother every time he caught Benny staring. Benny was always a hoot considering his sore ribs, the air never seeming to have been knocked from him as he chatted away to you across the polished wood.
But it was the quieter two, Frankie and Santi, who piqued your curiosity. Santi - often cool, detached; who offered little information in the way of his life but seemed to want to be wrapped up in yours. Who would watch you over the rim of his glass of whisky, drop his eyes to your lips, dip his mouth in a smirk, and say he’d see you later. And Frankie, who could do almost nothing but watch you from his corner of their booth, his Standard Oil cap sunk low on his brow, both hands around his bottle. His deep swallow when you’d catch his eye. The blush that would crawl up his neck, threading through his cheeks when you smiled.
Over the months they came to the bar while you worked there, the five of you became friends of sorts. Once in a blue moon turned into once every two weeks, turned into every Saturday night. And you made sure you were always there, sacrificing the time you would have spent surfing social media on your sofa for time spent flirting with your favourite regulars. Enjoying their eyes on you. Enjoying Frankie’s blush when you called him sugar as you asked if he needed anything else. 
One day, you hoped he’d gather enough courage to give you the answer you hoped for.
You.
But he never did.
When the time came for you to move on from the bar, you made sure to let them know. Your new job further into the city was a step exactly in the direction you wanted to go, and though the men shared touching groans of disappointment, they congratulated you wholeheartedly. 
They also invited you to their Saturday night drinks. You gladly accepted. 
On your last shift, Will slid you Frankie’s mobile number, explaining that he was the most reliable member, the one most likely to know what was going on with the group at any given time. When you ribbed him about how he must always be on his phone, Frankie shyly admitted it was because he had a daughter. He was constantly on the lookout for updates, sweet little pictures and messages his ex would send over. They had a good relationship, and his kid - Lucia - was gorgeous. They just live a little far away, Frankie had admitted, a sad little frown glazing over his features. 
You had softened to him even more, asking him questions about his daughter over the bar while you poured his drinks, propping your chin in your hand and listening to him as he continued to talk after you were finished. You found yourself trying to make Frankie laugh, to hear his sweet chuckle, to brush a touch against his arm, see the sparkle in his eyes beneath his cap - similar, you imagined, to how your own eyes glittered back at him. 
The conversation only stalled when Benny called for him - Fish, where are those drinks? - earning himself a thump from Will, who muttered something about Frankie finally finding the courage and Benny’s big fuckin’ mouth. Frankie’s cheeks had heated, and he'd cleared his throat, thanking you before gathering all the drinks in his large hands and heading back to the booth.
What you had overheard heated the tips of your ears and rattled around your brain, looming in the back of your mind when you joined them the Saturday after. 
But Will's words must have just been a silly little joke, because no matter how hard you try, Frankie will not bend. No matter what you wear, no matter what you do, the curly haired pilot remains firmly out of reach.
And it’s not like you don’t have fun together. You join them on nights out. You’ve been invited over for poker games and parties. You share glances with Frankie, jokes, tales, hell, sometimes he even puts an arm around you. But it’s always the same. The end of the evening is always frustratingly uneventful. 
Crowded into sweaty bars and packed living rooms, you’re caught in a never ending circle of wanting and longing. Maybe that’s why, one night, you find yourself exchanging heated glances with Santi. 
Frankie never really touches you beyond a hug and a kiss on the cheek when you arrive, and remains a staunch gentleman no matter how much he drinks. Santi seems to strive to do the opposite. He finds you in the kitchen one night, trying to cool off after watching Frankie laugh and lean into another woman’s conversation, feeling foolish, immature, but trying to blink away tears anyway. 
He talks to you like you’re the only interesting person he’s ever met, standing a little too close for a friend, only moving away when you’re interrupted by one of Benny’s buddies searching for a beer. When you return to the living room, Frankie notices. Notices how Santi pulls you in close when you’re near, presses a kiss to your hair, places a casual hand on your knee when you’re sat next to each other. And how you let him do it. 
When Santi drops you off at your house, he looks at your lips for a long time. His eyes are burning as he tucks your hair behind your ear and wishes you a good night. But he doesn’t go further. 
It’s driving you fucking insane.
You were sure you hadn’t imagined the chemistry between the three of you before, so what was wrong now? Whose starting pistol were they waiting for? You can’t help your desperate huffs of frustration every time you close the door at the end of another night - alone, sopping wet, with only your hand to help.
Until one night, when you really believe, truly believe that it might end differently.
Frankie has been sat next to you in the booth all evening, laughing and chatting away. His arm is slung over your shoulder, his thigh against yours, your body pressed into his side. It feels good, it feels right, and he’s looking at you in such a way that you begin to teeter dangerously close to pressing your lips to his in the middle of the bar. 
You and Frankie take the opportunity to talk about anything and everything. Catching up on your jobs, how he’s re-received his licence, your families, future dreams and aspirations. It’s almost funny how perfectly everything seems to realign. You think this is the turning point - this is when you realise how perfect you are for each other, this is when you take the leap. The only hiccup seems to be when Frankie says he’ll be away for the next three weeks - working, and then visiting Lucia. Your heart crumbles a little - just a little - before you try to sweep away thoughts of him dying in a helicopter crash or falling back in love with his ex. It feels like you’ve waited so long for this moment that the universe might just try and be that cruel. Just for shits and giggles. 
But it won’t. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great.
Santi seems to notice. He’s quieter than usual, watching the two of you cosy up together. He looks pleased, if a little put out, and when he thinks you aren’t looking he exchanges a look with Frankie. A raised eyebrow, a dipped head. A fucking finally.
As you move to leave the bar at closing time, Frankie touches your arm.
‘Mind if I walk you home, querida?’ He asks, holding out your coat. You take it and swoop it on over your shoulders, grinning at him.
‘Thought you’d never ask.’ You say.
Frankie walks you home like a gentleman. 
Too much of a gentleman.
You bump shoulders every so often, but he doesn’t move to take your hand. And he’s all bashful smiles and throaty laughter, compliments and flirty asides, but you return them tenfold, wrapped up in a blinding smile.
You’re making it easy for him. Obvious. But he still isn’t taking the bait.
Maybe he doesn’t want you.
It’s an uncomfortable thought, but it bounces around your skull the whole way home. And it rumbles even louder when you get to your door and he pulls you in for a hug, a light hand barely lingering on your waist, before he wishes you goodnight. 
You stand there, a little dazed before your brain catches up and decides to deploy your last ditch attempt. Just to see. Just to find out. 
He’s halfway down your front path when you call out to him.
‘Frankie. Do you want to come in?’
He turns, limbs coming to a clumsy halt. His brows are high on his forehead, mouth a little ‘o’. Then he frowns.
Fuck. You’ve never felt like such an idiot in your life.
‘I - er,’ he starts, and you look down at the floor, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. ‘I have an early start tomorrow.’ He says. 
You look back up at him.
‘Sorry,’ he continues, ‘Any other time and I’d be - I’d be right there. Y’know. Just - timing, that’s all.’
You try to soften the bite that wants to creep into your words at his rejection, but barely manage it.
‘It’s cool,’ you say, trying to smile. ‘No worries. I just - I bought that film you said you watched the other day. Paddington 2? The one Lucia likes.’ A slow smile lights his eyes. ‘Just wondered whether you wanted to come in and watch it with a beer. But yeah. No worries,’ and then, because you just can’t help yourself, you add - ‘Wouldn’t have been any funny business, just so ya know.’ 
You force out a laugh, and Frankie drops his eyes. Disappointed, confused. You feel bad for a second, but then you remember how embarrassed you feel, how stupid. It makes your skin crawl. Nevermind.
You clear your throat.
‘Anyway. Get home safe, Frankie,’ you say, ‘See you soon.’ 
You rush in and close the door before he can reply.
---
Your phone buzzes with a text early the next day.
You open your eyes with a groan, clutching unseeingly at trinkets on your nightstand until your stomach lurches at the thought that it might be Frankie. You sit up to grab it.
It’s not Frankie. It’s an unknown number.
Hey. Do u want to head to the bar 2night?
You frown, confused, fingers dancing over possible replies before another text flies through.
Got a friend Id like u to meet.
And then another.
Its Santi btw. Cant remember if u have my no.
You breathe out, type a quick sure. Fuck it. What harm could another of Santi’s friends do to your pride? Your sex drive? What harm could a night with Santi do? You follow it up with -
Who else will be there? Are you setting me up?
You chew on your thumb anxiously, waiting for his reply.
Just the 3 of us. Might be ;)
You snort at his reply, shooting back -
God. Am I really such a charity case?
 - before getting out of bed to make breakfast. Halfway through your pancakes, you get a text back.
Nah. Just cant stand seein a good girl like u go to waste.
You put your phone back down on the table, slowing your chewing. Good girl. The two words send a lick of heat curling up your spine. A good girl like you going to waste. 
A slow, smug smile spreads across your lips. You pick up your phone again and begin to tap out a reply. A risky move, one which would surely harm your chances with Frankie, but fuck it - 
If you don’t want me to go to waste, you could always have me to yourself.
You stare at the blinking cursor for a second before deleting the message, instead asking him for a time. No need to be hasty. 
You don’t know what his friend looks like yet, anyway.
As it turns out, Santi’s friend might be exactly who you need to forget about Frankie.
Joel Miller is older, in his fifties. Greying, tall, broad, gorgeous, and a true southern gentleman to boot. The kind of guy - you imagine - who would drive you to work the next day if you couldn’t walk after seeing him the night before.
And it’s going well. Really well.
You, Joel, and Santi chat easily around your little table, swapping jokes, telling stories, brushing touches to each other here and there. Joel works in construction - runs his own company with his brother, Tommy - and has a grown up daughter called Sarah. He’s worked on Santi’s house - actually knows most of the group - but is usually too busy (or too tired, he tells you) to come out and join them. You think about how unlucky it is that he hadn’t come around before you made such a fool of yourself last night. And then you vow not to think of Frankie again for the rest of the evening.
Joel is easy to be around - warm, safe - earthy and masculine. And maybe it’s something to do with the way his chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, but you don’t know what’s wrong with you. You can’t seem to stop thinking about what it would be like to run your fingers through his curls, feel the scrape of his stubble between your thighs, what his arms look like beneath his flannel, what his fingers - what his cock - would feel like inside of you. Something about the man is making your toes curl in your seat, and he hasn’t done anything more innocuous than thumb the charm hanging from your necklace. It’s agonising. 
And to make it worse, Santi knows. You don’t know how, but he does. Maybe you’re just that easy to read. 
In the blur of Joel leaving to go to the bathroom and get more drinks, Santi leans over to you.
‘What do you think?’ He asks.
You shrug, trying your absolute hardest to play it cool.
‘He’s nice. I like him. You should bring him out more often.’ 
Santi’s eyes glint with something molten, something teasing and knowing and sharp.
‘You want to take him home.’
You baulk at his words, cheeks flaming in response. You open and close your mouth as he leans in and laughs.
‘I never said that -’ you splutter, but Santi takes your hand.
‘You don’t need to, querida,’ he says, ‘I can see it written all over your face.’ 
You groan, forehead falling to his shoulder. 
‘If it helps,’ he continues, ‘I think he wants to take you home, too.’ 
You look up from his shoulder into his eyes, and they glimmer back at you. You bite your lip.
‘Ya think?’ You ask.
‘Yeah, baby,’ he teases, ‘I do.’
You hum against him before tilting your face further back.
‘You know…’ you say, lips loosened by the alcohol. Santi tips his head to the side, waiting for you to continue. ‘'S not quite how I imagined the night would end.’
His lips quirk in a smile again. Ah, fuck.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. I kinda thought you’d take me home instead.’
Santi chuckles and looks away around the room. When his eyes settle back on you, they’re black and burning.
‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says, scratching his beard, ‘A lot. But I guessed you were too caught up on Frankie.’
You freeze at his words and sit up straight, clearing your throat.
‘I don’t -’ but Santi shakes his head at you, cutting you off. He says your name softly.
‘I know about last night,’ he says quietly. Your cheeks begin to burn again, but this time for a completely different reason. ‘He told me about it after he walked you home. And I told him he was the biggest fuckin’ idiot I know.’ 
Despite yourself, you smile.
‘I’m not gonna take you home, baby,’ Santi continues as you watch him, curious, ‘Not right now, anyway. My shit is complicated enough -’ Santi cuts himself off with a sigh, and your brows bunch together.
‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, your voice low and kind despite the fire sparking at his words.
Santi looks at you again, and whatever’s in his eyes looks too complex to divulge. He thumbs your knuckles, swirling patterns onto your hand.
‘Nothing,’ he says, but you frown at him again. ‘Just… stuff. Stuff to do with Frankie. It’s - complicated. I’ll tell you about it some other time. But what I wanted to say was - I wanted you to meet Joel. Because I think you’d be great for each other.’ 
Your jaw drops again, but before you can ask any questions, anything about his stuff with Frankie, Joel reappears with new drinks for the three of you. Santi gives you a tight-lipped smile, squeezing your hand before picking up his bottle. But you drop his gaze when Joel places a hand at the top of your back as he sits down.
‘Everything okay, baby?’ He asks. 
Santi doesn’t leave early, but he doesn’t leave late, either. He stays long enough to know exactly where this thing with you and Joel is going, and then bails when he knows he should. Even if you still kinda wish he’d stay. 
Even if you didn’t get the chance to ask him more about Frankie.
You and Joel linger for an hour longer, the ache in your core and the wetness in your underwear in response to him now almost impossible to ignore. Joel keeps a hand on your thigh. He sweeps a palm down your arm, tucks your hair behind your ear. And when the bell for closing rings out, he takes your hand and leads you out into the night.
He keeps a hold of your hand the whole way to your door. 
When you get home, you turn to him on your doorstep. He smiles at you, taking you in through his eyelashes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
You grip your keys tightly in your fist, the metal leaving marks and almost drawing blood as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You forget to breathe as his scent crowds your senses, as the scruff of his beard scratches your cheek. You want to lick his neck, find out if he tastes as good as he smells, want to know what it feels like to have him pressed against you, on top of you, under you, behind you -
Joel cuts through your thoughts with a low chuckle against your ear.
‘Breathe, darlin’.’ He murmurs.
You open your eyes, take a deep breath, and sigh a laugh as you look down at your feet. 
He is still unbearably close, and you know, you know you shouldn’t, but you don’t know if you’ll ever see this man again, and everything Santi said at the bar, and the fact that you feel like Joel could make you come with just a flick of his wrist is likely what sparks your tongue to stutter out - 
‘Do you want to come in?’
Joel looks down at you again, a fire alight in his eyes. The heat sends a shiver down your spine.
He doesn’t give you an answer. Just pushes your front door open, takes your wrist, and pulls you inside.
---
Being with Joel is great.
It’s amazing. It’s like you finally have someone who can keep up with you. Your brain, your days, your plans. It’s like someone plopped Joel Miller on earth with a little note saying he was yours.
In the three weeks after you first meet him, you share countless breakfasts and dinners and spend your weekends wrapped up in sheets watching reruns of Golden Girls. It’s so simple to spend time with someone who is so easy to be around, someone who just gets you. 
Joel makes you laugh, makes you feel important, wanted.
And the sex is incredible.
Like nothing you’ve ever had with anyone else. He seems to know what to do, exactly how you want it done, every time - it’s effortless. And somehow, you seem to do the same for him. In fact, the only problems you seem to have found are his size (because he’s huge) and the fact that you can’t be inside each other all the time.
Which is why it takes so much effort for you to peel yourself away from him when Santi asks if you’d like to join him and the guys for drinks on Saturday. You give him an affirmative before promptly being distracted by Joel coming out of the shower.
You see his reply forty minutes later.
Frankie will b there. That OK?
You type back a quick -
Of course :)
 - before getting on with your day.
Drinks are almost the same as usual. It’s surprisingly easy to slot right back into where you were. Laughing, chatting, joking with Will and Benny. What they’ve been up to, who they’ve been with. Questions you manage to dodge with only a knowing smirk from Santi to remind you he knows exactly who you’ve been doing. 
Frankie joins in from across the table. He couldn’t meet your eye when you first arrived, but over the course of the evening and a few drinks, he seems to have relaxed enough to look at you. Really look at you.
Which is unfortunate, because you can still feel Joel’s come from earlier in the day seeping into your underwear.
At some point in the evening, Benny and Will make their excuses - they have a family get together tomorrow they can’t be too hungover for - and it’s just you, Frankie, and Santi left. 
It’s easy for the most part. Santi bridging the gap so effortlessly that it begins to feel like nothing happened between you and Frankie at all. And it didn’t, you remind yourself. Nothing happened. And then you met Joel.
So why are you still thinking about it?
You try to distract yourself, lose yourself in the conversation taking place between the two men. Something about Star Wars, new castings they’ve chosen for a series coming out later in the year. You try to contribute as much as you can, but fail miserably, earning yourself a brief history of the franchise from Santi. Eventually you get him to ease off with a hand to his chest, laughing until he starts to giggle, too. He uses the interlude to get up to use the bathroom and get more drinks, leaving you with Frankie and his soft, brown eyes.
You peer at each other nervously from across the table. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lip, as he chews the inside of his cheek before taking a deep breath and meeting your eye. 
You feel your jaw clench.
‘About the other night, a few weeks back,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I was a fuckin’ moron -’ he pauses for a moment, sweeps a hand over his face. ‘I’m real rusty at this. The whole dating thing. I don’t think I even realised what it was you were sayin’ to me.’ Frankie huffs a laugh. A horrible, anxious feeling starts to work its way up your throat. ‘But I -’
He’s interrupted as a bartender floats by your booth, sweeping up some of the empty glasses. You smile up at her and thank her sweetly. 
Maybe you can stall whatever Frankie has to say.
She swats at the air with her free hand.
‘Not at all, sugar,’ she says, ‘Can’t let a thing like empties get in the way of a date like this.’
You smile at her and bite your tongue, feeling hot. A blush begins to claw up your cheeks as she winks at you both and swings away. Had she not seen Santi? And - fuck - now how do you brush this off with Frankie? How do you stop where this is going?
You turn your eyes back to him, and he hasn’t even flushed at the insinuation. Instead, he bites his lip, something which sends a jolt of heat to the space between your thighs. He scratches the back of his neck, and rushes out in a lowered voice that even though he’s busy with work at the moment, he’d like to make it right -
‘I’d really love to take you out this weekend.’
Your stomach plummets to your feet. Fuck. 
Tears of frustration prickle in your eyes. A lump of panic settles in your throat, and you almost feel like you could run out of the bar. Why is he doing this now?
You take a deep breath and try to form the kindest smile, the most apologetic furrow in your brows that you can.
‘Frankie,’ you breathe, and already his face begins to fall. You lean across the table and take one of his massive hands. ‘I’d have loved to, but -’
He shakes his head quickly, trying to draw his hand back.
‘It’s okay,’ he begins, ‘Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have just misread - I didn’t mean - I don’t want you to feel -’
But his interruption only serves to further spark the surge of irritation. You squeeze his hand tighter so he can’t rip it away and utter his name harshly. He stops immediately, his eyes whipping back to yours. Something stirs in you at his immediate obedience.
‘Listen to me,’ you say, shaking off your traitorous thoughts. ‘I’d have loved to. But I - I literally just started seeing someone, and I -’ you break off, groaning in frustration, ‘I don’t know if it’s serious, or if it’s exclusive, but he’s great, and I don’t want anyone - especially you - to get hurt by me being selfish or not knowing where things are at.’ You huff out a breath and meet his eye. He looks disappointed, upset even - but worst of all he looks understanding, almost grateful that you don’t want him to get caught up in this complex knot of wanting. 
‘Frankie,’ you say softly, and try to smile, ‘I mean this in the least… damaging way. If you had asked me three weeks ago, when we were here last, I’d have said yes. In a heartbeat.’
Maybe it does make you an asshole. Maybe it does make you selfish. But it feels important in this moment to make sure that Frankie understands - you like him. You wanted him.
It’s just timing. 
Frankie grimaces.
‘Fuck.’ He hisses. And when he tries to withdraw his hand this time, you let him. But you don’t look away. 
A low light flickers in his eye. Something close to anger, you think - at himself, or at you, you’re not sure.
‘Is it -’ he begins, ‘Is it Pope?’
‘Pope?’ You ask, confused. Frankie shakes his head.
‘Santi. Is it Santi?’
You bark a laugh. You can’t help it.
‘Santi? Your Santi?’ you ask, bewildered. Frankie’s cheeks heat again. You want to put a pin in that, the flush at your, but your brain is suddenly so riddled with dredged up questions you can hardly order them.
‘What do you mean, Frankie?’ you ask, exasperated.
Frankie shakes his head again, realising his mistake, but you are beyond dropping the topic.
‘Frankie,’ you say, stern this time. ‘What do you mean?’
Frankie whips his cap off, runs an agitated hand through his hair, shifts his gaze around the bar for the other man.
‘He - he likes you, too,’ he says. ‘I was worried - worried he’d beat me to it ‘cos I didn’t ask before I went away. He said it was taking me too long to do - to gather the confidence to ask you -’ Now Frankie barks a laugh. ‘But it looks like we were both too late.’
You shake your head, the cogs in your brain turning slowly. How Santi looked at you was no secret. But if what Frankie was saying about how Santi felt was true, why had he introduced you to Joel? And if that was true, had you misunderstood what Santi said about him and Frankie? You feel your mouth open and close, but Frankie takes your silence to ask you another question.
‘Who is it?’
‘What?’
‘Who is it?’
You splutter over your answer, hesitating, stalling -
‘Frankie, how the fuck would you know?’
Because he would. And, rightly or wrongly, that panics you a little.
‘Is it someo-’
You cut him off, holding up your palm.
‘Frankie -’ you press a hand to your throat, feeling your rapid pulse. Fuck it. ‘I thought - I thought Santi was interested in you.’
Frankie chokes on his breath.
He stares at you, calculating something, breathing heavily.
‘It’s not - we’re not -’ he fumbles. You slouch back in your seat. Frankie’s eyes flutter closed. ‘We fuck around sometimes. And sometimes - sometimes other people -’ You groan, your head tipping back against the leather. Your head is spinning. ‘But we wouldn’t - I wouldn’t - fuck. I don’t want you to think that that’s what this is about -’ Frankie splays his hands in front of you. ‘God,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to explain any of this.’
The room suddenly feels too warm. You cradle your head in your hands, and stare at the way the table swims beneath you. What the fuck is happening?
You glance up at Frankie, but he’s watching you so intensely, so much concern and panic and want in his eyes that it makes you feel claustrophobic.
‘I need some air.’ You mumble across the table, and stumble out of the booth on unsteady legs. From the corner of your eye, you see Santi begin to cross the floor to return to the booth with drinks in his hands, see him watch you trip across the bar. In the back of your brain, you hear him call your name, but your hands are already on the handle of the front door, pushing it open and feeling the cool night air hit your clammy skin.
What the fuck is going on?
You fumble in your pocket for your phone and find Joel’s contact. You want to go home, and you want his help to forget about this. And, you think, you should probably ask whether he had any idea about Santi, or Frankie, or Santi and Frankie. 
The call with Joel is quick, and he sounds appropriately concerned without needing to hear any details. He tells you to stay in view of the bar and to not move a muscle, and that he’ll be there in 10. You hope he can make it in five.
He’s too slow. After seven minutes, Frankie bursts out of the bar, Santi quickly following him.
‘Fish -’ Santi’s calling, but he catches himself when he sees you still standing there. Frankie screeches to a halt, too.
The three of you stare between each other, eyes wide, like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off. 
Frankie says your name before you shake your head - rushing out a not now, Frankie just as Joel’s pickup peels into the parking lot.
Frankie can’t see him with his back turned, but he sure does when Joel comes striding from behind the two men to stand at your side.
‘Everything okay, baby?’ he asks in his low, southern drawl, and you instinctively lift your mouth for a kiss before realising how cruel that would be.
Joel tenses as you withdraw, finally taking in the other two men.
‘Pope,’ he says with a nod, and Santi smiles weakly back at him.
‘Frankie,’ Joel says a little softer, ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Joel.’ Frankie says through his teeth, realisation burning in his eyes. 
‘How ya doin’, kid?’ Joel asks him, placing a hand on your lower back. Frankie juts out his chin.
‘Fine. Great.’ He says, ‘I was just leavin’, actually.’ Frankie whips his cap off, runs a hand through his hair. His jaw is set, angry. He shakes his head at the ground. ‘I’ll see you guys around.’ He says to no one in particular, turning on his heel and fleeing towards the car park. 
Santi and Joel meet each others’ eyes in some kind of understanding, and you look angrily between them. Being left out of the loop again was not feeling cute.
Joel sighs, wrapping his arm around your waist.
‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home.’ He murmurs, but you lurch out of his grasp and turn on the two of them. They watch you, surprised.
‘No,’ you say, ‘Nu-uh. We aren’t going anywhere until one of you tells me what the fuck is going on.’
Joel and Santi look at each other, expressions unreadable. 
Santi shakes his head.
‘Come back inside,’ he says, turning back to the bar entrance, ‘We’re gonna need more beers for this.’
---
When you get down to the root of it, the truth isn’t even that complex. That’s the laughable part.
The long and short of it is this. One: Pope knew Frankie liked you. But he knew Frankie moved slow. And he’d gotten tired of watching, of knowing he’d be a dick if he made a play instead. And he cares about you, his friend. Wants to see you happy. Enter Joel. Two: Santi and Frankie fooled around while they were in Delta Force. It’s not a secret, but it’s never really been discussed. Sometimes they still fool around, but it’s been less frequent as they’ve gotten older. As they date other people. Three: Sometimes, when those other people they’re dating are willing, they bring them in, and they all have fun together. 
Something Santi would have been fine with if you were his. Something Frankie was less cool with doing if he’d made his move. 
Santi admits that he’s likely just been a dick throughout the whole thing. You make him promise to do better over another beer. He does. He also now knows not to cock block his best buddy with a mutual friend.
And Joel feels kinda bad about that. Not bad enough to pump the brakes with you, but uncomfortable, sure. He’s had Frankie round for barbecues, he likes the guy. He’s sorry he whisked you away from him. But not sorry enough.
Joel hasn’t been involved in any of Frankie and Santi’s adventures, but it’s something he’s played around with before. He’s had threesomes, but he doesn’t really volunteer more than that. The thought ignites something deep in your belly and you file it away for another day, a different conversation.
Once it’s all explained and you’re laughing together again, everything feels fine. Normal.
Except you don’t see Frankie for weeks afterwards.
You drop him a text every now and again, just wanting to know whether he’s okay, but you hear nothing back. Santi tries to assure you that you’ve done nothing wrong. There’s nothing for you to worry about.
But it still sits uneasy in your gut.
You see Joel almost every day. And Santi once a week. 
The three of you meet for beers in a different bar from the one Santi meets Frankie, Will and Benny in - your bar. And you have fun. 
It never goes beyond touches with Santi, though you find yourself wishing more and more often that it would. He rests a hand on your thigh under the table, his thumb swiping patterns over your flushed skin. Sometimes he has an arm flung around the back of your seat, sometimes rubbing the back of your neck, sometimes tucking hair behind your ear. He watches and stares and smiles and laughs at you and Joel, and you watch back with delighted curiosity. You like the way he makes you squirm while you sit next to the older man. And Joel loves to watch you squirm, too.
He loves getting you home and finding your panties soaked with arousal. He loves swiping two of his thick fingers through your folds with the front door barely closed, his hand shoved down the front of your jeans, your back arched already, a needy whine heavy in the back of your throat. He loves talking you through the things he’d like to watch Santi do to you, how good he knows you’d be for the two of them, how well behaved, how you’d take, take, take it, and how proud he’d be to show you off. My girl. He growls as he fucks into you at night. My girl.
And it suits you, how giving, how generous Joel is. 
Seems to suit Santi, too.
At some point ideas had been swapped between you and Joel - some thinly disguised remark dropped by him over dinner one night had led to you picking at the thread and grinding him down over three days, trying to get to the bottom of it. He liked to share, he’d said. He liked to watch. He liked the control, and the pride, and the possession of it all. And goddammit, you liked the sound of it, too. Because after serious discussion - serious boundaries, limits, run throughs of possible scenarios, you talked through people who you wouldn’t mind trying it with.
And there was obvious one name you both settled on.
Santi.
And well, given his history, it didn’t take too long for you to convince him to join you.
And if it hadn't been for Santi’s suggestion, his knowledge, his understanding of his best friend, there’s a chance Frankie’s name wouldn’t have come up at all. You’re not sure if you’d have dared, considering how things were left. But, lo and behold, it does, and along with it the chance for him to see exactly what he's missing out on. 
---
All the rules have been arranged for tonight, but the most important one, which you must remember, is that Frankie is not allowed to touch you.
At all. At any point. 
You and Joel head to the usual bar to meet Santi and Frankie for drinks. You make sure to wear a dress which clings to your curves, dips at your cleavage, and settles just high enough on your thigh to be bordering on acceptable. And it must be more than acceptable, because Joel threatens to fuck you out of it three times before you leave the house.
It must be acceptable, because Santi cannot keep his eyes or his hands off you when you arrive at the venue, and Frankie from across the table cannot regain control of his jaw.
They both look good - you all look good - Joel with his hair combed back, a deep green flannel on, Santi in all black - and suddenly all you want to do is call the drinks off now and just head back to Joel’s. But the patience, the build up is critical. It’s foreplay.
Instead, you lean back in your chair, sipping on your cocktail as you take in the three men.
The conversation flows easily after a while. Joel is a master at it, weaving questions in and out, making sure to put both you and Frankie at ease. Besides, it’s been a while since you last saw each other. Not that either of you were any less eager for him to be involved. He’d been very keen, according to Santi. 
He’s in dark jeans and a tight navy blue t-shirt tonight, his trademark cap confining his curls. He’s not dressed up, but he’s made an effort, and his shy looks across the table, his kind questions and easy jokes have begun healing the fractures of what happened weeks ago.
It doesn’t hurt that he and Santi had a good, long talk, and that you then shared a sweet phone call. 
All the same, he sits opposite you, unable to touch you for the rest of the night.
Instead, he just gets to watch as Joel presses kisses to your neck, pulls you into his chest, skates his hands over your thighs - anything he can get away with doing to turn you on. And Santi isn’t far behind. Holding your hand on top of the table, bringing your knuckles to his lips, keeping a hand on your knee almost the entire time.
Your brain is a hot, buzzing mess by the time Santi checks his phone.
‘It’s getting late.’ He says, and you raise an eyebrow at him.
‘Eager, no?’ You tease, trying - and failing - to cover the scent of your own desperate need.
‘Of course,’ Santi smirks over the rim of his glass, ‘But I’ll take my time with you.’
You try to laugh but fall back into Joel’s shoulder at his words, and the older man chuckles. He kisses your forehead tenderly. Frankie watches hungrily from across the table, the dark void of his eyes flicking towards his watch, desperate to leave. 
When you do, he walks at a distance behind the three of you. You smile to yourself and sway your hips a little more for his benefit. And you swear you get a low whine as your reward.
---
You’re quiet the whole way home, trying not to clench your thighs too hard or rock yourself against the seat. You're so desperate for friction, for relief, that it’s hard for you to concentrate on what’s going on in the car. Hard for you to think of anything beyond Joel’s warm, heavy hand on your thigh as he drives. 
He leans over to you halfway home, and whispers -
‘You’re quiet, baby. Everything okay?’
You flick a glance to him and find his eyes equal parts concerned and equal parts aflame. You smile.
‘I’m trying to be good,’ you murmur, ‘But you’re making it very difficult.’
Joel dips his chin in a smirk and squeezes your thigh, his fingers drifting dangerously close to your panties. You squirm a little in your seat, and it goads him to drift his hand further until it catches at the lace of the gusset. You gasp at the feeling, a tiny whimper making its way out from your lips, and all conversation in the back of the truck grinds to a halt. Your cheeks heat, and you turn to look out the window again, clamping your lip beneath your teeth.
No one says a word the rest of the way home.
Once you're all home, a silence settles around you. Everybody wide eyed, geared up, on edge. You’re not sure who to look at or what to say until Joel does it for you.
‘Upstairs.’ He commands, and everybody moves to follow him up the staircase. You keep your eyes on his broad back the whole way up, and once you reach the top, he holds his hand out behind him for you to grab. You do.
When you get to his bedroom door, Joel leads you in. You turn just as Santi crosses the threshold, as he pivots to Frankie behind him and says -
‘Kneel.’
Frankie glances at you, swallows, and returns his eyes to Santi. He drops down to his knees in the hallway.
‘Good,’ Santi murmurs, stepping forward to crouch down in front of him. ‘Do you remember the rules?’ He asks Frankie.
The younger man nods, his eyes dropping to the floor.
‘Yes.’
Santi nods once. 
‘Good. Listen. And do not leave this spot.’
Santi straightens, turning his back on Frankie. You can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of him on the floor - small, submissive - and you can’t help the little gasp you let out as Santi steps towards you and closes the door slowly behind him, leaving just enough of a gap so that Frankie can hear everything that happens but watch none of it. 
Joel skirts his fingers down your waist and presses a kiss just under your ear.
‘You ready, baby girl?’ he rumbles. You turn your face to look at him over your shoulder, finding his eyes dark, a familiar power behind them. You nod.
‘Yes.’ you say. He nods, pleased, twisting to kiss your mouth before guiding you towards Santi.
‘Good,’ he says. He turns and moves towards the armchair in the far corner of the room, sitting heavily in it.
Santi steps towards you and gently takes your face in his hands.
‘You okay?’ He asks quietly. You nod.
‘Yeah,’ you whisper, ‘Are you?’ 
Santi nods, his eyes searching yours for a hint of hesitation. You try to open up your mind to show him the excitement, the want you feel. Satisfied, he licks his lips.
‘Can I kiss you?’ He asks. You nod again, and Santi leans forwards, capturing your mouth in hard, slow movement.
Santi means to make a study of you, you think. His tongue is everywhere, his teeth grazing over your bottom lip, his hands gentle and then needy, already figuring out exactly what it is that makes you tick. And to make it even worse, every time you take a moment to catch your breath, he has that fucking smirk on his face. It’s infuriating, and you quickly need to find something  which will wipe it off.
So you begin to undo his belt.
Pope huffs a chuckle against your lips, but doesn’t stop the work your hands are doing. Instead, he matches it with his own fingers. 
With deft movements, he slips a hand under your dress and finds his way to your panties, touching you through the fabric. You groan against his mouth, and he smiles, ghosting over your folds. Not to be out done, you slip your hand into his jeans and palm him over his boxers. He hums against you.
‘Are we racing?’ He asks.
You cock your head to the side.
‘Thought you wanted to take your time?’ You quip back, and something flashes in his eyes. 
He steps back.
‘Take this off.’ He says, tugging at the hem of your dress, and you pout at him. 
‘Does that mean you take these off, too?’ You ask, tugging at his jeans. You’re pushing your luck, you know. But you think this might be easier if Santi undresses with you, if only to really see what you held in your hand. 
Santi raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see,’ he says, ‘But you go first.’
You step back from him and glance at Joel, assessing. He nods at you, encouraging, and you pull your dress up and over your head. You stand before them in only your panties, and Santi takes a deep breath, biting his lip, smiling again.
‘Gorgeous, baby.’ He says. And you feel it. The way this man looks at you makes you feel weak, giddy - like your core is on fire. 
Santi steps towards you to kiss you again, making sure his hand returns to where it had been, ghosting over your underwear. You groan into his mouth, impatient now, and his teeth scrape at your chin as he clicks his tongue. In answer, he sweeps your panties to the side, and grazes two digits along your slit. You moan loudly again, and Santi groans up at the ceiling.
‘Fuck, querida.’ He says, before stretching a thumb to your clit and sinking the two fingers deep inside you. You stumble against him as he begins to work you, breathing heavily against his clothed chest. You turn your face so your teeth can nip at his skin underneath.
‘Take - this - off.’ You hiss, and he laughs, slipping his fingers out of you with a groan to oblige. Santi removes his t-shirt quickly and chucks it somewhere across the room before pushing his jeans down and stepping out of them. He hurries to find purchase within your body once more, rocking you against him, curling his fingers deep inside you. His tongue returns to your mouth and you remember his hard cock in his boxers. You reach for it, but he blocks you with his arm. You whine.
‘Tan mojada ya, baby.’ He drawls. Santi removes his fingers from where they were curling inside of you and brings them to your mouth, tapping your lips. You open for him, and he presses them in, allowing you to swirl your tongue over them. You clean off the scent of your heady arousal as Santi watches you. He presses them hard, once, against your tongue, and you open your mouth wide for him. 
He retracts his fingers.
‘Good girl,’ he murmurs, and it goes straight to your cunt. You whimper a little, and he grins, stepping back and out of his boxers. ‘Take those off for me.’ He says, motioning at your soaked panties. You almost trip in your eagerness to do so. He retreats backwards until his calves hit the mattress, and he sits down before laying back, getting comfortable.
Santi watches you from the bed, laid out on his back. His lips curl as you rake your eyes over him - hands folded behind his head, his biceps rounding by his ears, his firm, strong torso spattered with dark hair, and his long, hard cock, bobbing and drooling as he takes you in.
‘Come here.’ He says. 
You begin a slow walk to the bed, hesitating only for a moment as you crawl onto it and towards him. He licks his lips as you come closer, and you bite your lip back.
You feel unsure without being given specific direction, but you know that Joel will put you right if you step a toe out of line. So you place a knee on either side of Santi’s hips, and sink your heat down onto him as he pulls you forward by the back of your neck, searching for your lips.
You start to move, to adjust to try and let him inside, before Joel’s voice cracks like a whip out of the corner.
‘Either of us tell you you could fuck him yet?’ He growls.
You try to draw your mouth away from Santi to give your response, but he clamps your bottom lip between his teeth so you can go no further. You whimper and shake your head.
‘So put your fuckin’ hips back down. Y’ain’t earned it yet.’
Santi lets your lip go and flops back against the sheets with a shit-eating grin. You lower your hips again and place both your palms on his stomach, pushing your tits together. He eyes them greedily, reaching out and flicking a thumb over each nipple. You feel your pout grow, your brows drawn tight together and your bottom lip swollen, jutting out almost comically. Santi catches a glimpse of your face, and puffs out a laugh.
‘Poor baby,’ he coos, ‘Just wanna get fucked, don’t ya?’ You nod pathetically, but don’t dare move. He is achingly hard beneath you, his thick length resting perfectly between your folds. Santi lowers his hands from your nipples until he has them on your hips, and like he’s read your fucking mind, he begins to rock you back and forth.
A wanton, needy moan drools out of your mouth as your pussy wets him, fresh slick leaking out of your clenching hole. You wonder how much of this Frankie can hear. 
Santi groans beneath you, watching the head of his cock disappear under you every time he slides you forwards. The pressure of him just against your lips is heady, and you watch as he guides you forwards just a little more, urges you to lean a little further forward until your clit catches on the head of his cock on every slide. You throw your head back, your fingers scratching at his torso, and he watches you. He whispers that you look so pretty like this, how he can feel you, look at how wet you’re making my cock, baby, can feel you twitchin’ on me already, angel. He guides you back and forth until you feel a heavy pressure begin to settle in your pussy, a burning beginning deep in your gut. Your moans become more frantic as you begin to plead with him, though you’re not sure what for.
