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undercoverpena · 2 months

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2. lemon twist

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter two of do me yourself

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: 3.4k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over IG. frankie being a single!dad to a son. frankie gives reader/you a nickname (paint related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: thank you so much for all the love on chapter one, and the bonus graphic. I'm so happy to bring you chapter two! also, WE'RE POSTING WEEKLY BABIESSS

prev chapter | frankie's ig

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

A soft, melodic tune pulls you into the land of the living, aware of the tug of it, and the immediate reluctance you have to leave the comfort of your dreams.

Your hand hesitates, reluctant to emerge from under the snug warmth of your sheets before your fingers are tapping and searching, all sluggish with sleep, groping blindly as it crawls against the wooden top of your bedside table. It's only when your fingertips connect with the screen does the world fall into silence.

Nothingness. Stillness. Peace.

The perfect environment for your mind to come to itself as you slowly open your lashes, raising a balled-up fist to rub slumber away, as your gaze meets streams of light rolling in through the breeze-blown curtains.

Then it hits you.

Comes to you in a trickle. Then a flood.

One after the other, memories of last night rush over you. Messages sent and received coming to you, recalling the way you'd tucked a pillow under your chest as your thumbs replied quickly to each incoming DM. Then, you recall the giddiness, how it fluttered through you—how it still remains. Still ever-present and very much thrumming inside of you as you begin to smile.

It remains on your face as you roll out of bed. A brief memory of something he said making you laugh as you wash your face, and another when you brush your teeth.

That feeling stays with you as the sun glistens through your kitchen window. One which adds a glow to the place, making the little smoke stains on the walls and the chips on the kitchen counter seem better, less noticeable—and less irritating.

You smirk as you wrap your hand around your mug—because is it too soon to wish him a good morning? Should you wait for him?

Sighing, rolling your eyes, you land on the dresser you were sprucing up in the place a dining table should be. Your eyes linger on it—teeth picking at the skin on your lip—just as it does so each time you come in this room.

A reminder once again that this place should be a home you’ve been building for years, and not just the last few months. There should be photos on the walls of a relationship playing out alongside family and friends, but those ones placed in between are still just empty.

Like so much of your home.

Taking a sip of your coffee, you drop your stare to the newspaper under the feet of the dresser. The stories were told in black and white splotches over in many shades, dotted around as you tested and checked to see what would make the old, worn thing look like something new. The same thing you’d somehow managed to get delivered through a smile and a sweet, please.

You had been, for so long, undecided on the shade.

Yet, as you gaze upon it now, your imagination begins to weave a vivid portrait. It conjures the image of what it might resemble should you succumb to the shade that's gradually painting itself in imaginary strokes.

Sliding your phone from your pocket, you open up your DMs.

Does butterscotch orange come in a paint type suitable for wood? It does. You at work today? Desperate to see me? Just looking to help someone shift paint they can’t sell. What you looking to paint, Rainy?

Taking another sip of your drink, the warmth kisses your palm similar to the temperature blooming in your cheeks from conversing with him again.

Choosing, instead of words, to snap a photo, knowing it'll be easier, simpler.

Watching it send, the little speech bubble appearing as your mind drifts to the hair above his lip, the facial hair along his jaw—the little patch you’d wanted to graze your thumb over.

You think of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles; when he’d looked pleased to see you in the paint aisle—something akin to a modern-day meet cute you see on the TV.

You coming in today? If I can… gives me something to do this afternoon.

You bite your lip, considering it—whether it’s too forward to make a flirtatious comment. The two of you skirted around it last night, practically river dancing—not quite stepping over, but not quite retreating either.

I’ll get you it ready at the main desk. My hero, Frank.DIY Don’t push it.

It’s the third visit you’ve made, and while you gloss over the paint chippings on the door, you do notice the circular stains on the floor.

They’re brown, smudged slightly at the edges as though someone has, at one time, attempted to clean (whatever it was) quickly after it had appeared. It’s clear they had failed.

Your eyes scan over it, for a moment forgetting anything and everything.

Just existing in today's scent, which happens to be singed wood—chippings of it practically in the air—as the sound of an electrical saw starts up and begins screeching in some distant corner until you hear your name being called.

And it silences everything.

That voice could pull you from anything, you think.

A crisis, your thoughts, a spiral.

You’d heard his voice plenty all last night as you watched videos of him hanging shelves, answering questions likely sent to him on how best to prime a wooden handrail, and still, you weren't sure you were sick of his voice.

That, and DIY had honestly never sounded so hot.

After the shortest walk to the counter, a brief hello, a grin you wish you could try and smother a touch, you’re leaning on the counter. His eyes focused on you, watching every move you make as though looking anywhere else would be a crime.

“You got a Sharpie there?”

Frowning, you feel you can breathe easier when his eyes drop to the counter—rustling around the till area as you rest your elbow.

“Because I forgot mine and I think I should ask for a signature this time.”

Pausing, he slowly lifts his chin, then eyes. “Funny.”

Shrugging, you grin, watching him ring up the tin—occasionally smirking to himself, before shaking his head as you pay, your phone vibrating on the counter that you continue to ignore.

“You gonna be alright with that?”

Scrunching your nose, you pocket your phone and tilt the can on the counter. “Painting a dresser or carrying this to my car?”

Something sparkles in his eyes, a little shimmer. His mouth opening, likely ready to spill nothing but charm and flirtation again, when another voice cuts through—one gruffer, more tinged in age.

“Francisco, what you d—oh, I see.”

Your smile remains, even as you stare up at the older man—the one with wiry whites and spotted greys you’d seen sitting behind the counter on the day you left to get coffee with Francisco.

It’s notable, how smaller, and thinner the older man is—how he moves like he’s pained by each step until he slumps into a chair and puts on the brightest and biggest of smiles before offering his hand.

“The name’s Harry.”

You look at it, only briefly, flicking your eyes to Frankie who looks like he’s wishing the earth would open up at his feet and swallow him whole. A somewhat twisted, forced blank expression and the mildest of eye rolls follow when your hand slips inside Harry’s, offering your name.

“Thought it was Harold,” Frankie says, rather bitterly.

“You have to call me Harold, but she can call me Harry.”

Smirking, you bite your tongue, rolling your lips as you smooth down your blouse—trying not to make any more eye contact with the man you’d really come to see.

Sliding the paint closer to you, you offer a softer smile, one that is nothing short of kind. “It was lovely to meet you Harry, and I’ll see—“

“—Rainy.”

His voice cut through as the can slid from the counter, the sudden acknowledgement of the weight showing—likely scorched across your face as your arm drags down, shoulder going with it, just about saving it from the ground.

It’s only as you look up, do you find Frankie half over the counter, spotting the key rings and cart tokens rolling around the floor—the stand on its axis from his sudden movement.

So, is Rainy my name now?

You caught that?

I did 😏

I wasn’t thinking.

I have to ask.

Here we go.

Do you always wear the hat or is it a Frank.DIY thing? And is it Frank or Frankie or the newly learnt Francisco?

Whats wrong with my hat? And Frankie and Morales were taken.

Morales your surname? I feel I’ve hit a sore spot.

Yes. And you have but you can make it better.

How?

Meeting me for a very boring lunch this week.

You’re really twisting my arm. Which is mean. You saw the stress my shoulder had to endure today.

I tried to warn you. I’ll let you bring your Pinterest board and your saved Reels.

I fear you just want me for my organisational inspiration.

Can’t help you decide if I’m the man for your project if I don’t know what you’re after.

Fair, I guess I can meet you for a business lunch.

Would you be more into meeting me for lunch if it wasn’t a business lunch?

It depends on what kind of lunch we’re talking about.

I’m very badly trying to ask you out on a date.

Oh, that’s what you’re trying to do.

Unless I’ve read this wrong.

Nope, read it perfectly. I guess I have to confess to you that I really would love to go on a brunch date with you, Francisco.

Lunch date. Let’s not get too romantic. Don’t want you to fall head over heels and visit where I work twice in two days.

Has Harold told you how hilarious you are?

It’s nice—the place he’s chosen.

All washed in bright white, yellow splashes and pastel accents. Plants adorn as much of the walls and ceilings as humanly possible, with guitar-infused music softly playing as the door clicks into place behind you.

It's so nice, in fact, you almost want to live here. To spend an infinite amount of time brushing your thumb over the leaves to see which ones are real and which ones are very good fakes. So pretty that it’s the kind of place that if you weren’t looking for him at a table, you’d snap a photo of it all and send it to a friend.

But, as soon as your eyes land on him, he's the only photo you want to take.

White t-shirt, with a dark shirt thrown over the top, still very much all broad-shouldered and wide chest as he smooths his hand down as he stands.

The hat, one that you'd assumed would be a staple, is all but gone, curls at odd angles as though his fingers have been teasing them—tugging and pulling as the ends slightly frizz—as he moves around the table when you approach.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he grins, hesitancy thrumming before he must question himself, snaps himself back into place from dragging his eyes up and down you.

Then, he’s moving, gently—enough time to register he’s moving to hug you, and plenty of time to politely decline.

But you don’t.

Allowing his hand to slide over your waist, delicate, very much cautious and all but respectful, at the same time as his breath flutters over your cheek. You almost turn your chin, wishing to all of a sudden curl into it before his lips graze your skin, lashes fluttering before you feel him moving back.

And, fuck, the scent of his aftershave is still washing over you in thick waves. It does its best to slide up your nose and make a home there as heat rushes to your cheeks.

You almost turn, almost catch the last bit of his lips, eyes focused on his, holding, burning them in as you find yourself unable to tear away from it. Two people, swirling, completely lost in only the other—the rest of the world fading to a muted shade, nothing compared to the hue he exhumes in the centre of brightness and pops of colour.

A thing you turn over, unable to stop yourself from stealing stares as he pulls out your chair, before joining you by sitting opposite.

“Thought this was a safe bet, wasn’t sure what kind of lunch person you were.”

“More of a brunch person, honestly.”

He smirks, flicking his eyes up, even if his head is tilted down at the menu.

“It’s very nice—not been here before.”

A brow arched, he smiles—shyer, the beginning of the dimple appearing before he casts his eyes back down.

“What do you recommend, Francisco?”

You don’t miss his snort, the way he sticks his tongue in his cheek as he gives you that look—one that makes you want to keep flirting and testing him all at once. One that makes you clamp your jean-covered thighs together, but secretly hope he notices you doing so.

If he does, he doesn’t show it. Instead, using his index finger to point at various parts of the menu, recommendations falling, rolling—a shimmer in his eyes at certain parts, that makes it easy when someone comes over to ask for your order.

You suspect it’s a favourite, the one you’ve chosen. Something is written into the way he holds your gaze before he stumbles over his words, practically trips, to say his.

It’s only when you’re alone, do you rest your elbow on the table—the coldness of it rising up your skin, rooting you—as you lean your chin on your palm. “So, do I get my Pinterest boards out now or…?”

“Funny.”

You bite your tongue as you smile, staring, admiring. “So, outside of terrorising a man in his own shop, running an Instagram, what does Francisco DIY do?”

Shaking his head, he takes a sip of his water—a bead collecting, remaining on his lower lip for a ridiculously long time, before the tip of his tongue casts it away, and sweeps it from your view.