‘Use your words, baby,’ Joel reminds you from his seat. ‘Ask Santi. Tell him what you need.’
You release a hot breath of air, biting your lip.
‘Gonna come, Santi,’ you tell him breathlessly, ‘Need to stop. Gonna come.’
But Santi just smiles sweetly up at you, his eyes heavy lidded. You pussy twitches, the knot pulling tighter. He reaches up with one hand and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
‘Why would I want you to stop, angel?’ He asks. You shake your head. You don’t know. ‘Talk to me, baby.’ He prompts.
‘I don’t know. Haven’t been - fuck - told -’ you whimper. He nods, swallows harshly.
‘I want you to come,’ he tells you, ‘I want you to come now, and then I’m going to make you come again, and then as many more times as I see fit, do you understand?’
You groan and nod.
‘Yes, Santi.’
‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘And when I’m done with you, I’m gonna give you back to your daddy, and he’s gonna make you come as many times as he sees fit, too. Okay, baby?’
You clench around nothing, painfully, moving faster over Santi’s cock of your own accord.
‘Fuck. Yes, Santi.’
Santi settles his head back against the bed again, running his hands all over your body, anywhere he can touch you.
‘Go on, baby,’ he says, ‘Use me.’
Fuck, you groan out, tilting your hips to allow your clit to scrape down the underside of his cock at every pass. Without thinking, you lean so far forward that you plant a hand around the base of Santi’s throat to keep yourself upright, tightening your fingers over his pulse point. He lets out a strangled moan, his eyes fluttering closed, and you feel the pressure in your core build heavier and heavier until the white hot heat snaps. You throw your head back, coming with gasps of his name and loud moans, still rocking yourself back and forth, still squeezing over his neck.
Your vision is fuzzy and your breathing still feverish when Santi grabs at your fingers and pries them away from him. You flush at your carelessness, an Imsosorry rushing out as you stare at your hand in his. He shushes you tenderly, breathing deeply.
‘S’okay, baby,’ he says, ‘I like it. Don’t have a problem with it.’ He squeezes your hand, and then fixes you with a wicked, cruel look. ‘Just don’t wanna come yet, that’s all. Only so much a man can stand when I can feel you falling apart on top of me.’
You flush even deeper, leaning forward to bury your face in his neck, laving hot, open mouthed kisses along the hard muscle there. He groans and chuckles against you, kneading your ass.
‘Want me to fuck you now, baby?’ He murmurs into your ear.
You whine against him, lick across his jaw.
‘Yes, Santi,’ you groan. ‘Please fuck me.’
Santi grips the hair at the base of your neck to pull you away from him, and you let yourself be led. He slides you off him, and rests on his knees before you. Your eyes dip hungrily to his bobbing cock, shining with your come, tip an angry red, precum dripping down its length. It twitches under your gaze, and you lick your lips. 
Santi chuckles again, his hand still buried in your hair.
‘Dirty fuckin’ girl.’ He murmurs as he manipulates your body. ‘Turn around,’ he says, ‘Hands and knees, baby.’ You follow his directions, turning on the bed towards Joel before planting your limbs and curving your spine, angling your ass in the air. You’re not sure where you should look until Santi releases your hair and leans over your back, a hand on your hip.
‘Look at your daddy,’ he says into your ear, gripping your chin softly to angle your head. You look at Joel through heavy lidded eyes, only to find his are similar. ‘Keep your eyes on him.’
Joel is still fully dressed in the chair, head heavy against the back of it. His legs are spread wide, a hand on either arm, fingers spread and clenched slightly against the fabric. His jaw is tense, and you can see how his jeans strain over his cock - fully hard by the looks of it. You moan into the sheets as you watch him watch you. Santi kneels behind you, running his hands over your soft skin, as he dips two fingers through your folds, swearing softly.
‘She’s so wet, Joel.’ He whispers, and Joel’s eyes leave yours momentarily to see Santi hold his fingers up to the light, coated in slick. Joel’s hips move slightly, bucking into nothing, and he barely manages to grunt out a response. You wonder again how much of this Frankie can hear behind the door, whether he’s straining in his jeans just as Joel is, whether his ear is pressed against the crack just so he can hear what Santi is whispering to you both.
Pope grips one of your hips, and uses his other hand to line himself up at your entrance. He uses his tip to spread your slick around a little more until you whine again, fisting the sheets.
‘Please, Santi, please -’
And he needs no more encouragement, sinking all the way in on the first thrust. You cry out into the mattress, your sounds coming out choked, overwhelmed as he sets a relentless pace.
‘Fuck, baby,’ he hisses out behind you, neither of you able to get more words out. 
You quickly lose yourself to the feel of him pumping in and out, every part of you wound up tight, hot. You can feel yourself squeezing him already, making his hips stutter. Joel notices, too. You wonder whether he remembers Frankie is outside, as well, because he manages to force out in a low grumble -
‘How does she feel?’
Santi gathers your hair up in a fist, bringing your face up from the sheets just so they can hear you better. He grits his teeth, tries to stutter out his answer -
‘So - fucking - good -’ and at this, a delicious smile sweeps across Joel’s face. He’s proud. You moan even louder and manage to garble out a daddy, which makes him positively grin.
‘Atta girl, baby,’ he says to you, before turning back to Santi, ‘Just good?’
You and Santi both hear the prod in his words, and it shoots another thrill through you to remember just how much control Joel has; how he wants him to tell him what he already knows, to prove that his worth.
‘Not just good,’ Santi groans, ‘Fuckin’ perfect. So tight. So warm. She’s clenchin’ me already, makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ teenager,’ he laughs around a puff of air, before leaning back into you. ‘Tómatelo con calma, hermosa - quiero que esto dure.’ You moan again at his words, as they spark the opposite of their desired effect.
‘Shit,’ Santi chuckles out, ‘God, Joel. Pussy like I’ve never felt. And so responsive, too.’ To prove his point Santi lands a firm smack on your ass and you yelp, pulsing around him, biting your lip. He moans behind you. ‘Don’t know how you ever get anything done,’ he bites out, ‘I’d never be able to leave her alone.’ 
You glow under Santi’s praise and Joel’s warming stare, and push yourself up loosely onto your elbows as Santi returns both of his hands to your hips. You push back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Santi gasps, before reaching around you to rub desperately at your clit. Your moans bounce off the walls, sharp gasps and whines melting into begging -
‘Please, Santi - fuck - oh my god, oh my god, please - ‘m so close. So close -’
‘Gonna come again, baby?’ He coos from above you. You nod furiously.
‘Yes,’ you gasp out, ‘God, please Santi, fuckin’ me so good -’
With a grunt, Santi hauls you upwards so your back is flush against his chest. He fucks into you harshly, fingers still working your clit, his other hand pinching and twisting a nipple as he kisses and bites his way along your neck, you shoulder, below your ear.
‘Good girl,’ he says, and your head dips back onto his shoulder, mouth open in a sob because he feels so good - 
Santi grips your chin again, yanking your face down and towards Joel.
‘Look at your daddy,’ he snaps at you, ‘You look at your daddy when you come for me.’
And you do. You can barely keep your eyes open as your body gives out, loud, broken moans escaping your mouth, Santi and daddy alternating somewhere in there as Santi fucks you through it, fingers still on your clit as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder -
‘Good - fucking - girl.’
And you see even Joel’s eyes close momentarily, his hands clenching to fists on the arms of the chair, a growl of desperation only you can hear tumbling out of his chest.
Santi is relentless as he chases his own release, but you’re so tight around him that he refocuses his efforts.
‘Again, baby,’ he orders, ‘Give me another. I can feel it. Come on. It’s right there. You gotta give it to me, hermosa -’
But you whine against him, twitching, trembling, sobbing through the overstimulation, unsure where the boundary between pleasure and pain is. You shake your head, try to catch your breath.
‘Too much, Santi, too much,’ you cry, ‘Can’t - don’t know -’
‘You can, baby,’ he breathes, voice like steel, and you whimper. That tone so similar to Joel’s, how he knows, how now Santi knows, that you can.
At his insistence, you tumble off the cliff again, weakly calling his name as a gush of arousal spills onto his lap, as you pulse and contract around his cock. He releases a strangled groan, his hips stuttering, his breathing heavy. He peers over your shoulder at Joel.
‘Where do you want it?’ he gasps.
‘Inside her.’ Joel growls, and you moan again as Santi sheathes himself to the hilt and comes and comes and comes. You feel him fill you, his dick pulsing and twitching deep in your pussy, and he sags as he begins to leak out. You both hit the mattress, Santi just about propping himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t crush you. You both breathe heavily for a second, until he moves your hair from your face and touches your cheek.
‘You okay?’ he rasps, throat dry. You chuckle breathily.
‘Yes.’ You sigh. Santi licks his lips and laughs quietly, too, shifting gently to slip out of you. You both groan, trying to catch your breath again. Your limbs are liquid, your body heavy, and somewhere in your dazed state you feel him dip a kiss to your shoulder blade before using his tongue to soothe the bite mark he’d left earlier.
You turn your face towards him as you feel his weight leave the bed. He smiles at you, muttering something about getting himself cleaned up before gesturing to the opposite way you're facing. You turn your head to find Joel, pulled to his full height, standing at the foot of the bed, still fully fucking clothed.
You slowly rise to your knees on the mattress, and Joel smiles at you, lifting a hand to settle against your cheek. You lean into it, turning your head to kiss his palm.
‘You okay, baby?’ he asks softly.
‘Yes, daddy.’ You breathe.
He nods, pleased.
‘Good. On your knees, on the floor for me, baby girl.’ He says.
You pull your languid limbs off the bed and settle on your knees on the floor, waiting patiently for him. You rest your palms on top of your thighs, tingling and relaxed, and wait for your instruction. It comes before Santi even leaves the bathroom. 
‘Mouth.’ Joel says, and you shuffle forward towards him, hungry hands grappling with his belt as he chuckles down at you. ‘My eager girl.’ And you shine a blinding smile up at him. 
You whip his belt off, launch it across the room, and make quick work of the button and zipper, pulling his jeans down his thighs so just his boxers are left. You lick your teeth at the sight of his barely contained cock, the front of his underwear stretched, the tip of his dick peeking from above his waistband, leaking and swollen. You rise up on your knees as you reach for the band, lifting your eyes to Joel’s as you pull his underwear down, smiling again as one of his big hands comes to rest at the back of your head, impatient already. 
His boxers and jeans pulled down, you take Joel into your hand, pumping him gently before pulling the tip to your mouth, blowing on it lightly before pressing a kiss to the weeping slit. Joel sucks a breath in through his teeth, and presses his hips forward, sinking his cock past your lips. You take him gratefully, opening as wide as you can, your tongue soft and firm against him, tracing and twirling as you hollow your cheeks.
‘So good t’me.’ Joel breathes out, pushing a little further, just to hit the back of your throat and hear you choke lightly. You moan around his length, your eyelids flickering shut as he begins to fuck your throat slowly, making sure to feel every inch you allow him access to.
Santi emerges from the bathroom, and he can’t help but grin as he takes in the sight of you on your knees before Joel, swiping a hand over his mouth to try and hide his mirth. You flutter your eyelashes at him, and he shakes his head before crossing the room to sit in the chair Joel was in before. He crosses an ankle over his knee, leaning back to watch you both. 
You hum around Joel and begin to bob up and down his length, using your fist to pump what you don’t have the patience to take in your mouth. Joel tangles his fingers in your hair and groans as he feels your tongue dip into his slit, slip over the sensitive spot on the underside of his head. 
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ he grunts, ‘Putting on a show for Santi, are we?’
You smile wickedly around his cock, before taking him all the way to the base on your own. You hold your head there as long as possible as Joel chokes out moan after moan, and from behind you Santi mumbles -
‘Fuck, Joel. She’s leaking all over the floor.’
Joel huffs out a breath, pulling you off his cock. He peers down at you, eyes dark.
‘Are you, baby?’ He asks.
You wiggle your ass to feel what even you hadn’t noticed, too caught up in sucking his dick. A small puddle of you and Santi has been dripping down onto the hardwood where you kneel. More slick pulses out of you at the realisation.
‘Yes, daddy,' you sigh, and Joel’s eyes roll up into his head. He yanks your hair roughly to bring you to your feet.
‘Get up,’ he snarls, ‘And get on the bed.’
Joel all but throws you back on to the mattress, and it happens in such a rush that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong. You wrack your brain as Joel undresses before you, his eyes scouring your body, taking in the marks, the bruises already forming, how your hair is wet with sweat at the roots, how your pussy still drips onto the sheets - 
And then you get it. Joel is getting off on it - on the thought of you being full, used, wanted, shown off -
Once he is down to just his skin, he crawls over you, lifting and pushing your hips to move you up the bed. He dips his head to lick and kiss and bite at your neck, and your hands flutter around him, touching him everywhere. His back, his arms, his neck, his face, scraping your nails down his exposed skin. He makes his way to your mouth, devouring you - all tongue and teeth until he rears back to look at you, sprawled and gorgeous below him. 
‘So beautiful, baby,’ he groans, ‘So perfect like this. Open your mouth for me.’ You do as he says, flattening your tongue out against your lower lip for good measure. He groans again, and then leans forward to spit in your mouth. You swallow it down hungrily.
‘Thank you, daddy.’ You say, and he leans back down to kiss you again before retracing down your neck, your collarbones, your breasts -
‘Such a good girl, rememberin’ your manners,’ he grumbles, ‘So good, takin’ Santi, look so good when you’re takin’ his cock.’ You whimper as he bites down on each of your nipples, soothing them with open-mouthed kisses. He kisses down your stomach, around your heat, nipping the inside of your thighs, making sure to leave marks, breathing hotly onto your skin.
‘But now you’ve made a mess, baby, haven’t you?’ He says. You mewl at the ceiling, clutching the sheets around you as Joel blows on your clit, hovering just above where you need him. ‘Words, baby.’ He reminds you, with a sharp slap to your thigh.
‘Yes, daddy.’ You cry.
‘And what do we do when we make a mess?’ He asks.
‘Clean it up, daddy.’ You pant.
‘Good girl,’ he coos, ‘Good girl.’ Before he licks a fat, hot stripe from your leaking hole up to your clit.
You gasp at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, the coil in your stomach already wound impossible tight, every part of your body still so sensitive. Joel works with abandon at your pussy, flattening his tongue to lap at you, tasting the mixture of you and Santi, slurping around your opening before focusing his efforts on your bundle of nerves, sharpening his tongue to work it in tight circles, then figure eights. Your hips buck strongly against him, and he secures a forearm against your lower belly to stop you struggling. He hums against you as your hand winds its way into his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp.
‘Daddy, daddy, daddy, so good - fuck - so good - tongue feels so good, baby -’ You babble to him, to yourself, and Joel lowers his mouth, working his tongue inside you, grinding his nose against your clit. Your shoulders shoot off the bed, and you pull his hair now, biting a curse between your teeth. Joel doesn’t let up for a second, just moves his forearm so he can force your upper body back down onto the bed. Your fingers loosen their grip on his hair, coming up instead to scrub at your face as moan after moan escapes you.
A groan echoes from the chair, and you flick your gaze behind you to see Santi watching greedily, palming himself through his boxers. The sight only serves to work you up more, your core tightening and tightening and tightening, an unbearable heat settling where Joel’s tongue is, but you need him deeper -
‘You close, baby?’ He mumbles against you.
‘Y-es.’ You force out, as he pinches your clit between his lips.
‘What do you need?’ He asks.
‘Fuck - your fingers, Joel, please -’ 
Joel obliges, slipping one, and then two digits into your cunt easily, fucking them in and out as he licks again at your nub, swirling and sucking and lapping -
‘Come on, baby,’ he groans, ‘Give me what I want.’
The forearm he has braced against your middle barely keeps your back on the bed as you come, hard and loud against his tongue. Your whole body twitches, so warm, as he laps and laps and laps at you, as you beg him to stop, to let you breathe for just a second - but he doesn’t, he never does, just eats until he’s had his fill, until he’s satisfied. 
When he lifts his head from between your thighs, his beard and cheeks are glistening with your come. He releases his grip on you and begins to crawl upwards again, and you clamp your thighs shut to stop him from provoking anymore overstimulation. He laughs down at you, kneeling back to yank your legs back open with his strong hands.
‘We’re not done with you, yet, baby,’ he coos, ‘I ain’t had all my fun.’
You shake your head at him, pitiful, your lower lip jutting out. He pouts back at you.
‘You don’t want daddy’s cock, darlin’?’ He asks. You can’t even find it in you to hesitate.
‘I do,’ you cry, ‘Just don’t wanna be touched anymore.’
Joel nods at your words, strokes your cheek, kisses your forehead.
‘It’s okay, baby girl,’ he murmurs, ‘I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. Won’t make you come again if you don’t want to.’ Liar. He knows just as well as you do what his cock does to you. But still, he pauses, makes sure you’re looking at him. ‘Can I still have this pussy, angel?’
You blink up at him. Something warm curls in your stomach. Relief, you think, that he’s heard you, understands - that you know - even with Santi and Frankie here - you could stop this at any time.
‘Yes, daddy.’ You say. 
He smiles, wraps you up in a tender kiss.
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He murmurs as he lines himself up at your entrance, and begins to sink in.
Joel tugs at the backs of your thighs, hitching them to your chest so he can watch as he splits you open. His eyes flick from your cunt to your face, the glistening slit stretching to accommodate him and the way your jaw falls loose in a silent ‘o’, your brows brunched, your eyes rolling and falling shut. The slip of him is sinful tonight - your orgasms leaving your body like jelly, Santi’s cock preparing you for Joel’s thickness. But he still moves toe-curlingly slow, inch after inch after inch providing a delicious stretch. He groans as he feels you flutter and tense and contract around him, still unable to breathe, unable to speak. Only he can get you like this - not a babble slipping past your lips, unable to do anything but feel him. Joel pants, moaning again as he bottoms out, tip kissing your cervix. He runs a finger over your cheek, letting you adjust further.
‘Talk to me, baby,’ he urges.
He rocks his hips back and forth, no more than an inch, but it punches out the breath you were holding.
‘Fuck, Joel,’ the whisper all you can get out. He smiles at you.
‘Yeah, angel?’
‘So big.’ you breathe, shifting your hips so he can sink even further in.
‘There she is,’ he huffs, pulling out again, ‘There’s my girl.’
Joel rocks forward again, and you cry out around him, the noise setting him off into a languid pace which allows him to hit every single spot inside you. You can’t bear to touch your own body, frightened of sending yourself into the void, but you do touch Joel. You clutch at his biceps, his tight forearms, nails leaving little crescent moons wherever you grip. You tangle your fingers in his salt and pepper curls, swipe the lines on his forehead, the stubble on his cheeks. He twists his head to kiss and suck at your thumb, and you mewl at him, eyes wide and glassy, so full of him you don’t know what to do.
You’re barely aware, even, of the slick sound of skin and Santi’s soft groans as he works his cock in the chair, caught up in the intensity of you and Joel fucking, his chest flushed and shining with sweat. 
There’s still not a noise, not a peep from the other side of the door.
All you can hear is Joel; his deep breathing, low grunts and moans, his whispered praises, and the startlingly wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of you. You can’t stop the contractions that build inside you, and every time one ripples through your pussy Joel’s head drops a little lower towards your chest. 
Your orgasm feels deafeningly close and impossibly strong, brought on by every shift of Joel’s dick. You try to breathe through it, your moans getting louder, soaking the room with sound, but it’s hopeless. 
Joel dips his head to kiss you softly, swallowing your sounds for just a minute. When he pulls away, you teeter on the edge, everything feeling heavy and blurred and blazingly good.
‘Joel.’ You whisper urgently.
‘I know, baby,’ he says, ‘I can feel it. You’re taking it so well, sweet girl. So good f’me. I know it feels good. You can let go. You can do it. Come on.’
You all but scream against him, your orgasm ripping through your body, every muscle on fire. Your legs shake and your arms tighten around his neck as you shiver and twitch around him, and he moans, long and loud, like you’ve never heard him do before. 
As he fucks you through it, the relief, the pleasure catches up with you, and tears swell and pour out of your eyes.
‘So good,’ you sob, ‘So good daddy, God -’
Joel coos back at you. ‘Atta girl, baby. Knew you could do it. Knew you could give me one more. And it was so pretty, baby.’ he grins at you, before picking up his pace. You whine beneath him.
‘’S okay,’ he promises, ‘Where do you want me, darlin’?’ and you huff at him, as if you could ever give a different answer.
‘Inside. Come inside me.’ You say. And Joel crowds you out, pushing all the way in so you’re moaning again, pumping in the deepest part of you as his hips flex against yours, his head in your shoulder. You stroke his curls, breathing deeply as he relaxes. 
‘Jesus Christ,’ he mumbles against your skin. He pulls his head away, blinking. You giggle up at him.
‘Y’alright?’ you ask, and he smiles back.
‘Fuckin’ more’n alright,’ he laughs, ‘Are you?’
‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘Real good.’
Joel slides himself out of you, both grunting at the loss, and he flicks a look over your shoulder.
‘You good, Pope?’ He asks, grinning at the other man. You twist your head to look at him too, giggling again when you take in his fucked out face, exhausted in the corner, his stomach covered in come. Santi can’t help but grin back.
‘Yeah, great.’ he answers wryly, and you giggle even more.
Joel laughs with you, rolling onto his back and pulling you against his shoulder, kissing your hair.
‘Did so good, baby.’ he reminds you again as you feel him begin to dribble out of you.
Santi stands with a groan, and makes his way back towards the bathroom, muttering something about having to clean himself up again. 
You press your face to Joel’s neck with a smile, leaving soft kisses, only coming away when you hear the jingle of a belt buckle. Santi is dressing at the end of the bed, just short of pulling his top on. You frown at him.
‘You’re leaving?’ you ask. He looks up, smirking again.
‘Not yet, querida,’ he says, ‘Just cold. Besides, there’s still someone we need to look after.’ 
You watch him as he buckles his belt with baited breath, curious as to how this will play out. You aren’t sure what exactly will happen next - whether Frankie will come in, or who will… deal with him. Your breath hitches in your throat before Joel answers your questions for you.
‘Go check on Frankie, baby girl,’ he murmurs, stroking your hair back. You bury your face in his chest again, and breathe in deeply. You scrunch the sheets at his waist in your fist, and Santi chuckles at your reluctance to leave the bed. You plant a kiss to Joel’s exposed skin before pulling yourself away to sit up on the bed. Planting your feet and gathering your strength before standing. You pick up Joel’s flannel from the floor and slip your arms into it, bundling yourself against the chill you now also feel as you pad towards the door. You feel Joel and Santi’s eyes on you, silent, assessing.
When you reach the bedroom door, you touch it gingerly, breathing deeply. You feel… nervous. How would Frankie react to everything he’d heard? You knew he’d done things like it before, but you knew you would be so… angry. Jealous and frustrated. You bite your lip, and slowly pull the door back.
Frankie is exactly where Santi left him, on his knees a step back from the threshold. Your breath catches in your throat as you take him in.
At some point during it all, he'd removed his cap. It’s tossed on the floor a few feet away, and his hair is… fucked. Strands stick out on all sides, his curls mussed and frazzled. Sweat is gathered at his temples, and his skin has a warm, glossy sheen to it. All across his face, right down to the hollow of his throat peeking above his t-shirt. His lips are swollen and bitten, wet with spit as his tongue pokes out to lick them again at the sight of you, and his eyes… Eyes so dark they’re almost black, pupils blown so wide they just sparkle back at you. Deep, dangerous, and hungry. 
He’s ravenous as he looks you up and down - your smooth skin, naked thighs, bare pussy - still dripping with come - up to your exposed tits, bitten and bruised, your neck, your face… totally fucked out, swollen lips, smudged makeup, your own blown out eyes. He moans as he takes you in, and you go weak at the knees at the sight of his hands raking up and down his jean-clad thighs. His dick is straining against the denim, against the claw of his zipper, and as you look closer, you see a wet patch much larger than just precum darkening the fabric. Your cheeks flush at the sight, at the knowledge - Frankie had come in his pants just listening to the three of you.
You breathe out shakily and get to your knees, so close to him you're almost touching. You reach a hand out to cup his cheek, and he leans into it, breathing in and out deeply, closing his eyes.
‘You okay, baby?’ You ask him softly, voice low. Frankie groans again.
‘Yes.’ He croaks out. 
You don’t know if you’re allowed, but you figure you’ll find out soon enough. You lean forward, tits spilling out of Joel’s shirt, and place your hands on his thighs. His breathing sputters, and his head drops forward, but not before you can catch his lips in a sweet, soft kiss. Just like you’ve wanted to, for so long. 
He sighs against you, lips seeking yours. But he seems so exhausted, so on edge, that he can hardly pour any fire into it. His tongue searches your mouth, almost like a plea. 
Please. Please.
As though he hears it too, Joel says quietly from the bed -
‘Help him, baby.’
You pull away from Frankie’s kiss and lean your forehead to his.
‘What do you need?’ You whisper. 
He looses a ragged sigh, too turned on to even know himself.
‘Can I touch you?’ He breathes.
You nod, and he reaches out his hands - carefully, gently - to skirt over and up your waist, to touch your stomach, to skate over your tits. You wince, once, as he traces over one of your nipples, and he freezes. You smile shyly at him.
‘It’s okay,’ you whisper, ‘’M just sore.’ He nods, and continues to touch, caressing your neck, thumbing your jaw, your cheekbone, stroking your brow. He’s so tender, so Frankie, that you feel tears well behind your eyelids. As though he can sense it, tell the gravity of the moment, he drops his hands, skirting them along your thighs, drifting towards your hips, thumbs rubbing the sides of your tummy, before creeping towards your heat.
‘Is this okay?’ He asks.
‘Yes.’ You sigh, this time against his mouth, drawing his lips back to yours. 
When Frankie dips one of his hands to sweep through your folds, you both moan. Low and long against each other. 
‘Fuck,’ he breathes against you, stalling. Slowly, slowly, he brings his coated fingers to his mouth, so close to you that you can smell it, the mix of you and Joel and Santi, and he slips the digits between his lips. He holds your eye the whole time, devouring, tongue swiping over every knuckle, every valley, until they’re clean. He releases them with a pop. You groan, wanting him, impossibly, and you ask again.
‘What do you need, Frankie?’
‘You.’ He says. Frankie swoops forward again to kiss you, one hand now at the back of your head, one back between your legs, gathering the mess between your thighs. You rock against his hand as he parts you, feels you, and you reach forward for his belt, his button, his zipper, undoing all three in record time. You slip a hand into his jeans, under his boxers, impatient to feel him, all of him, and he gasps against you, stilling his movements. He groans your name, almost in warning. 
‘It’s okay,’ you tell him, stroking his hair soothingly, ‘You’ve waited so long, Frankie. It’s okay.’
You take your hand out from his pants, and join his at your pussy, just for a moment, just to collect what’s left and what’s already pooling from you again, before returning your hand to his cock, using the combined juices to move your hand easily up and down. Frankie moans brokenly against you, his body slumping forwards. 
You can’t see him like this, but you can feel him - and Frankie is big. Not quite as big as Joel, but thicker and pulsing against your palm, already wet from his come and what you have just provided him. You swipe your thumb over his tip, collecting his precum to spread down his length, and he jerks against you at the movement. 
‘Fuck, baby,’ he whispers, ‘I can’t, I’m not gonna last, hermosa -’
You shush him again, kissing at his temple, his brow, his cheek, before nudging to his lips.
‘It’s okay, Frankie,’ you say again. ‘I want you to come. You deserve to come. You’ve been so good for us.’ 
And it’s all Frankie needs as he moans loudly against your lips, body seizing and relaxing harshly against yours as he spills himself over your fist, over his jeans, over your thighs and the top of your mound. There is so much of him it’s almost comical, and you laugh softly as he finally starts to relax.
He looks up at you shyly, questioningly.
‘Look at you, Frankie,’ you breathe, and he flushes right to the tops of his ears. ‘So good.’ You murmur.
‘All for you,’ he whispers so only you can hear. He holds your gaze, trying to communicate everything he’s been thinking behind that door. ‘All for you.’
You lean forward and kiss him again. Try to forget, for now, the scratch of those unanswered questions, what it could all mean. Later.
‘Come on,’ you say, taking his hand and rising from the floor. He follows and returns your smile. ‘Let's get you cleaned up.’
1K notes · View notes
ezrasbirdie · 3 months
Text
twinkle [frankie morales x f!reader]
Tumblr media
summary: when his daughter starts preschool, frankie needs a little help with after school care. enter you--and much to his dismay, frankie cannot stop thinking about you. ratings/warnings: E [smut, so much yearning, me making stuff about nannying and childcare, POV switch toward the end, frankie is kind of a perv but in a respectful way, PIV, male masturbation, frankie pussy eating king, subby Frankie, bossy reader, praise kink, kind of a housewife kink, I truly don’t know what got into me with some of this] wc: 8.3k [i maybe got carried away] a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! shout out to my love @mothandpidgeon for betaing! so this is @haylzcyon's christmas present, and i may or may not have used that as an excuse to make frankie look sweaty and pretty and wild in front of the christmas tree. also i always wanted to do frankie fucks the babysitter, so. happy holidays, babes! dividers by @saradika-graphics.
masterlist | frankie morales masterlist
Tumblr media
Time moves faster since Francesca arrived, squalling and twisting her way from her mother as Frankie looked on in terrified fascination. Since her birth, he’s barely had a second to breathe. He thinks he wouldn’t mind the world moving so fast if the price of it was anything but her getting older at exponential speeds.
It feels like yesterday she was in diapers, and now she walks and talks and has her own opinions. Wherever she got this big brain of hers hadn’t come from him, of that he was sure. Now she’s old enough to notice; to be affected by his shitty moods or arguments with her mother or even when he’s late to pick her up. 
This year, though, there’s you.
You are a complication he couldn’t have foreseen in his wildest fucking dreams, but you’re here, and he’s tried his best for months not to let his feelings affect you or Franny. 
None of it’s your fault, of course; you’ve done nothing but be professional and caring and kind toward his daughter, and it makes this distant asshole act of his even more difficult. 
And goddamn, the holidays do not help. 
It’s his own goddamn fault he hired someone he was attracted to the second you came into his life. He’s tortured himself with this crush for months now; this totally inappropriate crush that haunts his every waking moment, despite his best attempts at distancing himself.
Frankie had been reluctant to get a nanny. Nannies were for wealthy families with four kids and vacation homes, not single fathers in two bedroom apartments and a preschooler. 
It was easier when she was in daycare—he could drop her off there in the morning and pick her up at six, but preschool threw the whole damn thing off. Preschool ends at noon, and he couldn’t leave work every day to go get her. He didn’t want to ask Franny’s mother for help, too afraid she might use that as some kind of evidence that he wasn’t stable enough for 50/50 custody. 
He didn’t think she’d be that vindictive, but it was a possibility. So he’d sucked it up and asked around, taking your number from Franny’s very enthusiastic preschool teacher who said you’d worked for a number of families in her classes. 
He was, of course, fucked the moment you’d walked into that coffee shop around the corner from his building, smiling brightly as you sat down and stuck your hand out to introduce yourself. You’d worn a suit, clearly tailored to your form, and handed him what he was sure was an impressive resume from a leather portfolio. He’s more than ashamed to say that he’d barely glanced at it, hiring you just a few minutes later. 
“Parents usually want to run a background check first,” you’d said, a little alarmed.
“Oh, uh—it’s okay. Franny’s teacher told me how highly recommended you are by all the parents from her class. The ones you worked for,” he’d said, tongue twisting over every word, but praying he’d covered his blunder. “And I need someone soon.”
“If you insist, Mr. Morales,” you’d said. “But I should meet her first.”
With that, he’d completely agreed.
Tumblr media
He tried to stay as cool and calm and professional as you were, giving himself a stern talking to in his truck on the way home from work, and it took him all of three fucking days to cave.
You greeted him at the door on your third day, and he wondered if that was a normal part of having a nanny. It felt wrong, being ushered into his own home, but he’d liked seeing you there looking so soft and comfortable with Franny.
“Pick up went great, she knew exactly where to go. Miss Nicole and I are friends, obviously, so she’d have gotten her to me anyway. We ate all our veggies at lunch—”
He liked the way you said “we” instead of “she,” but he’d be damned if he could explain why.
In the middle of your report, you swooped down to pick Franny up and away from her puzzle to hand her off to Frankie, whose arrival she was wholly uninterested in. It wasn’t the first time you’d done it—you said it made for a good transition; a signal to her that the day was over and it was Daddy’s time with her now. 
Frankie’d been working on his impulse control over the last few years, but all that progress seemed to fly out of the window the moment the v-neck of your t-shirt gaped just enough to see a lacy black bra. He bit the tip of his tongue just to keep himself from groaning. 
“Daddy!” Franny admonished, reaching for him from your arms. “You not listening!” 
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m a little tired. What’d I miss?”
You shrugged, and he kept his eyes firmly on your face. “She’s got some sniffles,” you said. “I didn’t wanna give her anything for it without you here, but I thought you might wanna keep an eye on it.”
He nodded, taking in the rest of what you had to say as you gathered your things to go home. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to start dinner, but I can certainly do that going forward,” you’d said, and his mouth had gone dry as he imagined you in his kitchen cooking for him.
For Franny, he had to remind himself.
“I…sure, I mean, you can—uh, I don’t usually plan ahead?” He stuttered, too focused on not choking on his own spit. 
“No problem. I’m happy to do meal plans for you two,” you said. Does he pay you enough to do meal plans? “Just let me know.”
You were on your way out the door when he found his voice. 
“Did you have, um—how was your day?” He asked. You stopped and turned back, a shy smile on your lips.
“It was really good, Mr. Morales. Franny’s a good kid. Thank you for asking,” you said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He watched you walk out, eyes glued the sway of your hips. 
Tumblr media
During your second week, a heat wave hit. Franny was miserable stuck inside, all the excessive heat warnings making it too dangerous to play at the park after lunch. Even the balcony wasn’t shaded enough, and you had to bring her inside after twenty minutes. 
“She’s been a handful,” you told him that Friday. “But that’s hardly her fault. She’s just restless.”
He could tell you were tired, though, and he worried you’d decide not to come back in two weeks when Franny came back from her mom’s. 
It was so hot outside it crept into the apartment despite the central air, and your shirt clung to you, damp with sweat. 
He wanted to do something for you.
“Do you like ice cream?” He asked, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his damp hair as he watched you microwave Franny’s dinner.
“Sure. Why?” 
“I thought—if you’re not busy—after she eats, maybe we could get ice cream?”
You crossed your arms and grinned at him. “Is this some kind of bribe?” 
“Not a bribe,” he said. “I…just want to take you for ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Franny’s voice came from the living room, and you laughed.
“What you think, mija?” Frankie asked. “We all get some ice cream after you have your dinner?”
“Yes!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands. 
“Guess that settles it,” you giggled. “Come eat your dinner, Franny.”
“Er—you don’t have plans, right? No boyfriend I’m keeping you from?” Frankie asked, settling her into her booster seat.
“Not these days. My social calendar is pretty dry lately. Ice cream sounds good. I won’t even charge you for my time,” you grinned, and Frankie’s heart thudded in his chest.
No boyfriend.
The ice cream shop was just around the corner, right next to the coffee place he’d interviewed you, but he almost regretted walking there in the goddamn heat. The air conditioner was on full blast, and he had to force himself to look away from your now-stiff nipples. 
Franny chattered about something he couldn’t pay attention to and you entertained her in between slurps of your ice cream cone. The outside heat infiltrated the small shop every time the door opened, despite the frigid air conditioning, and the vanilla ice cream slid between your fingers. 
Frankie watched your tongue dance across your knuckles, not wanting to waste your treat. He couldn’t help but imagine what else you might lick up so enthusiastically, regardless of how fucking wrong it was. 
All you were doing was eating. He shouldn’t have been so fucking turned on by something so mundane. Not here in public, not by the woman who cares for his daughter. 
The ice cream kept melting, messy and sticky and dripping down your fist, and he gritted his teeth, nodding every now and then to the words coming from your gorgeous, hot mouth.
Deep breaths, in and out, it’s fine, just eat your ice cream—
Something crunched in his fist, and he looked down to see his stretched-white knuckles covered in chocolate ice cream, his grip so tight he’d crushed the cone. Franny laughed, and you laughed, and he laughed, too, praying his scarlet cheeks weren’t too noticeable as you grabbed napkins and cleaned the mess before he could even react.
He loved that, though, the way you take charge; how you know exactly what to do.  
“Hold still,” you ordered. He obeyed, watching you throw the crushed cone away and wiping his hand down with a wet wipe from your bag. You dried him off with a napkin, running your fingers over his skin to make sure you got everything.
 “Thank you,” he murmured and you smiled, squeezing his hand and lingering there for a second longer than he expected. Electricity jolted through his body at your caress, and on the way back, he racked his brain for reasons for you to stay. 
He found none, of course, other than the real reason—to make you come as many times as you’ll let him—so he let you go home. 
Later that night, when Franny was asleep and he found a second of peace in the shower, he braced the tile wall with his forearm and wrapped his hand around his aching cock, pumping himself as he thought of you and the ice cream dripping down your knuckles and your stiff nipples and the way your soft hands felt on his. He let himself imagine your taste, what you’d sound like as he devoured you, what your hot, wet pussy would feel like on his face, around his cock—anywhere, he wasn’t picky.
He hadn’t wanted anyone like this in years. Not that he hadn’t had flings or attempts at relationships since he and his ex split, but his desire wasn’t like this. Frankie closed his eyes and imagined what your tits looked like under your shirt, if you knew he could see how cold you were. He choked back a loud groan at the thought of you wearing some thin little bra on purpose, just to fuck with him, just to see if he’d get on his knees for you.
Frankie squeezed the base of his cock, desperate to draw this little fantasy out a bit longer, but his body betrayed him. He came too quickly, breathing hard and murmuring your name as his spend spattered against the tile. As he pushed himself off the wall, the guilt washed over him while he watched his come circle the shower drain. 
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
Tumblr media
Two weeks later, he’d  told himself he was over it. Franny was with her mom, so he hadn’t seen you, and it was just a fluke—you were beautiful and new, and he just got overexcited. It wouldn’t be a problem now that he’d gotten over his little crush. 
Sure, the first week consisted of him jerking off all over his apartment when he looked too long at something you touched or sat on, or when he scrolled your socials for a while, or thought about you, but that didn’t mean anything. Guys jerk off a lot anyway. 
The second week he slowed down, only touching himself once while he listened to a voicemail you left about needing to leave a few minutes early one day next week. And then again after he called you to let you know that was fine. 
He was starting to wonder if he could run out of come. He hadn’t masturbated this much since he first discovered he could do it. 
On the Monday you returned, he was much too tired from work to be nervous about seeing you again on the way home. It wasn’t until he pushed open his front door to find you in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot, barefoot in a pair of leggings with Franny on your hip, that he remembered how fucking out of his mind you made him. His mouth watered.
You turned around at the sound of the front door, setting Franny down so she could run to him. He greeted the both of you, your bright smile disarming him as he scooped Franny up.
All that progress he told himself he made on his stupid, ridiculous crush evaporated
“Hi, Mr. Morales,” you said, tapping the side of some spice jar into the pot. 
“Frankie,” he said, against his better judgment. “Just Frankie is fine.”