“My… my friend fights—like MMA. He stopped for a bit, but now he…”

You wait, let it form—let him decide what it is he wants to tell you and when, and how. Sliding your feet out under the table, stretching as you relax into the chair, finding his eyes fixed, concentrated.

“I go to some of his training.”

“Good at DIY and MMA training? Starting to wonder why you’re single, Butterscotch.”

He laughs, soft, rich. “Just… haven’t been looking to date.”

Nodding, you let out a heavy exhale. “I wasn’t either.”

His lips purse, twitch to the side, a smirk half forming somewhere in his cheeks as he leans over, elbow resting on the table, foot catching yours under the table.

Mirroring you entirely as the two of you just stare. And, normally, it would be weird. Odd. But, it doesn’t feel it. If anything, it makes you want to commit each crease from his smiles, each wisp of hair along his jawline that crawls up his cheeks—the patch that could be traced with your thumb, an almost heart shape left, ready to be stamped with a pair of lips.

Your eyes only pull from it when your drinks arrive—when the moment is broken by the real world—as you lean back, let your eyes move to your server, thanking them as you take your drink. And then, the two of you are alone.

“Might change my Instagram name.”

Brows lifting, he pauses his glass close to his lips. “Oh yeah, what to?”

“Rainier Grey—makes me sound elusive.”

Snorting, he shakes his head, sipping on his water before placing the glass down close to your hand. Fingers brushing against it, a thing which makes your eyes flick over your screen.

“I dare you.”

“You dare me?” you say. “How old are you?”

“A man too old for dares.”

You brush your index finger over the back of his fingers, lingering on it, noticing the way they flex as you do as if battling to take your hand in his.

Even if you’re determined to go halves, Frankie’s insistence beats you.

All ‘Don’t argue with me on this, alright?’ said in a tone deeper, more serious than you'd heard to date. And, it's hard not to let heat lick up your spine at the sound.

Even if he’s giving you kind brown eyes as you hold your hands up in defeat.

Smirking, you watch him pay, spotting the picture in his wallet of a boy with a missing-tooth smile almost as big as the man in front of you.

“Alright Morales, but next time it’s my treat.”

“Next time?”

Smirking, you bite your lower lip as you stand, grabbing your things. “Think you’ve earned it.”

Each step to the door feels heavy, a fluttering in your stomach—a grin that can’t be wiped, barely doused when you say goodbye to the people behind the counter.

It grows wider when he gets the door for you, the cooler, outside air creating a vortex of his aftershave all over again (that you hope finds a way to bury itself into your skin) when he opens it.

It’s odd, almost insane—the giddy way you feel as the two of you walk to your car. His fingers are so close to brushing yours, the distance to your little vehicle becoming shorter and shorter as you desperately wish for another few blocks.

Disappointment flares, trying to scratch out the happiness inside your stomach as you pause at the car, trying to smile, but finding it difficult.

Rubbing the back of his head, you watch him roll his lips. “I had a great time.”

Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you nod, “Me too.”

“Won't have to wait long, you've promised me brunch.”

“Think I said I’d pay. But, if you want brunch, I’m down to blow your mind.”

You realise too late, mouth hanging open, the words hitting—landing in his ear as you watch him process them.

It’s sluggish, almost lagging, the way his face lights up, the way his eyes widen and his smile grows into something close to what you had across the small table—not tinged in any way by the upcoming goodbye.

“Well, if that’s—”

“Shut up,” you say, cutting him off, hand ready to push his arm, but you slide it around his waist.

Face close to his, bodies almost flush.

You watch him swallow, how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he flicks his gaze from eye to eye.

Licking his lips, he smiles. “Can I kiss you?”

The moment you nod, he’s leaning—lips brushing over yours, fingers tightening on his waist as you move with him, all delicate, smooth, downright velvety as your other hand finds his neck. Feels his pulse against your palm, the warmth of him against your skin, before your lips part, deepening it, letting him have more, as much as he wants—

Then, he moves you. His palm meets your car, guiding you back until your spine meets the side of your vehicle, and he leaves another mark of him—thumb and four fingers—in the grunge the city throws at your car.

The other is the one he leaves pressed against your lips, all invisible, sweet and aching. Leaning in, your fingers find purpose on his neck, skating around, teasing a low curl as you lick into his mouth delicately.

All teasing, caressing, the arm around your waist tightening as the two of you remain almost flush against the car.

And it’s dizzying, all unexpected—but then, so is he.

More so, when you part—nose against nose, eyes opening to find his doing the same.

“I should…”

Your fingers slide, wiping his bottom lip before resting it on his chin, nail stroking against the hair there. “Okay.”

“I’d like to,” he begins, slowly stepping back, allowing cooler air to flow between where your bodies were pressed together, “Not wait to see you again—and, help you. With your project.”

Rolling your lips, you smile. “I’d like that too—both of them.”

“Alright.”

“Okay,” you smile. “Let me know.”

Nodding, he steps back up on the curb, hand wiping across his mouth.

You actually changed your handle.

Told you, I don’t back down from a dare

Guess I owe you one.

Can I cash it in at any moment?

As long as it’s appropriate, yes.

There goes my idea of daring you to strip in the shop and make out with a paint tin.

Have to just dream about that one.

Oh, I will Francisco.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

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undercoverpena · 25 days

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8. dark olive

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eight of do me yourself

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Rounding the corner, hands pushing the cart, you spot him immediately. Hands busy, comparing two types of tape in the middle of the aisle he’d left your side for.

Fuck, the tape looks so small in his hands.

A thought you're quick to shake out, eyes glazing past items on the shelves as you wander to him.

This store is so different from the one you met him in—the one he works in. Even if the circumstances feel oddly similar. Him, down an aisle; you, hopelessly and completely out of your comfort zone, still struggling to understand what it is you're here for.

It also smells different here. The place is a lot brighter, the lights above gleaming—newer, more LED than bulb—and the floor has little to no stains. You’d also noticed that the paint tins live across several aisles, with more colours than you thought possible.

Mostly, you miss Harold.

Oddly, for saying you’d rarely been there, you feel like you’re cheating on him. Almost betraying Harold's Hardware by being inside this larger, more fancier store.

A thing which tugs at the corner of your lips when you come to a stop near him. Finding Frankie turning his chin, wearing a puzzled look across his ridiculously handsome face. One that almost makes you break out into a smile, instead choosing to drag your tongue across your bottom lip as you inhale—trying not to let your eyes drop from his loose curls to his dark jeans.

“Do you feel like you’re cheating?” you ask, voice dropping as you come to a stop next to him, watching as he simultaneously places one tape back and one in the cart as he moves around to where your forearms are resting. “Because we’re shopping in a store that isn’t yours.”

Sliding his fingers under your chin as you straighten, making it easier to slide his mouth over yours.

Smirking, you bite your lip. “I feel like he’s going to know—Harold. He’ll smell it on you.”

“He’s not a vampire.”

“Could be. Instead of blood, it’s wood chippings and—”

Fingers crawling up your cheek, you catch the whisper of shh before he kisses you.

An attempt made to steal your breath, a thing you allow him to take willingly, practically handing him all you have in your lungs as your smirk and thoughts fade. At the feel of his hand sliding around you, you melt. Hands sliding from the cart to his face, feeling the fuzz of his hair against your palm, the smile that adorns his face against your mouth as you do all you can to hold back a moan in the middle of a tool and supplies aisle.

“Morales,” you warn as your mouth parts from his, catching the sound of him groaning—even from the back of his throat.

Tongue peeking through his teeth he snorts. “Morales? Ay?”

“Butterscotch in the sheets, Morales in the streets.”

Even if he shakes his head, you spot how soft his eyes are—all adorned with mischief, love. A sight you can't get over as it does a good job of making your heart flutter, especially as he continues to stroke your cheek—his calloused thumb dragging back and forth in gentle movements.

One he woke you up with the other day; one he does when he can tell your heart is racing quicker than your worries.

Fuck, you like him.

A lot.

His thumb still drags along your cheek as you think as much, as he sighs—all faint, with ease. As though he’s thinking something similar. Or maybe, you're just hoping.

“I think it's our little secret,” he murmurs.

His hand slides down, brushes down your body before he reaches for another item on the shelf. Not even looking—just knowing.

And, for the third time since being in here, it makes you warm. Makes you hot. It makes you want to drag him back to his truck and ask him to park it somewhere out of sight.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you smile, hands finding the cart again. “I just…”

“You just?”

Running your tongue over your teeth, you lift your chin. “I don’t know how you just… do things, sometimes. You’re so—”

“Handsome?”

“—Competent.”

Narrowing his eyes, he tries not to smirk. You can tell. Giving you that look—the one he gave you in your kitchen, in the aftermath of when he almost choked on his juice, when you said you had breakfast he could eat. Meaning eggs. Even if the two of you burnt them doing something far more fun.

“Do you like that, Rainy?” You try not to warm at the pet name, at the nickname that’s grown to have more meaning than your own. “That I’m competent?”

Grabbing the cart, you nudge it into him. “Stop.”

Smirking, he winks, adding a noted before he begins leading you. The two of you weave through the aisles, mundane items ending up in the cart—the mess of things all rolling around the metal frame. On occasion, he mumbles something before scratching his forehead with the back of his hand, while you hover, not at all sure if he's naming a product or just making up words.

And, you just admire.

Completely in awe as he calculates something and then looks at you—like you’re the answer. Or because he knows now that it somehow turns you on.

“Have I told you how pretty you look today?”

Rolling your lips, you shake your head, watching him add more things to buy.

“Twice, actually.”

Pulling a face, and moving closer, he hooks a finger around the loop of your jeans. “Doesn’t feel enough.”

“No?”

Shaking his head, you stare at him—right into his eyes, falling into them. “We should go pay.”

He smiles at you, the corners of his lips curling into something more as he nods his head and leads you to pay—joining an empty checkout.

"Same time next week?" he asks.

“Are you making these hardware dates with me a regular thing?”

“Why not? Maybe we can visit them all—I know some guys take girls to new cities or towns, but I wanna show you all the hardware stores.”

Laughing, you watch him empty everything, shooting you a grin each time he grabs something else from the cart until it empties.

Then, you bite the inside of your cheek when he goes to grab his wallet, fumbling for it. Your eyes spot it, that line—the one you love to smooth out with your palm—and how it begins to deepen. Moving from your place as you slide your phone out, ass brushing against him as you mumble that you’ll get this one.

It’s only when you hear the distinct beep of the payment, that you look over your shoulder. “You didn’t lose it,” you announce, watching him pause, face smoothing out. “Your wallet.”

Hands pause on the back of his jeans, he stops.

“It’s here,” you continue, patting the pocket of your jacket, “But, I’ll let you buy me lunch if you want?”

The cashier chuckles, hearing it, distantly, something about your girlfriend is funny—even if you’re focused on him, on how his eyes soften and his lips have curled into a grin.

We should think about constructing your shelving soon.

Good afternoon to you too, baby. That sounds fun. How do we do that?

Hello baby. I’m thinking, as it’s entirely bespoke that we get some drawers from IKEA, but the shelves above we make ourselves.

Does this mean you’re going to show me how to use power tools?