“Frankie,” you said, testing the word in your mouth. “I like that name, you know.”
“Thank you,” he said, fighting the strong urge to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss the back of your neck. 
You declined his invitation to stay and eat the dinner you’d made.
“I have a date,” you explained, and something ugly clawed at the inside of his chest. He ignored it because you were allowed to have dates, and he couldn’t say a fucking word about that.
Franny calls him out the moment you leave. 
“You love herrrrr,” she said from her booster seat, artfully arranging the broccoli on her plate. He stared at her, dumbfounded.
“And what’s that supposed to mean, little miss?” He asked. She looks up at him, exasperated, as though it’s a hassle to repeat herself. 
“She’s pretty, so she’s the princess,” she said. “And you supposed to love the princess.”
Frankie laughs, always impressed with the perception of his three-and-a-half-year-old. “All right,” he says. “Eat your broccoli, mija, it’s almost bath time.”
She was not as excited about that. 
“Do you need me Monday?” You asked him Friday evening. “It’s Labor Day, so—”
“Oh! I guess it is, isn’t it?” Frankie laughed, suddenly pleased about his three-day weekend, as if he hadn’t known about it before. That quickly turned to concern for you, though, because that certainly meant your pay would be short, and Frankie knew all too well what that was like. “Technically, no. Do you have plans?”
“No,” you sighed. “Just hoping I can pick up a shift at my other job.”
“You have another job?” He asked, but it seemed silly as soon as he said it. 
“Well, of course,” she grinned. “You pay well, Frankie, but there’s two whole weeks I gotta supplement.”
“What’s your other job?” He asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You winked, and God, were you flirting with him? 
You were flirting with him.
“What if, uh—we’re going to the lake with some of my friends. What if you come with us and watch after Franny, and I’ll pay you double for hazard pay.”
You raised your eyebrows. “What’s the hazard pay for?” You asked. 
“Putting up with my idiot friends,” he said, and you laughed. He really loved making you laugh. 
You chewed your lip, thinking it over as you put your shoes on. He told himself it would be a big help to have someone to help with Franny, and ignored the fact that she had three overprotective uncles with plenty of experience reining her in. 
In the end you agreed, and he was mostly successful at keeping himself from seeming too excited about having you with him at the lake where he could, maybe, get to know you a little better.
And it all went well. It went beautifully. The guys loved you, he learned where you went to school, where you grew up, how you got into nannying, what your second job was. 
He learned that he was your favorite client, and you weren’t just flattering him. He wasn’t as stuffy as the others, you told him, which was nice. He made you feel less anxious. 
His chest warmed at that—he wanted you to feel comfortable.
But then there was the fucking sunscreen. 
He forgot all about it, of course, but you let them use yours. You slathered yourself in it on the way there, some fancy organic SPF 100 shit that smells fucking heavenly, adding a second coat to Franny halfway there and asking him, so politely, to put it on your back when the three of you arrived. 
Your skin was so soft—he felt like such a fucking creep as he lingered over the base of your neck, stroking you with his thumb and squeezing your shoulder when he’d finished. You were so beautiful that day—you always were, of course, but in the sun, splashing around the lake with his friends and his baby, it felt right. 
Like you were supposed to be there; like you should have been there all along. 
He dropped you off that evening and you kissed his cheek, and he grinned like an idiot all the way home. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but what if he wasn’t? 
What if you liked him? 
For the rest of the week his truck smelled like that sunscreen. He’d get to work, completely unable to concentrate and tucking a boner into his waistband, contemplating asking you where you’d bought it just so he could get some and jack off with it. 
He was losing it over you.
This was bad. It was bad.
He saw how much Franny loved you and how much you loved Franny, and he had to figure something out. What if he made you uncomfortable enough that you left? Even if you were friendly, even a little flirty, what if he crossed a line? A month and a half in, he couldn’t lose you. 
That Friday, when he got home and found you making Franny eat carrots—she’d never eaten carrots before—he made himself put a stop to it before he did something completely stupid. 
“Frankie!” You called from the little breakfast table. “Did you have a good day at work?”
“Yeah, uh, can we talk? Over here?” He motioned to a further corner of the living room, away from Franny’s ears. 
“Everything okay?” You asked, stretching your arms over your head. He almost lost his way then. 
“Fine, fine. Look, uh, I think—” He cleared his throat. Why was he so fucking nervous? He’d killed people; how was giving the babysitter instructions so difficult? “I was thinking, we maybe should go back to some less informal interaction. I’d like for you to call me Mr. Morales from now on, please, and we should probably not be so…casual.”
Hurt ghosted over your features, confusion following them for the briefest second. Your posture changed; you stood straighter, your arms down by your sides as you pulled your shirt to cover yourself more. 
He wasn’t expecting that. 
“Oh! Sure,” you said, swallowing harshly. 
“It’s nothing—”
“Personal. I understand. No problem at all, Mr. Morales,” you said, looking away from him as you gathered your bags. “I should probably get going then. I’ll see you Monday, sir. Bye, Franny!” 
You scurried out of the door like you couldn’t leave fast enough, and he stood there as Franny chomped on her carrots, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.
Tumblr media
This wall he’d put up is the best thing for his daughter, though, and you’d taken it in stride. He counts himself lucky—thinking with his dick could’ve led to him hiring someone much less professional. But not you. Your recommendations hadn’t been so glowing for no reason. 
You always look nervous when he comes home now, though, like you’re waiting for him to find something to be upset about. It weighs on him sometimes—you’d told him he made you feel comfortable, less anxious, and he’d pulled the proverbial rug out from under you just a few days later. 
But it’s right. Overall, it’s the right thing to do. 
It doesn’t mean he’s over you, though, and this current situation he’s found himself in might be the death of him. Or your job. Maybe both.
The logistics of equal custody can get a little tricky around the holidays. Franny’s with her mom this year for Christmas, and Frankie’s leaving early to visit with some family. His flight leaves at six in the morning, and his ex couldn’t get the day off. 
It was like a word problem on a standardized test, and he’d been bad at those in school.
You’d come up with the solution on your own—you’ll just stay the night and through the next day until her mother gets off work, and that way he gets to spend as much time with Franny as he can before she leaves for a week longer than usual. 
It makes sense. 
He’s behaved himself for months now, but here you are in his apartment, having a mini-Christmas with Franny. You’d pulled him aside when you arrived, looking more nervous than he’d ever seen you—he thought you were about to tell him you were quitting after this. 
“I just wanted to check and make sure before I give it to her, but I got Franny a present. It’s nothing big or noisy, I promise,” you assure him. “But would that be okay, Mr. Morales? I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”
You take better care of his kid than he does, and he’s made you feel like you can’t even get her a Christmas present. He wonders if that was the norm in the other families you worked for, the ones you’d told him that day at the lake that it was nice to have a break from. 
“Of course it’s fine,” he says softly. “She’ll love that. Thank you.”
You give him a sort of lop-sided smile as you open your bag and pull out a neatly wrapped box with a big silver bow on top. 
Franny squeals over her early present—a pink camera with a unicorn on the front, small enough for her little hands to hold and simple enough for her to figure out how to use within a few minutes. She runs around the apartment for a long while until Frankie tells her it’s time for dinner. At the table, she takes several pictures of her macaroni and cheese, of him, of you making silly faces. 
He didn’t even know Franny liked taking pictures so much. 
“How’d you know she wanted that?” He asks later as you empty the dishwasher. 
“Oh, she’s always stealing my phone and using the camera. I keep finding pictures of Barbie dolls and tea parties. I thought she might want one of her own,” you say. “And I won’t panic about my missing phone, like, five times a day.”
“That little thief,” he says, and you laugh. 
“She’s just curious. Much better than my last charge, who flushed my phone down the toilet twice.”
Frankie’s mouth falls open, aghast. “On purpose?”
“On purpose,” you smile. “Franny’s been a breeze.”
Frankie leans against the kitchen island, and when you turn around you’re dangerously close to him. He should move, he thinks, get away from you, but the lights from the Christmas tree are dancing in your eyes. 
You clear your throat. “Should we make some cookies? Franny was asking earlier.”
Frankie clicks his tongue, looking at the refrigerator. “I don’t know if I even have cookie dough.”
“I can make cookie dough,” you say, standing on your toes to rifle through the cabinets. “Bet you have everything in here.” He takes you in like this, greedy for you as your ass jiggles every time you jump a little to grab something else you need. A sliver of skin shows between your jeans and top, and his hands twitch as he tries to keep himself from curling a finger through your belt loop and pulling you against him. 
“Butter, sugar, flour, baking soda, salt, hmmm…oh! An egg. Are these eggs good?” You ask over your shoulder, and he pulls his gaze from your ass. 
“Should be,” he says, the back of his neck burning like he’d been caught ogling you. “Made eggs this morning.”
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Franny sidles up next to him, peering at you with interest. “What you doing, Daddy?” She asks. 
“We’re making some cookies,” he says. “You want some?”
“Yes, please!” She says, snapping another picture and toddling off to the living room to take pictures of the TV screen.
You pull out a mixing bowl and a cookie sheet, setting them gently on the little island. “Hand me the measuring cups,” you order, and he does without a second thought. 
“And the flour?”
“Yes ma’am,” he says.
He watches you work, waiting for any instructions you might give. It all feels so natural, slipping into this rhythm with you, and his cock stirs every time you nod at him with approval. You’re more relaxed than you’ve ever been around him. 
Everything you do turns him on, and it’s a fucking nightmare he doens’t want to wake up from. By the time you get the cookies in the oven, you’re covered in flour and the kitchen’s a mess again. He catches you before you start cleaning up, insisting you go take a shower and let him do it. 
“It’s the least I can do,” he says. 
“Thanks, Fran—um, Mr. Morales,” you say, and his heart thuds at the slip up. You slip away before he can change his mind again and tell you to disregard what he’d said before, call him Frankie, or Frank, or Francisco, call him whatever the fuck you want to call him. 
He almost chokes when you walk out in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, a fluffy robe thrown over your shoulders. He takes a deep breath, his attention now on making sure Franny doesn’t try to eat every cookie on the plate. 
They’re amazing—obviously they are, because you made them, and everything you do is amazing, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without telling you that maybe he doesn’t just have a crush, maybe he isn’t just a pervert, maybe he just really, really, really fucking likes you. 
But it won’t be tonight, so he needs to relax. 
He gets Franny to bed by eight, miraculously, and when he comes back to the living room it’s just the two of you. It’s almost never the two of you, and he can’t tell if he’s just imagining it or if the air in the room’s gotten thicker. 
You’re wrapped in that fluffy robe, legs tucked under you as you scroll your phone, so comfortable on his couch, in his home—goddammit, he wants you in his home all the time. How can you make him hard just sitting there, just existing?
“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” he says, and you nod, not looking up. “You’re welcome to watch whatever you want.”
“Okay, Mr. Morales,” you say. 
He is a weak, weak man. 
“You can—look, I’ve been thinking. I don’t think the Mr. Morales thing is necessary anymore. Just…call me Frankie.”
You smile softly. “Not gonna change your mind again?” You ask, and he can hear the uncertainty in your voice. “I don’t mind…I’m used to strict boundaries. It’s okay.”
“I won’t change my mind,” he says, and you nod. You don’t call him Frankie, but you don’t argue with him, either. 
He’s proud to say that he doesn’t jerk off in the shower, not with you right on the other side of the wall, no matter how insistent his cock is. 
Frankie digs out the one pair of pajama pants he owns and a white t-shirt, foregoing his usual tank top and boxers, tucking his dick under his waistband and hoping you don’t notice anything. 
“Great British Bake Off?” He asks, nodding toward the tv as he sits on the other side of the worn leather couch. You’re stretched out over the other cushions, a blanket covering your bare legs. He wonders what you’d do if he pulled it off of you and crawled between your legs. 
He doesn’t.
“Mmhmm. Old episode, though,” you say, getting up to hand him the remote. “I’ll just—”
“You going to bed already?” He asks. 
“Yeah, I didn’t wanna be all in your space, you know?”
But he really, really wants you to be all in his space.
“We could watch a movie. If you want.”
You smile. 
Tumblr media
Frankie tosses and turns on the couch—this’ll be hell on his back in the morning, but he’d wanted you to be comfortable.  And it’s not just the position keeping him in discomfort—he’s so fucking horny he thinks he might die.
He rolls over on his stomach, smushing his cheek into the pillow and sighing. He tries not to think of you asleep in his bed, all vulnerable and soft. He tries not to think of your tits spilling from that tank top, of the shorts riding up your thighs and exposing your pussy. He tries not to think of you having a dirty dream, whimpering in his bed and rubbing your thighs together, hips moving on their own and searching out friction in your sleep. 
Fuck.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s doing that—moving his hips in search of friction, pressing down into the worn leather couch. It feels…good. 
Frankie picks his head up, peeking around the room to make sure all the doors are closed. He turns the volume up on the tv to cancel out any noise and grinds his hips down.
His fist clenches around the pillow under his head as he presses up and down, back and forth, his foreskin doing most of the work. He should stop this, but he doesn’t know how he’ll get to sleep without some relief. He pulls his pants down and shirt up, trapping his cock between the soft leather and his belly. You were sitting right where he’s rubbing, and he can almost smell your soap. Precome pours from him as a hard shudder runs through his body, biting on the pillow to keep himself quiet.
It feels so good, so wrong—he shouldn't be doing this out here where you could walk right out and catch him. It would be humiliating, wouldn’t it, if you found him like this, fucking against the couch that smells like you?
But that only spurs him on, sweat accumulating on his temple as he rocks back and forth, grunting as quietly as he can. He keeps his eyes open, scanning the room, wishing now that you’d find him like this. He can almost hear that quiet giggle of yours as he humps faster, his eyes finally closing as he feels himself nearing his peak. 
How wet would your pretty little cunt get, watching him humiliate himself for you? Would you like that? Would you spank him, ride his cock, put your fingers inside of him—what would you do?
His eyes fly open at a sudden noise, and there you are, standing still, your mouth slack and eyes wide open. 
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Tumblr media
You can’t sleep. 
Of course you can’t sleep, not in Frankie’s bed, even with the sheets smelling like fresh laundry. The scent of him is still embedded into the mattress, baked into the fibers of his pillow. You try not to think about what he does in here when he’s alone, or even when he’s not—how many people have felt the scratch of his patchy beard between their thighs; his thick, calloused fingers roaming their bodies? How many people have fallen apart around his cock? Was he rough? Was he soft? Did he talk them through their orgasm?
Did he let them talk him through his?
You’re not sure which would be better, but you’ll take whatever he’s willing to give. 
Not that he’s willing to give you anything.
This was stupid, falling in love with a client. It complicates everything, makes it so much harder to be objective. And it’s not permanent—one day they won’t need you anymore. Leaving a kid is always hard, but this one? This one’ll hurt if you don’t get it under control.
Sometimes you think there might be something there, but it’s always a fleeting glance here or there, a touch that lingers a little too long. He’d made it very clear months ago he wanted a professional relationship only, and that was totally fine. He didn’t want anything else.
Right?
You toss and turn a little longer, the TV on the other side of the wall a bit too loud for comfort. Surely he’d fallen asleep by now.
The door opens without a quiet creak, and your eyes adjust to the relative brightness of the living room. The tree lights are still on, twinkling like little stars. Movement from the other side of the room catches your attention, and it takes a moment to work out what’s happening on the other side of the room.
Frankie’s all lit up by the tree lights bouncing off his warm olive skin, but it’s his hips you're mesmerized by. His eyes are closed, a thin sheen of sweat glimmering from his exertion as he grinds himself against the couch—the exact spot you’d been sitting in earlier—panting quietly, allowing himself a weak whine every few seconds. 
Holy shit.
It briefly occurs to you that you should turn around, afford him this private moment he might desperately need before a stressful trip, but how private is he being, really? How’s this your fault?
You could’ve come out at any time, but here he is. In the middle of the living room, doing…that. Wetness pools between your legs, as if you weren’t already aroused enough, wrapped in his sheets and fighting with yourself about stealing one of his shirts.
He looks so beautiful in those lights. His mouth hangs open, hushed groans starting to pour out with each new thrust of his hips. A particularly bright flash comes from the TV screen and you catch a glimpse of his cock trapped under his belly, and you’ve never wanted to be a couch so badly in your life. 
Frankie Morales has a huge dick.
You knew it.
When his eyes finally open, he blinks a few times, and everything moves in slow motion—his eyes go wide and panicked as he stills, pushing himself up to stop the cant of his hips, but his cock doesn’t seem to care what’s happening. 
In fact, his cock seems to like it an awful lot. 
He tries to cover himself but seizes up before his hands make it to his waistband; instead he gasps, crouching over and grabbing the back of the couch; he squeezes the cushion with one hand as his eyes close again and lets out soft, needy grunts. Your eyes slide back down to his throbbing cock, unable to look away from the ropes of thick, pearlescent come splattering onto the couch, his hips thrusting into nothing.
“Oh, fuck,” he whines, and you have never, ever seen anything hotter in your life. The sound of it landing rings in your ears; you can barely hear his apologies. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
You hover in the hallway for a moment, trying to decide if you should go to him or disappear, but he’s looking at you with his big eyes, his chest still heaving with effort. 
“It’s okay, Frankie,” you say, taking a chance. “I’m not upset.”
He frantically stuffs himself back into his pants, pausing as he takes in what you’ve said.
“You’re not?” He asks through ragged breaths, looking around for something to clean up his mess. 
“No,” you murmur, grabbing the remote on your way to him and turning off the TV. “Not at all. I…liked it.”
Frankie doesn’t move as you settle in front of him, doesn’t recoil at your fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging up. He raises his arms up and lets you pull it over his head.
“You made a mess,” you whisper, and he nods, transfixed as you use his shirt to clean it up. 
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, looking up at you through long lashes and groaning as you run your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You liked it?”
Frankie puts his hands on your hips, a shaky finger curling into your waistband and tugging. With the TV off, the lights glitter in his eyes, and the little halos bouncing off his glistening chest are angelic and sinful at once.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sit back.” He listens, no questions, and you straddle him, both knees planted firmly against his outer thighs. “What were you thinking about, baby?”
He sighs, squeezing your hips as you explore the breadth of his chest all the way down the swell of his belly. 
“You,” he admits. “Always you. I think about you all the fucking time, I’m so sorry, I know it’s not—”
“Shh,” you soothe. “It’s all right, Frankie. I think about you, too. All the time.”
He runs his hands over your waist, hovering at the hem of your shirt and searching your eyes for permission. You nod, and he slides his hands up your shirt, thumbing at the sides of your breasts. You rock gently against him, waiting for his answer. 
“You don’t think I’m a…pervert or something?” He asks.
“I didn't say that, did I? I think you were being a bad, bad boy out here. Thinking about me, fucking yourself where I could walk right in here,” you chastise, and he shudders underneath you. 
“I’m so—”
“Why don’t you apologize properly, hm?” You purr. “We can get comfortable in your room. If you’d like.”
He nods eagerly, but before you climb off, he wraps his big hand around the back of your neck and presses a kiss against your lips, pulling a soft squeak from you. You melt against him, almost forgetting you’re in charge, but his lips are so soft and needy you haven’t lost any control.
How long has he wanted to do this?
Why hadn’t he done it before?
“Frankie,” you murmur against his lips, and he pulls back, letting you guide him to the bedroom. 
You lean against the pillows, his eyes darkening as you spread your legs. He makes himself at home between them, pulling off your tank top and stripping your shorts in two quick motions. 
“You were bad,” you murmur again, and you don’t just mean earlier. 
“How can I fix it, bebita?” He asks, eyes softening, and you think he gets the message.
“You wanna make me come?” You ask, and he nods eagerly, pressing himself against you. He’s already stiff again.
“I’ll give you anything. Please,” he begs.
“You can eat my pussy to apologize,” you order and he whines, crashing his mouth to yours in a sloppy kiss. He trails down your chest, licking and sucking little marks until he gets to your cunt, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. 
You thread your fingers through his hair and tug; he shudders and buries his face in your cunt, teasing your clit with his tongue. 
“Fuck, I knew you’d taste good, I knew you’d taste so fucking good,” he growls. “Open your legs a little more for me, please, baby, lemme see you.”
He inhales, nudging your clit with his nose and circling your hole with his tongue. “Smell so fucking good, too, goddamn. Knew this little pussy would be so—fucking—good—”
Frankie Morales is relentless with his tongue, grunting like an animal as he takes his time to figure out what feels good and moaning in satisfaction when he finds something you like. 
Pressing firmly with the flat of his tongue, he licks long, languid circles as his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs. It feels like heaven, like you’ve needed this your whole life, and you clench around nothing as your orgasm nears. 
He notices.
“You want my fingers, bebita?”
“Please,” you sob, forgetting you’re supposed to be in charge. All you can think about is his soft, wet tongue and the way his hair feels between your fingers. He slides one thick finger inside of you, hooking it upward and curling, brushing against something that makes your toes curl. Your hips thrust up so high he has to lay his forearm across your belly to hold you still.
“Think you can take another one, baby, gonna give you one more,” he says, and you have to bite your fist to keep from crying out as he pushes the second finger in. He strokes you insistently, fingers working in tandem with his persistent tongue and your whole body tremors as you inch closer and closer. 
“Frankie,” you whimper. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, please—”
“That’s it, just let it happen, come on, don’t fight it, baby, come for me, come f—” You fall apart around his fingers, mouth open as you gush so hard you push his fingers out of you, and he lets out a long, guttural moan, praising you with soft murmurs. “Oh fuck, fuck yeah, so good, baby, did so fucking good, look at all that you gave me—”
You throw your arm over your face, sobbing quietly as it just keeps going, your legs shaking and twitching as he rubs your outer thighs. “Fuck, Frankie, Frankie, feels so good, feels so good,” is all you can manage.
You lift your arm to find him looking up at you, eyes glazed over and his face dripping with you and he’s so, so beautiful. You don’t think he knows how beautiful he is, and you wonder if anyone’s ever told him that. 
He crawls up your body to meet you, kissing you fiercely, still hungry for you. “Am I forgiven?” He asks. You smile and slide your thumb over his bottom lip. 
“No,” you murmur, and his sweet, eager face falls with disappointment. Your reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock, closing your eyes to savor the way it pulses in your hand. “You still need to fuck me, don’t you? Because I still need your cock, Frankie.”
“R-really?” He asks.
“Unless you don’t want to,” you say, giving him an out. “But I would really love you to fuck me with that big, pretty cock.”
“Yeah. Yes, ma’am, please, let me—”
He clamors for his bedside drawer, fishing out a condom.
Responsible. You like that. 
He rolls it down that pretty cock of his and starts to line himself up with you, but you have something else in mind.
“Wanna ride you,” you say, switching positions with him. His eyes rove over your body as you swing your legs over his thighs, and he scoots up to a sitting position against the pillows. 
“Wanna kiss you,” he says, groaning as you sink onto him. “Think about this all the time.”
You breathe as you adjust to his size, the slight stretch disappearing quickly as you start to move. You wish you could feel his cock without the barrier, wish he could come inside of you and watch it leak out of your spent pussy, but the way he’s looking at you, worshipful and earnest, more than makes up for it. He pulls you to him, all teeth and tongue and need as he pants into your mouth. 
“Shit,” he says. “Shit, I don’t know—don’t know how long I’ll last. You feel so fucking good. Wanted this for so long.”
You moan at his confession, your pussy clenching around him and pulling another groan from him. “You gonna come that fast, baby? When you just came? My pussy feels that good?” It’s too easy to tease him. He wraps his arms around you, like can’t get close enough to you, and whimpers and holy fucking shit, you love that noise. 
So you keep talking. 
“It’s okay, Frankie. I won’t be mad. You’ll still be a good boy for me if you come fast, you can’t help it if it feels good, right?”
He shakes his head, grunting something that sounds like “no” as he starts to thrust up into you. He slots his arms under yours, his fingers anchoring over your shoulders from behind, and all you can do is hold on. Not exactly riding him, but this is really fucking good, too.
“Fuck me like you need to, baby. Wish you could come inside me, Frankie. Wish you could make a mess inside me, I’d make you clean it up, lick it out of—”
“Wanna come in you, wanna come in you so bad,” he says. “Wanna keep you, wanna—fuck—wanna make you my little woman, want you to boss me around, please, baby, fuck, I’m gonna come—”
Frankie lets out a long, quiet groan, shuddering like he had in the living room, and you whisper encouragement in his ear.
“Sorry,” he moans. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” you murmur, not entirely sure what he’s sorry about. He doesn’t let you move from him, your foreheads pressed together, lips molded as he comes back to Earth. 
“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”
“I’m…oh, fuck,” he says, kissing you all over your face. “I’m amazing.” He kisses your nose. “You’re amazing.”
“Yeah?”
After he takes some time to breathe, you’re able to move from his lap, his softening cock slipping from you. You could’ve kept him in there all night, you think. 
He ties off the condom and throws it away, throwing on boxers and says he’s going to check and make sure Franny’s still asleep. 
You make your way into his bathroom to clean up, putting your clothes back on and dreading whatever post-orgasm clarity conversation was about to happen. His mumbled apologies seemed like a bad sign, and your stomach churns. 
He’d also said nice stuff, things you know better than to take seriously if men were in the heat of the moment, but you don’t think you’d mind bossing him around if he let you. As you open the door, you take a deep breath and find him sitting on the bed with a glass of water on the nightstand. 
Dammit, he’s so pretty. 
“Hey,” he says softly. “We should probably talk—”
“Look, I get it,” you cut him off, trying to get ahead of him. “I’m still fine to stay here through the day tomorrow. I can give you some good referrals to other sitters—”
“What do you mean?” He asks, frowning. “Why would I need that? Are…you’re quitting?”
“No, I mean—I thought you’d want to remove any complications,” you explain. 
“You’re not a complication,” he says, holding his hand out. You look at it warily, taking it with suspicion. “I wanted to tell you I’m rescheduling my flight so I don’t have to leave tomorrow.”
“Really?” You ask, and he nods, handing you the glass of water. 
“You thought I was gonna fire you? After…that? Right before Christmas?” He asks. 
“I’ve heard plenty of stories, Frankie,” you murmur, taking a drink of water.
“I wanted to spend time with you. I want to take you on a date, if you’ll let me.”
“I’d love that,” you say, the constriction in your chest dissipating with his sweet smile. “I just…”
“What?” He asks, cupping your cheek. “You can tell me.”
“You don’t like me,” you say. 
“What?” 
“You don’t like me! You did, and then—and then you didn’t anymore, back in September. And you were apologizing when we—”
“I was being an idiot. I wanted to do what was best for Franny and I thought if I came onto you it would fuck everything up,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck and gives you a sheepish grin. “And I was apologizing because I came so fast. You just felt so good.”
“Oh,” you say, letting this information wash over you with another swig of water. 
“Oh?” He asks, his eyes all big and round and worried and sweet and how can a grown man be so cute?
“It’s a good ‘oh’. I’m glad I know. I like you, Frankie. I always have.”
“I like you, too.”
You fall asleep tangled in his arms, talking late into the night, and in the morning you wake up to the noise of a camera shuttering and several bright flashes. 
“Why you both in here?” Franny asks, clicking away like a miniature paparazzo. Your mouth opens and closes with all the grace of a land-dwelling bass fish, and blessedly, Frankie wakes up before you can answer. 
“Come here, mija, let me see that,” he says, and Franny climbs in bed with the two of you, presenting her camera to Frankie for inspection and successfully distracting her as you slip out to put your robe back and start breakfast. 
They come out of his room a few minutes later, and Frankie comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing the back of your neck. 
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
“It’s not Christmas yet.”
“Close enough,” he says.
Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
pedge-page · 4 months
Text
Cravings
Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x F!reader
Tumblr media
Summary: Pussy eating king frankie, who gets his aforementioned nickname when you tried to come up with ways to prevent him from relapsing back to coke.
Warnings: soooo much oral —pussy eating, cum eating, grinding, dry humping, cumming in pants, kissing, Frankie's mouth is everywhere, alcohol, drunk sex, unprotected sex, little dub con since Frankie doesn't ask if he can cum inside, overstimulation, free use esc situations
Notes: This is NOT the Frankie free-use series I mentioned before; I'm a bit delayed with writing it, so here's something else i had started as a drabble but then... did not stay a drabble. Please like and reblog if you enjoy this fic!
18+ ONLY
- - - -
Rather than drowning himself in coke, Santi slyly suggest he drowns himself in pussy instead. The guys around the table laughed, but you kind of agreed and told him you'd help set him up on hookups. Frankie didn't want to go through the trouble of having to find a potentially different girl each night. Plus, his cravings were sporadic. He would need his fix in that moment whenever it came.
He remembered back when you had drunkenly admitted guys could hardly satisfy you because you had a high drive, usually cumming on your fingers at least 6 times a day before bed, often times more on lonely weekends. He was left speechless at the time, but now he couldn't get Santi's proposition mixed with that knowledge of you out of his head.
You tried to cook him meals instead or buy him hoards of candy, but the idea was stuck in his mind. You knew you'd be a convenient alternative, given you only lived less than 10 minutes away and was always around when he needed help. But you were afraid of crossing that line with one of your all time best friends.
Eventually, being around him so much—"on call" as the boys put it—left you susceptible to his sweet touches, ghosting lips against your ears, sporadic twitches and jittery hands, antsy fingers dancing along your hips. You considered the option heavily before finally caving: you were doing this to HELP him, as his friend. Just a little relief every so often when he absolutely needed it.
You came 9 times on his tongue the first time. It wasn't even that he was trying to make you cum, but the eagerness in the way he moved so fast, growling and moaning at the taste, his lips attached and never left your heat. His big nose just perfectly bumping your clit each time he pointed his tongue dove deep into your craving hole, curling up and hitting that soft spot inside you left you shaking and crying out his name, back arched and fingers clawing at his shoulders.
He was sated for almost 6 days (and you needed the ample recovery time because not even your fingers could make you cum so hard) before the craving hit again. Incessant knuckles pounded your doorstep. You had barely unlocked the door before he was shoving himself in and devouring your mouth with his. "I need another hit, carniño."
He didn't wait for a response, knocking you on your ass on the sofa and stripping your sweats and panties off before throwing one leg over his shoulder. Flattening his tongue, he licks a long strip along from your hole to your clit, obscenely guttural moans from the back of his throat filled your ears. He looked wild-eyed and crazy, as if starved for weeks and was finally given the sugar rush of the century.
You inevitably move in with him, claiming his spare bedroom, worried about how bad he gets when he goes anything longer than a few hours without you.
He makes you ride his face until you're suffocating him, and he still can't get enough. Your juices flood his mouth and nose and his eyes roll back as he loses air. You try to get off and apologies, but he's caged your thighs with his muscular arms, holding your pussy flat against his face as he devoured you more, ignoring your squirming pleas. He hums against your nub, the vibrations sending you into your own addictive high. You cum again, and again, and again, and soon you're tugging his hair, crying his name with fat tears down your cheek, leaning back and scratching at his chest to let off, but its useless. He's so lost in your cunt that you become light headed, barely holding on to the headboard as your lower body continues to spasm.
He only pulls off for a minute, squeezing his nostrils to force out your juices. He's so dazed, pupils blown wide, beard and mustache drenched in your slick, so pussy-drunk and in love that he wants to do it again. "Sweetest fucking cunt, I swear. Just wanna curl up and live inside here, querida."
You offer to suck him off but he gestures embarrassingly down, where you turn to see a dark splotch on the belt-line of his pants where the tip of his spent cock peaks out, dribbling little white drops onto his lower belly, having cum untouched just from eating you out.
It gets to the point where you lock yourself in the bathroom when you take a shower just to have 10 minutes of peace. Your pussy is so puffy, clit so swollen from his constant assault day and night that you have to calm down and remind yourself what good its doing for him. He hasn't touched the white powder in weeks.
He's wondered where you've gone when he sees the bathroom light illuminate under the door. He knocks a few times, then raps harsher with his fists, calling out your name. You tell him you just need a minute. The makeshift locks on the bathroom door of Frankie's apartment isn't designed to keep an ex militant out, and he just pushes it forward with enough force that it gives way and he let's himself in. You go to cover yourself when he pulls the shower curtains away, but the same needy expression on his face as he narrows in to the slit between your legs has you aching once again. It's Pavlovian, the way he stares, practically drooling, hands twitching by his side, sending signals to your cunt to start dripping for his appetite. He spins you around so your cheek is smothered against tile, ass out towards him, not caring about the water drenching his baseball cap, grey shirt and pants as he kneels on the shower floor and puts his face between your legs. He moans when his lips start sucking on your nub, tongue thrusting in and out of your hole. He keeps you in your spread position with his arms holding your waist, making their way to spread your ass for him to dive further in, knees between your heels. You reach one arm back, knocking his cap off as you card your fingers through his damp hair, gripping it when you cum and grind yourself back on his scruffy face.
He's otherwise so gentle, so soft spoken, but when he gets between your legs, something primal takes over and you can hardly recognize him.
Sometime in the evening while you were watching a movie, you see his knee bouncing next to you. You has snapped at him earlier and refused his hunger when he peppered kisses all over your neck, down your back, then tried to yank your pants down while you were cooking dinner for the two of you, nearly burning your arm on the stove from such force.
You hated that you had outright refused him for the first time, but the truthfully the swollenness between your legs needed rest before he wrecked you again. He's biting his lip so hard, stealing glances at you before rubbing his hair and shifting his cap back on.
You instead take your top off, having gotten comfortable enough to go without a bra when it was just the two of you. Frankie is a bit shocked, only used to seeing you strip your pants first before anything else.
You crawl over to him before sitting in his lap, thighs spread over his. He swallows the lump in his throat, unable to take his eyes off of your tits right in front of him. His legs are still bouncing in agitation, the movement making your breasts jiggle right in front of him. He groans, licking his lips, breathing heavily.
"She needs a break, Fish," you said quietly, your soft and small hands seeking his big and callous ones, pulling them up over your waist before letting them settle on your cups.
He doesn't hesitate or ask further, head leaning forward and lips immediately latching on to your nipple. He moans, eyes closed as he sucks around the areola, tongue swirling your pebble as he kneads them in his hands.
You're trying so hard not to grind down on his cock, instead sitting upright on your knees so you're not fully resting your damp panty-covered crotch against the tent in his pants. The position is more head level with your tits, but he doesn't like that. He grips your hips to bring you flush against him, gasping out when you instinctually start rocking your hips steadily against his clothed length.
He noticed how heavily your chest is flexing, glaring up at you to see your brows furrowed, face tilted towards the ceiling trying not to cum on him. He cups his hands against your cheeks and brings you in for a sweet kiss, his lips slotting perfectly against yours as his hands return to palming your breasts. He presses his forehead against yours so your eyes meet, goosebumps wracking your whole body at the lust behind his eyes, and something more you couldn't place. "So good to me, querida. Perfect lips"—he gently pecks your lips—"perfect tits"—then a generous kiss to each of your breasts—"my perfect girl." You could smell the scent of your pussy on his lips, as if they'd be stained there now. Kissing your lips, your throat, collarbone, down the valley of your breasts, and erect nipples, and all the way back up again, was enough to keep his mouth busy and his craving subsided. And it worked almost as well, the two of you cumming sticky and wet against one another in your underwear with heavy sighs and sated eyes; you had calmed him down enough to get him to remove his clothes and put on a fresh pair of boxers before tucking him to his own bed with your favorite blanket.
As you tip toed into the bathroom to prep for a bath, you stared at your naked reflection: how swollen, and red your breasts were, covered in raised bite marks the shape of Frankie's jaws. Among your new scars are the faded scratches and bruises of Frankie's fingertips on your waist, stomach and lower back from how incessantly he devours you while his face is buried in your sopping pussy, like he had to sink his claws into you so you wouldn't slip away as he feasted. You look like you were attacked by a passionate lion.
His sweet nothings every time he stared into your eyes was what really turned you on. You tell yourself that it was just the withdrawal symptoms talking. That he was basically just high on a new drug.
-
To you, it must have looked like Frankie's craving were only getting worse with how increasingly frequent his lips found themselves attached to your body. In truth, his desire for coke steadily grew less, and it wasn't the replacement of the powder that he was seeking from you but rather the insaitability of finally having you that grew stronger.
The rest of boys noticed the effects you're having on Frankie too. They see it when he meets them for a drink every other Saturday, the way he anxiously taps his foot under the table, glancing around like he's unsure what to do, where to go, because he can't sit still. It's the signs of his cravings kicking back in, and they're all worried at first. But it's not until you up show later and slide into the booth next to him that they notice: Frankie casually drapes his arm around your shoulders like he always did—that part was normal. But what was new is how they could visibly see Frankie's heart rate slow, the way he slumped against the bench and completely calmed down from just your presence.
They also couldn't help but notice the way his eyes raked you with a mix of lust, love, and obsession, his dark gaze never once leaving the sight of you the entire night. All the while you laughed and chatted with them about your week, oblivious to the change in demeanor of your friend from just a few months ago.
You assured the boys that you two weren't fucking—and it was true, you hadn't slept with him once. albeit a few blow jobs, it was exclusively just Frankie eating you out or kissing. You were very hopeful that his cravings were going to go away soon since its the longest he's been off coke. You were even talking to your old landlord to see if your old apartment a few blocks away still had openings since you'd be moving out of Frankie's place soon. Santi couldn't help but see Frankie's dejection, his arm sliding away from you as he excused himself to get more beer.
By the end of the night, Frankie was drunk out of his mind. Will suggested he slow down so he wouldn't pass out before he could walk home. It sounded like a good plan, until Francisco glanced over to the bar and saw you sitting there and smiling at a guy who was flirting with you. Fish took a giant gulp of his beer, downing the entire jug before slamming it on the table and striding out of the booth towards you. He overheard the guy asking if you had a ride home tonight.
"She comes home with me. Every. Night," he slurred, his sweaty palm skimming possessively over your jean-clad thigh and snaking between your legs, face coming so close to you that your noses slide against each other. Frankie's eyes bore into yours with so much desire, it bordered on range. You knew those were his craving eyes. The pungent smell of alcohol on his breath made you flinch as he tried to pull you in for a kiss. You quickly tell the confused guy that he's your roommate and you need to get him home immediately. You could barely finish excusing yourself from the stranger before Frankie was dragging you out of the bar. You managed to wave to the others, making a drinking gesture and pointing to Frankie before being yanked into the street.
He was stumbling all over the place, breath uneven as you hoisted him up to lean against you, eventually making it through his apartment entrance and turning the key to unlock his unit.
With a renewed sense of urgency, Frankie slammed the door close behind him and pinned you up against it, his hands roaming your body as his mouth desperately sought yours. "Craving," he mumbled against your open lips. "Need"—tongue forcing its way into your mouth, he nipped at your lower lip, sucking on it before releasing with a pop— "need you," he panted.
"I know, I know—Jesus Fish. I'm—gonna help—gonna take care of you—" you breathed, ashamed of how quickly you could feel your panties dampen. It never bothered him though, and only encouraged his sweet tooth more. You weren't nearly as drunk as him, but your few margaritas made you extremely susceptible, even welcoming, to his touch.
You hummed into his shoulder when his hard bulge rubbed purposefully against your covered core. He bit your earlobe as he fisted your low-neck shirt before pulling it down roughly, the fabric tearing away. You gasped, ready to scold him but he pressed his mouth on you again, teeth clashing, his hands slotting down your body to pinch, grope, scratch at any bit of skin he could get.