Yeah, sure. Probably be safer at mine, then I can transport them over to yours when we’re done?

Sounds good to me. So, an IKEA date?

Yeah. That can be next week's Hardware trip.

Oh, how you spoil me.

You know it, hermosa.

I still need to pick a paint, right?

Yes, you thought about any of the swatches you’ve done?

Frankie answers in record speed, your back leaning against the wall—staring at the now smooth wall the two of you had gotten pristine.

“Thought this would be easier.”

“Admit you missed my voice.”

Fighting a groan at the sound of the way he lowered his voice, you flex your toes in your socks. “You’re getting awfully big-headed, Butterscotch.”

Snorting, you hear a crash from his end of the phone, and the distinct sound of the phone being brought away before he shouts to Luca.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s building the equivalent of Jurassic World in my living room.”

Smirking, you lick your lips. “You sound thrilled.”

“Tim and Vinnie needed a home. And, it’s cruel of Daddy to make them homeless—”

Nodding, you glance at the swatches as you listen. Eyes flicking over taupes and golden yellows, over soft pinks and sea blues, but you keep being drawn back to one shade each time.

One that makes you linger, before gazing away from it—hesitant, somehow. The reasoning is half-known, yet you don’t want to unfold or unravel it properly.

Because you know why you like it—why you’re drawn to it.

Why it makes you want to smile, why it makes you feel at ease and calm, safe—

“—Is that your friend, Daddy?”

“Luca—”

“Hello, Daddy’s friend!”

His voice, all little and high-pitched—almost out of breath, as you imagine him running—makes your heart flicker, managing to croak back a, “Hi there.”

“My name is Luca and I’m—Daddy no—”

Your hand comes up to your mouth, grinning behind your fingers as you hear giggles and little screams. Frankie’s voice jokingly calls out that he’s a little monster—the phone clanging and clattering before the most joyous sound of two laughs blending into one before you’re picked up from whatever place you’d fallen to.

“I’m back.”

“Hi, baby.”

Sighing, he apologises, “Where were we?”

“Olive green. I like olive green.”

He makes a noise, one that you can’t help but think he’s surprised by.

“What—green is growing on me,” you add.

And he makes a different noise, one you suspect is married to a smile—a grin. One you’re pretty sure you’re mirroring neighbourhoods away, as you hear Luca in the background cheer at the sound of another crash.

So, I know you mentioned us going out for dinner tonight, but I wondered if I could interest you in something else.

I’m intrigued.

Well, you said you were still sore from training yesterday with Ben and I know you’ve been doing extra at the store, so how about UNO and pizza?

Baby, I promised you I’d take you out.

And you are. From my kitchen counter to my living room.

Is this what you really want?

Yes. Please.

I'm starting to think you don't like going out.

Why would I want to share you with more eyes, Morales?

Let me bring pizza then.

I guess I can agree to that.

Throwing down the last card, cheering, you watch him scowl—the few UNO cards he had left thrown down onto the table as you grab another slice of pizza. Wearing your win on your face, letting it descend like mist to your shoulders, hips as you do a little wiggle—all cross-legged on your living room floor.

He, on the other hand, huffed in faux annoyance, a glint in his eyes—the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Best out of three?” he proposes, already reaching forward and shuffling the deck with a smirk.

“You know you’ve lost two already.”

“Best out of seven then.”

And so, the game continues. Frankie on your sofa, leaning forward over the coffee table—surrounded by the remnants of pizza and scattered UNO cards. The glow from your lamp cascaded over the room, his curls teased and pulled on as he lost another game.

“Alright, cheat. Last round,” he declares.

As the game unfolds, you can't help but feel so incredibly happy. Just being here, with him. It's a simple night, nothing fancy, yet it feels more special than any other night with any other people.

You don’t even mind that he wins the last round, rolling your eyes at the triumphant grin on his face. “Told you I could beat you,” he gloats, gathering up the cards.

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile on your face. "Alright, alright, don't let it get to your head," you tease, unfolding your legs as you stand, grabbing the plates and napkins.

After everything is tidied up, you both settle down on the couch, snuggling into each other. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close to his side. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting out a content sigh.

“Thank you for tonight,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You look up at him, a soft smile on your face. “I had a great time.”

“Because you won?”

“Because I won.”

He swallows, shaking his head lightly as he stares at you—as you purse your lips and think about throwing your legs up over his. Heart doing a steady skip, the longer you stare, mouth opening to ask if he wants to stay when his opens and beats you to it.

“I want you to meet Luca.”

Face softening, your eyes widen to match the smile spreading over your face. “Yeah? You do?”

Nodding, he runs his knuckles over your chin. “I talked to Sam—Samantha. ‘Cause I wanted to make sure she was okay with it, y’know?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want to do it without her being okay with it.”

Smiling, his hand drops to your knee, drawing a square. “You’re also… the first person,” he adds, nose scrunching as the words wash over you.

“Oh. Well, Frankie, I’d love to meet him. When you’re ready.”

His eyes drop, and you feel it—the air shift, something changing—before he clears his throat again. Retracing his hand, the heel of his palm runs across his forehead, and your heart’s pattern changes, and alters.

A dread falls out, sliding down over your skin, cooling the warmth that had been steadily growing all evening.

“But,” he swallows, fingers brushing over your knee. “I need to tell you something first.”

It’s quiet, the okay that escapes. That slithers out and spreads its fingers towards him. A panic rising in you, twisting—knotting. It makes you want to clear your throat, swallow, and do all you can to make it shift, but you can feel it pulsing, waiting.

Swallowing again, you spot Frankie’s hands twitching nervously. "Remember I told you about when I helped a friend—the dangerous thing?”

Eyes flicking, watching his hand lock over the other—fingers moving back and forth, scratching, eyes on you like a hawk as you nod, bracing yourself.

“Well…”

And it falls out of him. Listening, even over your racing heart—taking it in, as much as you can, more than bits and pieces, but not confident the full thing is reaching your brain.

You match the names of his friends to the ones you met, two shadows forming in the picture he paints—briefly wondering if they were in the photo at his, if they were people you’d heard about before, and never known. Hearing names like Ironhead and Pope, not realising until a second later explanation of who they were.

The more he spills, the more panicked his voice becomes—the more breath he attempts to take in. As though it's been shoved somewhere inside of him, crammed in a space too large, it bursting out of him now. All visibly affecting him, making his hand continue to scratch, nails digging deeper into the other. Red lines appear, clawing into the back of his hand as he continues on, and on—

“Frankie, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I do, baby. I do because—” he chokes, a sob there—likely bubbling and unwilling to burst in his throat, eyes shimmering, swimming in unspent tears, “—I made a rushed call, and… and my friend—“

“Frankie.”

“He died.”

It feels like you’ve been hit in the chest.

A hand reaching in, twisting in past your ribs. A tightness that had been turning and shifting, suddenly explodes, leaving you breathless. Your mouth falls open, thoughts empty as you simply stare, blinking.

Not because of what he said, but because you knew it before he said it. Before he confesses the next thought, which you had a feeling had been eating him alive since he first began—

“And it was my fault.”

Your heart breaks, shatters for him.

Worsened by the way his words catch on his teeth as he shakes his head, as a tear falls down his cheek—as his nails continue to scratch, and scratch, more words tumbling out from his tongue.

The weight of his confession presses down on you, a suffocating force that threatens to crush your spirit. The air is heavy in the room, charged with sorrow and regret, his eyes encased in torment as his skin begins to peel apart—a raw wound laid bare, both metaphorically and literally.

“—and if I hadn’t crash landed, if I hadn’t taken the shot, if I hadn’t—“

If I hadn’t. If I hadn’t.

If I hadn’t.

The words are balled up, dropping out—followed by other things. Failings, all of them. Ones that have rippled inside of him for longer than you care to think about; them all likely rotted, become a mass of heavy regrets that have clung to the inside of his chest.

You whisper his name, but it’s like calling out a person in the centre of a stadium full of noise.

It’s swallowed, smothered. Barely reached his ears as you want to reach out and touch him, to centre him, bring him back to you. In all the ways he does so with you.

“—It's why I couldn’t fly, why I took the job, why… she left me.” His eyes snap to you, all clear, focused—unlike they’d been a moment ago. “You deserve to know—to choose, to know who you're with. ‘cause I fuck up. I fucked up and I took a man from his kids. I lost my head, I just needed to get out and I—”

Eyes flicking to his hand, you stand up, all suddenly, forcing his voice to trail off as he stares up at you. The room falls quiet as big, brown weeping eyes watch you shift your weight from side to side.

He looks lost, floating in a sea of pain that’s drowning him, that he can’t kick up from as he tries to keep swimming.

And he says your name. All broken, the edges of it chipped—cracked and fractured.

It’s quick, the way you mumble one minute before moving into your kitchen. The way you scramble for the green box, knocking over bottles of cleaning products and bleach as you hear him crumble, as the sound worms in your chest and cracks you. Hearing it, the distinct sound of shit and the way he curses himself for fucking up.

You barely shut the cupboard behind you when you’re moving back to him, seeing him panicked, gasping for breath between sobs. Sorries echoing, vibrating out. They're all a mashing of words and syllables, yet you can discern every single one as you drop back beside him.

Watching him try to shift away, your hand grabs his—quicker, smothering out over the one that sits on top of the one he’s scratched.

“Breathe. In, and out.”

Your name slithers out, between gasps and shakes.

“In for four, that’s it—then we hold for seven, like me—and exhale. Good. Again.”

Watching him come down, settle—ease falling out over him as you hold his hand, grip it, hold him so tight so he knows you’re not going anywhere.

“You don’t have to—”

“I just needed to get this,” you soothe, grabbing the first aid kit, placing it between the two of you. “You… you’ve cut yourself, baby.”

Swallowing, he blinks—either at the name, or the softness of your tone—before he glances down.

“Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” you say, a double meaning.

Opening the kit, pulling out antiseptic and bandages, feeling him watch you as you gently clean his wounds, his breath hitching when the antiseptic stings, but he doesn't pull away. Not even when you ask if he's talked to someone, or when he nods, when he explains that he had to, that he hadn't been able to sleep and he was worried about having a baby overnight.

Frankie doesn't move even after you’ve cleaned it, or when you softly bandage it. Your fingers move with precision, all the while careful not to press too hard.

When you're done, you let your hand linger on his, your thumb gently rubbing over the bandages. You meet his gaze, seeing nothing but pain—wishing you could light a flicker of hope, do something to ease it.

“I need you to hear me say something, Frankie. Can you do that or would you prefer I wait?" you ask, voice steady, even though your heart pounds in your chest.

Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

Swallowing, he averts his eyes. “Yeah. I can hear it."

Your heart falls in your chest. “Frankie, I'm not ending it." You reassure, thankful his head shifts to face you. “Baby, whatever happened, it happened. It doesn't—it doesn’t change things for me. Doesn’t change the person I know. I know it’s a part of your story, a thing I can never heal for you, and I know there's likely more there, but you don't need to tell me. I don't need to know the whole thing.”

His eyes don't leave yours, and you see them fill with tears again. But this time, there's relief in them, too. Your hand lightly brushes over the bandage.