"So—so good t'me. Always taking—such good care of me, cariño."
His fingers dip into your ass and hoist you up so he's carrying you, your arms and legs wrapped securely around him as he boldered through his apartment, kicking his door open before tossing you on the bed, watching you bounce. You never break eye contact as you unbutton your jeans at the same time Frankie pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside to unfasten his belt and zipper.
Clambering over you to reseal your lips, you breath in his scent, hands exploring his tone arms, down his chest and muscle middle all the way to the little pooch of tummy hanging. His hands gripped your jeans and pulled them along with you down the length of the bed, bringing you to the edge, his grip pushing up on the back of your thighs so your knees are digging against your rib cage, pulsing pussy exposed at his mercy. "I fuckin' love this pussy, querida," he growled before burying his face between you folds for the thounsandth time. "So fuckin' wet for me," he mumbled against your thigh, nipping at the skin.
He ate you out with precision, eyes hungry watching you, determined to make you fall apart quickly. He wasn't doing it for his own taste, but the sheer satisfaction of watching you writhe for him, knowing your body inside out as the only one who could get you like this. He's languidly thrusting two fingers in and out. You didn't even need to be stretched: he'd practically been prepping you for months now. You're crying out into the air as you cum, hips bucking against his nose with your heels digging into his shoulder blades. Frankie pulls away, kissing your stomach and up your tits before making you taste yourself on his lips.
The feeling of his cock nudging your entrance make your once dazed eyes go wide and alert. He pauses, suddenly worried. He can't read your expression, time dragging out too long and it scares the fuck out of him that he's taking it too far, that you didn't agree to this.
He had wanted to tell you everything right then: how he dreams of you riding him, or when he fists his cock in the shower when you're at work to the thought of what your tight walls would feel like wrapped around him when first violates you, how he automatically gets aroused now when he just sees you or smells your laundry, or admitting how many times he's actually cum in his pants without you noticing when he is buried between your legs, dying to have you cum around his cock instead of his tongue.
It's not until you sense his hesitation that you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close, sharing the same breath of air, nodding as your calves hook over his ass and squeeze his hips, the tip of his flush cock slipping in to your wet heat.
You both sigh heavily into each other's mouth when he takes charge again and thrusts fully inside you. He scrunches his eyes closed, forehead dipping down to your breast bone to revel in the overwhelming feeling of the tight space inside you.
You warmly caress his hair to bring him back up to you, kissing him and whispering, lips trembling, "Don't—don't think about it. Just... just use me."
His heart sank: You probably just thought this was another hit for him.
He didn't want to think about the fact that you were everything he'd needed in that moment, the image of perfection beneath him beautifully laid out for his eyes, his touch, but not for his soul. He gritted his teeth, pulling out then slamming back in, jolting your whole body up the mattress. It was fast, rough, and not at all how he wanted your first time to be with him, but he couldn't control his urges. He was gasping loudly as he fucked you, your cunt gushing around his member, the obscene sound of slick and skin slapping skin echoing in his otherwise empty apartment.
He brought his thumb to rub messy circles on your clit, sending you into a spasm of praises and expletives, but the most satisfying sound was his name repeated over and over again.
He barely manages to pull out before jerking his cock only twice and creaming all over your folds and clit. Groaning in post orgasmic bliss, he watches you heaving and shaking, filthy pussy covered in his seed. Half of his mind is only working now as he slides back down to lap you clean with his mouth, his own saltiness filling his throat, fingers scissoring inside to get your juices flowing, obsessed with the sight in front of him: your back arched off the bed, heels digging into his lower back as his hands pinning your hips down flat so he can work his mouth over you. And then you're cumming again, so angelic on his tongue, your sweet moans going right to his dick, hardening once again as he ruts into the mattress. He nips your clit and sucks, reluctant to pull away as he lines up and splits you open. You scream out, and if it weren't for the way your barely-recovered battered walls kept sucking him back in, he'd be worried you're in pain. His hands hook under your lower back, lifting you off the bed as he plows into your squelching cunt over and over again.
Youre both covered in a thin layer of sweat, the pillows and comforter of his bed strewn haphazardly around the floor as he dominates you. The headboard slammed recklessly agains the wall, and neither of you cared about your neighbors trying to sleep at 1 in the morning. He ignores the oversensitivity of his cock and your clit, forcing you both into an unexpected climb of another orgasm like it was a primal need.
It was happening without warning; he should be asking for permission, but he knew you took the pill, and he's been dying to release inside you from the moment you first let him put his lips on you. You're cumming on his cock again, hips bucking and grinding against him without your clit being touched, and he was done for.
With a harsh cry, he climaxes again, his length flooding your womb with ribbons of white. His arm shoots in front of him, flat on the bed next to your ear to hold himself up so he didn't crash down on you as his hips jerked, pushing his seed deeper in to you.
He rested most of his weight on top of you, labored breaths combined into one. He kisses the top of your nose, whispering "thank you," unsticking your sweaty bodies as he rolls you two over to have you lying on top, your head next to his. He pats your hair over your ear, pebbling your forehead and eyelids in kisses. His cock twitched in your spent heat, cum leaking out and dripping down to his balls and on the bed.
"Glad I—could...help..." you mumbled, eyes already closed as you drifted into sleep.
His softening dick slipped from your pussy, warm hands wiping you with his shirt before settling you gently on a pillow. He watched the gentle rise and fall of your breaths, naked and fast alseep on his bed. He pulled his sheets higher to your shoulder, his heart beating faster at the way you snuggled further into his pillow.
Frankie stared at the ceiling for hours, hand on his forehead in anguish, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to tell you it wasn't cocaine he was craving last night.
- - - -
Part 2: Crash
Series masterlist
2K notes · View notes
beskarandblasters · 4 months
Text
Bluffing Season
Enemies to Lovers!Frankie Morales x F!Reader
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Main Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist
Author’s note: Ya know like “cuffing season” lmao!! Thank you to @pascalispretty, @fhatbhabie, and @hyzer34 for beta reading! 🤍
Summary: Frankie Morales is your next door neighbor of the worst kind. To put it simply, you two can’t stand each other. But when his girlfriend breaks up with him right before the holidays he asks you to be his fake date for Christmas, not wanting to go home to his family single yet again. You reluctantly say yes and as you spend time with him you realize he’s not as terrible as you once thought.
Word count: 14.6k (what the fuck lol)
Warnings: reader is able-bodied, reader is a baker, two years post Triple Frontier, slow burn, enemies to lovers, fake dating, jealousy, made up lore for Frankie/his family tree, reader lowkey got mommy issues (just a shitty family in general), drinking, mentions of drugs, food/eating, Frankie describing his trauma, some Spanish used, oral sex (F receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, pet names (cariño), sort of ambiguous time skips, Frankie is either a Libra or a Scorpio!!, no use of y/n
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Late October
Beep Beep Beep
Ugh. Another shit start to your day with shit sleep as per usual. Running your own bakery means a lot of early mornings. Normally you don’t mind waking up early since you love what you do. You bought a new house on Magnolia Drive eight months ago which made your commute to the bakery much shorter. However… Your realtor neglected to tell you that it came with the worst neighbor on the face of the Earth. His name is Frankie and you can’t stand him. When you first moved in, he seemed normal, an ex-military, single guy living on his own. The deception didn’t last long, though. Because after about two weeks of living next to him, the shitstorm commenced. And now you wished you picked literally any other house in this city. His friends are at his house all the time, one of them always blocking your driveway with their pickup truck. They stay until at least four in the morning, blasting music when Frankie knows you have to work early the next day. He’s probably the worst neighbor in the entire state of Florida. 
You’re getting in your car to start your morning commute for work when Frankie is grabbing the morning paper from his mailbox. You physically recoil when you see him. There’s a harsh line of demarcation separating your lawn from his because he cuts his grass once in a blue moon. It’s such an eyesore.  
“Have you thought about, I don’t know, cutting your lawn?” you ask before shutting your car door.
He shoots you the middle finger and mouths something you can’t hear. You roll down the window for him to take a few steps closer to your car and repeat, “Stop feeding the fucking stray cats.”
Okay, maybe you aren’t the perfect neighbor either. But doesn’t he deserve it anyway?
“Bite me,” you respond, rolling your eyes and backing out of your driveway.
He rolls his eyes, too, and storms off. You giggle to yourself, feeling proud that you got a rise out of him. If he’s going to piss you off the least you could do is return the favor. 
-
Work is fine, a little busier than normal. But the afternoon exhaustion is hitting. You can’t wait to go home, take a shower, and maybe get some sleep before Frankie’s friends come over. It’s Friday and they’ll be even more unruly than they normally are during the week. Don’t they have lives? Or like… a fucking family to go home to?? Probably not if they’re hanging out with the likes of him. 
But alas, it’s finally time to go home. You close up the bakery and get in your car to drive back, excited to just melt into the couch for a few hours. As you turn onto your street you see that Frankie’s driveway is empty, for now, that is. He’s not outside, either. So that means you get to just slip inside your house without a hostile interaction for once. Score!
You pull into your driveway, get out of your car, and start walking towards your front door when a disgruntled voice stops you dead in your tracks. 
“Hey!”
Not again. 
“What do you want now?” you say, whipping around and using the bitchiest voice you can muster. 
“Cut your fucking tree,” Frankie says, holding up a lemon. 
…Is he fucking for real? 
You have a lemon tree at the edge of your backyard and a few branches hang over the fence and into Frankie’s yard. You never thought to trim it because you assumed you were doing something nice for him, letting him have some of the lemons. But no, apparently he wants to complain about free fruit. 
“You’re complaining about… free fruit?”
He stutters a bit, tripping on his words as if he just realized how stupid he sounds.
“I guess not.”
“That’s what I thought,” you say, turning and heading into your house.
The fucking nerve of that man. 
The rest of the night is pretty uneventful aside from a bitter man complaining about free fruit. You hear Frankie’s friends next door and grumble to yourself. How do they have the energy to party every single day of the week? You turn in early and do your best to ignore how loud they are, getting ready for another busy day at the bakery. Tomorrow’s Saturday, the busiest day of the week, and you need to be well rested. Well rested as you can be with all the noise from next door. 
-
The morning’s been typical so far; wake up feeling exhausted, argue with Frankie in the driveway, drive to work, open the bakery; and the usual stuff. It isn’t until halfway through your business hours that something… interesting happens. A woman enters the shop and browses the cakes in your display case. 
“I’d like to get some writing on a cake.”
“Sure! Which one would you like?”
“That one,” she says, pointing to one on the bottom, a vanilla cake with vanilla buttercream and strawberries in the middle. 
“Okay,” you say, grabbing it out of the case and taking it to your decorating table, “What would you like it to say?”
“Well, it’s for my boyfriend, Frankie so I’d like it to say “Happy birthday, Franklin” with a fish. I guess his nickname was catfish in the military.”
You know for a fact this is for Frankie because of the nickname. You’ve heard his friends screaming it next door when they’re drunk. But you also know for a fact his name is not Franklin, it’s Francisco. You didn’t have to ask him or anything, Amazon has delivered some of his packages to your house in the past by mistake. So this is fucking hilarious. 
“Any specific color for the writing?” you ask, stifling a chuckle. 
“Black is fine.”
You get to work on the writing and have mixed feelings. It’s kinda shitty that his own girlfriend doesn’t know his full name. And it’s also shitty that he’s going to have a birthday cake at his party with the wrong name on it. You should feel bad but… Nah, this guy sucks. 
You glance over at his girlfriend before moving on to the fish. Although she clearly doesn’t know her boyfriend that well at all, you can’t deny that she’s beautiful. And all of a sudden you’re feeling… jealous? Wait, why are you getting jealous of her? For a guy you can’t even stand?
You gotta finish decorating this cake and get her out of here so you can try to deal with your conflicting feelings. You package the cake back up and walk it to the counter to cash her out. 
“Okay, your total is fifty-three forty-nine. Cash or card?”
“Card,” she says, tapping it on the counter. 
The receipt prints out of the machine for her to sign but before you hand it to her you look at the name printed on the bottom; Heather Ryan. 
“Okay, just need your signature and then you’re all set!” 
She signs her name on the receipt and slides it back to you. 
“It looks great! Thank you so much!” she says before grabbing the cake and leaving. 
Now that she’s gone you can process your weird and sudden emotions. You didn’t know he had a girlfriend and to be honest, it kind of surprises you that he has one in the first place considering his… lifestyle. But why are you jealous? He’s the worst. 
Although… When you first moved in, you did think he was kinda cute before he showed his true colors. He got you with his curly brown hair peeking out underneath his hat but the attraction didn’t last long. Once his antic began, the attraction dissipated. 
…Or so you thought.
Stop it, you tell yourself. He has made your life hell for the better part of a year. 
You bury down your weird and confusing feelings for now, trying to continue the rest of the day as normal. The rest of the day is pretty uneventful and soon enough five o’clock rolls around. Just as you’re locking up the bakery, you get a text from your friend, Ally. 
Hey, bestieee!! Drinks tonight?
You know what, why not?
You respond with: 
Oooh, what time and where?
You get in your car and drive home, excited to have something to look forward to tonight. And at least you’ll be gone for some of Frankie’s antics. As you pull into your driveway you notice his friends aren’t there yet, all the better for you. You  check your phone and Ally says;
7:30. Let’s go to the Harp tonight!! I’ll meet you there. 
She’s referring to a bar downtown but to you, it honestly doesn’t matter where you go. You need to blow off some steam and work through your weird feelings with your friend, get her opinion on this random burst of jealousy you’re feeling. 
You take a shower, change into a skirt and fitted tee, and do your makeup before getting ready to leave. Just to find one of Frankie’s friends blocking your driveway, of course. Why wouldn’t they do this shit on the one night you have plans?
Nah, this isn’t going to fly. You gotta say something. You march right over to his door and judging by the noise coming from inside, his birthday party is tonight. Alright, maybe you won’t be a huge bitch about this right now. Especially when you know how his birthday cake turned out…
You knock and someone other than Frankie answers the door. You recognize him as one of Frankie’s friends but you can put a name to his face. 
“Oh, shit! Neighbor girl is here!” he says, calling out to Frankie over his shoulder. 
Before you can ask him about the truck blocking your driveway he says, “I’m Benny. Come on in!”
Yeah, he’s clearly drunk. Whatever this will be quick. You reluctantly step inside and look around. You’ve never actually been inside Frankie’s house before. It’s honestly nicer than you expected considering his lifestyle and the way he keeps his lawn. You’re standing in his living room with Frankie and three other men. You’re feeling anxious all of a sudden but you don’t show it. Who knows what Frankie said about you to these guys? 
“Look who it is, Fish!” Benny says, putting a hand on your shoulder. 
“Guys, this is my neighbor,” Frankie says. He looks a little… nervous? You’ve never seen him like this before. 
“I’m Santiago,” a man with dark hair says, shaking your hand. 
“Nice to meet you,” you say, forcing a fake smile. 
“And this is Will,” Santiago continues, gesturing to a man with short blond hair. 
“You got anyone else coming, Fish?” Santiago asks, turning towards Frankie, “What about Heather?”
“Uh, she’s not coming.”
“Shit, man. Is everything alright?”
“We’re fine. But actually, can you help me with something in the kitchen?” Frankie asks, making eye contact with you. He looks bothered, like there’s something he wants to say but isn’t letting it come out. 
“Sure,” you reply, following him to the kitchen where he opens the refrigerator. The cake is sitting on the shelf in its box and your stomach drops. Poor guy. 
He grabs the cake from the refrigerator and sets it on the kitchen counter. 
“Can you help fix this? She put the wrong name,” he says, opening the lid to reveal the cake you decorated earlier today.
“I can try. Can you get me a butter knife?”
He opens his silverware drawer and hands you a knife. 
“Well, I think I can smear out the name and make a swirly pattern around the happy birthday?”
“Whatever you have to do,” he says softly. 
You take the knife and swipe away the “Franklin”, making a tie-dye design on the cake but stopping at the fish.
“You want me to leave the fish?”
“Nah, scrap it. Catfish is pretty much the only thing she knew about me anyway,” he says dejectedly.
“Right…” you respond awkwardly, swiping away your hard work from earlier. You can only assume he doesn’t know this birthday cake is from your bakery. But you fix the cake the best you can so it just says “Happy Birthday” with a swirly design. 
“That better?” 
“Yes. Thank you,” he says, letting out a sigh, “I just didn’t want them to see it.”
“I get that-”
“Let’s get this fucking party started!” Benny says, entering the kitchen and slamming a six-pack of beer on the counter. 
“Oh, actually I have to go-” you start. 
“What?? No way, you gotta stay,” Benny says, putting an arm around your shoulders. 
You could stay and just cancel your plans with Ally. But this is Frankie’s birthday party and you weren’t exactly invited. And you’re both aware of how much you painfully dislike each other. You look at Frankie, searching his eyes for an indication of how he’s feeling. 
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” he says softly. 
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna impose.”
“Nooo, stay,” Benny says, looking at you with a wide grin on his face. 
“By all means,” Frankie says. 
“Fuck yeah,” Benny says, “Can I get you a drink? We have all sorts of shit.”
“Hard cider?”
“A woman with taste. I like it,” he says, removing the arm around your shoulders and opening the refrigerator. 
You pull out your phone to text Ally. It has to be something inconspicuous. She knows you hate Frankie with a passion so you can’t exactly say you’re partying with him and his friends right now. Maybe just lie and say you’re sick? 
You do exactly that, saying your stomach is bothering you. Just as you press send, Benny’s hanging you your hard cider. And now it’s just the three of you in Frankie’s kitchen, standing around awkwardly. 
“I have some of the MMA guys coming, too. That alright?” Benny says. 
“Fine with me. The more the merrier,” Frankie smiles. But the smile seems forced. 
Just Frankie says that there’s a knock on the door and it’s the guys Benny was referring to. A handful of men pile into Frankie’s living room with Will and Santiago, and now you’re the only girl here. And also sort of regretting your decision to cancel on Ally. 
“Let me introduce to you some of my friends!” Benny says cheerfully, grabbing your hand and leading you back to the living room. You exchange hello’s with Benny’s friends, a group of four guys whose names you can’t really be bothered to remember. 
Soon enough the folding table is pulled out and all of the guys are playing beer pong. You decide to just stand and watch, sipping your drink and keeping to yourself… except for Benny, who has been by your side all night. At first, it was kind of annoying but now that you’re talking to him he’s actually pretty cute. Or it’s just the alcohol talking. 
“Can I get you another drink?” he asks when yours is empty. 
“Sure,” you smile, handing the empty bottle to him. 
Now that you’re alone for a moment your eyes are scanning the room again, and they lock eyes with Frankie, who’s playing beer pong but not really paying attention. Benny comes back with your drink, handing it to you and leaning against the wall with his arm raised over his head. 
“Frankie never mentioned just how gorgeous you are.”
“Oh! Thank you,” you respond, caught you off guard. You’re feeling awkward, not knowing what to say back so your eyes are searching the room again. And once again, they lock with Frankie’s, whose eyes are… angry? But why is he angry? Is he… jealous? Nah, no way. He has a girlfriend. But she’s also proved herself to be shitty. And besides that, you two hate each other. Unless… you really don’t?
You decide to do a little experiment. Benny is super hot, but maybe you could turn up the flirting a bit and see just how jealous Frankie gets. 
And that’s exactly what you do. You’re laughing at all Benny’s jokes, falling for every cheesy pickup line, doing the thing where you look from his eyes, down to his lips, and back up to his eyes, literally anything to flirt. And even though it’s for an experiment, you’re having fun and you could actually see yourself maybe liking Benny.
You look over at Frankie, and to your surprise (and also delight?), he’s looking directly at you. His eyes are almost pleading with you. But at the end of the day, you don’t owe him anything. And he’s taken. So why stop all the fun?
“I just can’t believe this is the first time we’re meeting,” Benny says, shaking his head.
“I didn’t know Frankie had such nice friends!” you respond. 
Benny leans a little closer to you, his eyes fixed on your lips. Oh shit, is he really gonna kiss you? Right here? Right now? In front of everyone? 
But also… why not? 
You lean forward more too, inching closer and closing the gap between you two. Just as your lips are about to meet, Santiago shouts, “Jesus, Fish! What are you doing?!” 
You pull away from each other and look at what’s going on. It seems that Frankie royally screwed up the round of beer pong because he and Santiago just lost. 
“Alright, alright. Don’t yell at the birthday boy,” Will laughs. 
Santiago sighs and says, “Best two out of three?”
The other men shrug but Frankie excuses himself, saying, “I need another drink.”
You can’t help but feel like that was your fault. Shit, maybe Frankie does have some sort of crush on you? Because why else would he get jealous over his friend flirting with you? Wouldn’t he want that to happen, as a means of burying the hatchet between you two?
“I have to use the bathroom,” you say to Benny. 
“Down the hall on your right,” he says.
You set your drink down on the coffee table and walk through the kitchen, but before you head to the bathroom you take a look at Frankie, who’s sipping a beer and looking at his birthday cake. A look of confusion and uncertainty on his face. You just can’t help but feel bad for him in some sort of weird way. But there’s also a nagging feeling deep down inside you that’s telling you that you shouldn’t feel bad for him. This guy has been nothing but a complete asshole to you. Why do you care so much about his feelings? 
You head down to the bathroom and pull out your phone. There’s a text from Ally and thankfully she wasn’t upset about the plans getting canceled. But you look at the time and decide, you should just go home. Besides, it’s getting a little boring watching the men play beer pong and you’re running out of things to talk about with Benny. 
You head back into the living room and say to Benny, “I think I’m gonna head home.”
“Aw, okay. I’ll catch you later. But maybe you can come to one of my matches sometime?”
“I’d like that,” you smile. 
You poke your head into the kitchen and tell Frankie you’re leaving.
“Happy birthday by the way,” you say. 
He nods and waves his hand a little before you bid your goodbyes to everyone else and walk next door. And the only thought on your mind is… What the hell just happened?
You flop down on your couch and the room feels like it’s spinning, your mind swirling with all sorts of thoughts and emotions. You’re feeling a weird mix of confusion, pity, and also… apathy? You run through the basics: 
1. Frankie’s girlfriend sucks. 
2. It’s shitty that his birthday cake was messed up. 
3. You really don’t mind Benny at all and can see yourself liking him. 
4. At the end of the day, Frankie is still an asshole. 
And that trumps everything else, no matter how bad you feel for him. 
-
Mid-December 
Several weeks have gone by and you haven’t seen much of Frankie, or his friends for that matter. Lately, it feels like you've been living at the bakery twenty-four-seven. Especially since Thanksgiving just ended. But that also means you’re heading into another busy season; Christmas time. 
The holidays are your least favorite time of year. But running your own bakery means that you get to keep busy during the holidays. It’s always the perfect excuse for when your mother calls and asks why you’re not coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. You can usually get out of one and not the other. This year you skipped Thanksgiving so you’ll be due home for Christmas… unless you can think of another excuse to stay home again. But then you’ll get another phone call from your father claiming that “you’re breaking your mother’s heart” or whatever. 
From what you can tell, Frankie stayed home for Thanksgiving, too. Though you don’t know if his family is around here or not. His friends didn’t come over for Thanksgiving so you assume they were with their own families respectively. And you’re not really sure what happened with his girlfriend. So the two of you were just… alone that day. For some reason, the thought makes you kind of… sad? But like you told yourself weeks ago, don’t feel bad for Frankie, like at all. 
But now that you’re thinking of Frankie… he’s been his typical self, but maybe scaled back a bit? His lawn hasn’t been cut in God knows how long and his friends still come over to party here and there. But it’s definitely been a lot less than usual. Maybe the holidays are tough for him, too. 
Just as you’re leaving to go open the bakery the week before Christmas, you get a phone call from your mom. You sigh and roll your eyes because you already know what this is about. And you’ve been dreading this phone call since Thanksgiving. 
“Yes, mom?” you say as you answer the phone. 
“Is that any way to answer a phone call from your mother?” she says. God, you can already feel the judgment and disappointment seeping from her voice, even over the phone. 
“Ah, sorry Mom. How are you?”
“I’m just calling to see if we can expect you home for Christmas this year.”
“Uhh-”
“You know, since you broke your mother’s heart and didn’t come home for Thanksgiving.”
“I think.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I’ve just been really busy, uh, with the bakery and all.”
“That’s always the excuse. I’m getting sick of your shit. I need a straight answer as to whether or not you’ll be home for Christmas now.”
As you open your mouth to respond, probably with some poorly thought-out rebuttal since you’re so heated, you spot Frankie walking across his lawn toward you. Perfect escape from this phone call maybe?
“Shit sorry Mom. Gotta go. My neighbor’s coming up to me.”
As you pull the phone away from your ear and hang up, you hear your mom’s angry protests. But you’re too focused on Frankie to care. Because what could he want with you now? You haven’t done anything to piss him off lately. That you can remember anyway… 
“Hey,” he says with a shaky breath.
“Hi,” you say awkwardly.
“I need to ask you for a favor.”
“Okay…”
“Feel free to say no because it’s weird but I don’t know what else to do. And I’m sorry to drop this on you but-”
“Spit it out.”
“Will you come home with me for Christmas as my date? It would be fake, of course.”
Oh. You definitely weren’t expecting that to be the favor he needed. And for some reason him adding in “it would be fake, of course” is so funny. It’s so funny that you actually burst out into a fit of laughter. 
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re not being serious.”
“I am.”
“But… why?”
“My girlfriend broke up with me right before Thanksgiving.”
“Let me get this straight. She put the wrong name on your birthday cake and you let her break up with you first?”
“It’s not funny.”
“I know it’s not.”
“So, you’ll help me?”
“Why can’t you just go home alone?”
“Because I can’t go home for another holiday alone. I already skipped Thanksgiving. My family’s always pestering me about settling down and I can’t take it anymore.”
“What’s in it for me?” you sigh. 
“Uh, you don’t have to go home to your shitty family? I mean I’m just assuming from that phone call you just had.”
“Yeah and instead I get to go home to yours?”
“My family’s not shitty. They’re nothing like me.”
You can’t lie to yourself and say that the offer isn’t tempting. Because as soon as you mention the word “boyfriend” to your mother she’ll be all over it. Like Frankie’s family, your mom’s been pestering you to settle down, too. If you offer her some sort of crumb to give her the indication that you’re finally “settling down” maybe she’ll leave you alone for once. 
“Just think about it,” Frankie says while you’re contemplating his offer to himself. 
He turns to walk back to his house but you stop him before he goes anywhere.
“Wait!”
He turns around to face you again with a hopeful look in his eye. You can’t believe you’re actually agreeing to this.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess it beats going home to my family.”
“Thank you,” he says, pulling you in for a hug.
“Alright, the fake relationship hasn’t started yet,” you say, wincing at his embrace.
“Shit, you’re right,” he says, pulling away.
“How long are we there?”
“From the twenty-third until New Year’s. That okay with you? I know you have the bakery and all…”
It’s a little earlier than you prefer to close and it’s quite a long time to be gone but you suppose you can make do. Maybe you can catch a short flight home if you need to be back to the bakery by then?
“Yeah, fine with me. Where does your family live?”
“Savannah, Georgia.”
Oof, five hours in Frankie’s truck, just the two of you… But it’s worth it.
“Okay,” you sigh. 
“Great. Thank you so much. We’ll leave around ten, okay?”
“Alright. Sounds like a plan.”
“Oh, one more thing. Can you bake something?”
You let out a sigh. “Yeah, sure. I’ll think of what to make.”
“Thanks again,” he says, putting his hands together like he’s praying before turning and walking back to his house. You’re left in your driveway questioning all your life choices that led up to this moment. But now you get to call your mom and tell her about this mysterious boyfriend you just happened upon. 
You get in the car to leave for work and call your mom again, making sure to act a bit more pleasant this time. 
“Hello?”
“Hey, mom,” you say, putting on your cheeriest voice.
“What happened with your neighbor?”
“Oh, nothing. He just had a package for me. Got delivered to his house by accident.”
“Oh, okay. So are you coming home for Christmas or what?”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m sorry. But I have a good reason?”
“And that is?”
“I’m going to my boyfriend’s family’s Christmas.”
“Boyfriend? You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.”
“Uhh, it’s sort of new.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frankie.”
“Well, don’t fuck this one up. I want to meet him after Christmas, okay?”
Classic mom. She always has to make this about how much you suck.
“Of course. I’ll talk to you later, though. I gotta go open up the bakery.”
“Alright. Love you, bye.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
That’s the best phone call you’ve had with your mom in a while. Maybe pretending to date Frankie will be a good thing?
-
It’s time to go. You're dressed in a comfy outfit for the drive. Everything’s packed and ready to go. You decided to make lemon bars from the lemon tree in your backyard. They’re packed away neatly in your to-go container. You head outside with all of your bags and Frankie meets you in your hard to help you. 
“Jesus, did you pack the kitchen sink, too?”
“Wow, you’re so funny,” you say, rolling your eyes. 
You’re already questioning why you said yes to this. But then your mother’s nagging voice is deep in the back of your mind. 
It’s better than going home, you tell yourself.
You get into the passenger seat and Frankie backs out of the driveway. You look at his lawn out the window as you leave. Still not cut, of course. 
For the first thirty minutes of the drive, it’s painfully silent. Until Frankie says, “You let me know if you need to stop to pee or something.”
“Okay…” you say awkwardly.
Another fifteen minutes goes by and he breaks the silence again. 
“You know, if we want to sell this we have to act like a real couple.”
You were dreading this conversation.
“Yeah…”
“For one, we’ll probably gonna be sharing a bed.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And we have to act like we somewhat like each other when we’re not alone.”
“I know,” you sigh.
“Think you can do that?”
“I said yes to this, didn’t I?”
“Right…”
You can’t sit through another uncomfortable silence again. You’ve still got like four more hours of this drive to go. 
“I guess we have to get to know each other.”
“Right. So what do you do? Oh fuck, I know you have the bakery but I meant tell me about it.”
“Uhh, right. I opened it four years ago. I just make desserts, like pastries and shit.”
“Gotcha.”
“What about you?”
“I used to be in the Army, specifically the Delta Force.”
“Oh, wow. How long were you in the Army?”
“I joined right after I got out of high school.”
“Long time,” you comment, “When did you leave?”
“About three years ago. I was just a pilot for a while.”
“Gotcha. What do you do now?”
“Not much. I’ve been living off my pension for the past two years after some shit happened.”
“We don’t have to talk about-”
“Our friend passed.”
“Oh, Frankie. I’m sorry.”
He says nothing more and you’re so curious for more information but you don’t want to pry either. It falls silent again and then you decide to pry for more information about a less heavy topic. 
“So… if you don’t mind me asking, what happened with your girlfriend?”
“She broke up with me two days before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s rough. What did you tell your family?”
“I pretended I was sick.”
“I’m sorry, Frankie.”
“Don’t be. I probably should’ve ended things a while ago. I don’t think she had any idea about who I really am.”
“Right.”
“She didn’t even know my full name.”
The cake that you made. 
“Yeah…”
“She put the wrong name and didn’t even get a cake I like.”
“About that.”
“Hm?”
“Do you know where she got that cake from?”
“No.”
“She came to my store.”
“…Did you know it was the wrong name?”
“Well yes, but what was I supposed to say? She’s the customer. I can't correct her. I just have to write what she ordered.”
“I know…” he sighs. 
“Regardless, it doesn’t change the fact that she was the wrong person for you, okay?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I felt bad making it.”
“You did?”
“I mean, it’s kinda shitty if your girlfriend doesn’t know your name, right?” You chuckle. 
“Right again,” he nods, looking over at you from the driver's seat. 
“So what kind of cake do you like then?” you ask. 
“Chocolate. I’m a simple guy.”
“Noted. So now I know Frankie Morales used to be in the Army, used to be a pilot, and likes chocolate cake. Anything else I need to know?”
“That about sums me up I guess.”
“Oh, come on! There’s more to you than that. What do you like to do for fun? Besides partying.”
“Oh, uh, I like to play poker with my friends. I’m into cars. And we’ll go support Benny at some of his matches. That’s pretty much all I do these days.”
“And also not cutting your lawn.”
“Listen-”
“And complaining about free fruit,” you tease. 
“Alright, alright. I know I haven’t been the best neighbor in the past.”
“Uh-huh,” you say sarcastically. 
“I guess after what happened I went down a spiral. And I was just… selfish for a while. Only caring about what I wanted to do and not thinking how it affects others.”
“That’s fair. You went through something traumatic.”
He opens his mouth to say something else but no words come out. It feels like he’s hiding something or not telling the full truth. And he wants to tell you, but he feels just can’t, that you’re not ready for that just yet. 
It’s silent again and this time you find yourself dozing off with your cheek pressed up against the cool glass window. Somehow you’re able to fall asleep to Frankie’s music that he put on to fill the silence. You recognize it’s a Tom Petty song, but as you’re trying to put your finger on just what song it is, sleep fully overtakes you. 
-
You were only out for about an hour and a half. It’s hard to sleep for long periods in a truck. As you open your eyes and stretch a little, Frankie says, “Wake up, sleepyhead. You’re officially the worst co-pilot in the world.”
“Whatever,” you say sarcastically, also while stifling back a yawn. 
“I’m just teasing. You can go back to sleep if you want.”
“It’s fine. I probably shouldn’t sleep for too long anyway. It’ll mess up my sleep schedule.”
“Oof, my sleep schedule is pretty fucked up.”
You glare at him from the passenger seat. But he doesn’t get why, looking at you and going “What?” with a shrug.
“I noticed,” you say coldly. 
Everyone knows the best time to air your grievances with each other is when you’re trapped in a moving vehicle together!
“Okay… Why do you seem mad?”
“You and your friends are just… loud.”
“Oh.”
“And I have to be up early in the mornings to open the store.”
“Oh,” he says again like the realization is hitting him. 
“It’s alright…” you say awkwardly, even though it’s not. 
“It’s not alright. I wasn’t being considerate.”
“I know, but I didn’t say anything either.”
“You sure said something about my lawn,” he teases. 
“Because it’s a fucking eyesore, Francisco!”
“Be honest. You just wanted to see me mowing the lawn with my shirt off.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t lie! I saw the way you looked at me when you first moved in.”
“Oh, shut up!” you say, playfully slapping him on the arm. 
“You’re not denying it,” he says with a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah whatever. Maybe I thought you were cute when I first moved in. Didn’t last long, though.”
“I know,” he sighs, “I’m trying to be better. Ironically enough I think Heather dumping me was what I needed.”
“I think so, too.”
Before either of you can say anything else, Frankie’s passing a sign indicating there’s a rest stop ahead. 
“Can we stop? I have to pee,” you say. 
“Sure thing,” he says, pulling off the highway and into the rest stop parking lot. 
“Meet you back here?” you say, opening the door. 
“I’ll go with you. All sorts of seedy characters hang out at rest stops,” he says, getting out of the car and walking around to your side. 
He helps you get out of the truck and walks inside with you, placing a hand on the small on your back as you cross the parking lot. His head’s in a constant swivel, eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. 
“I think I’ll take it from here,” you say, stopping in front of the women’s restroom. 
“I’ll be waiting here,” he nods. 
You nod back and look at what he’s wearing; a burgundy t-shirt with a black zip-up sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and of course the Standard Oil cap. Now that you’re starting to see Frankie for who he really is… you don’t mind him at all? Seven months ago you never thought this would’ve happened, that you’d actually be civil with him. Maybe you just had to give him a chance. 
You do your business and walk back out to the lobby to meet Frankie. He’s on high alert, standing stiff as a board and taking in all of his surroundings. Until he sees you and his face lights up. 
“I got us some stuff for the road!” he says cheerfully, holding up a plastic bag. 
You look inside the bag and “some stuff” was an understatement. It looks like Frankie bought out the entire store. There are bottles of water, soda, different kinds of chips, candy, and gum- you name it, he bought it. 
“I wasn’t sure what you liked. So I just got a few different things,” he says, most likely noticing how wide your eyes got. 
“Thanks, Frankie. That was sweet of you.”
“Do you need anything else before we get back on the road?”
“I think I’m all set,” you nod. 
You walk back to the truck with him and he does the same thing he did before, placing a hand on your back as you cross the parking lot. He opens your door for you and you take the bag from him once you’re settled in your seat. He gets back into the driver seat and soon enough, you’re back on the road.
“So I should probably prepare you for meeting my family,” he says, reaching for a Slim Jim in the bag. 
“Oh god, why?” 
“They’re not bad. They’re just… a lot? But they mean well.”
“Okay.”
“So you have my mother, Rosa, and my father Francisco Sr. But he passed away when I was twenty.”
“I’m sorry, Frankie.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I have three older sisters.”
“You’re the baby of the family?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing. It just tracks.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thanks. My sisters are Ria, Isabel, and Laura. Ria is married to Emmanuel and they have two kids, Luna and Camila. They’re college-aged. And then Isabel is with her wife, Aurora.”
“Okay,” you respond, mentally trying to keep track of all this. 
“And then Laura is married to Rafael and they have three kids, Sofia, Anthony, and Marcelo. Sofia is twelve. I think Anthony’s nine or ten. And Marcelo is four. He’s my favorite.”
“Frankie! You’re not supposed to have favorites.”
“It’s not like I tell them that. I also have two aunts, Aunt Linda and Aunt Maggie. They’re my mother’s sisters. And then my Uncle Tommy, he’s my dad’s brother. And then there’s Cousin Ben, he’s Tommy’s son, around my age.”
You’re doing mental gymnastics, trying to memorize everyone’s names, ages, and who they’re married to. 
“Got all that?” Frankie says with a smirk, noticing the puzzled expression on your face. 
“I think so?”
“Don’t worry. Everyone will introduce themselves when we get there. They’re not gonna leave you alone so sorry about that in advance.”
“It’s alright. It beats going home to my family.”
“What are they like? I’m assuming they’re… not good if you don’t want to go home for the holidays.”
“Yeah, you’ve got it pretty much. My mom is super overbearing and nitpicking. I can’t do anything, or wear anything, or even say anything without her giving her two cents. My dad just sits there and lets her spew her bullshit without a filter. And then my younger sister, Erica, is just… perfect. She can’t do anything wrong in their eyes.”
“That sounds tough.”
“It is. I stopped going home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. I try to just do one each year but I can’t take it anymore.” 
“I understand,” Frankie says softly. 
“My sister’s in medical school to be a cardiologist. So to my parents, running a bakery just doesn’t compare.”
“That’s stupid. Don’t they know how hard it is to run your own business?”
“No, and they probably don’t care to be honest.” 
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s alright. Thanks for getting me a way out of Christmas this year, though.”
“Of course. You’re doing me a big favor.”
The rest of the drive goes smoothly and eventually, you’re pulling into Frankie’s parents' house in Savannah. The second Frankie’s truck is in the driveway, an older woman, probably his mother, is running out of the front door and into the driveway. He parks the truck and you get out to meet her. She immediately pulls Frankie into a big hug. 
“My baby’s home!!,” she says, embracing him and placing her hands on the back of his head. 
“You and that damn hat,” she says, “You have such beautiful hair, mijo. Why do you hide it?”
“You know I like the hat, Ma.”
She pulls away and her eyes are immediately on you. You’re nervous about her first impression of you, even though you’re not even Frankie’s girlfriend. But she thinks you are and you need to play the part. 
“It’s so nice to meet you!” she says, pulling into a hug, too. She gives the best hugs, rubbing your back and swaying just a little, even though you just met. 
“I want you to be comfortable here, okay? My house is your house,” she says, pulling back and grabbing your hands. 
“Thank you so much for having me in your home, Mrs. Morales,” you smile. 
“Please! Call me Rosa. Let Francisco get the bags and we’ll go inside, yeah?”
“Okay,” you nod, following her inside the house. 
It’s a beautiful home, decorated to the nines with the Christmas spirit. She leads you to her living film where there are pictures of everyone Frankie mentioned on the way here. On the coffee table, there’s one of Frankie’s parents with him and his sisters. You can really see the resemblance there between him and his mom. They have the same warm brown eyes and dimples. 
“You have a beautiful home, Rosa,” you tell her, sitting on the couch next to her. 
“Thank you, honey,” she says, “Tell me about yourself. It’s so hard to get Francisco on the phone these days. I feel like I know nothing about you.”
“I live in Tampa like Frankie. We don’t live too far from each other And I run a bakery.”
“Wow, good for you. It’s hard running your own business. Your parents must be very proud.”
“They are,” you say, lying through your teeth. 
“How has my son been? He’s been a little off since he lost Tom in Colombia two years ago. He’s not doing drugs again, is he?”
“Oh! No, to my knowledge, he isn’t?” you respond, stumbling over your words. That was a lot of information to take in, most of it Frankie hasn’t told you about yet. 
“That’s good,” she sighs, “I worry about him.”
“I get it. But I think he’s on an upward trajectory.”
“Thank you, honey. I know he’s a lot to put up with.”
Frankie meets you in the living room and plops down on an armchair across from the couch, letting out an exasperated sigh. 
“Tired?” you chuckle. 
“Yeah,” he pants, “Someone had to pack everything they own and the kitchen sink, too.”
“Francisco! You grew up with all women. Don’t you know this is how we are?” his mother says. 
“Yeah, Frankie,” you add sarcastically. 
“You two are gonna be the death of me,” he says, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. 
“Where did you put the lemon bars?”
“In the refrigerator.”
“You made lemon bars? Francisco told me you liked to bake.”
“Yeah!” you say, turning towards her again, “I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
“Why don’t you both help me prepare dinner for tomorrow night? After you rest, of course. You had a long drive.”
“Oh, yeah. I need a nap,” Frankie says, getting up from the chair and heading up the stairs. 
“Get some rest, honey,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs. 
“Okay,” you say, feeling a little awkward that you’re supposed to just go lay in a bed with Frankie. 
Frankie’s waiting for you at the top of the stairs, smiling down at you. For some reason the sight makes your heart skip a beat. You meet him upstairs and he leads you to his childhood bedroom. His walls are blue and his bookshelves are filled with baseball trophies from when he was a kid up until high school. There are a few car posters scattered on his ealls. The bags are at the foot of his bed that’s tucked away in the corner of his room and thankfully, it’s not a twin-sized bed. Across the room is his desk, a few comic books stacked in a messy pile like he never left. 
“This is my room,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the space around him. 
“Cute,” you say, walking around and eyeing some of the stuff he has on his shelves. There’s a picture in a frame of Frankie as a kid with presumably his father right after one of his baseball games. He was a cute kid, wearing a toothy grin with some holes for the baby teeth he lost. 
“That’s my dad,” he says, noticing you looking at the picture. 
“Now that I’m looking at him, I can’t tell who you look like more,” you comment. 
“Definitely my dad,” he says. 
You turn to look at him and realize he’s right. A lot of his facial features match his father’s, but his eyes- those are his mother’s. 
“Are you tired?” he asks. 
“A little,” you yawn. 
“I don’t have to sleep in bed with you,” he says quickly. 
“I thought you said we were going to? You know, to keep up appearances or something,” you say, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. 
“Oh, right. Just making sure.”
He takes off his sweatshirt and his hat, his curls matted down from wearing it on his head all day. He sets them down on the desk and walks over to the bed, pulling back the comforter and slipping in between the sheets. He moves to the side closest to the wall, letting you have the outside and the wall with the outlet to charge your phone like a true gentleman. You crawl in beside him, lying down side by side, mere inches from each other. 
“You don’t sleep naked, do you?”
He doesn’t say anything at first and you take that as a yes. 
“…I won’t while we’re home.”
“Cool,” you say awkwardly, rolling on your side and closing your eyes. 
“Goodnight?” he says. 
“It’s just a nap, but sure. Goodnight, Frankie,” you chuckle. 
…You do your best to fall asleep but to be honest, you’re freezing. You don’t really get why. You’re only a few hours north and Georgia doesn’t typically get too cold. Unless his mom has the air on or a window open; something. That doesn’t make sense, though. Don’t elderly people keep their houses entirely too hot?
“You’re shivering,” Frankie says, snapping you out of your thoughts. 
“What? No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can see you shaking.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be cold.”
“What’s your solution then?”
“I could tell my mom to adjust the-”
“No, do not do that.”
“Or there’s the other option.”
“Uh huh…”
“I could hold you.”
“…You don’t have to.”
“I don’t mind.”
“…Fine.”
You feel him scooch closer to you and all of a sudden his warm chest is pressed up against your back. The comforter lifts for a second before his muscular arm wraps around you, pulling you even closer towards him. You’re immediately feeling warmer. He’s like a human space heater or something. 
“Better?”
“Y-Yeah. Thank you.”
As much as you hate to admit it, you’re much more comfortable now. However, there is one thing that’s keeping you from falling asleep. And that’s Frankie’s bulge presses right up against your ass. 
…You don’t hate it, though. If anything it makes you feel… good? Knowing that you have that effect on him. Maybe he really was jealous weeks ago at his birthday party. All of this begs the question; when did his feelings for you begin?
Lost in thought and enveloped in Frankie’s body heat, you drift off to sleep. 
-
You wake up an hour or so later to the doorbell ringing. Frankie wakes up, too, stretching and removing the arm that was slung over your waist. You already miss its absence. 
Frankie’s mom is talking to someone at the door. And it sounds like she’s talking to… a pizza delivery guy?
Frankie rolls onto his back, stretching again and yawning. You fall onto your back, too, lying side by side. 
“I think she ordered pizza,” Frankie says sleepily. 
“That was nice of her.”
“Just so we don’t have to worry about making dinner tonight while we prepare tomorrow’s.”
“Make sense,” you reply, rolling out of bed and stretching once your feet hit the floor. 
“Did you sleep well?” Frankie asks, sitting at the edge. 
“I did. Thanks for keeping me warm.”
“You’re welcome but it wasn’t all for you, though.”
“Oh?” you ask, wondering if he could be referring to the hard-on he had while holding you…
“Yeah, I can’t sleep next to you if you’re shaking like a leaf.”
You roll your eyes and he chuckles, leading you down the hallway and down the stairs, straight into the kitchen where the pizza awaits. 
“Dinner’s here!” Rosa says cheerfully, gesturing to the pizza boxes on the counter, “There’s a salad and garlic bread, too.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Frankie says, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and handing it to you.
“Thank you,” you say, “Are you sure you don’t want anything towards it?”
“Nonsense! When you’re in my house, I take care of you,” she says, waving you off. 
A saint of a woman she is. Frankie’s lucky to have a mother like her. The three of you sit at the kitchen counter eating while Rosa talks about what Christmas Eve dinner will be. 
“So tonight we’ll prepare the pasteles. And tomorrow we’ll do the rice and beans. Ria is bringing rolls. Laura’s bringing salad. And Isabel’s bringing flan.”
“Ooh, I love flan. I can make gingerbread cookies for Christmas Day, too,” you say, finishing your slice of pizza. 
“Thank you, honey. We’ll have a great time tomorrow. And you’ll get to meet all of Frankie’s sisters.”
“How exciting,” you say looking over at Frankie. 
“Frankie’s the baby of the family,” his mother says. 
“I could tell,” you snicker.
“What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“You just have little brother energy,” you shrug.
“What about you, dear?” his mom asks. 
“It’s just me and my sister. I’m the oldest.”
“Well you have older sister energy, so how about that?”
“So I’m wiser and more responsible?”
“Whatever,” Frankie sighs. 
“It’s true, Francisco. You can ask Ria.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll get right on that,” he says sarcastically, taking all your plates to the sink. 
You clean up from dinner with Frankie before preparing the pasteles. You’re standing at the kitchen island, stuffing the pasteles and listening to Rosa tell stories about Frankie when he was a kid. 
“He was my toughest kid to potty train,” she says, shaking her head. 
“Mom!” Frankie says, shooting daggers at her with his glare. 
“What? You were. And I have the pictures to prove it. For the first two years, you would only use the training potty. I’ll bring out the photo albums tomorrow.”
“No,” Frankie says quickly. 
“Oh yes,” you laugh. 
“Ughhh,” Frankie sighs while you and Rosa share a laugh. 
Soon enough all of the pasteles are prepped for tomorrow and the kitchen is clean again.
“Thank you both for helping me. Now get some sleep! You’ll need all the energy you can get to deal with this family.”
“Goodnight, Ma,” Frankie says, heading towards the stairs. 
“Goodnight. Thank you again for everything,” you say to her. 
“Of course, honey. See you in the morning!” she says. 
As you’re heading up the stairs, she calls out to Frankie, “Francisco! Make sure you show her where the fresh towels are!”
“I will, Ma,” Frankie says, calling down the stairwell. 
“You want to shower?”
Before you can respond he quickly adds, “Not with me of course.”
“I know,” you snort, “But sure. Where’s the bathroom?”
He leads you down the hallway and stops at a door on the right, opening to reveal a linen closet. 
“Towels are here. Bathroom’s over here,” he says, pointing to a door directly across from the linen closet. 
“Thanks,” you tell him, grabbing a towel and heading to the shower. You shut the door behind you and now that you’re alone for once, you let your mind wander…
What happened in Colombia? And what sort of drugs was Frankie on?
You turn on the shower and strip, letting the hot water run down your body as you think about all the possibilities. He did say he lost a friend. Maybe that’s what happened in Colombia. But that doesn’t explain the drugs. 
A knock on the door brings you back to reality. 
“Can I come in?” Frankie asks. 
“Uhh-”
“I just have to brush my teeth. I won’t look.”
“I guess.”
He opens the door and enters the bathroom, keeping his word and looking away from the shower curtain. In fact, he looks at anything else in the bathroom but the shower curtain, picking up a bottle of Tylenol from the medicine cabinet and reading the warnings. You poke your head out of the shower, watching as he brushes his teeth and reads the label on the bottle. And there’s something so… cute about it, so endearing. And now that you think about it, you wouldn’t particularly mind if he saw you in the shower. You can’t believe you’re actually admitting this to yourself. 
But before you know it he spits the sink and rinses his mouth, exiting the bathroom and leaving you with your confusing feelings yet again. You finish your shower and dry off, thinking about his mysterious past again. All of this strange information begs the question… What was he doing in Colombia in the first place? Does he have some dark secrets he’s hiding? And if so, how could he be so cute? 
You look at the toilet and see that Frankie also brought you your pajamas, flannel Christmas pants, a short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of lacy underwear…
That means he went through your bag, which should make you mad but the fact he decided to bring you your pajamas so you didn’t have to walk down the cold hallway sopping wet is adorable. 
You’ll ask him about his past later you decide. For now, he’s your cute pretend boyfriend and you’re going to live in that fantasy for a while. 
Once you’re dry and dressed, you hang your towel up on a hook and walk back to Frankie’s room, where he’s tucked into bed waiting for you. You crawl into bed beside him, lying down on your side and feeling his warm embrace again. His arm returns around your waist and soon enough you’re falling asleep, comforted by his warmth and his scent. 
-
The smell of food cooking downstairs wafts up to Frankie’s room, pleasantly waking you up. Frankie’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded neatly on his tummy. 
You roll over and ask, “You okay?”
“Me? Oh yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m just nervous.”
“Nervous for what? Your family sounds awesome.”
“They are. They can just be overwhelming, I guess.”
“I get it. It’ll be fine, though. Like you said, I don’t think they’ll leave me alone.”
“Right,” he says, shaking his head, “It’s stupid. Today’s gonna be fun.”
“Wanna help me with the gingerbread cookies?” you say, getting out of bed and stretching once your feet hit the floor. 
“Sure,” he says, sitting at the edge and yawning, “Do you need to get anything for them?”
“I could just DoorDash some stuff. I don’t want to raid your mom’s kitchen.”
“Ah, she won’t mind. Let’s go downstairs.”
He stands up and stretches, the short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing lifting a little and exposing some of his tummy. His flannel pajama pants are hanging low on his hips and he’s got a little bed-head going on, his curls slightly matted in the back. God, he’s just so… cute. You can’t deny it any longer. As much as you don’t want it to be true, Frankie Morales is a cute man.
You follow him downstairs to the kitchen where his mother is cooking away, stirring different pots and pans on the stove. 
“Good morning you two,” she smiles. 
“Good morning,” you respond, “It smells amazing down here.”
“Thank you, honey.”
“Ma, I think we’re going to make the gingerbread cookies if we won’t be in your way.”
“Go ahead! By all means. Maybe you can decorate them with the kids tonight?”
“Good idea! Do you need me to get anything from the store?”
“Nonsense! I should have everything you need.”
“Told you,” Frankie says, opening a cabinet and looking through the shelves with you. 
To your surprise, she has everything you need for the cookies. And as you sit down at the dining room table Frankie says, “This kitchen is always fully stocked.”
As you roll the dough you think about tonight, meeting the rest of Frankie’s family. You’re excited to meet them but you’re also wondering what you should wear. You packed a few different options for outfits because every family’s vibe is different. Your family tends to lean more formal when it comes to holidays but Frankie’s family could be the complete opposite. 
“Frankie?” you ask, cutting the gingerbread men out with a cookie cutter. 
“Yeah?”
“What does your family wear on Christmas? Like do they dress up?”
“Oh, we abandoned trying to look nice a long time ago. Especially once my sisters started having kids.”
“Oh, okay. So don’t dress up?” 
“Nah.”
That makes you feel at least a little relieved. For some reason, you’re dying for them to like you. And you don’t even get why. You’re not Frankie’s girlfriend. There’s a large chance you’ll never see them again after you leave and go back to Florida. 
Once the cookies are on the trays, you pop them in the oven and set a timer on your phone. Rosa’s just about finished with dinner for tonight and Frankie’s cleaning up the mess from the cookies. You look at the clock on the stove and ask, “What time is everyone coming?”
“Around five or so.”
It’s already two-thirty now. You should probably get ready soon, in case Rosa and Frankie need the shower. 
“I’ll pull the cookies out if you want to go get ready,” Frankie says as if he read your mind. 
“Oh okay, thanks. Fifteen more minutes.”
“Gotcha,” he says, leaning against the counter beside the stove. 
You go upstairs and into Frankie’s room, going over all of your outfit choices in your head. You decide to wear option 3, light wash jeans and an emerald green sweater, nothing too fancy. You grab your clothes and your makeup and head to the bathroom, taking extra time to get ready. The timer on your phone for the cookies goes off and you hope Frankie remembers to take them out. You continue your shower, anxiously thinking about meeting the rest of his family. 
Eventually, as you’re dressed and putting on your makeup, Frankie knocks on the door. 
“Can I come in?”
“Go ahead,” you say, leaning forward toward the mirror and putting on your mascara. 
He opens the door and looks at you, practically bent over the sink. 
“You look…”
“Huh?” you, turning your head towards him. 
“You look nice,” he says, eyes wide. 
“Thanks. I’m almost done and then the bathroom’s all yours.”
“No rush. Take your time.”
You finish your makeup and gather all your stuff, leaving him in the bathroom and heading back to his room. You plop your stuff down on his bed and think of what to do next. Might as well make yourself useful while he’s showering and get the icing bags ready for the gingerbread cookies. You head back down to the kitchen, where Rosa’s sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. 
“You look beautiful, honey,” she says. 
“Thank you,” you say, sitting down across from her. 
“Francisco’s in the shower?”
“Yes, he is. I think I’m going to get the icing bags ready for the cookies if that’s alright.”
“Of course,” she says, springing up from her chair and rifling through the kitchen cabinets. 
She pulls out an electric mixer, confectioners sugar, and food coloring, setting them down on the table. 
“Milk’s in the refrigerator and let me get you some Ziploc bags…” she says, reaching into the cabinet again.
“Thanks,” you say, getting to work on the icing while she sits across the counter and watches. 
“I know I’ve just met you but I want to say thank you, for taking care of my son,” she says. 
“Of course,” you smile, scooping icing into the ziploc bag for makeshift piping bags.
“He hasn’t been the same since Tom died. But now that he’s here, it’s like he’s his old self again.”
Tom. There’s that name again. You have to know what happened if you’re going to keep up this charade. This is the second time she’s mentioned it and you’re playing along like you know what happened. It’s bound to come up again. 
“I’m glad he’s doing much better,” you say, adding food coloring to the bags. 
Eventually, you hear the water turn off which means Frankie must be getting out of the shower. Rosa gets up from her stool and says, “Well now that Francisco’s finally done, I guess I’ll go shower. I’m sure he left me no hot water.”
You two share a laugh and she heads up the stairs. You’re left alone with your thoughts until Frankie comes back downstairs again. So for now, in the fleeting moments of solitude, you think of ways to ask Frankie about his past that don’t sound completely insensitive. You could ask him under the guise of just trying to keep the charade going. This whole thing was his idea. He’d have to understand, right?
“Hey,” he says, snapping you from your thoughts. You didn’t even notice him coming downstairs. 
“Hi.”
“These look good. The kids will have fun decorating them.”
“I hope so,” you say.
You’re both just standing awkwardly in the kitchen, not saying a word. You think to yourself that maybe now would be the best time to ask, in case you need this information for tonight to go smoothly. 
You open your mouth to ask, “What happened in Colombia?” but you’re interrupted by the front door opening. 
“Feliz Navidad!” a woman’s voice shouts. You’re assuming it’s one of Frankie’s sisters or aunts. 
He pokes his head down the hallway and shouts, “Ria!” 
You glance over at the clock and she’s early. Frankie looks over at you and says, “She’s always early.”
“She’s the oldest?”
He nods. It makes sense. 
She comes into the kitchen and pulls Frankie into a big hug. She looks like a younger version of Rosa, a little bit shorter than Frankie. Her husband and kids pile in behind her, her girls hugging Frankie and her husband shaking his hand. 
“So nice of you to show up for Christmas. Not battling some mysterious illness this time, huh?” she teases. 
“I’m not lying! I was really sick.”
You’re standing there awkwardly in the kitchen, not trying to interrupt the family reunion. It isn’t until one of Ria’s daughters looks over at you and asks, “Who’s this?” that your presence is acknowledged. 
Frankie walks over to you and snakes an arm around your waist, proudly saying, “This is my girlfriend!” followed by your name. 
“Nice to meet you!” Ria says, “It’s been such a long time since Francisco’s brought a girl home!”
This is the second family member to refer to him as Francisco and now you’re wondering if you should be doing the same. Before you can continue she motions her daughters over and says, “This is Luna and Camila. Luna’s in her junior year of college and my Camila’s a senior in high school!”
“Exciting times for both of you,” you comment, not really knowing what to say. 
But Ria continues anyway. “And this is my husband, Emmanuel,” she says, gesturing to her husband in the corner. He seems like the quiet type, letting his wife do all the talking in social situations. 
“Where’s Ma?” Ria asks Frankie. 
“In the shower. Are the others on their way?”
“Laura’s almost here. Isabel and Roro will probably be late as per usual. Will you grab the rolls out of the car?”
Emmanuel nods, again not saying much of a word at all before heading out to the car in the driveway. Ria and the girls take off their coats, hanging them on a coat rack by the front door. While Luna and Camila retreat to the living room, Ria takes the rolls from Emmanuel and puts them in the drawer underneath the oven, putting them on a low setting to keep the rolls warm until dinner starts. Soon enough, you’re all sitting in the living room together, awkwardly exchanging glances and waiting for either Rosa to come downstairs or for someone else to arrive. 
And for a while, it feels like the front door doesn’t close, a slew of family members coming in left and right. First, it was Aunt Maggie. Then it was Laura with her husband, Rafael, and their kids, Sofia, Anthony (who insists you call him Tony), and Marcelo, Frankie’s favorite. And Frankie wasn’t lying about Marcelo being his favorite, his eyes practically lit up the moment Laura walked in the door, carrying him on her hip. After Laura’s family, Uncle Tommy and Cousin Ben came. Frankie’s arm around your waist tightened when Ben looked you up and down which made your heart do somersaults. Aunt Linda followed soon after. And finally, last but not least, Isabel and Aurora (who goes by Roro) arrived. 
Somewhere in between all of the commotion Rosa returned downstairs. And you’re left with your head spinning, trying to keep track of everyone’s names and trying to make a good first impression. And you think you succeeded? Laura and her kids are really nice. Marcelo’s been hanging off you and Frankie since he set foot in the door. Isabel is definitely the coolest Morales sister out of the three of them. You don’t really have any complaints about Frankie’s aunts. And Uncle Tommy’s been dozing off on the couch, reminding everyone to wake him up when it’s time for dinner. You don’t mind Ben at all but he definitely has a little crush on you. You don’t spend too much time talking to him, just enough to learn he teaches high school English.
You also noticed that Isabel, Roro, Uncle Tommy, Ben, and his brother-in-law all call him Frankie and not Francisco. But his mom, Ria, Aunt Maggie, and Aunt Linda call him Francisco. And to the nieces and nephews, he’s Uncle Frankie of course. 
Eventually, Rosa announces that it’s time for dinner. Frankie and Ben set up a small folding table for the kids, except for Marcelo who sits on Laura’s lap. You sit in between Frankie and Isabel. Rosa sits at the head of the table and before everyone digs in she says, “Now who would like to say grace?”
“I will,” Tony says, raising his hand from the kids' table.
“Go ahead,” Rosa says.
“Grace. Okay, we’re done. Let’s eat, everybody!”
Everyone shares a laugh and Rosa decides, “You know what? It’s good enough for me!”
The rest of Christmas Eve goes smoothly. After dinner, you help the adults clean up before bringing out the gingerbread cookies to decorate. All of the kids, even Luna and Camila, sit around the table with you, decorating the cookies with your makeshift piping bags. Ria takes a picture of you guys, brows furrowed in concentration as you all try to make the cookies absolutely perfect. 
“Aren’t you gonna do one?” you ask Frankie, who’s standing beside you and watching. 
“Sure,” he says, pulling up a chair. 
He grabs a gingerbread woman and begins to draw a face on her. But before he’s done he gives her a frown and angry eyebrows, holding it up and saying, “Look! It’s you when I don’t mow the lawn!”
“Oh, shut up,” you reply, grabbing your own gingerbread man and giving him not only angry eyebrows but a yellow blob in his hand. 
“Look! It’s you when you complain about free lemons.”
The kids laugh even though they don’t know the full context of the joke. But once the last cookie is decorated, people begin to head out, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and saying goodnight. Once the main level is cleaned up you and Frankie say goodnight to his mom. She tells you that Christmas dinner is at Ria’s and that it starts at two. 
With that, you’re off to bed, returning to your rightful place of being spooned by Frankie. And for once, the two of you are alone again. Your mind goes back to Tom, what happened in Colombia, and Frankie’s drug addiction. You’re just gonna do it, rip the bandaid off
“Frankie?”
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Well, earlier your mom was talking about your friend Tom and what happened in Colombia… I know it’s not really my business but should I know what happened? You know to keep up the act-”
He sighs and you fear you’ve overstepped.
“I figured it was going to come up sooner or later.”
He pulls away to rest on his back, staring at the ceiling and recounting what happened. You lie on your back, too, looking over at him as he begins his story. 
“A few years ago, I developed a really bad addiction to coke. And it cost me almost everything. I lost my pilot's license. Santiago approached me, Tom, Will, and Benny about going to Colombia to steal money from this drug lord, Lorea.”
“I see,” you comment, letting him continue.
“It seemed appealing at the time. I needed the money, you know?”
“I get it,” you say softly.
“The mission was a fucking shitshow. We took fucking two hundred and fifty million dollars and lost all of it. It was too heavy for the helicopter so we crash-landed in a cocaine farm. They thought we were DEA and Tom killed some of them. So then we had to pay them as some kind of reparation. We went through the Andes on mules and two of the villagers followed us. One of them shot Tom and we had to carry him, the rest of the money through the mountains. When we finally reached the coast, the getaway boat was there waiting for us but the town was filled whatever was left of Lorea’s crew. There was no way we could carry all that cash with Tom’s body and make it to the boat without being killed. So we had to dump most of it down a fucking ravine.”
He’s getting more and more upset as he tells his story. And you feel guilty you even asked in the first place. He didn’t need to tell you all the details. He could’ve said his friend Tom died on a military mission in Colombia and that would’ve been enough to quell your curiosity. 
“Somehow we made it to the boat, but not without a fucking car chase and shootouts. By the end, we were left with a little over one million dollars each, but we decided to give it all to Tom’s family,” he says, finishing with a deep breath. 
You roll onto your side and look over at him. He’s not crying but you can tell he’s visibly upset, his eyes misty. 
“Thanks for sharing that with me. I know it’s hard to recount a traumatic experience like that.”
“It’s okay. Figured you should probably know. My family thinks it was some sort of mission for the Army, not that we went rogue. I don’t want them to know the true nature of what it was… greed.”
“Understandable.”
“So after all that I came home with a dead friend and no money.”
“I guess the overgrown lawn and the constant partying make sense now.”
That actually gets him to laugh. 
“I guess it does,” he chuckles, “But thanks for putting up with me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“And thanks for coming here and doing this for me. That happened two years ago and my family has been worried sick about me since. Whenever my mom calls me I just… I just lie. I think if she saw how I was doing now it would break her heart. But here with you, she thinks you’re like my saving grace.”
You don’t say anything because you really don’t know what to say. It’s nice his mother feels that way, but it’s all a lie. 
“I know that was a lot…” he says.
“You’re okay. I’m here to listen,” you reassure him. 
“You should probably get some sleep. You’ll need all the energy you can get to deal with my family for another day.”
“Okay,” you sigh, rolling over to your other side. Frankie spoons you again like he always does. This time you don’t feel something hard against your lower back, instead you feel Frankie’s breath by your ear. 
“Thank you,” he whispers, holding you a little tighter as he falls asleep. 
-
You wake up to Frankie still holding you just as tight. You’ve never had a Christmas like this, one so peaceful. 
And then it hits you… it’s Christmas. Which means you need presents, something you completely forgot all about. You were too wrapped up in pretending to be Frankie’s girlfriend. 
“Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
Has he been awake this whole time? And still holding you just as tight… 
Whatever, worry about that later. 
“I forget to get everyone fucking presents.”
“Already took care of it.”
“Really?” 
“Mhm,” he says, propping his elbow on the pillow and looking down at you, “You’ve never met them before. How could you get presents for people you don’t even know?” 
“Right,” you say, lying on your back. 
“Merry Christmas,” he smiles. 
“Merry Christmas,” you respond. 
“Let’s go exchange with my mom.”
You roll out of bed first and let him grab the presents from his suitcase. 
“What did I get her?”
“A sweater. It’s her favorite color.”
“Ooh, good idea.”
He hands you the present and it’s wrapped like a typical guy would wrap it. 
“I’m telling her you wrapped it.”
“Oh, she’ll be able to tell,” he laughs. 
You follow him down the stairs where his mother is sitting on the couch watching a Hallmark movie. She smiles and wishes you a Merry Christmas when she sees you, grabbing presents from under the tree. 
You give her the present “you” got her and she clocks Frankie’s wrapping job right away. 
“I can tell Francisco wrapped this,” she chuckles, unwrapping the gift and opening the box. She tells you she loves it and pulls you in for a big hug. Even though you didn’t actually buy the gift, you can’t help but appreciate the sense of approval. Your mom would’ve criticized whatever you got her, no matter how great the gift was. 
Rosa got Frankie a wallet with his initials engraved in the leather. She got you an apron with your name embroidered on it. Both presents were very thoughtful and as she’s pulling out the photo albums like she promised the other day, Frankie whispers in your ear, “She’s big on getting things personalized.”
The three of you spend the rest of the morning looking at photo albums until it’s time to get ready to go to Ria’s. For once, Frankie can’t wait to jump in the shower, anything to get away from the “embarrassing” pictures his mom is showing you. 
Once the three of you are ready you drive to Ria’s in Frankie’s truck, with the gifts piled in the back seat. He parks on the street and you head inside to the already bustling house. Everyone shouts “Feliz Navidad” as you’re taking off your shoes before joining them at the table. 
The menu for Christmas dinner is empanadillas, tostones, pernil, and arroz con gandules. And for dessert, there’s tembleque, the gingerbread cookies you and the kids decorated, and of course, the lemon bars. 
Christmas Day goes even better than Christmas Eve. All of the presents got for you to give to his family were a hit, but not without a sly comment from Frankie.
“You know… She did have some help,” he says with a smirk and a wink.
That earned him a smack on the arm.
Eventually, the evening is winding down. The kids are sitting under the tree playing with their toys and the adults are scattered around the house. For once, there’s no one paying attention to you two.
“Come with me,” Frankie says, getting off the couch and grabbing his coat.
“Where are we going?” 
“For a walk,” he says. 
You follow him to the front door, slipping on your shoes and coat. The two of you walk side by side on the sidewalk. It’s silent between you two but it’s a comfortable silence. But as you stop underneath a streetlamp, Frankie says, “I have something for you.”
“Frankie! You didn’t have to.”
“No, I really did. And I wanted to. It’s not just a Christmas present but it’s also a thank you for doing this for me… And also an apology for being a shitty neighbor,” he chuckles.
He pulls out a box from his coat pocket and hands it to you. You lift the lid to reveal a gold chain with a pendant, and a lemon stamped into the metal.
“Aw, Frankie… This is so sweet.”
“Look at the back,” he says softly.
You flip over the pendant and engraved on the back is your street name, Magnolia Drive. You look back at Frankie and his face is nervous, as if he’s waiting for your approval. His brow furrowed, his face dimly lit under the streetlamp, and his curls peeking out under his stupid fucking hat. All you can do at that moment is kiss him. He’s shocked for a second but it doesn’t take long for him to melt into your touch and wrap his arms around you. 
He pulls away for a second to ask, “I take it you like it?”
“I love it, Frankie,” you nod, leaning in for a kiss again.
And for a moment you two stay there, holding each other under the streetlamp on Christmas night. 
“I didn’t get you a present,” you admit, resting your head against his chest.
“You already did. You did me a huge favor. It’s a lot to deal with my family.”
“I didn't just deal with them. I liked being with them.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, like you said before, they’re nothing like you.”
“Shut up,” he says, pulling you in for another kiss. 
After a while he says, “We should probably get back.”
You nod and follow him back to Ria’s house where you bid your goodbyes to everyone and head back to Rosa’s for the night. She turns in early and now it’s just you and Frankie alone again. But being alone with him feels different this time. Not only because you just kissed but also because you think… you have feelings for him. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit talking or how vulnerable he was last night, but you have to admit to yourself that Frankie Morales is not only a cute man but a man you misjudged this whole time. 
Once you’re back upstairs to Frankie’s room, you’re sitting side by side on his bed. The silence is back and you’re wondering if you shouldn’t have kissed him earlier. Maybe all you are to him is someone who did him a favor, someone who’s just his neighbor and nothing more. 
“I’m sorry about the kiss. I-”
“You’re sorry?”
“Well yeah, I-”
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long, cariño.”
“How long?”
“Soon after you moved in next door.” 
“Really? I thought you hated me.”
“No, I never did. I just liked pushing your buttons. You’re cute when you’re irritated.”
Your brain is short-circuiting, in disbelief at what he’s saying.
“Even when you were with Heather?”
“Mhm.”
“Is that why you were so jealous of Benny at your birthday party?”
“...Maybe,”
“Mmm, you’re cute when you’re jealous,” you say, leaning in for another kiss.
This time the kiss is needier, and more passionate, like you can’t get enough of each other’s touch, scent, and taste. His hands caress either side of your face as his body leans into you more, coaxing you to lie down on his bed. His mouth leaves yours, trailing along your jawline and down your neck. Your breath hitches as he nips at your skin, immediately licking the bruised skin afterward. He moves down lower, lips moving along your collarbone, until he’s completely kneeling on the floor in front of his bed. His hands hook around the waistband of your pants, sliding them off in one clean motion before going to remove your panties.
“Frankie?” you ask, resting on your elbows and looking down at him.
“Yeah?”
“What about like… your mom?”
“She sleeps like a rock,” he says bluntly, returning to what he was doing before. 
He pulls off your panties and spreads your legs, looking at how wet your cunt is already. 
“Mm, so wet for me, cariño,” he muses, his warm breath tickling your core.
Before you can respond, he licks one long, slow stripe up your cunt, sending a shiver up your spine.
“Fuck, Frankie,” you breathe out, eliciting a chuckle from him.
He goes back in for another, licking up and down your entrance slow, enough to drive you crazy. And then, he moves to your clit, tongue swirling around it as your back arches up off the bed. He hooks his arms around your thighs, keeping you in place as he gets to work, nose grinding against your clit while his tongue licks your cunt. It doesn’t take long for you to cum, his face taught against your cunt as you do so. 
Once you’re done, he rests his head against your inner thigh, admitting the mess he just made. The lower half of his face is soaked, his patchy facial hair glistening. He returns back to your cunt for one more lap of his tongue, just to taste you one more time before rising from the floor and taking off his clothes. You sit up and take off your sweater and your bra, tossing them on the floor and lying back down. You inch up a little higher on the bed to make room for him as he hovers over you. 
“I have a confession to make,” he says, looking down at you with a sly grin.
“Oh??”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you naked.”
“Uhh-”
“Your bathroom window faces mine.”
“...It does?”
“Mhm. Saw you drying off one day.”
“Oh yeah? And then what?”
He bends down and whispers in your ear, “Jerked off in the shower to the thought of you.”
Your whole body shudders.
“Touch me, Frankie, please,” you whine.
“Are you begging, cariño?”
“Fuck. Yes, I am,” you whimper.
“Good girl,” he whispers in your ear, his hand caressing the outline of your breast before moving to your nipple. His other hand gathers some of your releases and strokes his cock, getting extra hard before sliding inside you, all while he plays with your nipple. You gasp at the sensation, feeling his length stretch your walls; feeling like you’re being split apart.
“You can take it,” he softly commands, bringing his face away from your ear and looking into your eyes again. He studies the expression on your face; the open mouth and the tears in the corners of your eyes, and his lips curve into a smirk. He draws his hips back and thrusts into you again, your cunt feeling completely full. Your soft moans are like music to his ears but he needs to hear more, not necessarily more sounds but a confession from you, too.
“Be honest, cariño. You’ve thought about fucking me too, haven’t you?”
It’s actually insane that this is the same sweet man who gave you the most thoughtful Christmas present earlier tonight. The same man who confessed to jerking off in the shower after seeing you naked.
“Y-yes…” you confess.
“What was that? Didn’t hear you,” he says as his hand to your other breast, taking your nipple in between his fingertips. 
“Fuck, Frankie yes, I’ve thought about it.”
“When?” he presses further, keeping the same pace with his thrusts.
“All the time. Even when you piss me off.”
“Knew it,” he teases, slamming his hips back into you. He rests his elbows on the other side of your head, face to face with you as he fucks you relentlessly.
“Frankie, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper.
“Let me feel it, cariño,” he says, studying your face again.
You close your eyes as you cum but that just won’t do for him. He wants you to look directly into the eyes of the man who made a mess of you.
“Look at me,” he softly commands.
You open your eyes, locking with his as you cum around his cock, feeling your walls flutter and pulsate in rhythmic patterns.
“Good girl,” he praises, thrusting into you one final time before coming, too. He paints your insides with his cum before pulling out of you and lying down on the bed. You roll over and situate yourself in the crook of his neck, resting your hand on his chest.
“You’re amazing,” he says, taking the his hat off his head and propping it on the bed post before wrapping his arm around you. There’s his sweet side again.
“I can’t believe you saw me naked,” you tease, still sort of in disbelief.
“Two times now. It’s a Christmas miracle,” he jokes.
You have to agree with him. He feels you twitch against him and he whispers, “Goodnight. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” you whisper back, letting sleep consume you.
New Year’s Eve
You’re spending New Year’s Eve at a bar with some of Frankie’s friends from high school. Ever since the night you got together, you’ve been leaning into the girlfriend role more, feeling like it’s not a charade anymore. Frankie doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he welcomes it. This is what the two of you wanted all along, even if both of you didn’t know it.
You’re watching the ball drop in New York City on the TV at the bar with Frankie’s arm snaked around your waist. As the clock strikes midnight, you kiss, feeling like you’re starting the year off right for once.
“Look at you,” you whisper against his lips, “Ending the year in a fake relationship and starting the new year in a real one.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he whispers back. 
Tumblr media
Tag list: @wannab-urs @noxturnalpascal @hiddenbabynyc @littlegrungegirlaf @hyzer34 @catchallfangirl @pamasaur @paleidiot @runningmom94 @butiknewyoudlinger @sydneyinacoma @yorksgirl @wilderwizard @hnt-escape @axshadows @fanficlover1414 @lavema @yazsos @tarot-freader @dundienominee @pedropascalfan221 @khindahra @janaispunk @tuquoquebrute @perotovar @clawdee @immarocketman @whoreofabuckethead @grogusmum @idungoofed @fluffygoffpanda @meveispunk @beefrobeefcal @magpiepillsjunior @pr0ximamidnight @elvinaa @survivingandenduring @lincolndjarin @missladym1981 @heavennumber2 @covetyou @anoverwhelmingdin @hellfire-state-of-mind @joels-shitty-puns @stevie75
1K notes · View notes
fettuccin-e · 5 months
Text
The First Time
Kinktober Day 15: Size Kink
Tags: Frankie "Catfish" Morales x Reader, afab!fem!reader, unprotected piv (pls wrap it up irl fuck them kids), fingering (r!recieving), oral (r!giving and recieving), Frankie's monster schlong, yeah he's got a giant dick we all know it (w/c: 1.5K)
A/N: Part of the rapid-fire Kinktober catch up! My absolutely massive size kink really let itself free with this one (get it?? massive?? hehehe) but anyway please enjoy my ramblings about taking Frankie's gigantic schlong. (I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings for Kinktober!)
Tumblr media
The first time you undress Frankie, really see him for the first time, bare and open to your gaze, you think you’re fucking hallucinating. He’d been so shy when you’d first met, so unassuming next to Pope and Will and Benny. Tugging the brim of his cap to cover his eyes, a timid little smile playing on his face as you flirted with him, not his friends. 
You couldn’t have expected the fucking monster between his thighs the first time you have him naked in your bed, his cock so thick you can barely wrap your hand around him. You don't expect the way you choke on him when you try to blow him, only for you to realize that you hadn't even made it halfway.
He doesn’t fuck you that night, the both of you too high on each other’s bodies and too tipsy from the bottle of wine you’d shared earlier.
“Need time to get you ready, hermosa,” he whispers in your ear, fucking you so hard and deep on his fingers you nearly cry. “Next time baby, next time.”