“Because what I do know is how much I like getting to know you. I know how Ben talked about you—how good Will said you were, are. I know what person I’ve been seeing, so, I don’t feel any different, about you—about us. Okay?”

Nodding, chewing his tongue for a moment, he slowly pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your neck. And, you hold him just as tight—hand stroking his back, feeling his tears on your skin. How his breathing steadies, and becomes more regular.

Only when he loosens his grip do you pull away slightly. Seeing enough to catch his face, how he's looking at you with such raw gratitude and vulnerability that it makes your chest ache. Pressing your forehead to his, closing your eyes as you take it in, you lay a soft kiss on his mouth, taking a moment, letting it all settle.

And then you clear your throat. “But, you are really bad at UNO.”

He snorts, eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Like really bad—maybe the worst person I’ve ever played UNO with—”

Grabbing you, almost tickling you, he half-smiles, somehow having shifted himself to be above you, pressing you into your sofa cushions. “Yeah, alright”

Smiling up at him, you flick your eyes from his to his lips. “Do you want to stay and make me eggs in the morning?”

Rolling his lips, he takes a deep breath, before slowly nodding. "If that's okay?"

"I'd like you to."

Baby, you were fast asleep when I had to get up for work, so I made you a thank-you-for-listening-to-me-omelette. The recipe was complex, with lots of various thanks woven into it, so I hope you like it. I also spotted my brand of coffee in your cupboard, I’m trying to stop grinning at that, so I’ll try and call on my break if you want—so you can remind me how bad I am at UNO.

I just woke up, so I’m going to hunt down this omelette that definitely didn’t need to be made from thank-you-eggs.

Okay, first report, your omelette is almost as good as your coffee. Which yes, I bought.

Starting to think you really like me, Rainy.

I might do, Butterscotch.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

AN: hope we're all doing okay

327 notes · View notes

undercoverpena · 12 days

Text

9. breath of fresh air

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Baby, where are you?

I’m coming now just needed to get some plants.

If you’re the forest on wheels coming towards me line up somewhere else.

Wow, that's mean, Morales.

I am. But also, that’s a fuck load of plants.

It is and we’re going to have so much fun naming them.

Surrounded by unopened boxes, and paint tins that are due to be put on the wall, you both sit cross-legged on the floor of your soon-to-be office floor.

It's hard to stop it, the smile which spreads across your lips. The scent of fast food flows from your ripped-open bag and his neatly opened one, as you watch him turn his cap backwards and dig a hand into the paper bag as he pulls out a sauce pot.

Of course, he still finds a second to glare at the plant behind you.

“It’s up for debate, but french fries might be the way to my soul.”

Dipping his own into the sauce, he smirks. “What’s the other contender?”

You, you think.

It's there, threaded inside of you. Sewn in now. Stitched so deep into you that he’ll be remembered forever, no matter what.

Meeting his eyes mid-chew, the word you reverbing around your skull. Echoing. Practically marking itself against any surface space it can in there.

“Your mouth.”

Choking, his hand is quick to cover his mouth, eyes alarmed, quickly filling with tears as he continues to hack. Sliding his drink towards him, across the floor of the project that brought him here today.

“You can’t…” he begins, taking another mouthful, “Do that to me.”

Smirking, you grab another handful of fries. “From the gleam in your eyes, I say you like it.”

“I am not gleaming.”

“No? Damn, I’m disappointed.”

Rolling his eyes, he nudges you with his foot—your eyes glancing at the dinosaur-covered socks for the twelfth time since he’s been here.

“Luca has good taste in socks.”

“You’re telling me,” he replies, “I also have Batman ones, some cartoon ones and ones with flowers on.”

Smiling, you continue to chew. “Which ones are your favourite.”

Scrunching up the paper your food came in, you throw it into the bag. Watching him take a final bite of his own as you smirk.

“It’s the flower ones, isn’t it?”

“Definitely the flower ones.”

Laughing, tongue peeking between your teeth, you lean back on your hands, legs outstretched. “Saving them for a special occasion?”

Nodding, he takes another slurp of his drink, feeling his eyes drag up and down your legs. “Thought I could wear them for when I woo you later on this week.”

“Yeah? You want to model your socks for me, Morales.”

“Dinner and a show I heard is the perfect date night.”

Wiping his hands on his napkin, he stares at you—clean hand on your ankle, massaging it.

“You keep doing that, and we won’t be building furniture.”

Groaning, he sighs. All deep, layered with confliction—until he whispers it: after. It’s low, practically dragged through the gravel of his voice by the time it reaches your ear. Heat spreading through your stomach, not able to tear your eyes from him, just thankful that he does when he goes to stand.

A moment of reprieve, a chance to collect yourself.

That is, until he stretches out his hand, sliding yours into it as he pulls you up to stand. For a moment, just paused—staring at him, a tuft of curls poking through under the rim of his hat.

“I told you how handsome you are,” you say, arms sliding around his neck, leaning close—just enough, to press your mouth to his. “Cause you are.”

Biting the edge of his lip, he smirks. “I’ve got a utility knife in my pocket.”

“Oh?”

Brows lifting, grinning, Frankie pulls you closer. “You into that?”

“On you? Fuck yeah.”

Your lips glide over his, tasting the salt from his fries and the onion from his burger. Not caring, not as you hold him close, keeping him flush, deepening it until he clutches your jaw, walking you both back, kicking a box.

“Fuck.”

Almost laughing, you smirk. “We should…”

Tongue swiping over his lip, Frankie nods. Gaze unmoving even as you step back, bending to tidy the wrappers and bags as you glance back periodically.

“What?”

Shaking his head, he shrugs one shoulder, eyes widening as he smiles. “Nothing. Jus’… hurry back.”

It leaves your lips breathlessly, the word sure. It flows through the air to him, before you leave the room, before giddiness swallows and smothers you up. A grin not easily wiped by your knee connecting with the cabinet as you skid into the kitchen. Dousing your hands in cold water, hoping the temperature will touch your cheeks and cool them.

Thinking of him waiting near the checkout—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his worn

You do. Almost skidding in your kitchen when you throw the trash away, pausing at the sink to wash your hands, before you’re casually walking back. Doing so, just in time to see him slide that knife along the flat-pack furniture, unboxing the drawers—staring at them all crouched wearing a furrowed expression with an IKEA pencil behind his ear.

And you’re glad he doesn’t look up at the doorway, because it gives you a minute, to lean, head resting as your heart skips a step, feeling all large and full and full of happiness. A feeling, one surging up inside of you—full of lightness and truth—swirling around your breath and trying to form into words.

But, then he looks at you. Lifts his chin, the biggest brown eyes smoothing out to look at you—and you’re sure the words are going to rip out of your throat. Forced to greet the air, and burn themselves into it.

I really like you, Frankie.

I really, really do.

Each letter swallowed back, sight dropping to the knife he holds back—an act you’re apparently quite into from the way you feel the heat in your stomach, a little ripple of want starting to stir as you slowly edge your way into the room. Listening, hanging onto his words as he offers suggestions of how the two of you can do this.

It’s why it makes sense, at first, when he asks if you’d begin building the drawers while he begins the carcass. His toolbox he’d brought in with him opening, pulling various tools you’re not sure were listed on the instructions.

It continues to make sense until you realise you began constructing the drawer, incorrectly. A disappointed voice ebbing, beginning to nip. It breeds in doubt as you study the paper again, and again. Mouth opening and promptly shutting as you try to make heads or tails of what should be a very easy thing.

But that means confessing you’re about as hopeless at building as you are at the rest of the DIY project.

Peering at the instructions again, you try not to sigh. Try not to let a heavier exhale escape through your nostrils, and possibly showcase your growing anxiety-brewed annoyance.

Because you hope he’s not having you build drawers because it’s easier. Because he views you as this hopeless thing that can’t be taught. Even if, in some ways, that assumption would be correct. You just hope that it isn’t pity or any other negative connotation that has begun popping into your mind and bursting behind your eyes in sorrowful falling dark-hued confetti.

An increasing need to prove yourself rising, flooding you as though it wishes to drown you. Making it hard to swallow, never mind breathe—eyes glancing down as they begin to burn with worry, with annoyance and a lot of other emotions you’re struggling to handle—

“Hey,” he says, soothing—hand cupping your cheek as you're tilted up from diagrams to his eyes.

The ones that soothe, that calm—that feel like a safe place.

“Hi.”

Slowly smiling, he strokes your skin. A thing you’re not sure you’ll ever tire from. Not ever. Not as long as his eyes remain as kind and full of warmth.

“I was calling out for you.”

“I’m so—“

“Wondered,” he continues, interrupting, burying your apology before it meets land and plants itself, “If you wanted a go at helping me build this bit.”

Swallowing, both the emotions that remain fizzing and the worries, you smile. “You sure? I’m not… this isn’t something I’m good at.”

“That’s why I’m helping. To teach you, right?”

Nodding, you grin when his lips find your forehead, helping you up before grabbing something from his toolbox. If newer, shinier than the one you’d seen him using—a colour as close to the one you’d said was your favourite.

“Did you buy me a tool, Butterscotch?”

Scratching the back of his head, he tries not to blush. A thing you can tell from the way he averts his eyes, and pink creeps up his neck. “Yeah, it was nothing. Just thought it be easier for you to have your own.”

“My own… prodding device?”

Shaking his head, his eyes land on you. “It’s an electric screwdriver.”

“Of course it is, I was testing you.”

Snorting, he grabs a piece of wood, bringing it between the two of you. “I almost believe you.”

You think Harry would hire me even if I know absolutely nothing about hardware or tools?

To annoy me, most probably. You doing okay?

Not really.

They want more tweaks?

Yeah. I don’t mind making the changes, but wish they’d been more clear from the beginning. So I don’t feel like a failure.

You want me to call in half an hour? Can try and make you smile.

You make me smile effortlessly. But no, it’s okay. I’m going to enjoy a shower and have an early night. Sleep off my bad mood and rest my muscles from building all that furniture the other day.

You goof.

A goof who has your toolbox and her own electric tightener.

That will sound so wrong to anyone else.

Especially if I tell them it goes with my bedside power tools.

Are they what I think they are?

Maybe.

Fuck. Put thoughts in my head now.

Do I look hot?

Always. Will you message me in the morning?

Of course, baby. Try not to dream of me.

Impossible, baby.

Just got out of the movies, was able to eat half the popcorn tub before a jump scare made it mysteriously land on the floor.

Do butter-caked fingers have anything to do with it?

No. I believe the leading cause was a mean friend picking a movie that they knew would scare me. The jury is still out on whether I could have saved the popcorn if properly notified of the jump scares.

You both have fun though?

Yes, a lot. Even if I won’t sleep for a week. I’m excited to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you.

You’ve missed me?

Try not to grin too much, Morales.

Too late for that, Rainy. I've missed you too.

I've missed butter-SCOTCH fingers.

Can tell me how much later, if you want?

Do you want to phone sex with me, Morales? I think I'd rather make you wait till tomorrow when I see you.

Now who's mean.

It’s hard to avoid the smile on your face, even in the fogged-up mirror. Water dripping down your neck, collecting in the towel wrapped around your chest as Frankie presses his lips to your hairline.

“You feelin' clean, baby?”

“I don't think what we just did in your shower could constitute as cleaning, Butterscotch.”