The first time he fucks you, he doesn’t make it all the way. You think you're ready, despite Frankie’s protests, begging him to fuck you, grinding into his mouth, into his fingers as he works orgasm after orgasm out of your heaving body. Through your blurry eyes, you can see the way his hips thrust gently into the mattress, fucking himself into your sheets as he eats you out, groaning into your pussy as you gush down his face. It’s fucking maddening.
He lines himself up, pressing into you gently, so gently, but God, it’s already too much. Too fucking much. You gasp as the thick head of his cock presses into your entrance, spreading you so much wider than his fingers, wider than you’ve ever been stretched. It fucking stings, and you dig your nails into Frankie’s shoulders as you try to take it for him.
He only sinks in halfway before your body just can’t take it anymore, squeezing him so tight that he can’t possibly move deeper. Tears spring to your eyes at the feeling of it, and you try to apologize, but Frankie only leans down to seal his mouth to yours, kissing the breath out of your lungs.
“Feels so fucking good,” he mutters against your lips, sounding so fucking wrecked, and you throb around him at the sound of it. “Your little pussy is so fucking tight.” 
You feel lightheaded at the destroyed rasp of his voice, and when he moves, you feel lightning rocket up your spine, whining loudly against his lips. He grins, the shy boy from the bar long gone as he thrusts until he’s halfway in again, fucking you on only half his cock as you keen beneath him. You have no idea how he’ll ever fit inside completely, how just half of him fills you up more than anyone else ever has. “Wanna take all of you,” you gasp, “want it all inside, fuck, Frankie, please.”
He shushes you gently, smoothing his hands down your sides. “Mi amor, we need more time to get you ready,” he murmurs softly. “Next time, baby, next time.”
He fucks you just like that, breaking you open with just half of his cock and fisting the base in a large, warm palm until you squeeze around him with your orgasm. When you beg him to cum inside you, he groans, pumping you full, gripping tight to your thighs. You promise yourself that next time you'll take all of him.
The first time you take Frankie, really, truly take him, you think that he’s more affected than you are.
You’re so wet, dripping down your thighs from Frankie’s endless preparation, his lips shiny with your slick as he leans down to kiss you slowly, deliberately. You find that you don’t mind the taste of yourself.
He’s been fucking you on his thick fingers for what seems like hours, spreading you so wide, wide enough that you thought you’d break.
You don’t know how many times he’s made you cum, how many times he’s told you that it’ll make you looser, get you ready. You think he just likes watching you fall apart, his eyes blown wide as you tremble against the sheets. 
When he finally, finally notches the thick tip of his cock against your entrance, pushing forward slowly, you try to brace yourself for pain. It’s so much, he’s so much, and it should hurt, fuck, you should feel like you’re being ripped apart. 
But your mind is foggy with desperation, your need to finally fit him inside, that you can barely feel the pain at all. You can only gasp for air as his cock stretches you wide, pressing in so deep it’s like you can feel it in your lungs. And he just slides in, easy as that, as if it was easy all along.
And as much as you moan and gasp, your fingers clutching into the skin of his back, it is nothing compared to the way Frankie fucking whines at the feeling of it, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he stills his hips, pressed in as deep as he can get.
“Fuck me, please, oh my God, Frankie,” you gasp, grinding your hips against his on pure instinct, desperate to get him in deeper, somehow. But his hands tighten on you, gripping so hard you think he’ll leave bruises.
“Stop,” he says, deep and raspy and fucking primal. “Stop fucking moving, shit, ‘m trying not to fucking cum.” He sounds goddamn sinful, and your pussy throbs at the sheer idea of him filling you up just from finally fitting inside you. You let him breathe through it, raking your nails gently up his back. He shivers at your touch.
You suck air in through your teeth when he pulls out, just barely, only to fuck back in. He does it again, and again, and again, thrusting so deep into you that his cock fucking drags into your sweet spot, not even trying. You’ve never felt so fucking full before.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so goddamn tight, don’t even know how I can fuckin’ fit,” he mutters, pulling your thighs tighter around his hips and pulling you down onto his thick cock with every thrust. “This little cunt is just sucking me in, ‘s like she can’t get enough.”
“God, yes, Frankie please,” you choke out between labored breaths, your vision blurring at the edges. All you can fucking feel, hear, smell is Frankie above you, warm and towering over you, filling you up so perfect.
“So goddamn pretty wrapped around my cock,” he growls, pounding into you hard enough that tears start to pour down your cheeks. “My greedy baby, am I big enough for you?”
“Fuck! Yes, it’s so- it’s so fuckin’ big, Frankie, I can feel it in my fucking stomach.” You’re slurring your words, your brain turned to mush as Frankie breaks you apart so viciously. He reaches between you to rub quick circles into your clit with a calloused thumb, and your body locks up, your back arching so far it presses your tits into Frankie’s strong chest.
“That’s right, honey, just fuckin’ feel it. Nobody else can fill you up like I can, right?” he snarls, and you can only nod frantically, choked moans punched from your throat every time he thrusts inside you. “Cum, sweetheart. Show me how much you love my big cock.”
And you have no other choice but to fucking scream, pulsing violently around him as you cum. You’re fucking lost in it, broken apart in the best way possible, and Frankie groans, stilling inside of your as he fills you up with cum. It’s pure bliss, a goddamn revelation, and you don’t think it’s ever going to fucking stop. He smothers your cries with a kiss, licking into your mouth and soothing you like a wild animal as you both ride out the aftershocks. 
When you finally feel yourself start to breathe normally again, to find it in yourself to blink blearily up at him, smiling softly when you see him already staring down at you. As he pulls out of you, you feel the emptiness immediately, whining as he shushes you gently. “I know, honey, I know,” he murmurs, falling beside you and pulling you into him. “You did so good for me.”
“Damn right I did,” you murmur, sleep already weighing down your eyelids. “Who else is going to take that monster dick of yours?”
He laughs, loud and gruff in the most perfectly Frankie-way you could possibly imagine. “Don’t act like you didn’t fucking love it, hermosa.”
And, well, you don’t really have arguments for that.
3K notes · View notes
picklejar-hall-of-fame · 10 months
Text
Picklejar Hall Of Fame [May List of 2023]
I just realized that nearly this entire list is filled to the brim with Pedro Pascal Characters. And I have no regrets :)
Tumblr media
Din Djarin
Unexpected Constellations - @jreads - I know I mentioned you in the "May The 4th" List, but I just had to do it again because you don't understand how much your fic has ruined my life okay?😭🔥
Ni Ceta, Cyar'ika - @theidiotwhowritesthings - Woah... Just... Woah😵 The angst, the pure menacing darkness of the saber just seeping into Din and turning him into this unfathomable being is insane!!!😭😭😭😭🔥🔥🔥
One Last Time - @mewhenimsad - the way he stormed in with a whole plan after that one conversation tells me that this man was DETERMINED to have her. like he knew he wasn't leaving until he got what he wanted and fuck if that doesn't make me crave that kind of devotion😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
Hiccups - @cevans-is-classic - dad!din being worried that the hiccups might be hurting his baby softened my cold, dead heart😭💔
Inevitable - @theidiotwhowritesthings - no, because tell me why i laughed so hard at Din being caught by surprise and being tricked😂 If you're into the stoic x chaotic couple dynamic, then this is perfect for you💞 Love this one so much and I hope to live long enough to see it through the end✨
Home Is Where You're Mine - @inklore - Ah, yes😌 the ✨christening✨ the charming little house on Nevarro kind of fic❤️ A new edition since the end of S3, which has become my personal favourite💋
Brown Eyes - @mandoisapunk - Din likes his new neighbour a little too much🌚 but I'm all for it💞 Loved this one so so much❤️❤️❤️❤️
Jealous!Din - @angelltheninth - You already know that I fell for this hook, line and sinker. Jealous and Din is a done deal. Kill me right now or give me a Mandalorian who is afraid of losing me🥺
pregnant!reader x din - @mewhenimsad - Poor guy😂 He's just trying to get lucky, please let him have what he wants🥺🥺🥺✨✨✨
Stupid For You - @pedropascallme - I. Would. Be. Mortified😖😖😖😖 Just bury me in the deepest, darkest hole you can find on Dathomier and leave me there because that would be so much better compared to getting caught dead like this💀💀💀💀💀💀💀
TMTC Drabbles - @frannyzooey - literally just stumbled into this and I've never been happier❤️❤️❤️❤️ got me through some of the darkest moments of my life. 100% recommend✨ do be warned of the 🌶️🌶️🌶️ tho👀
Of Brown Eyes And Desert Skies - @floral-force - are you kidding me? Cowboy!Din? 10/10 already🔥 Hot and filthy smut? Absolutely🔥🔥🔥 but tell me why you and the person above decide to weaponize both of these aspects and ruin whatever sanity I had left😭😭😭😭
Poe Dameron
Trussed - @campingwiththecharmings - Poe being a fucking tease is nothing new to anybody but that doesn't make it any less entertaining🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Tender - @dameronscopilot - Being on my period while listening to Afterglow by Taylor Swift made this ten times worse because "I want it to be messy"😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Javier Peña
Anything - @wheresarizona - part of the Learning To Live series, which is so cute and smutty (just the way I like it🥰), in which Javi is the absolute sweetest man alive❤️ I actually lost this series a long time ago before I could finish it and I was so happy to have found it again so now I'm going to take my time reading it from scratch✨
Arepas - @mvtthewmurdvck - Instilling a safe word whenever things get a little too steamy between friends is not going to help. Or in other words, a guide on how not to fuck Javier Peña... Spoiler; There is no guide. You're getting fucked either way, so hold onto your bootstraps😉
Safety - @louiseabilenewrites - Javi coaxing his baby to say "dada" is the best thing ever🥺🥺🥺✨✨✨
Joel Miller
Uncle Tommy - @catsarecutebutaliens - Ellie is such a sweet baby who's just trying to navigate through this semi-normal world😭 Let her have a whole big family please🥺💞
Getting Lost Is Being Found - @littlemisspascal - This. Right here. This is ✨pure art✨ Joel going years as a beast because he felt he was more suited that way, only for him to change the minute he met her😤😤😤😤 When I tell you I lost my shit at "This is me finally living" I mean I lost my fucking shit, okay😭😭😭😭😭 This masterpiece deserves an award🏆🏆🏆🏆🏆
I'll Always Come Back - @pedropascallme - "Gonna be good f'me?" JUST END ME RIGHT NOW BECAUSE WHAT OTHER CHOICE DO I HAVE😭😭😭😭 sweet mother of God, its like you woke up and chose to debilitate me with this one😭🔥
Exile - @psychedelic-ink - This. Fic. Has. Me. On. A. Fucking. CHOKEHOLD😤😤😤😤 My god, when I tell you how much I wanted to smack Joel for what he did but then he made up for it sort of for the incredible smut, I was in shambles by the end— ESPECIALLY THE ENDING HOW COULD YOU BREAK ME LIKE THAT😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔 I didn't realize it was actually a one-shot until after I scarfed through the 10 chapter masterlist which made it that much easier to read through, great idea by the way
Always and forever - @saph-cyare - It's so cute and cuddly and you're going to ugly cry because Joel is so happy😭❤️ and then the smut—😤😤😤😤 yep, you'll need to prepare yourself for that too. Bring holy water, if you must✨
Take Care Of You - @theidiotwhowritesthings - Four chapters in and I'm already addicted. I'm a junkie because of you. This is insane. It's like you knew that I have a weakness for sugar daddies and Joel Miller and you decided to combine the two and ruin my entire life😭 How. dare. you💔
Push And Pull - @javiscigarette - filth. absolute filth. the filthiest of filth and IT MAKES ME WANT TO SCREAM😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 my god, the way, I had to calm the fuck down after reading this for the first time had me wondering if I was a demon in church💀 10/10🔥
Lost In The Darkness - @softlyspector - Mafia!Joel. That's it. That's all you need to know and I think it's safe to say that you know you're going to fucking die because it's written by one of the best writers Hellsite has ever seen✨ when I tell you that I had to take a breather in between moments that wrecked my life, I am not exaggerating😭😭😭😭 100% recommend for destroying your soul at 3am✨ also be warned of the 🌶️
Frankie Morales
Frankie Likes To Sneak Around - @bastianbuxx - I swear to God wanted to be someone's little secret so badly😭
Pioneer!Frankie Morales - @frannyzooey - EXCUSE ME??? LIKE WHAT RIGHT DID YOU HAVE TO AWAKEN MY INNER WHORE😭😭😭😭 the things I would do to live in this realm are unspeakable😭😭😭😭😭🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
2K notes · View notes
javierpena-inatacvest · 2 months
Text
Cramps
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Summary: After going off of birth control, your periods have been a little more intense than you're used to. What starts out as a stressful morning between you and your husband, very quickly turns into a night that bodes very well for the both of you.
Paring: Husband Frankie Morales x Wife f!reader (no use of y/n)
Word Count: 5.4K on the dot (idk how we got here)
Warnings: SMUT (18+) PERIOD SEX, unprotected p in v sex (do better, but also they want a baby so), vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving, again, you're on your period but our pussy eating king Fransisco Morales is an unstoppable force of nature), creampie, praise kink, big fat nasty breeding kink (it's who I am now, I won't apologize for it), Frankie's got a NASTY mouth, Frankie is the best husband, reader is on her period/has period symptoms, talks about family planning/not being on birth control, use of nicknames (hermosa, quierda, cariño), reader has no physical descriptions besides that she can wear Frankie's clothes
A/N: Well... This was gonna be a drabble... and then it was just gonna be fluff.... and then it was gonna be just some implied smut... and now, we're here??? Idk, don't ask me 🥴 self indulgent bc I just finished my period (and my periods have been whack since stopping bc) and what better way to heal myself than imagining what Frankie would be like taking care of you 🥺 also pls be nice to me this is my first time writing Frankie and I'm v nervous EEK I hope you enjoy!!! sorry Javi bby, I still love u
Bitchy. 
You wished you had a better word to describe your mood for today, but truth be told, bitchy was by far the most accurate. 
You and Frankie were hoping to start trying for your first baby soon, and had recently gone off your birth control after your doctor had told you it may take a few months for your body to regulate itself before you had a better chance at getting pregnant. Your doctor had also  warned you about many of the symptoms and side effects that stopping the pill could have, one of those being becoming more aware of your emotions and mood swings throughout your cycle. That, you were prepared for. 
What you were not prepared for, was to feel like an absolute psychopath in the days leading up to your period. 
 Your cycle had  been wonky the past few months as your body began to sort itself out- you had a feeling your period was probably about to start soon, but hadn’t thought much about it, considering your terrible and grouchy mood had overshadowed it. You had tried your best to pull yourself together the past few days, chalking up your grumpiness to long hours at work, or just being in a weird funk, but today, you woke up with a fire in your gut, ready to fight, and poor Frankie was about to be your punching bag. 
Sweet Frankie had been nothing short of a saint when it came to just about anything, but dealing with your newly heightened emotions right before your period really should have earned him some sort of Presidential Medal of Bravery, considering that your newly discovered highs and lows while PMS-ing were just as frightening as any time he had spent during his time in the military. 
Unfortunately for your husband, despite his best efforts, he had been on your nerves all morning. Not because he was really doing anything wrong, but because the little things that you were normally so good about letting go, or the patience you frequently had seemed to have flown out the window, and you were convinced that if Frankie even breathed the wrong way, you were going to absolutely lose it. 
So when unsuspecting Frankie decided to ask you a simple request about after work plans, there was very little he could have done to prepare for your response. 
“Morning, Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, emerging into the kitchen, his hand rustling through his untamed, sleepy brown curls as he let out a yawn and a stretch, the slight softness of his stomach peeking out between his t-shirt and pajama pants as he raised his arms above his head before settling behind you. He wrapped himself around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss into your shoulder as you finished putting the last of your lunch in your bag for work, trying to force yourself to focus on his sweet good morning, rather than the empty bowl of cereal in the sink that had greeted you first thing when you woke up, already starting you off on the wrong foot in your already irritable mood. 
“Morning, babe.” You grinned, forcing yourself to forgo the annoyance hidden behind your smile as you pecked a quick kiss on Frankie’s lips before gathering the rest of your things for the day scattered across the kitchen table. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to make you breakfast this morning because I was running late, but there’s extra scrambled eggs on the stove if you want them. I’m really sorry, Frankie, I gotta head out, have a good day, I’ll see you later okay?” You sighed, slinging your work bag over your shoulder, your hands full of your coffee mug, water bottle and keys, your cluttered grip and running behind schedule only adding to your frustration. 
“All good, Querida, no worries. Hey, actually baby, before you leave,” He paused, setting down the coffee mug he was just about ready to take a sip of, as if a little lightbulb had just gone off in his brain, “do you mind picking up stuff to make that really good buffalo chicken dip for Benny’s tonight? I told ‘em we’d bring like, an appetizer or something, if that’s okay.” 
For Frankie’s sake, you couldn’t have been more thankful that you had your back turned to him, because if looks could kill, Frankie Morales would have been a dead man. 
Every rational part of your brain knew that even though his request perhaps wasn’t the best timing, stopping by the store and making dip to bring to Benny’s for game night really wasn’t that much time or effort out of your day. But today, it seemed like every part of your brain but the rational one seemed to be functioning properly, and the raging, irrational part might as well have heard that Frankie wanted you to prepare and cook a Thanksgiving meal for 74 after you got home from work. 
You took a deep breath, your grip tightening around the items in your hand, praying with every bone in your body that someway or another, you had misheard your husband. 
“Tonight? As in, like, today, after I get home from work?” You questioned, trying to do your best to keep your tone from sounding too condescending. 
“Yeah, we don’t have to be there until 7, I just don’t think I’m gonna have time to since I probably won’t be outta work until 6:30.” He shrugged nonchalantly, taking another swig of his coffee 
Oh yeah, you’d heard him right.  
You let out a deep sigh, even more over dramatic than you had intended it to be, arms crossed over your chest and stark frown spread across your face as you turned towards Frankie. 
“Oh, perfect! That’s a great thing for me to find out about at 7:45 A.M. the day of, Frank!” Your voice oozed with ferocious sarcasm, now slamming your things back down onto the table to run your hands over your face. “No, that’s great, because there’s nothing I wanted to do more than to come home and make buffalo chicken dip instead of all the other shit I needed to do today before we left! Amazing! Thank you!” 
At this point, you were almost positive that if your eyes rolled any further, they’d be in the back of your skull, letting out another angry huff as you shook your head at Frankie, who was looking absolutely petrified as he leaned back against the counter, eyes darting to the floor to avoid yours, running his hand over the wispy curls at the nape of his neck. Frankie began to stammer, trying to defend himself from your wrath. 
“Hermosa, I’m- I’m sorry? I know it’s last minute, but you normally make it every time we go over there, I just- I figured it’d be easy for you to do? You can get something else, or I can try to stop by the store really quick on the way home, I just might-” 
“Nope, you want buffalo chicken dip, apparently I’m making buffalo chicken dip!” You groaned, collecting everything back into your hands, swearing under your breath as you tried to balance everything in your grip. “Jesus, okay, I need to go to work, just- I don’t even know. I gotta go, Frankie.” 
“Querida, I-” Frankie pleaded, beginning to trail behind you as you made your way to the front door. 
“Frankie, whatever, it’s fine! I’ll make the stupid dip! I have to go to work, I’ll see you later.” You could feel the muscles in your jaw beginning to clench as you gritted your teeth, trying with everything in you to keep from exploding as you headed out of the house. Without even a kiss goodbye, you left Frankie in the doorway, watching you throw your things in the car and slam the door behind you as you drove down the driveway. 
But as soon as you were on the road and your house was out of view, you could instantly feel the tears beginning to well in your eyes, slowly streaming down your cheeks as you began to sob, wondering why you had ruined the morning over as stupid as an appetizer, and even worse, that you had been a complete asshole to your husband about it. 
Tumblr media
You couldn’t have been more thankful that work had been quiet today- no meetings on the schedule, and no one coming to bother you, leaving you plenty of peace and quiet to continue sulking and brooding in your unpleasant mood. 
Right around lunch time, you found yourself eating alone in your office, wishing your lunch was about ten times saltier and chocolatier than it was, crying to yourself as you watched a video of a dog meeting its new human sibling for the first time.
Just as you were beginning to pack up the rest of your lunch and start back up with your work, you felt a terrible twinge in your lower stomach that had you just about keeled over in pain, followed by that all too familiar feeling in your underwear. 
Frantically scrambling, you reached into your bag to pull out a tampon, hurriedly shuffling to the nearest bathroom, only to reveal the murder scene equivalent as you pulled down your pants. 
Your period had come.  
In that moment, as much as you were dreading the pain and misery that was the next few days to come, you couldn’t also help but feel a slight sense of relief, realizing that you were in fact, not actually a crazy person for the way you were feeling, you were just PMS-ing out of your mind. You couldn’t also help but feel absolutely awful for your unjustified freak out at your husband this morning, your heart sinking with guilt as you made your way back to your desk, immediately grabbing your phone to text Frankie. 
“Hey… I’m so sorry about this morning. What you were asking me to do wasn’t a big deal at all and I totally freaked out on you. My period just started, I think that’s why I’ve been such a bitch this morning. I’m sorry, Frankie, I love you.💕 ” 
It was almost instantly after you hit send that the reply bubble popped up in your message, your heart pounding anxiously waiting for your husband’s reply. 
“It’s okay, I kind of had a feeling 😉 babe, you weren’t being a bitch- I should have talked to you about it sooner. Shitty timing on my part. I’m sorry. I love you too, Querida.” 
Before you could even respond, another message popped up below his first. 
“Don’t worry about going to the store or making anything tonight. I already texted Benny and told him we couldn’t come. We can spend the night in, just the two of us. I can pick up takeout on the way home if you want and we can pick a movie to watch.” 
You could feel your frustrated facade beginning to melt away as your lips shifted from a pursed frown to a small smirk reading Frankie’s text, your thumbs quickly tapping across the screen of your phone to reply. 
“Thank you. You’re the best.” 
“Of course. Hopefully none of your co-workers ask you to make buffalo chicken dip before you leave 😘” 
“Oh shut up, meanie.” 
“Just kidding. Have a good rest of your day, love you. 💙
“Love you too. 🤍” 
Although the rest of your day was nowhere near enjoyable, given the fact you felt like you were getting punched repeatedly in the uterus and your personality resembled that of Oscar the Grouch, you knew that your night in with Frankie was your light at the end of the tunnel, and only needed to make it a few more hours before there was at least some sweet relief finally headed your way. 
Tumblr media
Despite the constant stabbing pain in your lower stomach and back, your drive home from work had you in much better spirits than your drive there, now not only having an explanation as to why you had felt like such a mess, but also knowing the rest of your night was going to be dedicated to nothing but cuddling up in your comfiest clothes and snuggling up next to Frankie on the couch. 
As you pulled down your street, you were surprised to see Frankie’s truck already parked in the driveway, wondering what he was doing at home almost an hour earlier than he had mentioned he would be this morning. Gathering all of your things out of the back of your car, you quietly entered your home, confusion scrunching in your brow as you called out for your husband. 
“Frankie? Babe, are you home?” 
Before you could even kick off your shoes or hang up your coat, Frankie had already appeared at the front door to greet you, boyish grin spread across his face as he grabbed your things out of your hand, carefully placing them on your entryway table before engulfing you in a bear hug, his broad arms wrapping around your body and pulling you closer into his chest. 
You could feel all the muscles in your body instantly relax as your face rested against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, soaking in the familiar woody and savory scent of him, letting yourself be consumed by every ounce of his embrace. 
“Hi Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, pressing a soft kiss against your temple, running his hands up and down your back as you looked up at his sweet brown eyes shining down at you. 
“What are you doing home so early? I mean, not that I’m mad about it at all, I just thought you said that you had to work until 6:30 and-” 
“Told my boss I had to head out early for a family emergency.” Frankie smirked, laughing at you playfully rolling your eyes from his so-called excuse. 
“Last time I checked, your wife being a grump because she’s bleeding out of her cooch doesn’t classify as a family emergency, Fransisco.” You teased, giving him a little shove, making the two of you giggle in tandem. 
“Eh, close enough. I’m really sorry about this morning, querida. I was a dick for not talking to you about plans beforehand and just assuming you could go do it. It wasn’t fair of me.” 
“It’s okay, Frankie. What you were asking for wasn’t a big deal and I made it one because I’ve been a psycho all day. I’m sorry, too.” 
“Well,” Frankie paused, pressing another kiss onto your cheek, the width of his palm gently cradling your jaw as you stared up at him and his sympathetic smile, “number one, you are not a psycho. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable you must feel right now, so even if you were, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. Number two,” he paused again, shifting his kiss from your cheek to your lips, his thumb delicately swiping across your skin, “you’re my wife and I love you more than anything, and if I can take a little time off to help make you feel better, it’s the least I can do. So, why don’t you go change into something comfortable, and when you get back down here, I will have pizza and ice cream, whatever movie you wanna watch, and a back rub ready for you, okay?”   
“Okay. Thank you, Frankie. God, you’re the best.” You grinned, pressing up on your tiptoes to let your mouth meet Frankie’s, the plush pout of his bottom lip swiping across yours, lingering just long enough to let the butterflies in your stomach begin to swirl, heat creeping through your cheeks in the tenderness of the moment.
“Of course, cariño. Te amo. Now go get changed.” With one last peck on his lips, you wiggled out of Frankie’s grasp to make your way up the stairs, grinning to see that your husband had already set out your favorite of his oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants, neatly folded on the bed for you to grab, quickly shuffling out of your uncomfortable work attire and exchanging it for Frankie’s clothes, your smile growing even wider at the feeling of perpetually being wrapped up in the essence of him. 
As you made your way back downstairs to meet Frankie, you found your heart skipping a beat again to see that the better part of the living room had been turned into a cozy sanctuary- lights dim and candles lit, both parts of your couch squished together, filled with every pillow and blanket you owned, and Frankie sitting in the middle, giant box of pizza, tub of ice cream and your handsome husband waiting for you. 
As if your emotions hadn’t already taken you on a wild roller coaster of a ride today, the adorable sight in front of you had you on the verge of tears again, wiping the wetness pooling in your eyes with the back of Frankie’s sweatshirt sleeve drooping off your arm before crawling into the blanket fort he had constructed for the two of you. 
“Frankie… You didn’t have to do this.” You sniffled, curling up next to Frankie as he draped a blanket over your lap and his arm over your shoulder, passing you a plate with 2 large pieces of pizza. 
“It’s the least I could do. I put on Hercules for us to watch, but if you wanna-” 
Before you could let him finish the rest of his sentence, you were running your hand across the scratchy stubble of his cheek, pulling his face closer to yours as you planted a kiss on his lips, feeling your smiles melt into one another's as your mouths met. “That sounds perfect. God, how’d I get so lucky?” 
“I could say the same thing, mi amor. You ready to start the movie?” 
“Only if you also pass me that tub of Ben and Jerry’s to go with my pizza.” 
“I think I can make that happen.” 
Tumblr media
About half way through the movie, pizza and tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, your and Frankie’s bodies were tangled together in a sea of limbs and blankets, contently snuggled up with one another as Frankie’s fingers traced lazy circles on your back and shoulder as you laid against his chest. 
“You doin’ okay, querida? Need anything?” He cooed, his soft voice dancing in your ear. As if it weren’t enough that you had already been through the extreme highs and lows of almost every feeling under the sun today, the one you hadn’t been until this very moment was insatiably horny. While the mood swings you had mentally prepared yourself for with your new period symptoms, the constant other kind of ache between your legs you had not, and feeling the low rasp of Frankie’s words tickling your neck had been just enough to flip the switch to make you desperately needy. 
Letting your leg slide over Frankie’s lap, you pushed yourself up to straddle his hips, running your hands through the dark curls of his thick, brown hair, and down his broad chest, your fists bunching the worn fabric of his shirt in your hands as your mouths became a mess of tangled tongues and teeth. 
“I need- fuck- I need you, Frankie, please.” You pleaded between muffled moans, his tongue swiping in the parted space where your lips melted together as one, instinctively beginning to grind your hips into his, feeling the bulge in his sweatpants starting to grow beneath you. 
“Fuck- You sure, baby?” Frankie rasped, reactively bucking up into you, making you whine as his hands dug into your hips, guiding you as you swirled over the tented fabric of his bottom half rubbing against your covered core. 
“Please. Please, Frankie.” You were all but whimpering at this point, nodding frantically in approval as Frankie used the grasp on your hips to guide you onto your back, making you cock your head in confusion as Frankie scampered to the other side of the couch, back turned to you as he reached over the ledge, pulling out a thick, black towel with a smug grin on his face. “Did you seriously have a towel ready incase I wanted to have sex?” You snorted, shaking your head at Frankie, now crawling back to you, caging your body under his with an electric kiss as he shimmied the towel underneath you. 
“Maybe.” Frankie smirked, breaking from your kiss to let his lips trail down your body, his hands toying with the edge of his sweatshirt covering your body as he pushed it up your stomach and chest, helping you to shimmy it over your head, leaving your top half exposed. He gently palmed at your breasts, taking each pebbled nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking at the buds with his tongue before letting his kisses travel down the soft skin of your stomach and waistband of your sweatpants. The clothes on your bottom half soon joined your sweatshirt in a crumpled pile as Frankie nestled himself between your legs, gently nudging your hips to let your thighs part, revealing your pussy, slick and shiny for him with your juices. 
Even though Frankie would eat you out for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a late night snack, you couldn’t help but feel guilty that he still found himself between your legs during your time of the month, considering any other man probably would have scoffed at just the thought of going down on you on your period. 
But, then again, Frankie Morales wasn’t just any other man. 
“Frankie, baby, you know you don’t- Oh fuck!” You gasped, cut off in surprise as Frankie’s tongue licked a long, broad strip across your cunt, making you shudder in pleasure as his head perked up, revealing the devilish grin spread between his cheeks watching your chest already heave in heavy, shaky breaths. 
“Oh I know I don’t have to, sweet girl. But I want to. Relax, baby, lemme take care of you.” 
Before you could agree, protest, or anything in between, Frankie was back between your legs, arms wrapped around your thighs as they draped over his broad shoulders, digging his fingertips into the plush softness of your skin, dragging his tongue through your folds with the exact grace and precision that he knew made you fall apart in seconds. 
With flat, firm presses of his mouth latched against your clit, you could already feel your bottom half writhing under him, the perfect pressure of his tongue dancing around your sensitive bundle of nerves making you moan in pleasure. As your head dipped back, falling into the couch pillow behind you, your hand shot down, fingers burying themselves in the wild curls of Frankie’s hair, tugging at the thick ends for any sort of release as he worked relentlessly at your aching cunt. 
“Fuck, Frankie, oh fuck- Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” You whined, your praise only intensifying the way your husband drank every ounce of you up, two thick fingers now gently pressing inside your heat, curled deliciously as they rocked in and out of your entrance, nudging against your g-spot. 
Frankie had spent enough time worshiping the altar that was your pussy to know exactly how to make you crumble beneath him, leaving you chanting his name like a prayer as his lips latched around your clit, ferociously sucking as his fingers prodded at the soft, spongy spot that made your cunt begin to clench and heat in your belly pool. 
“That’s it, Hermosa. I know you’re close, baby girl. Let me feel you, mi amor. I’ve got you.” Frankie groaned, his words humming deep in his chest, placing chaste kisses on the inside of your thighs before drinking you up like a man starved, adding a third finger into your heat, the added fullness and stretch, combined with Frankie’s relentless pace, enough to have the tingle that had been building at the base of your spine now washing through every inch of your body. Your orgasm began to crash through you, your pussy fluttering as pleasure radiated in your veins, making you cry out Frankie’s name over and over. 
Frankie worked persistently through your high, only pulling back after making sure that you had cum again, sitting back on his haunches as he admired the blissed out and ragged mess you had become, your pussy slick and swollen as your chest rose and fell in wrecked inhales and exhales, trying to compose yourself from the Frankie and fucked you senseless with just his tongue. 
Wiping the slick and juices glistening in his mustache with the back of his hand, Frankie tugged the sweatshirt covering his own body over his head, followed by his pants and boxers, freeing his painfully hard cock as it slapped against his stomach, his tip red and leaking with precum as his broad body loomed over yours, sucking and nipping at your pulse point as you whimpered his name. 
“Frankie, holy fuck.” 
“Such a good girl for me, querida. You still want me to fuck you, baby?” He mewled, the metallic and tangy taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he kissed you, laughing to himself at the way you found yourself frantically nodding your head to tell him yes before your words could. 
“Jesus Christ, yes. Fuck, please Frankie, I need to feel you.” 
Reaching down to stroke himself, he lined his cock up with your entrance, easily sliding into your heat and brushing his tip against your cervix, taking a moment to let you adjust to his fullness. The whine you let out as Frankie filled every inch of you was nothing short of ragged, digging your nails into the skin of his broad back as he ever so slowly began to thrust in and out of you, dragging his length against the slick of your cunt. 
“Oh fuck me- Fuck, you hear how wet you are for me, sweet girl? This what you needed, baby? To fill up that pretty little pussy of yours?” Frankie groaned, letting his forehead rest against yours, his sweaty curls now starting to stick to his skin as he pounded into you, rutting his hips at a faster and faster pace. 
“It’s all for you, Frankie- Oh shit- only for you.” You moaned, your fingers wrapping around the width of his biceps, flexing deliciously as he hovered over you, sucking you in to a long, deep kiss, fucking into you over and over. 
Even with the years between you and the ring on your finger, the possessive part of Frankie’s brain would never get over how the primal and all consuming feeling of knowing you were his, forever, your words shooting straight to his dick as a low groan rumbled in his chest, silently cursing to himself through gritted teeth, watching you fall apart below him. 
Readjusting himself, Frankie sat back on his heels, hooking his arm under one of your legs to drape it over his shoulder, the new angle stretching you out in a way that had you seeing stars as Frankie rammed into your g-spot and began thumbing at your clit, still swollen and sensitive from your first orgasm. You could already feel the heat beginning to bloom in your belly once again, your leg beginning to tremble hoisted over Frankie’s shoulder as he dug into the meat of your thigh with a bruising intensity. 
Just like he would never get over the fact of knowing you were his, Frankie would never get over watching you begin to crumble under his touch, taking the time to memorize every twitch and twinge your body made as you came closer and closer to your end, always savoring in the moaning mess you’d become as you fell apart around him. 
“Fuck, Frankie, Fuck, oh my god- I’m close, baby.” You were all but rambling at this point, your brain barley stringing together coherent sentences as you felt your cunt beginning to clench around his cock, the lewd noises of your moans, wetness and skin slapping together as your hips met filling the room at a borderline pornagraphic rate. 
“Meirda, I’m not gonna last much longer, hermosa. Fuck, where do you want me, baby?” Frankie growled through gritted teeth, his eyes locking on yours and telling him everything he needed to know without you saying a word. 
“Inside. Fuck, please Frankie, I want you to cum inside me.” 
Your confirmation was all it took to flip the switch in Frankie that sent him absolutely feral, the thought of being able to actually knock you up now that you weren’t on birth control anymore, giving you a baby, proving another way to the world to mark you as his? The thought alone was enough to have him bracing every bone in his body to keep him from cuming right then and there. 
“Fuck me. You want me to fill you up, querida? Fuck me full of you? Fuck a baby into you? That's what you want, huh?” Frankie moaned, grunting with each thrust of his hips, his rhythm becoming more frantic and shaky as he felt your pussy begin to flutter around him, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit, swirling them in frantic circles to make sure you came before he did. 
“Fuck, yes. I need you too, holy fuck- wanna make you a daddy, Fransisco.” 
You could feel the tightly wound knot in your core starting to snap, your legs trembling and breath shaking as Frankie fucked into you, finding yourself on the verge of collapse- but not before Frankie’s filthy mouth got the last word in. 
“Jesus, fuck- Fuck, hermosa. That’s what you want, pretty girl? I swear, I’m gonna fuck myself so deep into you it’ll fucking take. Get you fucking pregnant tonight.” 
That was all it took to have you orgasm come crashing through you, every inch of your body radiating with pleasure as you came, crying out Frankie’s name as you gushed around him, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head, your mind going blank and numb, the only thing grounding you were the incoherent ramblings of your husband as he followed suit behind you. 
“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too, fuck, fuck-ahhhhhh.” With one final thrust, Frankie could feel himself spilling against your walls, coating you with his spend as his cock pulsed, making sure he milked himself of every last drop deep inside your cunt before even thinking about pulling out. Moving your leg, Frankie slumped into you, splaying himself across your body as your chests rose and fell in sync, laying in silence as you let your breathing steady, coming back down to Earth from your high. 
With a shallow grunt, Frankie carefully pulled his softening cock out of your heat, leaning back to admire the mess he had made between your legs, his cum dripping down the inside of your thighs and pussy glistening with the mixture of your arousal. You let out a soft hiss at the loss of Frankie’s fullness inside you, only to quickly be replaced by a gasp as he buried his two fingers back into your cunt.  
“Gotta make sure every last drop stays in there, hermosa. Gonna keep you full of me all night, baby.” He mewled, carefully gathering his spend and pushing it deep inside you, making you whimper as he slowly pulsed his fingers back and forth, pulling away his hand to lean back into your body, engulfing you with an electric kiss. 
“Holy fuck, fuck me. Jesus, Frankie.” You laughed to yourself, your head dipping back on the pillow as you buried your face in your hands, at a loss for words at how euphoric you now felt in your post colital bliss. 
“Wow, again, already? Gotta give me a few after that querida.” He smirked, making you roll your eyes at his joke as you playfully swatted at him, making him lean in to pepper your body with kisses, leaving you squealing and squirming in delight. 
“You are absolutely ridiculous, Fransisco Morales. If you keep fucking me like that, then yeah, absolutley.” 
“If I keep fucking you like this, I have a very hopeful feeling that next month, we’ll have something else to care about besides period cramps.”
“I swear to god, if one of my cravings ends up being buffalo chicken dip once I’m pregnant, I’m gonna be pissed.”
Tumblr media
Taglist:
@bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog @jaciejay13 @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @lola8888673 @persephone-girl @copperhalfcent @innerpersonunknown @messinadresss @devineconjuring @endlessthxxghts @cool-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @messinadress @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @ilovepedro @pascalscoffin @missladym1981 @munson-hargrove-barnes86 @angel98624 @anoverwhelmingdin @pimosworld @nandan11 @iloveenya @survivingandenduring
2K notes · View notes
endlessthxxghts · 1 month
Text
Full
Frankie Morales x afab!Reader
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Summary: You want Frankie to knock you up, and fuck, does he wants that, too. W/C: 1k. (I actually stuck to the word count this time… but at what insanely hot cost?😵‍💫) 18+ MDNI: Implied established relationship. Literally 0% plot and 100% PORN. Unprotected P in V sex. MAJOR BREEDING KINK. Cumming inside. Slight daddy kink (in the sense that you wanna make Frankie a daddy🫶🏼). One (1) pussy slap. Multiple orgasms. Overstimulation kink. Finger fucking. Pics for aesthetic purposes only.
A/N: This lil drabble is a part of my 1k follower celebration in response to this yummy request made by @javierpena-inatacvest😵‍💫 Please take a deep breath and get comfortable while you read this… ANYWAY, happy Valentine’s Day everyone!!! What better way to celebrate than with Frankie and his breeding kink?😋 Hope you guys enjoy, and please do let me know what you guys think!!!! I love love love your feedback (or- in other words) !!!🤭
MASTERLIST || NOTIF BLOG || 1K CELEBRATION
Tumblr media
“Fuck, Frankie…”
“Taking it so good, querida, fuck-”
“Please- shit- please, Frankie, don’t stop.”
“I’m not, baby,” he moans, eyes threatening to succumb to the back of his skull, “Not gonna fucking stop until you’re full of me, baby, yo prometo.” I promise. 
“Sh-shit, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, ohmygod-” your eyes clamp shut, your jaw hangs open, ass up in the air as your tears and drool soak the pillow beneath your face. 
Frankie speeds up, pummeling into you hard and fast, his large hands coasting the surface of your ass and your back, groaning at the way you twitch and writhe underneath him. His hands settle at your waist, gripping you tightly, accentuating the arch of you. He’s so fucking deep at this angle, you can feel him hitting your cervix with each thrust forward. It’s an addicting sensation right now—and it will be even later, when the dull ache overtakes you. “Give it to me,” he breathes, “cum all over my cock, querida, needa feel you.”
His hand snakes around to your front, the pad of his fingers meeting your clit, rubbing it in the perfect motion that sends you reeling. Fireworks—no, dynamite, explodes behind the dark of your eyelids, your head adopting that fuzzy feeling, your body following suit not long after. “So fucking good, you feel so fucking good, Frankie, oh my God- oh fuck-” you ramble partially incoherently. 
Your thighs are jello, unable to keep yourself up as Frankie continues fucking into you; his arm wraps around your middle, his other pawing at your breast. He pulls you up to be flush against his chest as he begs your alter for his own release. “I’m c- mierda- I’m close,” he whimpers right at your ear. 
Mustering up as much strength as you can, you twist your head to face him, your hand reaching up and rooting yourself at the back of his messy curls. You yank his head towards you, crashing his mouth against yours. It’s sloppy and wet, swallowing each other’s tongues whole as the thickness of your shared breaths melt into one. Breaking away with a bite to his kiss-swollen lower lip, you whisper into his mouth, “cum inside me, Frankie, please.”
“Baby-” he chokes, his hips speed up, arousing him beyond what he thought was possible. “Want you in me for days, Francisco,” you whimper, licking a stripe on his neck, collecting the salty liquid running down. His hand makes its way back to your throbbing bud. 
Your body goes lax in his hold, you secure your grip at the base of his neck, keeping your faces close to each other. He watches with heavy eyes as you struggle to keep your gaze on his, your brows furrowing slightly as your eyelids begin to flutter. “Need you-” you start, a throaty moan cutting you off. “Need you inside me- need you to fuck it so deep, baby,” you sob, “that it has no choice but to fucking take- fuck-”
Frankie’s heart stutters and his cock twitches. “Yeah?” he grits between his teeth. “Want me to fuck you full?” A particularly hard thrust sends you cross-eyed, your nails digging into his neck. “Want me to fucking get you pregnant right now, baby?” 
An appreciative little slap to your slippery clit jolts your eyes open, his lustful gaze with a hint of something more—like adoration, like pure devotion—stares you down. You pull him into you once more, a clash of spit and teeth and tongue—you can even taste a hint of your own arousal from when he ate you out before you were begging him to knock you up. “Please- fuck- yes, baby, yes- fucking- let me make you a daddy, baby, please- want you- need it- need you so fucking bad-”
Fuck. Frankie’s pace falters, his hips stammer as his orgasm consumes him—his cum painting your warm walls, filling you up to the brim. You moan at the sensation, your hips thrusting backwards into him, and before you realize it, you’re cumming again, both your bottom halves an utter mess of each other’s arousal. 
Frankie softly slips from your heat, and you both hiss at the loss. He releases his hold on you, guiding you onto your back, his hands settling on the insides of your thighs to keep you open for him. His eyes can’t leave the way your pussy looks right now—completely fucked out, shiny with your slick, and filled with his cum. You feel it start to leak out of your hole, and you whine, the feeling so sensitive but dizzying, knowing you’re overflowing with Frankie. 
Before you know it, his fingers are collecting the dripping spend, bringing it back to your entrance, and slowly, his fingers enter you, the initial push inward causing more of his cum to seep out of you, but he’s quick to catch the leakage, pushing it back inside of you, where it needs to be. 
With one hand holding one thigh down and the other inside of your sex, Frankie’s entranced, starting up a delicious pace fucking into you with his fingers. You’re a moaning mess of curses mixed with his name, overstimulation taking over your body, but you don’t want him to stop. 
He couldn’t even if he tried. He’s too caught up in the notion that after this, his sperm could latch, and in nine months from now, you’d be big and round and glowing carrying the product of your love. Fuck, he needs this to work. He’ll fill you up every fucking day if that’s what it takes. 
He’s pulled from his trance when a heady moan roars from your throat, “F-fuck, fuck, Frankie, I’m gonna fucking cum again! Oh my god, baby- fuck-” 
His eyes are on your face: pure ecstasy, he’s seeing, in the way your head throws back into your pillow, only the white of your eyes showing, as the veins pop out your neck as you scream out in pleasure. 
He slides his fingers out, slick with a mixture of both of your arousal, and brings it up to your mouth. He knows how much you love to taste. 
Immediately you open up, lapping up your combined flavors greedily, a content, blissful smile plastered lazily on your face. 
“Am I full, baby?” You mumble. 
“So full, querida,” he whispers, laying his body over yours, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. 
“Do you think…” you trail off softly, nervous. 
“I don’t know, mi amor,” he breathes, kissing your chest. “Guess we’ll just have to keep you full everyday until we can check, huh?” 
Your cheeks heat up, your exhausted pussy already fluttering in anticipation. “Y-yeah. I guess so.” 
Tumblr media
End note: LOLOL GUYS I, UH.. I REALLY WENT HARD ON THIS ONE, I'M SORRY BUT ALSO I'M NOT SORRY ASDFGFDFH PLS LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THINK <3 YOUR GUYS' WORDS MEAN THE WORLD TO ME, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH Also how you doing, babe @javierpena-inatacvest?? You alive? Still with me?? I LOVE YOU AHAHAHAH
1K notes · View notes
undercoverpena · 2 months
Text
1. butterscotch orange
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter one of do me yourself
Tumblr media
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over <redacted>. frankie being a single!dad to a son. coffee date. an: it is finally here! this little thing has rotted me from the inside out and nothing brings me more joy than a romcom. so here we go. buckle in. all hail @secretelephanttattoo for the wondrous idea and support (seriously thank you, i know you know ily, but i don't think I've been this happy writing something in so long). a thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who i forced to read this when we had our sleepover, ily.
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics [winks]
Tumblr media
IF I CAN DO IT, ANYONE CAN DO IT. ALL YOU NEED—
It rings, echoes through your skull.
Has been doing so the whole ride over—your groan doing nothing to dilute it, even as you kill the engine of your car and are welcomed with silence.
There’s an element of regret you feel thrumming in you since discovering that perky voice, her high-pitched excitement becoming the bane of your existence. Forever replaying in your head. Regardless of whether it is actually playing. It remains on a loop in your mind—all light and sweet—grating on you from the amount you’ve had to watch it, just to get to this stage.
Realistically, you know you shouldn’t hate the voice, because it has been helpful—in that effortlessly playful way that’s kind of begun to fuck you off.
But then, you’re not even sure if any voice would fare much better. Because you just don’t feel like it’s just that easy—so possible, all simple and quick to do.
Because DIY apparently isn't that trouble-free for you. The bandaids on your palm, fingers, and forearm are proof of it.
Yet, somehow you’re outside of a hardware store.
One that Google promises will have all you need and more. Not that you know what that is.
The only thing you do know is that it at least gives you another reason to focus on something other than the mountain of boxes that never end. The ones not unpacked. In the home that’s now only slowly beginning to feel more like yours, and not the people you purchased it from.
Eyes flicking over the front of the store, the clutter of things all left outside—in judging various shades of buckets and plastic garden chairs—before your eyes land on the door to Harold’s Hardware.
There’s no breeze, but the door moves ever so slightly. Sitting, slightly ajar, as though once—a long time ago—it fit in the frame perfectly, but now remained warped and unwilling to even try. Then there’s the glass, all smeared and sitting inside (what you assume) would have been a bright-white frame that’s slightly yellowed and has been adorned in scuffs, swinging in its layered overuse.
But, at least it’s visited, you think. Shoving open the door, a bell sounds in some distant corner, ringing, it almost muffled by the voice from the video continuing to play in the space between your ears—a to-do list, a handful of items required, listing themselves on a never-ending loop, the billionth play through since you’d woken up.
It’s so much bigger inside than you banked on. Jaw-ticking to the side, eyes marvelling at the floor-to-ceiling display and the array of things all living and existing under hanging signs that appear worn and peeling.
With each second, more and more of the charm comes to you.
That there’s a radio, crackling away, a song from decades gone by playing with difficulty, as an array of scents swirl, fighting themselves for your attention. But, two stand out, fresh-cut wood and lemon disinfectant. The latter you assume kills dirt but doesn’t make the floor tiles gleam in the way they once did. Scuff marks adorning well-walked paths. But the former, you gravitate more to, wish for it to fill your nose and remain with you long after your visit.
Adjusting the strap of your bag, you glance about again, almost fidgeting your feet in your shoes, before it dawns on you. Slams into you as you flick your gaze from sign to sign—
You haven’t got a clue about where to start.
Listing the things from memory—suddenly distant and difficult to find amongst the dooming overwhelm—as your feet begin moving of their own accord. Choosing an aisle, selecting it—all eeny-meeny-miny-mo.
Because better that, than standing aimless, lost. Watched on some flickering CCTV in the back where you assume the person who works here is.
Dragging your eyes, scanning them up and down, taking in the varying types of paint brushes, different thicknesses, different intentions. Moving from single purchase to grouped, to multi-packs, and landing finally on rollers before you’re turning, heading down an entirely different aisle.
The next isn’t any less overwhelming.
If anything, it’s more, because it’s at least more of what you needed.
Screws, bolts, fixings.
Your brain assessing, attempting to assemble whether a bolt is what you need, a screw or—
“You need a hand?”
It throws you off, the voice.
Cuts through your processing, through the low replays of the video (the ones only in your head) and the cracking radio which has moved into an advert for migraines.
It’s low, a slight gravel that he rids with a clear of his throat as you look over your shoulder, eyes sweeping over the owner of the voice, eventually turning to face him.
And fuck.
He’s broad, dressed in a deep green t-shirt under a tan apron—name badge scratched over, only leaving the lingering marks of a “here to help” and the fading logo you’d seen outside.
You don’t mean to gawk, but yet you do all the same.
Practically swallowing, attempting to whir your brain into gear as you take in the rest of him. The thick loose curls atop his head, the strong nose and the round-brown eyes. His moustache, the wiry facial hair across his chin he slowly begins to scrape at, as he remains waiting for a response.
“Screws.”
“You… you need screws?”
Nodding, you will your brain to work, to function. But, he’s just so—
Lifting his chin, he runs his thumb up and down the underside of his chin, waiting, waiting, until he smiles. “Do you know the kind?”
Think. Think. Fucking think.
And then you do. Somehow able to unspool some thoughts, find sentences. Beginning to explain, in barely-there pauses and animated hand gestures about your move, and your new lease of life, and this video you found and how you felt inspired by it to the point it had led you to order wood cut to size and tools from the internet, but screws, screws and this and that are all that you’d forgotten.
And, he listens. Sliding a hand over the sleeve of his sun-scorched tee as he does. Just nodding on occasion. Thin lines appear along his forehead at certain parts of the story, but nonetheless listening.
“Show me.”
“Show… you?”
Then he smiles. Soft, it slides up in a slow, almost cautious way, but then it’s at his eyes, touching, brushing itself there and sending sparks up into the darker brown flecks.
Licking his lips, he gestures, “The video.”
You do.
A quick shuffle in your pocket, a slide to unlock your phone and then your fingers are brushing his. They’re warm, his. That you can tell.
Heat radiating from them, slowly blanketing yours as his hand and yours cradle the phone like a newborn in an announcement photo.
From there, your chest tightens, more so when you meet his eyes, finding them watching you as intently as you wish to look at him, and it makes your heart stammer, skip—a full chaos of beats following before he’s holding your phone independently.
That’s when a new crisis calls. A new thought is all set to erode your mind.
Because your phone looks tiny in his hand.
The plastic case is almost dwarfed by him as he tips his chin, watching the video, occasionally tapping at the screen to skip ahead before he nods to himself, you all but busy trying not to choke on your own drool.
“I know what you need.”
“You do?”
A foolish question, all escaping without thought or rationale.
He just smiles, in a way that seems to settle your incoming anxiousness.
“I do.”
And he does.
A tilt of his head, his back turned to you, a brief thought crossing your brain at the sight but you quickly rid, and you’re following. Listening as he explains, as he points out things with his long, thick finger, as you nod, as though nothing lives in the space between both of your ears.
It isn’t until you’re back in your car that it hits you. Do you suddenly wish as your engine ignites and your car roars to life, that you had asked for his number—or better yet, his name.
Tumblr media
It’s been days, and you’re still wondering if some part of you’d concocted him, made him up—thrown up an illusion of a man and exaggerated how good he looked.
The more you thought about him, the more insane it got. Even hearing yourself explain it to a friend made you question if you'd been dreaming. That maybe you’d let days mould him, shaping perfection in your consciousness.
It has more weight when you walk past the older man at the till, all white hair in a slick-back style and who tips his head and looks more what you’d expect from the decor of the place.
But a part, one fighting, scrapping for a moment to exist, still believes. Hopes.
Forcing your legs to wander down aisles you don’t need, pausing at each corner, desiring to be proven wrong. Hovering, hoping—half-wondering if it was essential that to make him appear, you had to look lost and hopeless—or whether that had just been a coincidence that first time.
With each up and down, you almost give up. Hope almost gone, erasing itself with each step, all but fading.
But there, in the centre of the paint aisle, speckled in dried flecks, it clinging in varying shades—a kaleidoscope dream on his jeans and worn t-shirt—is him. The man you haven't stopped thinking about.
"It's you."
"It's me," you grin, heat flooding your cheeks, growing up into your neck.
Arm lifting, hand brushing the back of his curls not housed in a cap, as he matches your grin. "New project?"
"Something like that."
His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't lessen, not as his grin slopes into a shy smile, before he wipes his hand on his jeans, offering it out. "Realised... I never... I'm Frankie, by the way."
You hand him your name, dropping an octave as you do—all unmeaning, entirely accidental—fingers sliding past his as you shake his hand.
“I don’t… you’ve not got your apron on.”
Glancing down, you find him grinning when he looks up, “Not my day today. Here on personal business.”
“Oh is…” squinting at the paint can in his hand, “Butterscotch Orange on a hit list or something?”
His lips slide into his cheek, a tooth-filled smirk. “Should be, it’s a right bitc—pain in the ass to sell.”
Rolling your lips, you trace your tongue across your teeth as you grin. “It’s no…” eyes squinting. “Mt Rainier Grey.”
His brow arches. “That your shade of choice?”
“I like it—don’t hate the orange though. So, maybe it’s not the paint, but the seller.”
Something twinkles in his eye, lips still cocked to one side, smirk still ever-present.
And it’s a challenge to drag your eyes to look at the floor, you shift your weight. Trying, and failing, to think of an excuse, to leave before it gets weird—before you become too much and ruin this nondescript thing. But, his throat clearing stops you. It forces your chin up. Barely just able to catch it, the whisper, how it’s almost said to the can in his hand than to you.
“You… doing anything right now?”
Shaking your head slowly, you bite your cheek as you grin. “Just talking to a man holding a paint can.”
Tapping his fingers along the top, lips rolling, “You fancy getting a coffee? With me?”
You have to bite your smile, out of fear you’ll show how practically beaming you are. Mouth opening, but he adds an addition of I don’t usually do this that makes your lips curl into a smirk.
“What? Invite random customers for coffee or accost them with paint you can’t sell?”
Biting his upper lip, he shakes his head, tucking a curl behind his ear as your eyes glance over at them. How they glisten under the yellow-fluorescent light.
Letting your heart dance like leaves in the wind. “I’d love to get coffee with you, Frankie.”
Tumblr media
It’s nice, the coffee place.
Not a far walk, a few doors down. The charm of it coaxes you in with sounds of crunching beans and strong scents of varying levels of caffeine sliding over and relaxing your shoulders from your ears.
Because suddenly you’re nervous.
A slight shake to your bones, a twitch of your fingers.
“Let me get this.”
Smiling, you find him watching you, not caring to drag his eyes away when you catch him.
“Because you never do this or because you’re hoping to persuade me to buy your unsellable paint?”
Smirking, he traces his eyes over you, “Both.”
The corner of his mouth slides back into his cheek, a dimple appearing, deepening—one you want to brush over with your thumb the longer he keeps looking at you the way he does.
All dark eyes, beedy, but sparkling.
'Who's next?' breaks the spell. Shatters the magic. It forces you both to blink, to focus on the task at hand. Both orders said, whirring and crunching sounding as you admire the place, glaze over the menu until he’s nudging you.
With your order in hand and tucked away in the corner—the large window letting in light and warmth from the sun on your back—you try not to moan at the taste of your drink once it hits your tongue.
Because it’s good. Brilliant, practically everything.
To the point you have to bite back a thank you, one that you feel would be never-ending, a constant swirl of words landing on the circular table between the two of you. Nothing napkins and good conversation could soak up.
Because good coffee is always great, but knowing where to find it in an unknown place is something else.
Distantly, you hear him say your name, chin dipped, eyes focused, realising—in a flood of embarrassment—he’s been talking to you.
“Sorry?”
“I said, I’ve not seen you in the store before…”
Swallowing, you take a steadying breath.
“You don’t have to…”
But, you do all the same. You pour open small bits of truth, words falling, tumbling half-strung together as your history rolls out in a timeline in front of you both. How you’d bought a new place, that it’s a bit run down, seen better days—a determination to prove friends wrong by doing it yourself.
Foolish, you comment with a shake of your head, I know fuck all about decorating.
And he listens—to the fact you’re alone, not even a pet; he listens even as you talk about your work, all boring, not entirely interesting. The two of you simply lost in one another, surrounded by coffee mug swirls and the sounds of sizzling food, coffee shop noises and mumbling daytime talk as you ask him about work, about his love for orange shades.
And your eyes glance down at his phone, how it’s turned over—his all undivided attention given to you—yet your eyes linger on the phone case. The one with a drawing, likely in pencil, a man in a hat on a hill, a child next to him and a sun with a smile on its face.
“I… I have a kid. Luca—shared custody,” he says, nodding, tongue peeking out between his teeth, hands leaving the table and wiping back on his jeans in slow slides up and down. “He… he made it me.”
It’s the grin that makes your heart swell.
Makes your hand cup your mug a little tighter so you don’t offer it out to him to hold, a thing which feels so natural, no thought required. Except you don’t know his last name—barely know a thing about him.
Yet, your body practically leans forward as you mirror the smile—all soft, as another piece of a missing puzzle sliding into place.
“Does he like drawing?”
Laughing, his palm slides along his jaw. “Loves it.”
“How old?”
“Five—does that… does that bother you?”
“That you’re a dad?” He nods, and you lick your lips, you make sure to hold his gaze. “Not in the slightest.”
You smile, watching him mirror you this time. It rushes out, kissing across every bit of his face—a shyness soon fluttering over him before he clears his throat.
“So, you freelance? You like being your own boss?”
“Not especially, but it does mean I can work at night.”
Nodding, he slides his hand around the white porcelain, hand practically dwarfing the mug. It makes you want to ask him to hold things, to see if IKEA pencils or children’s eating utensils look more ridiculous than your iPhone and a regular coffee mug.
“Prefer the night?”
“I prefer the quiet of it... to think. It’s why… why I began trying to do something in the day, needed to still be busy.”
“Sitting still not an option, Rainier Gray?”
Shrugging, you smile. “Says you Butterscotch and your three tins of unsellable paint in the bed of your truck.”
“You got me there.”
“I just… like to be busy, and with the new house, no partner—commitments, I thought why not try a bit of DIY.”
Nodding, he lifts his mug, and takes a sip—eyes remaining fixed on you as he does, as though it buys him time, lets him think up an opinion, an assessment. It makes your skin warm, but for all the uncomfortable reasons, the panicking ones—parts of you beginning to catastrophise that you’ve said the wrong thing.
“Open up your Instagram.”
You stare, blinking.
“Trust me.”
And you do. With another fumble, another slide of your phone screen open, and you follow his instructions as you type in the spelling he gives you. When you click the page, it’s hard not to grin, to not have your face explode into a smile so large it cuts into your cheeks.
“I don’t like to sit still either,” Frankie adds, as though the thousand photos and videos, the tutorials and follower count don’t say that on their own.
Tumblr media
You’ve fallen down a hole—willingly.
It cracked open the moment you’d sat on your couch, drink in hand, blanket half over your body.
The moment you’d begun your scroll, you discovered you couldn’t stop. Starting with the latest and moving back, until you realise you’d rather see the story in the way it happened.
Choosing a moment, almost nine months ago, before you work your way forward to the present.
You were cautious, more careful than needed, to not like anything too late—to not give away how deep into his page you’d gone. Even if you were in awe, a little proud—your cheeks a little warm and lips turned up into your cheek—as you saw in real-time his confidence grow. The way he’d look at the camera, began experimenting with angles, all in all being smoother, more happy.
You suppose that’s why you type a comment under one picture:
Is that butterscotch orange in the flesh? 🟠
Tumblr media
Stalking me are you?
Getting some tips from Mr DIY himself.
I know you went back some months, Rainy.
How do you know that?
Because as soon as you commented that’s what I did. You looked nice at the beach.
Now who’s the stalker, Butterscotch.
Me. Clearly. I’m being very upfront about it.
Out of interest, do you tutor at all? Gives hands on help to beginner DIYers?
You genuinely asking or flirting?
Big-headed much?
I can help you with something if you need it.
I think I do.
Then I’m yours. Don’t worry, I promise to only snoop in your drawers when left alone.
Think we should get food first, show you what I’m thinking—make sure you’re up to the task.
You asking me on a date?
No. But if you keep showing off tools topless I’ll be tempted to ask you.
Knew you’d gone back further than a month.
Tumblr media
FRANKIE’S INSTAGRAM 🌝
NEXT CHAPTER
an: you do not understand how giddy i am about this series. the chapters have flown out of me. i hope you enjoy it half as much as i'm enjoying writing it. see you soon xx
686 notes · View notes
chronically-ghosted · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media
i wonder if you stopped his world like you did mine
rating: teen
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader
word count: 5K
summary: watching the woman he loves be with someone else is killing him, but for your sake, he manages. But when Benny's birthday loosens him up, he can't help but bear his soul over a phone call. Too bad you don't pick up and he's forced to leave the evidence in a voicemail.
tags/warnings: pining, light angst, idiots in love, country music as a catalyst, romance, tw alcohol, tw drinking, hangovers, ultimately very fluffy
a/n: Happy Valentine's Day @toomanystoriessolittletime! I hope you receive and give all the love you need and want! I've had this idea for a while, but once I saw that Frankie was your fave, I knew I had to do it!
one day i’m gonna do the series of all of my favorite country songs with a Pedro boy. This is one of them: Singles You Up by Jordan Davis. Had thoughts of Me and My Kind by Cody Johnson for our ever-fantastic Jack Daniels and Hurricane by Luke Combs for Joel. One day, my loves, one day. 
🤍Masterlist | Frankie Morales Masterlist
Tumblr media
Frankie Morales has a problem.
Given the life expectancy in his line of work – all things considered – it really wasn’t that bad of a problem. Sure, his knees were busted, his shoulder aches when it was cold out, and his ex keeps hounding him for money he doesn’t have. But on the flipside, his little family unit of friends and brothers united by combat are (mostly) all alive and healthy. He has a steady job and his little girl, whom he loves and adores, thinks the sun shines out of his ass. All things considered, there’s not much else he can ask for. He’s far better off than some of the men and women at Will’s talks, or in Santiago’s field teams. 
So – really, truly, seriously – all things considered . . .  he can’t classify this as a bad problem.
In fact, this is a problem he would willingly have. Gladly even. Not quite joyously, but if it’s a choice between this problem and not having the problem at all, he will choose having this consistent, thorny, kind-of-hurts-to-breathe-sometimes problem every single time.
And right now, it’s wearing a dress.
Uh, well, you’re wearing a dress. An off-white, hinging-on-cream, dress that sits above your knees, cuts flat and wide across your chest, and puffs out into cotton sleeves that remind him of those conchas his abuela used to make. Sweet, fluffy, and absolutely forbidden. 
Until the time is right, at least. His abuela always made him wait to eat until the time was right.
He calls it – you – a problem, when in fact, it’s the opposite of a problem. There is nothing he would ever want to change about the warm, engulfing feeling that starts somewhere in his stomach and rises like conchas up his spine until it’s somewhere in his ribs, then under his breastbone, right by his –
He would kill anyone who tried to take that feeling away from him. It’s when he feels most alive, most present, most out of his head – like these things in the dark and sleeping corners of his mind that nip and bite at him can’t find him. He’s thrown them off his scent in his search for you and, even for a brief moment, he can step into the light.
There is no problem, in how you look tonight, how you look every night, with your bright shining smile, sweet-smelling hair, cowboy boots, glass of whiskey – you had such a fantastic taste in –
Wait. 
That’s not whiskey. Not even a whiskey glass. 
That’s –
“White wine?” Benny yelps as he leans forward and his chair legs clatter against the concrete floor. “If that’s Moscato, I’m calling the cops because you’ve been replaced by an equally hot body double.”
You roll your eyes as you sit down and take a long drink from your glass, as if to make a point. Frankie’s eyes are drawn to where your dress hangs over your crossed legs, exposing the curve of your thigh. 
“It’s not fucking Moscato, Benjamin,” you say, eyes narrowed, completely side-stepping his compliment, like you always do. “It’s Chardonnay. Nick recognized the vineyard on the menu so he recommended it. Thought I’d give it a try, because I like trying something new, Benjamin.”
He rolls those beautiful blue eyes and leans forward towards you at the table, that grin that brings grown women to their knees plastered across his face. He knocks back his cowboy hat with a tap of his knuckle. 
“Well, excuse the fuck outta me.”
“The fuck outta you is excused.”
You tug his hat back down over his face, smirking back at him, just as Nick saunters over – with what looks to be a wine glass of his own. 
Okay, in hindsight, you’re not the problem. 
His real fucking problem is Nick. 
Your boyfriend. 
Frankie, who has decided to only drink beer around you since The Almost Incident, takes three long pulls so he doesn’t have to watch Nick and his stupid hands slide across your exposed back and sit down in Santi’s empty chair. 
“Happy Birthday, man, thanks for inviting me out.” Nick says briefly, raising his glass to Benny. “But I gotta say, I was a little worried when my girl here said your party was gonna be at a country dance hall. I’ve never been to one of these. I had to buy cowboy boots just for the occasion.”
He sticks his leg out, and rotates his gator-skin boot back and forth as if to illustrate how important to him this whole thing is. 
But Benny doesn’t look down, doesn’t approve the boots, or Nick’s attempt at fitting in. Instead, he just smirks, his smile growing fat and lazy, a bit of the warmth fading from his blue eyes.
“Your first time at a cowboy hoe-down? I had no idea.” 
Nick grins, because he doesn’t know Benny well enough to see the dig for what it is. But you do. You know him and you know he’s ragging on your boyfriend. You narrow your eyes and shame coats Frankie’s chest. Because he knows also Benny and he knows why he’s giving Nick such a hard time.
See, the problem isn’t you, or even your boyfriend – not really. 
Nick is actually a decent guy. He treats you right, if a little delicately, but he buys you drinks, takes you places Frankie could never afford, in a car Frankie could never ever afford. Sometimes, you’ll say something, or tell a story and it’s obvious Nick doesn’t really understand you or your jokes, but he smiles along anyway. He makes good money and supposedly he keeps in touch with his mom. Nick is the kind of guy any brother would want his sister to date.
So the problem isn’t that Nick is a bad boyfriend, but that he’s your boyfriend.
The problem that Frankie Morales has is that he is painfully, achingly, in love with you.
And he’s your friend.
Maybe that would change, if he ever could work up the guts to say something. For fuck’s sake, he’s killed people – asking you out can’t be that much worse (as Santi often reminds him). But if the guys you’re into are like Nick, or even Nick-adjacent, then what fucking chance does he have? He never thought money was important to you, but apparently it is and that’s something he definitely can’t give you.
Or maybe you like the stability of a high-paying job with fucking miraculous health-care. And that’s two things more he can’t offer: stability and health-care. 
So, maybe, maybe his problem isn’t with you or Nick or the fact that Nick is your boyfriend. It’s that he never could be. He, with one failed marriage already behind him and a coke rap sheet, has nothing to give you . . .
And you deserve the world.
You deserve more than he can offer you. You deserve better than him.
That’s his real fucking problem. And one he can't ever fix.
Tumblr media
Will couldn’t get off work to come to this, so he owed Benny a beer and a nice steak dinner – according to Benny. Santi, despite absolutely swearing up and down for a week he wouldn’t be caught dead in cowboy boots and a hat, showed up tonight in full gear, belt-buckle included because he lost a bet with Benny over the Thursday night game. Santi, like everything else in his life, researched the hell out of the two teams, their past history, older statistics of both the players and the coach. He was confident, so confident, that he put his pride on the line. 
Never a good idea with Benny Miller. 
I don’t know, Benny said at the sports bar when his team was whooping Santi’s team’s ass, I just had a good feeling. Presumably, Santi did three shots before leaving and with another two in his system at the bar, all anger and frustration and embarrassment and inhibition had melted away and now Santi was doing what Santi did best, especially when drunk: dancing with beautiful women.
“The son of a bitch can dance, I’ll give him that. ” Benny muses as the three of you watch Santi, who despite having been taught the moves three minutes ago by two gorgeous blondes, complete a perfect line dance of Copperhead Road. 
“Oh, shit, I could never do that.” Nick shakes his head. “Not even after a hundred classes.”
“Ah, I find that hard to believe, Nicky Boy. You seem like a natural,” Benny smirks over the lip of his beer bottle. He finds Frankie’s eyes and winks. 
You are not amused. You glare at him over Nick’s shoulder for the second time tonight. 
“It’s really not that hard,” you smile tightly and squeeze Nick’s shoulder. “I can teach you.” 
“Oh, yeah, don’t you know your girl here?” Benny leans back in his chair, balancing against the rung of Nick’s chair by the ball of his foot. “She used to put all of us to shame. Dancing the night away, leading the crowd in line dancing. In fact, if I remember correctly, she and Frankie used to get into all sorts a-trouble on the dance floor. Isn’t that right, Frankie?”
Now he drew a glare from you and Frankie. 
Don’t, man, just don’t. 
Benny shrugs, swallowing his smirk with another sip of beer, hands raised. Just trying to help out. 
Over the speakers, the song winds to a close and the crowd does their final spin. Across the dance floor, Santi bows, his hat sweeping the floor, to both of the girls who giggle like high schoolers. 
“I’m gonna go get Boot Scootin’ Boogie over there some water before he up-chucks all over those nice ladies.” Benny stands and fixes his hat. “You guys want anything?”
Frankie shakes his head, his own hat that Benny insisted he wear, making the line of sweat across his forehead itch. You and Nick decline as well. You’ve barely even touched your drink, Frankie notes with a certain level of satisfaction. 
As Benny walks towards the bar, the next song starts up and you let out a squeal. Bring on The Good Times has been one of your favorite songs since college. And Frankie should know – he introduced it to you. 
“This one is the best! A classic!” You grab Nick’s forearm, but he almost immediately pulls it back. 
“Ah, babe, my first line dance is not gonna be in front of strangers! I’ll embarrass you and me. Why don’t you ask Frankie?”
Fuck, why could Nick just be a raging, flaming asshole? This would be so much fucking easier. 
Frankie swallows his beer empty, an excuse for a refill prepped. He hates cowboy hats, but he’d fucking set fire to the sky for Benny – he just hopes he immolates himself in the process. The giant brim makes him feel like he’s got a neon sign over his head that blinks, I Am A Giant Dork. Only further proven if he gets anywhere near that dance floor with his two left feet. 
Your eyes are unreadable as he tries to coax your boyfriend into taking you dancing.
“Nah, man, you got this. Your girl’s a great teacher.” By some cowboy miracle, his voice is steady as he says those two words. On the table, your fingers curl in, your wine glass still untouched.
Nick makes a face, eyes flitting back and forth to the dancers as they start the dance.
“My feet are already killing me in these new boots. Besides, this isn’t really my song.”
Over his shoulder, you find Frankie’s eyes. He knows that look on you – he knows everything about you – and you’re trying to hide how hurt you are.
He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing.
You and Nick stare up at him, surprised by how he practically bounded to his feet. 
The sweat at the ring of his hat runs down the back of his neck. Frankie does the only thing halfway-normal and extends his hand.
“Alright, princesa, I’ll fill out your dance card.”
He doesn’t care, or even really register, the darkly confused frown Nick sends him when you stand up, take his hand, and smile at him. He feels warm all the way up to his chest. 
“Thanks, Frankie. Let’s boogie.” 
Tumblr media
That was a mistake.
This whole fucking night is a mistake. God help him, he loves Benny like a brother but he should have just said no and promised to take him out later like Will. He would have bought Benny any drink, any ridiculous chicken wing plate he wanted if Frankie didn’t have to be here, right now. 
Because right now, right now, that wall of self-control that he uses to stem the reservoir, to stem the flow of whatever you cause to pour out of him, it’s leaking. It’s busted holes and now he’s drenched with it – with the scent of you, with the memory of hair down the length of your neck, the heat of your skin overworked and flushed, the sweet taste of your breath in his mouth when you leaned forward, into his space, his senses, and whispered,
“C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this.”
But in his defense, he couldn’t feel his feet, much less make them move when he watched you with your skirt rucked up high in your fists, your cowboy boots kicking like fish in a stream, and that smile – that fucking smile – brighter and sweeter than all the whiskey in the world. 
C’mon, Frankie, you’re a better dancer than this
C’mon, Frankie, you’re better than this.
C’mon, Frankie, tell me you love me.
Kiss me, Frankie. Kiss me now.
His restraint, his resolve that he will never, ever have you – he can feel it throb beneath his palms. Shudder and wobble under the thundering of his heart. It’s so close to breaking. Too close. This is why he doesn’t drink anything harder than beer around you. This is why he rarely drinks around you at all. 
When Nick finally calls it a night because he’s already got a blister from the new boots, you don’t put up much of a fight. You’ve danced with Benny, you’ve danced with Santi and his gaggle of girls, Nick himself went up for a slow dance or two.
Frankie only ever asked for one. 
He knows he disappointed you, has been disappointing you because you can feel him layering you away, brick by brick by brick. One of his oldest and longest friends, barely visible now, and he’s going over it with caulk to make sure you can’t touch this fragile, weak, emaciated thing he calls a heart. 
The instant you walk out of the bar, Nick’s arm across your tense shoulders, he all but rushes for the bar. 
“Six tequila shots, please.”
Tumblr media
You wake up where you went to sleep: curled up on your couch, your giant Florida Gators blanket wrapped around you like a mentally-supportive straight-jacket, with Golden Girls reruns on the TV. The empty bottle of 19 Crimes explains the sticky, dry feeling in your mouth and the thundering headache accompanying swollen eyes and cheeks. You’d rather get hit by a train than have to move out of this position, but Nick has always been punctual.
Which, you assume, extends to picking up his stuff from your apartment first thing in the morning, his final threat that ended your conversation last night. 
The sooner, the better, you mother fucker. 
You blindly grab around for your phone, knowing that it’s most likely shoved into the deepest cracks of your couch, hoping against hope Panera delivers on a Saturday morning. There’s a distinct possibility you might start swinging if Nick shows up before you get a baguette and a coffee into your system. 
The things he said about Benny and Santi last night on the drive home. This break up was a long time coming, but fuck, if this is what he’d been sitting on about your friends, what the fuck did he actually think of you? 
And the things he implied about Frankie – how Frankie was in love with you and you were willingly not seeing it – ridiculous.
You fight the rancid taste of hope that anything Nick implied about Frankie might even remotely be true when you close your fingers around the shape of your phone at the far end of the couch. 
22%
Just enough to order then yeet this fucking thing into another room because there is no way in hell you are answering Nick’s calls.
But, as you scroll through your notifications, maybe you should have answered Frankie’s.
He had called sporadically, starting about two hours after you and Nick had left the dance hall, all the way until four in the morning. 
One text at 1AM: com e hang out wit us.i mis s you u 
You smile, despite the obviously drunken text. Frankie rarely texted, only if it was dire need – and apparently, you continuing to party with the boys at 1AM was very, very dire. Judging by the eight missed calls.
Eight missed calls, but only one voicemail. 
Like you’re about to settle down for some good TikTok scrolling, you lean back into the pillows, rubbing your eyes to clear the hazy fog, and press play. 
First, there’s noise. Lots of it. Country music and people laughing and singing. Clearly still at the dance hall. You wish for a minute it is a video instead because you’d pay hand over fist to see those guys falling all over each other.
But then comes Santi. Over the years, you’d picked up some Spanish here and there, mostly enough not to embarrass yourself if you ever went to Miami. 
But whatever Santi is saying, you’re not entirely sure it is Spanish, or any human language. 
“Comotuamiga, teruegoqueselodigas porfavornopuedo hacerestopormucho mástiempo. Estaríasmásfeliz y ellaestaríamásfeliz. Nomemiresasí, sabesqueloúnico quequiereesqu labeses y la beses y luegohagasotrascosas – ¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste?”
There’s a shuffling, hushed voices, the music still far too loud to make anything out.
“Déjame en paz, dude.” Frankie. Frankie, very very very drunk. “I’m gonna – I’m gonna say – voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. She’ll get it. I know–,”
“Then say something now because you’re leaving a voicemail!”
“Ah, mierda – um, baby?”
In two words and two filler words, Frankie’s whole demeanor changes. You can almost picture him curled around the phone, his hand cradling the phone to his ear as he rests his head against a wall. 
“Baby, listen – fuck, sorry, I’m starting all wrong. I shouldn’t even call you that – I shouldn’t call you ‘baby’ because you’re not mine. You’re not my baby or anyone else’s because you’re so fucking independent and I love that about you but I wish you were. Mine, I mean. Not a baby.”
You don’t even remember sitting up, but your feet are on the ground. You’ve dropped the phone onto the table in front of you, staring at it as if it’s been dripping poison into your ear. Your heart is pounding. 
There’s silence from Frankie for a second, the music still loud, but it’s dampened. You can hear Frankie breathing, swallow, and start again.
“You looked so fuckin’ good tonight. You look good every night but fuck, baby, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Even for a second . . . he doesn’t tell you that you look so fucking good enough, you know? You should hear it all the time. I wanna tell you – tell you all the time – he didn’t say it once. Not once and that’s a fucking crime. He makes you drink white wine when I know you fucking hate it – I know you, baby. I know you more than I know myself because you’re all I fucking think about. You’re in here, all the time, all up in my chest, my throat, my gut – and you can have it. You can have it. You can have all of me, if you just . . .”