Smirking, skin radiating heat, Frankie tips your chin up, mouth sliding back over yours like he had done when the two of you had stepped under the shower. The intention innocent, until hungry eyes raked over bare skin.

"Robe's on the back of my bedroom door, baby," he whispers, leaving you to finish drying in his bathroom.

As though it’s normal, routine.

Your toothbrush beside his—the products you’d packed in your overnight bag on the side of the counter.

It's a thing that makes your teeth bite down on your lip and your fingers retraced the path he drew against the suds on your skin. Thinking about how the water fell down along his jaw, ran down between your bodies as he hiked your leg up—

You jump when a clatter pulls you to the present. Heart fluttering, body resting against the side of the basin as your breath dances with the steam. Even if he's rooms away, you hear him singing.

It travelling, calling to you.

A soundtrack to you re-dressing as you hang the used towel on the hook, sliding some clean clothes on, before padding out to wrap the robe around you and grab his t-shirt from the bed.

With each step to the kitchen, you're aware of how your body smells of his body wash. A scent you wish your skin only ever smells like now, if it can’t be his aftershave. Just so you could have a piece of him, a thing to go with the texts, phone calls and video chats when the two of you find moments in between the busy.

There's no need for that tonight, not as he’s cooking for you.

Shoulder resting against the door, you find yourself not wanting to announce your arrival. Just take in his frame, how his back is to you, allowing you to watch how his muscles flex along his bare back as he grabs a knife from a drawer.

“You know, if you posted this kind of video on your Instagram, I think you'd beat that one where you're showing people how to paint wood."

Glancing over his shoulder, you hold the top up. His face shifts into gratitude as he drops what's in his hand and takes it from you. Simple, a very nothing thing that his face seems to show the opposite of.

He fidgets uncomfortably, the shyest smile trying to appear. “Shut up.”

“While you were very informative about preparing the wood before beginning in that video, I think I know how you got one hundred thousand views in a weekend.”

Smirking, he folds his arms. “Because you watched it on repeat while you missed me?”

“No,” you grin, watching him run his tongue over his teeth to stop himself from smirking. “You like to do a little thot-shot.”

“A what-what?”

Licking your lips, leaning against the wall, watching his fingers run up and down his bicep, arms still folded. “You wipe your face with the bottom of your t-shirt, Morales. Showing off your… physique.”

“Mierda.”

“You look very good. Had to watch it myself a few times, to be sure.”

His eyes dart away, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I mean it,” you add. “You look really good, Frankie.”

Stepping forward, you kiss his cheek. The heat from it warms your lips as you try to hide your grin. Instead, pulling out a stool from under his island and sliding onto it, elbow on the worktop, you rest your chin. Watching him turn, facing back to the ingredients and pans.

That's when you spot it. The loose curl that has fallen over his forehead as he leans forward. It just hanging there. Slowly beginning to sway as he resumes chopping and slicing.

“What're you making me?”

“Special asado tacos.”

It’s hard to suppress the whimper in the back of your throat as your stomach rumbles, his chin lifting—brow raising as you try to clear your throat.

“Sounds delicious… what makes them special? Is it the chef?”

Smirking, he shakes his head. “It’s a family recipe. So, I hope I don’t fuck it up.”

“I doubt you could, right? It’s in your bones.”

Shrugging, he stares down at some paper—his pinky flattening it, before he brushes the chopped peppers into a pan and grabs something else.

“I don’t make it often.”

“How many times have you?”

Pausing, he doesn’t look up. Just stops his knife over the skin of the vegetable.

“Frankie. Is this the first time you’ve made it?”

“No,” he answers. Quickly, red rising up his neck. “It’s just… the first time I’ve made it for someone.”

Licking your lips, you smile—fingers outstretching over his counter, it cool under your touch. “Oh, you like me, like me.”

Smirking, he continues to chop and dice, shooting glances at you. “Maybe.”

“I think you do.”

The precision he cuts with makes you almost forget your teasing—your own name, even. The quickness of it, the perfect way they’re all cut. It’s enough to make your thighs press, a new competency unlocked it seemed—as though you were both collecting and becoming aware of them all at once.

Distantly, you hear your name. Briefly aware as you flick your gaze up, of the concern etched there—the sudden silence damning.

“Hm?”

Grinning, shaking his head as he slides the chopped food away. “I said, what makes you say that?”

Sighing, all deep—almost soothing, you smile. “Well, you named all my new plants with you.”

“I did do that.”

Nodding, you roll your lips as he uses his little finger to trace down the recipe in front of him.

“And you didn’t judge me for the fact they all needed a name.”

Casting a glance your way, he both frowns and smiles simultaneously. “Baby… I’d… I’d never.”

“I know,” you say, encased in confidence, sitting up straighter, “Because you like me.”

Shrugging, he begins moving around, collecting ingredients—the back of his hand brushing over his forehead. “Maybe you’re on to something.”

Humming, you shift on your stool—watching. Finding it hard not to keep your eyes on him, not as he moves around confidently, capably, sprinkling things in and adding pinches of others.

It isn’t until he seems more content, that things are doing what they’re supposed to, do you slip from the stool. Moving towards him, sliding between him and the worktop as your fingers brush over his cheek—an act so similar to the shower, before his hand slid between your thighs and made you struggle to stand.

“I like you too,” you whisper.

His eyebrows raise at the suggestion, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Is that so?” he asks. “Well, guess if we both like one another, that means I am allowed to ask something…”

Sucking in air through your teeth, you scrunch your nose. “I don't know, do you think you're allowed?”

Pinching your side softly, he smiles. “I wanted to ask... what we are, what are we?”

Narrowing your eyes, you roll your lips, fingers continuing to twist his curls around your nails. “What do you want me to be?”

Shrugging, he smiles—eyes slowly crinkling, all slow in the way they eventually narrow, mouth parting, basking you in human-made sunshine.

“You want me to be yours?”

He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.

“Want to be mine, Francisco?”

His hand grasps your hip more intently. “More than anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Nodding, you tug him closer too, bodies flush, little space between the two of you. “All yours.”

His nose slides against your cheek, before his forehead rests on yours. His eyes almost blend into one large brown oasis—almost.

“Now I’m your girlfriend, do I get extra privileges?”

Frowning, he steps to the side, stirring the cooking food—one hand on your hip, as though not wanting you to move.

“You know, show me how to use your power tools?”

Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “You say mine like others are different.”

Smirking, looking at him with the most innocent eyes you can fake, taking his hand in yours. “They’re different from mine.” Frowning, he stares for a second, seemingly baffled. “Mine aren’t used to build things, rather… make legs shake and make me cry out your name.”

You hear his swallow, as well as see it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he lies, stirring again. “Jus... Y��just incredible.”

Picking up a piece of pepper, you smile—all wicked. “Oh, I know. And aren’t you lucky I’m yours?”

THEY'RE BACK, GOD I'VE MISSED THEM. next week, we enter a spicy chapter (muhaha) and a nice little announcement about them too.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

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undercoverpena · 2 months

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5. pepper red

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter five of do me yourself

wordcount: 2.5k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] SMUT. p in v. dirty talk/mutual appreciation. minor competency. frankie is pretty, thick and sexy. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. you wear a date outfit but not specified. no use of y/n. an: if this was a sitcom episode, it wouldn't be allowed to be aired and also, i passed my exam, wahoo.

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For some reason, it doesn’t surprise you that his bedroom is forest green. Or, that it’s accented by strong whites and similar dark woods as the living room. All earthy tones, him.

In the same way, it doesn’t surprise you that his skin is soft, all smooth as your fingers brush over his skin when you lift his t-shirt from his frame.

Because he looks as good as he did in those videos you’d watched over and over. Getting the chance to see if the silver scars were tricks of the light or stories he hadn’t shared. Your fingers discovered it was the latter.

“God, you look good, Frankie.”

He snorts, before sliding a thumb under your jaw, forcing you to confront big, doe brown eyes. Ones that you’d fall into if you could, especially as they pause, stare from one eye to the next, likely to see if there’s a lie there—a slither of untruth to your confession.

There isn’t.

A thing you ensure sits at the forefront, a silent plea for him to believe you. You suppose he must do when his mouth slides back over yours. Tongue pressing at your lower lip, seeking entry that you happily allow.

You lose yourself in it, him. How good it feels to have his lips on yours again. To have the added feel of purposeful and intentional fingers taking their sweet time to slide your outfit from you.

Because his hands trail over as much as they can. Doing so as though he’s busy carving a memory of you in his mind, making you real. A thing you won’t admit you’re doing too, too busy committing the way he feels, as you run your hands across his shoulders. Feel the expanse of them, the width, wondering—as his tongue swirls a shape on your neck—if yoga will really help you fit his broadness between your thighs.

Frankie must notice you’re drifting, thinking, because his mouth finds yours. A thing which cements you to the moment. Kissing you slowly, deliberately—a hint of mint amongst the drink he’d provided and you smirk, smiling against him.

Because he’s eaten a TicTac.

It mixes, fighting to refresh as though you hadn’t eaten and consumed the same fast food. But the act, the way his lips slide against yours, makes that joke melt as quickly as it appeared, because he’s completing his mission: the one to leave you breathless.

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you choose to pull him closer, deepening the kiss. Tongue sliding back behind his teeth as a soft moan escapes him; swallowed by your own as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. The feel of him, hard and ready against you sends a thrill of anticipation darting through you.

It’s easy, simple, to allow the rhythm of your bodies to become a language all of its own. A two-way conversation being sketched out and written in sighs and moans, punctuated by the occasional gasp. A symphony of desire.

And then you make things shift. Change the tempo when your hand descends between the two of you. Feeling him, grasping his cock, taking note of the way he inhales at the feel of your fingers. For a moment, his mouth hovers over yours—both open, just breathing. His palms flat to your side—as you hold him, feel his cock twitch in your hand. Moving, slowly—almost torturously, but it’s actually with precision.

He’s so hard, thick. Your fingers tighten their hold, wrist moving more, palm sliding up and down as you taste the way he says fuck.

“Bed,” he groans, almost through gritted teeth.

Smirking, you bite his lower lip. Light. Not piercing or enough to leave an indent. “In a minute.”

And it leaves his tongue again. Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, baby.

All you can think about is how good he sounds, looks—feels. His head tipped back, neck elongated—lips parting as each expletive lasts longer than the four letters that make it up. It’s cliché to say it’s never been like this, but a truth that personal isn’t always easy to confess.

“Not waited to do this right with you to come before you have, Rainy.”

His fingers, those calloused ones attached to those hard-working hands, wrap around your wrist. Light, but determined.

“Oh, Butterscotch,” you tease, mouth close to his. “You been thinking about this?”

He smirks, just as he clasps his other hand to your side—tugging, yanking you flush. Feeling him, all of him, as you’re guided, moved, backs of your legs meeting the well-made bed you’re about to mess up and ruin.

“Since the moment I heard you laugh.”

Your body falls back, the sheets cool, smooth, pressing against your bare spine, before his body comes up—caging you. Nudging your thighs apart with his knee.

“Just kept thinking, bet you make other pretty noises too.”

Lips parting, you knot your fingers in the curls at the base of his neck, letting his lips slide into his cheek. That dimple appearing. The one which tries to hide under wiry hair and shyness, but is deeper than ever now, nothing held back or hidden.

And you can’t help but watch, completely transfixed by the light from the lamp he'd flicked on. The one lighting up his face, making him appear golden, ethereal. Able to discern each of the shades that make up his eyes, the flecks within them, the different browns that make a colour you dream and think of constantly, but you’re not sure has any other name than Frankie.

“Can I touch you, baby?”

You find you can only nod.

Words failing, falling, simply replaced by a gasp as he slides them between your partly spread thighs—feeling it, how wet you are. How slick and desperate you are to have him. A mess, all for him, by him. It likely ruined the underwear you’d left on his floor and dampened the sheets under you.

“This all for me?”

The rasp of his voice only makes you ache more for him. Hips desperate to shift so his fingers do more than trace and tease, but plunge and curl.

“Yes,” you moan.

It's like he knows you. A thought that bubbles and bursts when your fingers grasp at his sheets, his two fingers feel so much different than your own; Than the toys you own that are shoved in protective bags inside your sock drawer. His seek, aiming to find that spot inside you, stretches you, making your toes curl and your knuckles ache from how tight they hold the sheets.

And he’s talking. A sea of things that you half-catch and miss the rest. That you look good, feel good, that he wants to watch you come apart before he even thinks about giving you his cock.

Words almost leave your mouth, but you’re barely present.

More electric than person; more liquid than solid. So fucking close already you can feel the tremors in your thighs from not rutting yourself against his hand when the base of his palm presses flat to your swollen nerves.

“Fuck, Frankie—”

“Do you like it when I talk, baby?” his voice becomes an anchor. Keeping you here, not allowing you to float too far as you nod, crinkled pillows sounding as you do. “I think you do. I think you like hearing how hard you make me, how much I think about you in this bedroom, in the shower—at work—“

You’re arching. Barely clinging to the present as your feet flatten to root you, to grip to reality as your ears ring and pleasure does more thrum, but builds and builds—all compressing, hot, closer to liquid fire.

“—look at me, baby.”

And you do.

Lids flipping open as you’re met with nothing but desire, lust and need. It pushes you, suddenly freefalling. Your throat aching, scratched with the syllables of his name as you dig fingers into his curls and curl your body as much against him as possible as he works you through it. Him coaxing, mouth on your collarbone as he licks and lathes as you moan, and pant.

It’s then you look at him again.

Bathed in a sandy glow, sweat peppered on his chest, glinting and glittering as you find his eyes on you, taking you in as you catch your breath.

He’s so handsome, beautiful. In a way that ruined you before, that made you think of nothing but him, which now devastates you—in a way you only want him to do over and over.

It’s easier to kiss him than say it.

To trace the words over his mouth as he hums, as the vibration tickles across your lips before you’re manoeuvring him. Only paused in doing so as he dragged his lips down your neck, the sound of a drawer opening, closing, hearing a wrapper crinkle.

It’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment when your hand snatches it from him, placing it between your teeth, trying as they do so easily in movies to lightly rip it over with your teeth. You struggle. Suddenly nervous about piercing it, mind in overdrive because what—

"Easy, baby. I've got it," he growls into your ear, taking it from you, opening it more with ease than you'd managed.

And it makes you crash your mouth back to his. Etching more things to his mouth, smudging them over his tongue. How much you want this, want him.

It’s why you’re grateful that Frankie moves with ease until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. A hand finds a home on your back, once the empty wrapper is discarded, fingers spreading out, flowing warmth into your bones. Then the other begins aiding, lining himself up as the head presses against your opening.

When you take as much of him as you can, fingers soothing your hip at the stretch, the hiss drawn from your lips at the light sting, before your forehead meets his. It's a moment before you move again. His words are there, guiding, before the room is flooded with a moan that's unearthed from your soul. One that is almost smothered in his own, a groan that makes heat flood your ears and a smile grace your mouth.

“So good for me, feel so good—“

“Can take more,” you interrupt, breathless. Slowly moving again, lifting up before sliding back down his cock—walls welcoming him, stretching, taking him to the hilt. “Y’feel good, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you roll your hips slowly, torturously if anything. Still sensitive. Little gasps escape as you begin to find a rhythm, one that makes his teeth bite down on his lip.

Taking his hand, pulling it to your breast, wrapping around it as he cups it—as his groan stains the air between the two of you—you draw an O with your hips, feel that heat in your stomach.

“I like your hands, Frankie.”

A line appears, deep between his two brows. A look of shock, surprise—awe—spreads over his face like a sunny day suddenly appearing in a storm. Before, it’s slipping away, hiding, wriggling away to some depth of him you wish to call back.

“I like your voice, your smile—fuck, oh my god—and-and I like your thighs, and your…”

You continue, babbling, rambling as his hands find your hips, steadying, moving you, thrusting up into you as little spots appear in your vision, as your own voice becomes distant and easily forgettable.

But the look on his face is anything but the latter.

He’s spellbound, utterly captivated—appearing as though if his mind was a camera, he’d have filled up several memory cards with what he was trying to capture.

And it feels good.

A wanting so bad that it almost makes you snap there and then, more so as the head of his cock kisses that part of you once again, a whine coated in both a gasp and a moan—

“Put your hands on the headboard, baby.”

And you do, assisted by him moving you with him sheathed inside of you before palm after palm is placed. The fabric underneath is soft, almost like velvet—leaving marks of your touch behind in its wake as you feel his mouth on the underside of your breast.

“You look good like this,” he continues, mouth pressing kisses to your skin, “But then, you always do.”

Your eyes snap to his, finding nothing but hunger paddling in brown. You don't fight the heat that flares out to the last few places pleasure hasn’t touched. Where only compliments and adoration can kiss and warm.

Then he says your name.

Not baby, not Rainy, but the one you’d handed him in that paint aisle and set yourself on a course for unravelling. A thing you don’t regret, but rather wish had happened sooner.

Your name rasped in that deep way that echoes through the room long after the last letter is spoken, digging deep into your soul as it unlocks something. It makes every sound amplified; the rustle of sheets, the creak of the bed, the sound of skin meeting skin.

“Let me hear you, baby,” cuts through, slicing,

And you do.

Your whine shifts into a sob, almost choking on it as it snaps—as pleasure rips through you and drowns you in waves. There’s nothing but white, a much louder ringer, and the distant knowledge that you’re spraying his name across the room as your hips stutter and he thrusts up into you, twitching, fucking breathless from it.

His hands, large and holding tight, keep you rooted—slowly hearing him groaning, grunting, low hisses of your name and how good you feel tight around his cock.

His fingers dig into your skin when he follows you. When his eyes clench, and his mouth parts around your name, lighting it up, making it seem as special as he makes you feel.

You collapse fully against him, thighs still shaking, little tremors in your muscles as your fingers brush back his damp curls from his forehead. A smile easy to find, to let slide over your mouth as you kiss him.

The light from the lamp drapes over you—still sticky, a mess between your thighs as you kiss him again, bodies flush. More gentle, a light lick across his bottom lip as you feel him grin, hands roaming over your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your back

He murmurs your name, palm sliding up your cheek, tip of his nose brushing against yours. “Should clean you up.”

“Hmm…”

His thumb swipes, hearing him swallow as your eyes open and find his already on you. “Don’t go.”

"To clean up?"

"Tonight."

Biting your lip, you try to fight it—less a smile and more a grin. “Okay. I won’t.”

And his lips capture yours once more. A thing you relax into—easily. Just like you keep finding so effortless to do with him.

next chapter ->

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undercoverpena · 1 month

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7. honey cream

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself

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

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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undercoverpena · 1 month

Text

6. morning coffee

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter six of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.5k 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. an: if this was a sitcom episode, it would be called 'the morning after'

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

It’s hard not to smile when you open your eyes.

More so when you feel his breath on your neck, the scent of body wash you quickly remember him rubbing into your skin—the arm currently draped over your waist. The one keeping you firmly close, as though you would ever wish to be anywhere but here.

Seen, wanted and appreciated—even when he’s not entirely conscious.

The only reason you even contemplate moving from this—and the only real reason you’re awake—is that you’re desperate for the bathroom. It worsens the longer you lie there, thinking of it, the pressure on it from his forearm.

A quick glance at the clock on his bedside table tells you it’s far too early to disturb him. To wake him with a kiss and a whisper that you’ll be right back—especially when you think back to how late it was before the two of you finally whispered that you should sleep.

Even if you hadn’t wanted to.

Wanting instead to keep feeling his knuckles drag up and down your outer thigh and knee. The husk of his voice saying he should really flick the light off, even if he didn’t, instead letting you ask his favourite colour and him answering with a handful of shades you’d never remember.

Pick one, Francisco.

Mmm, not sure I can do that, baby. Too hard of a question.

Too hard to pick one thing?

Not when it’s the right thing.

Glancing over at him, fingers close to his, you swim for a moment in the memories of last night—the ache between your thighs a souvenir you can keep with you until it fades. Admiring the length of his lashes against his cheek, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips that you wish to kiss forever, as a thought—one strong and beating inside of you like your own heart—comes to you:

You don’t wish to trade this. Any of it.

Not just last night, but all of it—all of him.

But, you have to move. Even if your heart pleads with you not—eventually only doing so when your bladder twinges again in protest.

You find, slipping out from under his arm (all cautiously and carefully) is easy, until you glance back at his sleeping frame.

A calmness to him, a peacefulness. Chest and shoulder rising, face tilted ever so slightly into the plump pillow. It makes a pang of want thrum through you, one that doesn’t fade when you tiptoe back to the room and find him in a similar position.

Leaning on the wall, the one between his bedroom and en-suite, you flick your eyes to the half-open door. Spotting his bathrobe, fluffy and dark grey—flecks of white stitched in. Your throat suddenly scratchy, dry. Your body desperate for what usually fuels it when you’re up and about.

And you know you have to decide. Choose between attempting to slide back into bed or searching cupboards for coffee—both for you and him.

But you can’t stand there. Able to bet money that if he opened his eyes and found you staring, he’d one hundred per cent find it creepy.

You move when he sighs—further rolling into the space you had been moments ago. Smirking, you move, the decision made as you unhook the rope. Slowly sliding your arms into it until it’s draped over you and you’re welcomed by it: his scent.

That familiar one. The one which smells like pine cones, cedar wood and so much more. The one which had seeped into your clothes that first kiss close to your car.

And, thankfully, it only gets more intense as you step out into the hallway.

Brushing your hand over shelves as you pass, eyes lingering over the titles of books—ones about woodwork, decor and home. Fingers tracing the spines of them as you take in the photographs littered around.

Some are adorned with Luca, varying ages spanned across shelves. A tooth missing here, a gummy smile there. Some you assume are his family, and then a group of men, shirts off and standing in the middle of a dune—grinning, Frankie’s hair far shorter than it is now.

But, as you stare across his living area, you spot all the things you missed last night. The record player and the vinyls tucked on a higher shelf, placed beside crayon artwork framed in dark wood. There are mini-Lego figures in prime places, with wicker baskets containing multicoloured blocks and toys.

Then, there’s the closet near the kitchen you can’t remember from your tour—making a note to question him on later—before finally arriving at his kitchen.