His voice breaks and your fingers clench around the edge of the cushion. 
“If you just . . . look, I know this is so fucking outta line and I wanna say it to your face and I’m gonna but . . . when that fuckin’ moron forgets how good he has it, I’m gonna be there. Gonna be right there. Because –,”
And then like someone shoved a speaker right up against Frankie’s phone, as clear as day, you hear Benny yell:
“IF HE AIN’T HOLDING YOU TIGHT, IF HE AIN’T TREATIN’ YOU RIGHT, I’MA BE THE FIRST ONE CALLIN’ HIM CRAAAZY–,”
“Benny, fuck off!”
And then the call drops, along with it your stomach. In fact, it slides out of your body, slouches off the couch and melts into the floor.
Oh, Frankie, do you even mean a word of it?
The hangover rubbing your nerves raw, tears spring into your eyes, the silence and fear and terrible hope tightening like a band around your head and infinitely increasing the pressure in your temples. You want to cry but your eyes already feel too puffy. 
You’re stuck, frozen by every single possible outcome or single next step spinning out like chaotic webbing you can easily catch yourself on. 
This was a mistake, it had to be. He didn’t mean to call your phone. He had accidentally called you when he meant to call another girl . . . also with a boyfriend named Nick. Frankie, sweet Frankie, who you’ve all but outright begged to take an interest in you – said it with your eyes hundreds of times – Frankie couldn’t actually have feelings for you.
Not like you had for him. Not like the ones you’ve slowly plucked out of your ribs over the years because god, even just looking at him seared a scar across your heart. 
Fuck. Fuck!
You snatch up your phone, wiping your teary eyes and frantically hoping he might have said a name or anything – he couldn’t possibly have meant you – when three loud bangs on your front door sends your phone into the air and your heart into your throat.
The way he calls your name is frantic, verging on hysterical. In a daze, you glance at the clock. 9:04. Frankie’s had about four hours of sleep, if any at all.
“Please, open the door! We gotta talk – there’s something – there’s something on your phone you shouldn’t hear – please, baby, open up –,”
You stare at the phone on your floor. 
Don’t they always say you can’t tell the moments that irrevocably change your life until after they’re gone?
Not this time.
You open the door and either way, everything changes. 
“C’mon, please, let me explain.” His voice has quieted, no longer shaking, softer as though wounded. “Just five minutes and I’m gone. I swear. We can forget the whole thing –,”
You open the door to a hungover Frankie Morales, still in the same outfit you saw him last in, but his eyes are rimmed with black circles, his patchy beard even more patchy as if he had rubbed the bristle clean off. He reeks of beer, peanuts, and cigarette smoke. His shirt is loose, wrinkled, his belt isn’t even on all the way, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
“What if I don’t want to forget it, Frankie?”
You see the realization strike him through the eyes, the throat, the chest, his gut, his brown eyes swimming with shame and horror. He leans over as if kicked and presses a hand against your doorway. His thumb rubs the corner and he swallows.
“So you listened to it already?”
“Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes briefly, hanging his head, every apology in every language he knows sitting right behind his teeth. “But did you hear what I said?”
He frowns at you through those thick eyebrows. “What?”
“When I opened the door, did you hear what I said?”
“You said –,” that beautiful bottom lip parts from its sensual top and Frankie blinks at you. The oily blackness of shame has evaporated from his eyes, but that stormy fear rages on. 
You inhale, breath getting caught on every knot in your spine, and step back.
“We need to talk.” 
He glances once over his shoulder, as if taking in the hallway to your apartment for the last time, and he steps inside. Immediately his height and broadness fill out every empty space in your tiny living room and you’re launched back into the memory of when the boys came over for Christmas and there was hardly enough room for anyone, but somehow you all made it work and after four rounds of DDR, everyone was so tired and drunk, you passed out pillows and blankets and you spent your first adult Christmas at what could have been mistaken for a thirteen year old’s slumber party. It was one of the happiest times of your life.
His thick fingers clench and unclench when Frankie spies your phone on the floor, like a bomb waiting to go off. 
Your brain struggles to default to hostess mode because you can’t think of anything to say.
Do you want coffee?
Do you want some cereal? 
Do you want to– 
“Tell me what happened last night.” You surprise yourself, Frankie, and your whirring brain by cutting right to it. As with the first question when you opened the door to him, there’s something inside of you that has taken on wings, spread them wide, and threatens to soar out of your body. Frankie’s here, he’s here, and he said he wants you –
He called you baby.
You breathe in, trying to scrape up some courage from the bottom of your lungs, wishing in the back of your mind under everything else that you’d chosen literally anything else to go to bed in than your Tweedie Bird shirt from Six Flags. 
“I don’t understand, Frankie. Please help me understand.” 
With a monumental sigh, he rubs his wide hand across his face and up into his hair, his other hand lifting his cap up off his head so his fingers can dig into his curls. It’s only then that you realize Benny’s cowboy hat he wore last night is gone and his tried and true Standard Oil ball cap is back. Meaning he must have gone home at some point. When did he realize (or remember) that he’d left you that voicemail? 
“I’m gonna get my ass kicked,” he murmurs, eyes darting like a fox to your bedroom door. “Maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.”
“He’s not here.” This great thing arcs between you, the emptiness a presence and clarity all at the same time. 
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“We broke up.”
“When? Why?”
“Last night, after we left the bar. We got into an argument. He doesn’t like the way . . .”
Frankie – physically, mentally, emotionally, fundamentally – overwhelms you. He’s across the room in an instant, closer than you think he’s ever been before. But maybe this is the first and only time you’ve ever allowed yourself to enjoy it. Revel in his closeness and let this caged feeling in your chest break free. You touch his chest with the flat of your palm, the size of it, the breadth of him, staggering. You literally feel weak at the knees. 
“He doesn’t like the way what?” His voice luxuriates in his throat – warm, deep. He sounds like what you imagine a hot spring feels like against your skin.
“He didn’t like the way I looked at you.” Your fingers make circles where they did into his shirt. His hands have found their way, after all this time, to your waist. “The way I always look at you, Frankie.”
His breath, subsequent to the ghost of his lips, across your forehead is so gentle it makes you close your eyes, to block out one sense to encourage another. 
You feel him swallow even though he’s a foot away from you.
“Why –,” he stops, and starts again, just like on the phone call, “why do you look at me . . . when you have him?”
“Oh, Frankie.” His grip on your waist tightens as if you’re about to disappear forever. “I took him because I can’t have you.” 
You blame the tears on the hangover, the headache, and the way he takes your chin between his thumb and knuckle. 
Grateful.
He’s looking at you, eyes soft, mouth curved into a disbelieving smile, with gratitude. 
“He’s the furthest thing from you because I tried to get you out of my system – I did – I promise. I can’t lose our friendship, Frankie, but it’s killing me . . . not having you. Nick said it was obvious the way I felt about you and that was a problem for our relationship, so he tried to make me choose between you and him and every time, without a doubt, I’ll always choose–,”
This is the right time, he supposes. 
Hand over your cheek, he holds you still in silence to press his mouth to yours. The final word of your sentence dies on his tongue, muffled by a soft groan of surprise. Your breath is terrible, your skin is oily and damp, he knows he stinks like the bottom of a wet bar, but he can’t find himself to care. Your mouth opens to take him and the hand on your cheek sinks to your neck as you both move past the initial shock of I’m finally getting to do this and you’re not pulling away and into an actual, proper, deep kiss that sends sparks into his toes. Your tongue marks the bottom of his mouth, your arms going around his neck like you want more – you need more – and Frankie pulls back.
Not only because he’s slightly dizzy but because he a) won’t fuck you for the first time on your living room floor and b) absolutely will not do it hungover. 
“Breakfast. Do you like . . . uhm, breakfast?” He can’t quite focus on a single spot on your face, eyes half-lidded and gaze blurred.
You giggle, letting his beard tickle your nose as you sneak your face into his neck. He sways a bit with you, his arms around your back, and you don’t think he’s even realizing what he’s doing.
“Yes, Frankie. I like breakfast. I eat it almost every day, in fact.”
He grunts, neck suddenly flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry, I mean –,”
“I know what you mean, baby.” You lean back and run your fingers through the thatch of curls at the back of his neck. Both of you are so grimy but you can’t care. “I’d love breakfast.”
Frankie smiles his Frankie smile and the thing in your chest is illuminated in gold. 
“How do you feel about conchas?” 
Tumblr media
Translations:
Como tu amiga, te ruego que se lo digas. Por favor, no puedo hacer esto por mucho más tiempo. Estarías más feliz y ella estaría más feliz. No me mires así, sabes que lo único que quiere es que la beses y la beses y luego hagas otras cosas. = As your friend, I beg you to tell her. Please, I can't do this for much longer. You would be happier and she would be happier. Don't look at me like that, you know all she wants is for you to kiss her and kiss her and then do other things.
¡Estúpido! ¿La llamaste? = Idiot! Did you call her?
Déjame en paz. Voy a decirle. Ella lo sabrá. = Leave me alone. I am going to tell her. She will know.
578 notes · View notes
5oh5 · 3 months
Text
queen of the night
frost on the windows, flowers in the bed - part one
Tumblr media
Epiphyllum oxypetalum (queen of the night) blooms nocturnally, and its flowers wilt before dawn.
pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI wc: 7k summary: a stranger far away from home brings you unexpected comfort as you maneuver your new life. tags: smut, angst, descriptions of feeling lonely in a new place, emotional unavailability, a few vague mentions of PTSD, french and spanish, public make out, fucking in a bar bathroom bc it’s NYE, mirror sex as a little treat, calling frankie by his full name bc I want to, oral (f and m!receiving), protected PIV a/n: happy new year! thank you all for supporting me so much the last couple months, and reading all of your fics and chatting with everyone here was one of the brightest spots of my year. I hope you all enjoy a little bit of angsty, smutty NYE frankie 🤍 thank you, @chloeangelic ilysm and to my bestie @adamantiumspy for help with the spanish ily forever | divider by @saradika-graphics
series masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3 | @5oh5-notifs
Tumblr media
This wasn’t quite how you imagined it. Taking a job so far from home had been an easy decision; too easy maybe. As soon as you saw the job posting, saw how perfectly it seemed to fit everything you had been looking for, you’d made up your mind in minutes. You could teach anywhere. The whole world needed teachers.
Besides, you had needed to get out. Your hometown was too steeped in memories, like trying to fit into a sweatshirt that you wore when you were a child. You couldn’t drive to the grocery store without being reminded of the countless other times you had driven the same route, wandered the same aisles, whether it was when you were sixteen or six months ago. The road past your mom’s work, the faded street sign at the corner of Cherry and Sycamore, the same diner that you used to drink milkshakes at with your best friend in sixth grade, the Walmart that’s been there since before you were born, all of it is tainted with something. Good memories, bad memories, or sometimes just a general feeling of nostalgia, and not usually the good kind; rather, the kind of nostalgia that settles deep in your body and turns you into little more than a fixture of the town – just as grey and low as the streets that get re-paved every summer.
Then there was him. You’d been together a few years, having met via a mutual friend. He’d gone to your college, the same college you both grew up a 5-minute drive away from. It was easy to like him, easy to laugh at the goofy things he would say and get lost in his smile. You hadn’t really gotten into anything serious before him, just casual hook ups and never-ending talking phases, but with him, it was real. It kept being real, being something good and comfortable and easy, until it wasn’t.
As much as you had changed, grown, shifted into something independent and smart and strong over the course of your early twenties, he had not. He was still just a kid in many ways, he just now had the body of a 25-year-old. As the days started feeling more and more grey, you knew something had to change.
He resents you, and you know that. You’ve made your peace with it. You left him one night in a fit of choked sobs and shaking limbs, knowing that what you were doing was the right thing even when it felt like the entire world was crashing down around you. You looked around at the apartment you shared, at the stacks of books on the floor, the art on the walls, the couch you picked out together at IKEA, and you said I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to come with me.
Now, here you are. A stranger in a strange world, an anonymous face on the street in a city twice the size and not even half as familiar as the one you’d known all your life. Maybe you had gone too far. You studied abroad in college, one of the things that changed you, but that was different. Group bus rides, distributed tickets, class on the steps of the Louvre, professors that handled the details. Now, there was no one else to handle the details. Only you.
It isn’t like you to get homesick, always grateful for any time away that you have ever gotten, but there’s something about this place, as beautiful as it undeniably is. It’s the anonymity, the impartiality, the feeling that if you drop dead in your tiny apartment on the Rue des Fraises, no one will ever know that you’re missing from the cobblestone streets. It almost makes you miss that stupid little diner and their strawberry marshmallow milkshakes. Almost makes you miss him. Almost.
You still have a couple weeks until your job starts in the new year, relying solely now on what little savings you have to carry you until the first paycheck. With one teacher leaving part-way through the year, they needed someone to fill out the semester before you can start on your own classes next fall. You’re not even entirely sure how you’re going to get that first paycheck, since the method for getting a bank account had so far evaded you. It was weird not to have anyone to ask, to not be able to call your mom and say, “how do I do this? Which account do I pick? Does it matter that I don’t have any credit over here?” You can certainly ask her those questions, but this time she doesn’t have the answers.
The air is cold, but not cold enough to snow, the temperatures teetering on the edge of freezing. You wish it would snow, maybe that would make you happier. You always did love the winter, loved going out and standing in the driveway on the night of the first big snowstorm, listening to the absolute silence that only a freshly fallen blanket of snow creates. Maybe some snow would make this place start to feel like a home.
You turn the key in the lock, burying your nose in your scarf, the big door covered in chipped blue paint swinging open into the foyer of your apartment building. You climb the stairs, and relish in the familiarity of at least this. These stairs, the way they curve upwards and the way you always take the outside as to not have to balance on the tiny marble wedges that nearly meet around the bend. You know that when you step inside your barely furnished apartment, you will be somewhere almost normal.
When you finally collapse into bed, shivering under the duvet and staring at the blank walls of your bedroom, your brain is too tired to fight with you. It’s been another day of elbowing your way through the language, of looking up vocabulary words on your phone as you stand in line at the boulangerie, of working up the courage to say avez-vous instead of qu’est-ce que vous avez like you had learned first, of trying to recall all of the French numbers as the man at the supermarché tells you your total in a quick and low voice. You can rehearse your own lines all you want, but you can’t rehearse what they’ll say back to you. You have a minor in French, should surely be able to handle this, but it turns out that an hour of class three days a week for four years is no match for living on your own in the country where everyone is born speaking it.
Christmas had come and gone. Without enough savings to fly back home, you’d spent part of the holiday on a video call to your parents and sister, watching as your family talked and laughed together on the other side of the world. It became too much too quickly, so you lied and said that you lost internet to justify hanging up the call. You let your head fall into your hands, phone screen going dark, and you thought that nothing had ever felt lonelier than that.
You got through it, half a bottle of wine and two watches of The Holiday later, your head throbbing from the alcohol and from the tears. Honestly now you were just glad it was over. Hopefully next year it won’t be like this again.
Now it was December 31st. New Year’s Eve. You had never really been one to go out and celebrate, spending most of your New Year’s Eves laying on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. Your now ex-boyfriend would stay up with you usually, placing a soft peck to your lips at midnight. Sometimes your dad would stay up and watch the ball drop, but usually he’d end up snoring in his chair well before the countdown. Spending New Year’s alone was much easier, and after the week you’d had, hell, after the year you had, it felt like nothing.
Still, as you stand at your window and hear the whooping and hollering emanating from the brightly lit streets, you can’t help but feel left out. Like someone forgot to send you an invitation but you accidently happen across the party anyway, watching your friends laugh and dance without you through the window. Maybe it was just residual loneliness from Christmas spent by yourself, or maybe it was the heavy weight of constantly feeling like you don’t belong here, but as you pour a glass of wine for yourself to the tune of crackling fireworks outside, you think this might be your new low.
Qui embrassez-vous à minuit? No one, probably. Though you kind of like to picture it. Who are you kissing at midnight now? Now that you’ve left everything and everyone behind? Is this what you wanted? Is this better? It hadn’t been that long since you’d been with your ex; your body still remembers the way he felt, the feeling of his skin on yours, the way he touched you. It hadn’t been a long time since you’d been held, kissed, fucked, but it had been a long time since you’d enjoyed it. At night, when you let yourself fall into that dark pit of longing, you distinctly feel the empty space around your body, devoid of someone else’s presence. The absence like a ghost, the ghost of someone you haven’t met lies beside you just out of reach.
You peer out the window, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of your wine glass, and take another sip as your gaze wanders to the bar on the far corner of your street. A group of three friends sit at a table outside and laugh, and the woman of the group gets particularly animated as she talks, accidently knocking her cider glass off the table with her waving hand, and you can hear the glass shatter from where you stand at the window. The three go silent, before erupting into another fit of laughter. You chuckle along with them, watching as she gets up from the table and disappears inside the bar, presumably telling someone about the spill. Your gaze shifts to a couple tucked in the corner under the awning, both leaning against the stone wall, lost to each other. They stand impossibly close, her hand holding a half-empty wine glass against his back. His forearm rests on her shoulder, his glass of beer just behind her head. You watch as she tilts her head to the side, resting her temple on his arm. As he leans in to kiss her, you look away.
You know what? Fuck this.
You set your glass down on the side table by the couch and disappear into your bedroom, filtering through the few outfit choices you have before settling on something vaguely more presentable than your sweats and t-shirt. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, grab your coat, and disappear into the night.
--
The bar is loud, too loud, the warm humid air around Frankie filling with a cacophony of French conversation, none of which he can quite understand. He can pick up pieces, bits that are close enough to Spanish to make some sense to him, but after a drink or two he lets it all fade into white noise. Still, the music and the talking and the light is beginning to get to him. He never used to get overstimulated, being able to handle seemingly infinite inputs all at one time, juggling them all without a problem. That was part of the job, focusing under intense pressure, a million things happening at once and being required to function at the highest level anyway. Now though, things become too much a lot of the time. He hears something shatter against the cobblestone outside and jumps, his fingers instinctively tightening around his sweating pint glass. He turns his head to the door, sees a woman head for the counter next to where he sits. She says something about mon verre and un accident before the bartender disappears into the back room and comes back out with a broom and dustpan. Frankie watches it all with random fascination, the way that it is sometimes so easy to dissolve your attention into someone else’s life for a few minutes, forgetting your own and morphing into nothing but a fly on the wall.
What the hell was he doing here? In one of those random bursts of awareness, he remembers leaning against the check-in desk at the airport, the words when’s the next international flight? tumbling from his lips before he can even really think them through. Valerie hadn’t taken him back. He turned up at her doorstep, their doorstep, after disappearing for two weeks into the jungle with absolutely nothing to show for it but several more notches on his gun and several more regrets. He had fallen into his old role so easily, in the way that you slip on a worn pair of sneakers, all of his quiet reservations staying tamped down by his sense of duty to his friends. They were brothers. They’d been through hell together so many other times already, what was one more time? The money was a nice motivator, not that it mattered in the end.
His eyes focus and unfocus on the dripping condensation as it glitters down his glass in the warm light of the bar. Every crack of fireworks makes him want to jump out of his skin. It’s not until he hears something unexpected, French that doesn’t fit, French with a halting cadence that doesn’t quite flow like the sea of lyrical words that have been cascading around him all night, that awareness crowds his senses again. His eyes snap up to meet the sound just as you slide onto an empty barstool across the corner of the bar. His breath catches in his throat as he watches your lips form around your words, watches the way your eyes catch the light.
--
“Je voudrais un whisky-coca, s’il vous plaît,” you say to the bartender as you slide into the seat. He nods once before turning to take a bottle of Four Roses off the clear shelf behind the bar, and you think to yourself how strange it is to be drinking a whiskey that’s distilled so close to home in a place that feels so far away.
You run your hand over your forehead, your elbow coming to meet the sticky table. It’s gotta be almost eleven now. You look around, taking in your surroundings as you wait on your drink. That’s when you see him. He’s looking at you already, and he quickly shifts his gaze when you meet his eyes. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a navy-blue Standard Oil cap, wild curls spilling out around the edges. He’s broad and big, his hand making the pint glass look comically small. Salt and pepper scruff accents his jaw, and you drag your eyes down his nose and to the little cleft in his bottom lip. God.
You thank the bartender in a haze with a quick merci when he sets your drink down in front of you on a flimsy paper coaster. He responds with “you’re welcome,” in accented English, and you sigh. That always seems to happen.
“Are you American?” someone asks you, and you lift your eyes to see that the voice belongs to him. It’s low, raspy, and it fits him perfectly. His unaccented English surprises you. He sounds American too.
“Is it that obvious?” you sigh, chuckling lightly as you bring your drink to your lips.
“Less obvious than me,” he smiles, taking a sip of his beer.
“Mmm,” you hum, eyeing his hat again. “Not a lot of Standard Oil hats around here, I’ve noticed.”
He laughs at that, his eyes glimmering in the low light. You could drink him in forever, and you try to take in as many of his features as you can without being too obvious about it.
“So, what brings you here then, American?” he asks, scooting his barstool a little closer to you, to hear you better over the music and the white noise of the bar. You still talk across the corner of the sticky wooden surface.
“I moved here for work,” you explain, tracing the rim of your glass with your fingertips. He watches them for a second, before ticking his eyes back to your face.
“Wow, that’s a big move,” he marvels, already thinking that in some ways you’re a lot braver than he would be.
“Feels kinda like it right now,” you admit. “What about you?”
“Just here on vacation,” he says, and it isn’t untrue.
“Alone?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” You try to search his eyes, and you think you see something like loneliness, like pain, behind the little pools of dark honey, something that almost seems to mirror your own. There’s more there, though. Definitely more. “Why France?”
“To be honest, I just asked the lady at the check-in counter what the next flight out was,” he sighs, taking another drink.
“Wow,” you huff a laugh out of your nose. “That’s quite a ballsy move.”
“Yeah, well,” he chuckles. “Not as glamorous as it may seem, as you can clearly tell.” He laughs as he gestures at the empty space around him, signaling that he might be feeling as isolated as you are. “Frankie,” he offers, extending his glass to clink against your own. You smile at that. It’s so cute, boyish almost. It’s an interesting contrast to the deep lines that cut into the skin beneath his eyes. You change the subject before he can ask for yours.
You keep talking, falling into easy conversation. You learn that he’s an ex-pilot, he learns that you’re a teacher. You learn that his best friend’s name is Santiago, he learns that your sister is a lawyer. It’s easy to talk to him, and it’s hard to overstate the comfortable ease that you feel at getting to speak your native language, for once in the last few weeks not having to worry about trying to find the words. You talk for what feels like forever, though it’s really only an hour or so. You talk about random things, trying to keep too much of your life story from spilling out on the table. He seems to do the same.
As midnight approaches, you wonder what it might be like to kiss him when the ball drops. Of course, the ball is miles away in a city you don’t know, hours behind you, but talking to this man who knows your language, who is so easy to talk to, brings home a little closer anyway. After all, what is there to lose? Wouldn’t it be nice just to feel the touch of someone else? Feel the warmth of another person, someone’s lips on your lonely skin?
There’s cheering as the bartender holds up ten fingers, announcing that the new year is only seconds away.
Dix!
Neuf!
You look at Frankie, and his eyes dart around the room at the sea of cheering strangers. You’re only looking at him – his curls, wild and splayed around his ears under his hat, his wide brown eyes, the cleft in his bottom lip as he parts his lips ever so slightly, tiny hint of his pink tongue ghosting the backs of his lips.
Huit!
You take another sip of your drink, letting the warm, sugary taste coat your tongue. He might be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.
Sept!
He looks at you then, meeting your eyes. You search his face, for what you’re not sure, but he doesn’t break your gaze as he brings his glass to his lips.
Six!
You’re lost in his gaze, suddenly feeling nervous under it. He offers you a soft smile, just a little tick of the corner of his mouth, and you return it. The moment seems to last forever, the chaos around you fading into nondescript noise. It feels strange, to have never known this man before tonight. Something about him makes him feel familiar, like you’ve known him before, in another life perhaps. The soft honeyed tones of his eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly as he looks at you…you’re intoxicated by him. More than any swig of Four Roses.
Deux!
Your attention snaps back, and you look around one last time before the clock ticks over.
Un! Bonne année!
The bar erupts into cheers, and before you can think about it you stand on the bottom bar of the stool, lean over the corner of the counter, and press your lips to his. His hand finds the back of your head instantly, his other grabbing at your arm. The brim of his hat hits your head and starts to fall back off his curls, and you quickly grab for it as you chuckle into his mouth. He smiles against your lips and takes the hat from you, placing it on the counter hurriedly before his hand is back on you. All the while he barely takes his lips away, seemingly unable to stop kissing you already. He tastes like beer, like freedom, like finding yourself. Your loneliness dissolves against his skin. With a swipe of his tongue, he drinks in your solitude and swallows it whole. For a moment, this moment, you have it all. On your lips he finds the same – a time to be someone else, a chance to forget.
As you lick into each other’s mouths, you hear a whoop from somewhere behind you, and heat floods your cheeks at the thought of the people around you starting to notice. You’re practically kneeling on the seat now, one hand bracing yourself on the counter and the other splayed over the delicate place where his neck meets his shoulder, fingertips curling at his nape. You pull away reluctantly, placing a soft kiss over his lips. When he looks at you with doe-eyes and plump, parted lips, you smile. “Bathroom,” you murmur, dragging your fingers over the scruff on his jaw. His lips tick up into a smirk, and you climb down from the chair as you take his hand in yours. He quickly grabs his hat, arranging it loosely over his curls. A couple people eye the two of you over the rims of their glasses as you guide him back towards the back of the bar. You hurriedly try the bathroom door, but it’s locked. The thrumming of your heart in your chest and the fluttering heat in your belly is making you feel dizzy, and so is the way his large hand envelops yours. You swear under your breath when the handle doesn’t turn.
“Eager, are we?” he smirks as he catches up with you, yanking your arm gently to bring you to his chest.
“Shut up,” you retort, but the words die in your mouth as he pushes on your hip until your back meets the wall. He crowds you against it, his broad frame encompassing yours easily. He chuckles.
“Is that any way to talk to a kind stranger, cariño?” he smirks into your neck, trailing kisses up to your jaw before grazing his teeth over the skin there. You let out a soft groan, before tilting your head to see that a few people are peering down the short dark hallway at the two of you. They look away and start chatting to each other again when you meet their gaze.
“Don’t look at them,” he coos, bringing his index finger to the side of your face to push on your cheek. “Look at me.”
You can’t stop touching him, smoothing your palms over his chest and his sides and his back, reveling in the way his body is so firm but so soft, strong but still gentle. You feel enraptured by him; your body has been starving for this for so long. He slides his hands up your sides, ghosting the soft swell of your breasts over his thumbs, but not crossing the line just yet. You lean into the crook of his neck, taking your turn tasting the skin there. “Is Frankie short for something?” you murmur into him, ghosting your lips over the little bare patch in his beard.
“Francisco,” he breathes, wrapping an arm around the expanse of your back, pulling you off the wall and into his chest.
“Mmm,” you hum. “I like that.”
“I’ll like it more when it’s the only thing you can say,” he chuckles as he smooths a palm over your cheek and behind your head, pulling you back and off of his neck before he plunges his lips back into yours. Your breath hitches at his words, at the possessiveness of his movements.
“That’s big talk, Francisco,” you tease, but you can tell by the way he kisses you that he’s undeniably right. He’s tasting behind your teeth when you hear the door unlock from behind him, and you push him to the side a little as a man exits the bathroom, eyeing the two of you quickly before walking back into the crowd, undeniably sussing out the entire situation. You both look drunk on each other, lips swollen and shining as your limbs stay entangled. You take Frankie’s hand in yours again and pull him into the room. He kicks the door closed behind him, latching his mouth to your neck as soon as he turns the lock on the doorknob.
The anonymity brings you comfort, solace, because it doesn’t matter how fucked up you are, how sad you are, how desperate you are. None of it matters as this gorgeous stranger crowds you against the porcelain sink, the edges digging into your hips. You almost wish you didn’t even know his name, because knowing it makes him more real, locking him in your memory forever. Frankie, Francisco. You’re a little glad you know it, if only so you can moan it into the sticky air of the night, just like he said you would. It’s cold out there in the dead of winter, so cold, and yet your body is coated in a thin sheen of sweat.
“Look at you, cariño,” he marvels as he tilts your head up so you can meet your own eyes in the mirror. You can’t though, you can’t yank your eyes away from him, from his reflection. The way his broad frame presses against your back, his wild curls, his dark eyes clouded over with lust, his big hands splaying across your belly as he presses opened-mouth kiss after open-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin behind your ear. “Can I touch you?” he asks, licking the question into the shell of your ear, palms smoothing over your hips and down your thighs.
“Please, Francisco,” you moan, leaning your head back against his shoulder. His hands quickly find your breasts over your shirt, palming them in his hands as he groans into your ear. He handles them greedily, seemingly trying to get them both in one of his hands as his other finds the button on your jeans. He undoes it quickly with the flick of his wrist, pulling down the zipper hurriedly. He hooks his fingers over the waistband, pulling your jeans and underwear down in one fluid motion. His warm palm presses into the small of your back, bending you over the cool porcelain.
“Mierda,” he swears, kneading the flesh of your ass between his fingers. “Knew you’d be fucking perfect.”
He drops to his knees, disappearing from the mirror, dragging his hands down your legs before using them to spread you open. He takes off his hat, folding it into the back pocket of his pants. Pressing kisses into the crease of your thigh in a mess of tongue and teeth, he groans into your flesh. He wastes no time, latching his mouth over your cunt, licking your folds into his mouth. A ragged groan claws its way out of your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this, an eternity since it felt this good. He licks into you expertly, sucking and nibbling until you’re a writhing mess against the sink, your hand folded over the faucet to pad your forehead as you let it drop. His nose teases the skin around your asshole, and with every swipe of his tongue, every greedy kiss, you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. You’re panting his name into the bowl of the sink, just like that smug fucker said you would be.
You can still hear the faint roar of French from the bar, but in this room the only sounds are the lewd smacking of Frankie’s mouth and your choked breaths in response. He pulls you apart easily, your orgasm wracking through you in waves of electricity, and that lonely girl on the Rue des Fraises feels so, so far away. He moans into your cunt as you let go, licking all of you into his mouth and not letting any of your desire go to waste. He loves this, you realize. He loves this a lot. When he pulls off of you and begins to stand, he licks a broad stripe up the length of your cunt before spreading his tongue over your asshole, and you jolt forward at the sensation. He chuckles darkly as he stands.
You twist around to face him, kicking your jeans off the rest of the way in the process. Normally you would care about your clothes being in a heap on this nasty floor, but right now you couldn’t give less of a fuck. When you slot your lips into his, you taste yourself on his tongue and your moans tangle into one another through desperate sloppy kisses. You fumble with his belt, but he doesn’t help you, just smirks as his tongue finds your teeth. Soon, you get his pants undone, and when you slide your palm against his pelvis and under the waistband of his pants, you moan into him when you feel what waits for you there.
“What’d I tell ya, huh?” he chides, placing his warm palm over the back of your hand to guide your movements as you both free him from his pants.
“Got quite the ego on ya, don’t you, Francisco?” You roll your eyes, but you’re not fooling anyone.
“You can see why though, can’t you?” he murmurs with a smirk, bringing your hand to wrap around his length, swearing under his breath. He pumps over it with you, still guiding your hand.
You hum and click your tongue. “Size isn’t everything, you know,” you say as you pump him a little faster. He lets his hand go from yours, bringing it to push the hair out of your face.
“No,” he smirks, trailing his palm down the side of your face, down your neck, until it rests on your shoulder. “It isn’t.” At that, he pushes you down, your knees buckling beneath you until they hit the floor. Face-to-face with his cock, you look up at him through fluttering lashes.
“Get it wet for me, baby, and I’ll show you what it can do.”
He doesn’t have to fucking tell you twice. You lift him up in your hand and bring your mouth to the base, licking a broad stripe up the length of him. He swears in tumbling Spanish as you circle your tongue around the tip, dipping your tongue in the slit and reveling in the salty precum that you find there. When you slide him past your lips and over your tongue, his hand finds your hair as he lets his head fall back with a ragged groan. You briefly remember where you are, that there is undoubtedly someone waiting on the only available bathroom, but the way he lies heavily on your tongue and crowds your mouth makes you quickly forget again.
“Fuck, cariño,” he swears as he lolls his head forward, his eyes coming to meet the reflection of the two of you in the mirror. You bury your nose in his coarse hair, eyes watering at the effort it takes not to gag around his length. “Perfect fucking mouth, mierda.”
You pull off of him with a lewd pop, smiling up at him as you hook your finger over the hem of his boxers, dragging them down a little so you can lick and kiss at the crease between his thigh and his groin, continuing to glide over the length of him in your other hand, your fist a mess of spit and precum. He lets out a choked groan at the feeling of your lips and tongue on his skin there, not remembering the last time someone kissed that spot. You lick another stripe up his length before plunging him back into your mouth, relishing in the sounds he lets fly into the muggy air. His grip tightens on your hair as he begins fucking into your mouth, and you dig your fingernails into your palm to keep from gagging around him. He drags in and out against your tongue with tumbling words of so perfect—fuck—mierda, cariño, how did I get so lucky tonight? He pulls you off of him and tugs you to your feet, not giving you time to process the loss of him before he’s licking into your mouth again, tasting himself this time on your lips.
There are three heavy raps on the door and you both jump at the sound. You’re too lust-drunk to translate the French, but you’re sure they’re yelling at you about taking too long. “Don’t have much time, baby,” he says, turning you in his arms to press you back against the sink.
“I don’t give a fuck about them,” you rasp, reaching behind you to tangle your fingers in his curls. “Let them pee outside for all I care.”
You watch him in the mirror as he chuckles, reaching into the back pocket of his pants for his wallet. He pulls a condom out from among the euros, tearing the package open with his teeth before slipping his wallet back where it came from.
“Don’t wanna get between you and a fat cock,” he chides as he spits the edge of the packaging onto the floor. He reaches between your bodies to slide the condom over his length, tossing the rest of the empty package to the floor. You roll your eyes dramatically.
“Don’t wanna fuck a litterer,” you say, eyeing the condom wrapper.
“Yeah, yeah.” He slides the tip between your folds, his hand firmly wrapped around your hip. “Just shut up and let me fuck you.” His eyes are dark, wrecked, but there’s a playful glint behind the blown-out lust.
“Now who’s eager?”
He shuts you up with the searing sting of the head breaching your entrance, his knees bending to push up into the soft heat of your body. You groan, catching yourself on the sink in front of you. He wraps his arms around your torso, his palm splaying out over the skin beneath your breast. With nibbles onto your jaw, his tongue on your skin, he pushes the rest of his way in, and your cunt flutters and drools around his impossible size. The sting is overwhelming, and you hurriedly reach around to grab his hip with shaking fingers, stilling him inside you before he has the chance to move.
“What was that about my ego?” he murmurs, kneading the flesh of your breast and your tummy in his palms over your shirt. He reaches under the collar, pulling your chest free and exposing you to his hungry gaze in the mirror. He bunches the rest of your shirt up under your breasts, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your stomach.
“Shut up, Francisco,” you hiss, breaths coming in short pants as you try and adjust to him, but it feels like he takes up your entire body. He just chuckles as he continues to knead your flesh, pulling and pushing and pinching it between his perfect fingers. When your breath evens out, he drags himself out of your wet heat, and the groan that escapes your mouth is loud. Too loud. He claps a hand over your mouth, pulling your body to his chest and your head to his shoulder.
“Shhh, cariño, those sounds are only for me, huh?” He punctuates his words with the long push of his cock back into your body, and you mewl around his fingers. His other arm still encompasses you, holding you impossibly close. You can still smell the alcohol on his breath, smell the cologne he likely put on before he came. It’s so much, the all-encompassing feeling of this man around you. He presses your hips into the sink with his own, fucking up into you now and picking up speed. All you can do is whine and take it, every drag of his cock pushing against the top wall of your cunt before it kisses your cervix, rubbing against that rough spot that makes your eyes roll back in your skull with every stroke. You chant his name again and again, the only words you remember, just like he promised. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, surrendering to a stranger in this sticky bathroom. It’s not the time for a relationship, not now, not after so much; however, as he drags his heavy cock through your folds and into the deepest parts of your body again and again, you don’t want to ever imagine a time where you don’t feel him inside of you.
“Look how incredibly beautiful you are, baby,” he coos, turning your head so you see yourself in the mirror. Instead, you look at the way he’s holding your head by your mouth, the corded muscle of his forearm braced against your stomach, the sweaty ringlet curls drooped in front of his forehead. He drops a hand down to rub tight circles around your clit, and it’s not two swipes of his fingers before you’re coming undone in his arms. He fucks you through it, licking lyrical Spanish into the skin of your neck, holding your head to the side with his hand over your mouth. When your body stops convulsing, he pushes you down with murmurs of mierda, mierda, fuck, until your hand meets the faucet, leaning your head against it just in time for him to slam into you again and again, the porcelain threatening to push bruises into your skin. With a few more thrusts he’s there, folding his body over yours and burying his head between your shoulder blades as his muscles jerk, spurting hot ropes of cum into your body through the condom. You stupidly wish you could feel it, feel it spill into you, watch it ooze out of you. Another time, maybe, though probably not.
You crane your neck back to kiss him, and he smiles into your lips. “Feliz año, baby.”
“Bonne année, Frankie.”
Maybe it was all worth it, he thinks as he pulls himself out of you, gripping the edge of the condom at his base to keep it from sliding off too soon. Maybe the withdrawals, the Delta Force, the jungle, the murder, was all worth it if those things led to him taking you apart in this bathroom. You don’t know any of that about him, not really, only knowing that he was once a pilot and some other random plot points of his life that he’d offered you. In this dark and hazy bathroom, he doesn’t have to be that man. He doesn’t have to be the man that dug stacks of cash out of Lorea’s walls, the man that watched his friend die on that mountainside. He doesn’t have to be Catfish; he can just be Frankie. Francisco, he thinks, after hearing how perfect his full name sounded when it tumbled out of your mouth again and again.
This can’t happen again, you think as you steady yourself on the counter. If you let him into your life, you’ll never let him go. You can’t jump into something now, you can’t. It’s not the right time. You’ve been alone all of a few weeks, no…no, not yet, not yet.
“Let’s get you dressed, huh? We’ve kept those poor fuckers waiting long enough.” He chuckles as he drops the condom in the trash can, making a point to wave the condom wrapper at you before dropping it in too. He zips himself back into his pants before grabbing your jeans off the floor. He smooths your underwear up over your legs before helping you into your pants, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance.
You let him lead you out of the bathroom, too satiated and happy to give a shit about what everyone on the other side of the door thinks. There are a few people standing there, angry looks on their faces, and one of them spits something at you as you pass. You give them a soft smile, one that says you can’t fucking touch me.
He lets go of your hand as he brings you to the bar, and you take a long look at him – the flush of his cheeks, the wildness of his hair before he tamps the hat back down over top of the curls, the plumpness of his lips. You sear it into your memory…because that’s all it can be.
He turns to look at the bartender, readying himself to get his attention. Your name. Fuck. He doesn’t know your name. Mierda, he’s an asshole. He whips around to face you, saying, “Shit, cariño, I didn’t get your—” but when he turns to look at you, you’re gone.
585 notes · View notes