And, fuck is it beautiful.

It’s all dimly lit by the early morning light flitting through the windows. Quiet, peaceful—save for the humming of the refrigerator and the distant chirping of birds outside. Like much of the place, the cupboards are dark, starkly contrasted by white-wash walls and pinned drawings on the fridge.

Centre-stage, and the thing you’re seeking, is his coffee machine. A sleek silver contraption that looks more complicated than you're used to. Shiny, remarkably clean.

Yet, you're determined.

Remembering his mention about his love of coffee and his preference for Cafe Bustelo. Trying to remember the rest, whether it was black drip, milk or no milk. Stroking a finger down the milk frother as you begin to piece it all together from fragments, hints he had dropped unknowingly.

Up until this point, you had found it difficult to find one thing about Frankie you didn’t like. Then you saw his kitchen layout.

Cupboard, after cupboard opened until you found the bright yellow bag. The smoky, rich smell wafting out as you tugged it close, all strong and inviting—it hooked a finger under your chin and coaxed you to spend several minutes fumbling with the machine.

Then, you hear the satisfying gurgle of brewing coffee.

Resisting the urge to break into a spontaneous dance, you opt instead to steal a momentary glance out the window. The world is stirring, its early morning canvas painted in delicate strokes of pink and orange, a serene backdrop as your gaze falls upon the garden. the worn slide of the wooden climbing frame, its sides adorned in an array of mismatched hues and haphazard brushstrokes. Your eyes begin tracing the trail of tiny handprints ascending one side, the lowest the smallest, increasing in size until halfway up. Then, at the top, larger prints that, just hours ago, you imagine were pressed against your own skin.

As a breeze blows through it, it swings multi-colour bulbs hanging, draped and swinging above. Letting your eyes sweep over the plants—the planters likely made by him, like you imagine much of the furniture outside is—suddenly spotting little figures buried into random bits of soil.

And it makes you smile, grin—full on fucking beam.

Only letting it flicker when you’re stirred by the beep of the coffee machine, pulls you from your reverie. Fingers returning to opening cupboards, seeking mugs, almost grumbling to yourself when you feel hands on your waist.

Ones that feel right, purposeful.

“Morning.”

It’s gravelly, coated in the morning—slowly closing the door before moving back into him, your back flush to his chest.

“Good morning, Butterscotch.”

Feeling him sigh, chin resting on your shoulder, you raise your fingers to brush against his cheek.

“You trying to bring me coffee in bed?”

Turning, you rotate in his arms. Eyes briefly catching the sight of him half-naked. Before taking a full on glance to spot him in a pair of sweats, ones that sit low on his hips. One of his hands crosses over the expanse of his waist, fingers scratching at his soft stomach while you look up to see his hair all at odd angles—curls slightly frizzed from being over-toyed and ragged.

“Well, I was trying too, but...”

“Machine confuse you?”

Narrowing your eyes, his hands coming around you, you smirk. “I will not confirm or deny.”

Running his hand across his chin, he looks over you before his lips twitch. “It was a gift—the machine.”

“From you to you?”

You watch as he sticks his tongue in his cheek, poking you lightly in your side. “The coffee place near work—it was being refurbed, I offered some thoughts as I was in there all the time, so they gave it to me.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

“Do you use all of its features?”

Swallowing, he sighs. “No.”

Sliding your fingers along his jaw, nose practically touching his, you find yourself unable to break his eyes. To not want to remain pressed against the counter in his kitchen, stood barefoot in his bathrobe, coffee scents filling the air.

“I bet you know exactly how to take it apart and put it back together.”

“Baby…”

“Bet you descale it regularly, when you’re supposed to.”

Groaning at the feel of your fingers in his hair, he buries his face into your neck. “Is that making you hot for me?”

“Oddly, yes.”

Snorting against your skin, he slowly lets out a slow exhale. “I hate that I have to open the shop.”

“What would your plans be if you didn’t have to?”

Smirking, he groans—low, barely reaching the surface, but it vibrates through you all the same. “I would for one have convinced you the bedroom was far more comfortable.”

“Hmm, tempting.”

Laughing, he pecks your lips, not moving from his place in front of you, even if his head moves back. “I like that you smell like me.”

“Territorial, noted.”

Turning, he points to the mugs, as you begin pouring the coffee—handing him one as his fingers brush yours.

“I just… I liked that you stayed.”

“Stayed or showered with you and let you see where soap suds go?”

Tilting his chin down, his eyes burn into your soul—all wide, brown, desperate to swallow you whole. “If I remember right, you were also seeing where soap suds go.”

Shrugging, you smirk against the mug, noting his finger resting on the knot of the belt—the one protecting your modesty. “Well, it would be rude to not watch the show.”

“A show? Glad I put on my best moves then,” he replies, voice all low, a hand coming to rest on the counter beside you.

You find it hard not to let your mouth become slack, breath hitching at the act.

“Glad it persuaded you to stay?”

Raising an eyebrow, you try to find something smart to say. Ticking. Whirring away. But then you see it.

Ever-present, hanging there—that worry in his eye. A look which half-pleads for you to pinch him and let him know it’s real. A thing you do as you clutch your coffee in one hand, avoid melting at his words and cup his cheek with the other.

The fabric of his robe-sleeve slides down and his breath flutters warmth against your wrist.

“You didn’t need to persuade me. I wanted to wake up in your arms…”

It’s smooth, the way one of his fingers undo the belt, body coming close as you place the mug down and feel his hands, all rough and worn, sliding over your hips. He's cautious to ensure his chest covers yours, as though attempting to keep you warm, concealed.

“—Plus, I really wanted to try your coffee. But, now I want to steal your coffee and bathrobe.”

His laughter trickles out and draws out against you. Frankie’s head shaking, wearing a large smile on his lips, “Well, I think I can come to some arrangement to let you.”

Sucking in a breath, finding his eyes locked on yours, you lean forward and kiss him. Gentle. Delicate. An assurance delivered softly as the coffee aroma continues to seep into your nose.

“I need to make you breakfast,” he whispers, mouth open, breathing the same air.

“Need, want or should?”

With a soft scoff, he leans in to capture your lips once more, whispering all three against you as his hand finds its way to the curve of your neck. Delicately tracing his fingertips over your jawline with a tantalising caress, you find yourself deepening the kiss, hungry for more. His grip on you tightens as you pull him closer, until there is no space left between you both. None that you want to be there. Desperate to be close, to have, to—

“‘m gonna make your breakfast now,” he says, voice close, pecking against your lips before his hands slide from your skin.

The loss is evident. Immediately missed.

Part of you longs to reach out, to draw him back until you feel him clutching the fabric together for you—a slightly lifted brow as you fumble for the belt, and he begins to pull things onto the counter.

Then, you watch him—tying his robe closed—half-in-awe of the meticulous way he moves around his space, grabbing things like he’s been thinking of what to make while you were busy rendered useless.

Eyes fixed on him so much, you see him pause—briefly. His gaze lingers on the coffee pot, glancing back, forcing you to laugh—a shake of your head.

"Thinking about how you’re going to miss this brilliant coffee, you know, since it’s mine now?" You quip, taking another sip of your coffee.

He turns, a pretend wounded expression on his face.

“I should confess that I’m not a nice person without my coffee," he replies, the twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement.

With a smile gracing your lips, you ease back against his countertop, enjoying the comforting warmth of both the freshly brewed coffee and his presence.

The sunlight continues to filter in gently, casting a soft and golden glow across the room as you pause to drink in the sight before you. Him, cooking you breakfast.

A thing you thought you could have only thought up weeks ago. His curls tousled, a charming mess.

"Selfishly then, I'll let you keep the coffee," you finally concede.

Nodding, he closes his eyes in gratitude before there’s a twitch of his lips. “Because you like me?”

“Because I really like this bathrobe—the robe is a non-negotiable."

He laughs again, shaking his head in defeat. "Fair enough, it's a deal."

“Because I look so good in it?”

“Well," he says, scratching the back of his head. “I think you look good in everything.”

Harry okay?

Yeah, he rocked up ten minutes after you drove off, was able to pick Luca up at normal time.

That’s great! Did you boys have fun?

We did. He’s really into dinosaurs at the moment so I found this craft we could do where we make dinosaurs out of paper plates.

I like making things with him, plus it’s a nice gift for his mom when I drop him off tomorrow.

So handy and crafty?

Very crafty.

And very good with your hands.

You flirt.

You had a nice day?

I got some work done which I needed to get started, and I did some yoga.

Putting all sorts of images in my head.

Says you, talking about being crafty.

Bed feels weird without you here.

Imprinted on it that quickly?

Yeah. You’re the only one that’s been in it except me, and obviously Luca.

Shut up. I cannot be.

You are.

I don’t bring people back to my house.

Ever?

Never.

Never—

You don’t think.

Not of the time. That he could be tired. Or that his son is asleep in the next room.

Fingers sliding across the screen, finding his contact, and clicking. It's pressed to your ear before you consider whether this is a bad idea. Clutching it, holding it like a lifeline, knowing it's too late. Even if you end it, he'd know, see—

It barely rings.

Two at most, one and a half being a possibility.

And you sigh.

“Fancy hearing from you.”

Pulling your knees up, your bed groans at the sudden movement as you tug the duvet closer to your chin, cheeks rising with your lips. “You’ve really not had someone in your bed?”

It’s there, the sigh. Not full of annoyance, but more like he’s said too much.

“No… I’ve not had anyone else in it but you,” he admits quietly into the phone.

“Wow.”

“And Luca, of course. I always… you sure you want to hear this?”

There’s a softness in his voice that makes your heart flutter in your chest. An unexpected stroke of warmth through you at his question, at his consideration—prompting you to hug the duvet closer to yourself. A subtle smile dances across your lips as you let it wash over you.

“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me.”

Clearing his throat, you hear rustling, trying to half imagine if he’s turning over in bed, if he’s getting more comfortable—

“If I met someone, I didn’t… I only went to theirs.”

Biting your lip, you shift in your seated position, crossing your legs. “So, lunch and then theirs?”

“No lunch.”

“Coffee?”

Silence. Thick, ear-eroding silence. Before he breathes. “It would be a one-night thing and I wouldn’t stay.”

Oh. Your hand slides around your knee, trying not to grin too much. It's all far too easy to get ahead of yourself, to think too much. To run away and begin thinking this means more than it does. But, then—

“So, I’m…”

“Yeah.”

There’s more you want to ask, them sitting there, burning a hole in your tongue. Practically desperate to erode it, possibly poison it all—as questions sometimes do.

“And here I was thinking I was just another notch on your bedpost,” you tease, trying to keep your voice light, sweet.

He laughs then, a sound that makes you wish you were there with him, instead of miles apart in your own cold bed. “Not at all, baby.”

Toes twitching in your bed, you let out a breath. Sliding your legs out straight, slowly folding yourself down to the mattress, lying on one side as you hold the phone.

And you confess your own.

The reason you’re single, the reason you bought a house.

It rolls and falls, slipping with far too much ease into the air from your mouth. A burden-shifting, a weight from your shoulders lessening. The admission undoing the tightness around your chest as you continue to let the past be told in the present.

You don’t cry. Don’t even feel yourself well up. An improvement, a shift and change in you that you’re sure is brought on entirely by Frankie. On occasion, you hear movement from his side and the briefest whisper of your name. Not in pity—never in pity—just in understanding, in comfort.

“So, I’m the first—“

“Yes, Morales. You’re the first person to ask me out in a long time, big deal.”

“It feels like a big deal.”

Smirking, you twitch your toes. “In a few more dates I might confess that it is.”

“But not right now?”

Grinning, you bite your lip. “Feels like it would inflate your head, Francisco.”

More rustling comes down the phone before you hear a deep sigh. “Maybe. Are you in bed?”

“I am.”

You stare at the dark ceiling of your bedroom, a smile slowly spreading across your face.

“Is it weird to admit I miss you?”

“Not if it’s weird if I say I miss you too.”

You swear you hear him smile. That soft exhale he does dusts over your ear as he breathes your name, before adding, “I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

A comfortable silence flows out, spreading as you listen to him breathe.

“Want me to tell you my favourite dinosaur?”

You don't fight the laughter that rings out around your bedroom

Sunday tiptoes in with the slightest spring in its step.

With a gentle stretch, you reach for the familiar weight of your phone, heart already skipping ahead of your groggy mind.

There's a flutter of excitement, it mixing with a hint of nerves as you wonder if he's reached out yet. Because it's silly to be excited at the idea that he has, to be giddy at the thought of him thinking of you in this quiet morning hour.

It feels almost teenage-like.

But when your screen lights up you don't care what it is, because there’s little point fighting the grin. The pure eclipsing smile that smothers tiredness and makes your cheeks hurt instantly.

Enjoying my morning coffee feels different without a robe-wearing thief.

Rolling onto your front, the duvet sliding down your back, you dig your elbows into the mattress and run your tongue across your teeth.

Good morning to you too. If there’s coffee left, expect me in half an hour. Unless you fancy getting some with me?

Even if it feels like minutes, his reply arrives in seconds.

Instantly illuminating your phone against the backdrop of your pillow, prompting an involuntary smile to grace your lips.

Always. But I’m thinking brunch might be better?

Grinning, you fight a giggle. Teeth biting down on your lip as your thumbs type at record speed.

Can’t wear the bathrobe there. No, not really. But, I’ll keep it safe, don’t worry. Promise? Pinky promise. Brunch it is. I'll pick you up.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

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undercoverpena · 4 days

Text

10. cranberry cocktail

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter ten of do me yourself

wordcount: 3k chapter warnings: SMUT. 18+. jo's bad use and knowledge of DIY. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is called jo made herself horny. see author note at the end.

prev chapter | series masterlist

It’s difficult not to smile as you approach.

His voice, mid-singing—almost competing with the radio that lingers under his voice—had been travelling out as you walked up to the building. Louder when you pulled open the door, sliding the sunglasses from your face.

A few blinks and your eyes capture his, singing dying out, leaving the original artist blaring around in the background.

Still, you're unable to stifle the smile. Not as you walk closer or as he puts down the tool in hand; least of all when you realise he's looking only half as abashed as you would be if he caught you mid-rendition, watching him dial down the volume on the radio as the door closes behind you.

Frankie had shown you this place once before. Your voice, light, teasing, hand in his: “You’re showing me where the magic happens?”

“I’ve shown you where that happens.”

“Not that magic—or, well, I hope you’re not about to tell me there are even more videos on a different site I need to watch. I’ve been forced to rewatch things lately.”

He’d explained, with a soft smile and a twinkle in his eye, how he’d turned the garage into a workshop. The hours, the pieces he’d started with and the things he’s managed to build, find or bargain for along the way. Even lingered his thumb over the height chart for Luca, the one he told you he began when he first bought the run-down house he made a home.

It was impressive then, but you hadn’t appreciated it as much as you do stepping in today.

You'd been too busy then, watching, studying him. Spotting the way he trailed his thumb across his bottom lip, eyes widening as they tried to smile before his lips as he pointed out highlights he knew you’d have seen from certain videos you’d mentioned.

Now, it's all lit by soft, mid-morning sunlight, looking homely, loved, worn in and appreciated—everything you’d expect from him.

Even if things are out, such as plasterboard and wood leaning against odd edges, everything else has a place. Just like the scent that wanders around and flows as if there’s a constant candle burning, one which includes notes of freshly applied paint, the essence of sawdust and leather. A blended aroma that subtlety clings to his clothes—and then lingers inside your own. A thing which brings comfort, until it seeps in sadness upon the realisation that it's faded from a sweater, bedsheets or your throw after a few days of not seeing him in person.

"Hi, handsome."

He grins, a hello escaping out as his knuckle tips your chin up, your smile back presses to his mouth. Tasting his lips, how they’re tinged with coffee. Frankie planting it more intently as your hands find their way around his waist, heightening it, fingers grasping your cheek.

You swear you could kiss him forever. A thought you know you have continuously, almost every time his mouth finds yours. But you mean it.

Completely. Utterly.

Your palms sliding around, fingers brushing over dry, hard paint specks buried into the soft, beloved cotton of his tee.

“So,” you say when you pull away, teeth biting your lip—finding yourself staring at him, as though his face alone answers everything.

In some ways, you're adamant it does. In others, you know it will.

A feeling that thrums more and more intensely as weeks rack up into months, as your heart flutters in your chest when his eyes hold yours for a second longer than normal.

“What has prompted this little requested visit?”

Grinning, he traces his thumb along your jaw. “Thought you could drill some holes—for your cupboards?”

Smirking, dragging your tongue in a sweeping motion across your lip, you tap your fingers on his waist. “Drill, ay? I didn’t… exactly come dressed to be in your workshop.”

“Wait,” he says, eyes widening, mouth pulled into a line as he brushes his fingers down the fabric of your summer dress that rests along your collarbone. “This isn’t an everyday DIY outfit?”

Grinning, you nudge into him, head shaking—hand grasping a handful of his tee. “No.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice dropping, charm encasing each letter as his hands find a home on your hips, “I’ll make sure you don’t get messy.”

A soft laugh escapes you, feeling the way his thumb continues its gentle circling on your cheekbone.

“You on cleanup duty, then?” you reply, the words muffled against his lips. He hums in response, a sound of agreement that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine.

Without pulling away, he gently guides you towards the bench—hands on your side as his chin rests on your shoulder.

One glance at him, and he offers you a comforting smile. Before it comes over him, that voice—the one from the videos. All lightly, but sternly instructing you. Talking you through the steps, before he tells you to pick up the black and orange drill from in front of you.

A lick of warmth slides up your spine, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you press closer to him, your body beginning to buzz from the way he’s pressed against you—his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your waist.

“We’re going to begin with drilling the holes for the handles.”

Rolling your lips, you rest your head against his. “Okay.”

“What you’re gonna do is lightly ease the drill in.”

“Is that so?”

Clearing his throat, you swear you hear your name, it followed quickly by a “Stop.”

“Stop what, Frankie?”

It’s a grunt. A thing buried in his throat before he takes a measured sigh. His hand rises, gripping the top of the power tool before lining the drill bit with the marked wood.

“Being a tease—now, lightly pull the trigger.”

Blanking your face, staring at him with confusion. “So, push it in and out?”

You watch it hit him—slowly. It washes over him in a few blinks, your hips wiggling against his before he groans again. “You’re killing me.”

“I’m very innocent, Morales.”

“Mierda. You’re the opposite of innocent. And no, it’s straight down. Not in and out—we’re not… we’re not fucking it.”

Giggling, you bite the inside of your cheek, adjusting your stance as you swear his groin pushes into your ass on purpose. Finding a way to mumble an okay, you shift your shoulders in preparation. Asking, finger hovering over the trigger of the drill, if you squeeze it lightly as you feel him nod.

Swallowing, you give it a test. A little click. Hearing it, before you see thin crinkles of wood coming away from the pressure.

“Like that?”

Somehow, all beyond you, you manage to keep your voice steady. It all unwilling to tremble—even though his breath is dancing over your neck. Even though his hold on your hip is tightening.

Then there’s the heat pulsating through your dress—the warmth settling into your bones, skin and muscle from his touch. Your body remembering, recalling—able to know just from his presence what he can do, what he has done, how he can unravel you and make you become a mess all from his fingers, mouth and—

“Bit more pressure this time, baby.”

“You can’t say that.”

Snorting, the air dances over your skin as you swear you feel him smirk. “Oh, Rainy. I can.”

You swear his voice drops an octave.

Sweeping the words over you, making your body tense, muscles twisting in on themselves as you try to focus on the drill in your hand. Stare down at the piece of wood he’s set up for you until it’s a blur. Nodding. Finger over the button, knowing you just need to squeeze—

Perfect, he whispers.

And fuck it makes your thighs press together. Makes something rumble inside of you at the same time as the drill fires to life.

The noise is all loud, alarming—deafening. A hole deepening in the wood.

“That's it, just like that. Perfecto, hermosa.”

Even with how loud it is, you can only hear him.

How he layers so much emphasis on the P, the letter is still skating over your skin by the time the rest that follows it has left his tongue.

You can only swallow. Remaining aware, and yet focused in, on how his hand slides down, fingers teasing the end of your dress—a quickly thrown-on thing, an easy option that meant you could arrive here sooner.

“You’re perfect,” he says, kissing it against your neck as his hand slides under your dress, palm flat to your thigh, dragging it up, and up.

Some part of you, all distant, feels him take the drill, hears a click, before it’s out of sight, out of fucking mind.

Then it’s just thick fingers you focus on, how they slide, rub, torture over your underwear—feeling like minutes, hours, days before he manoeuvres. Before he’s forcing elastic to cut into your skin, before you feel him trace along the places you need him desperately.

“Frankie…”

He drags his nose against the side of your face, feeling the exhale flutter against your jaw before he makes you gasp before it grows into a shameless whine.

“This not what you wanted?”

Swallowing, your eyelids quiver. Some part of you, a present part of you that isn’t lost in the way he’s stroking up and down your slick folds, occasionally catching your clit, that he isn’t going to let you come like this.

Even if he's told you he likes the way you sound, has confessed that he likes watching you unravel; his favourite pastime, his favourite movie and soundtrack.

“Need to hear you, Rainy?”

“Want you,” you pant, breathless.

He fans hot breath on your skin. “Want me to fuck you here, baby? On my bench. Hmm?”

You’re fluttering, desperately to squeeze him—fingers or cock, you’re not in a frame of mind to be fussy.

Mind changing, singing, practically bellowing: please, please, fucking, please. Body thrumming, vibrating, legs desperate to shake—if not for the fact they’re keeping you upright. Your fingers find a place on his bench, digging, barely making a mark against the rest on his workbench. But it’s stable, rigid.

“Tell me, baby,” he says, softer, dripping it into your ear like honey—all encased in air that seeps inside of you and makes you forced to chase his lips.

It’s against them you say please. Kissing a y, an e and a s against his mouth, licking past his teeth, hips rocking into his fingers as he circles and circles and circles—

Then, nothing.

Retraction, emptiness. A desperate whine emerges, rising from the back of your throat until it fuses with the air.

An explanation almost demanded, but his belt buckle undoing silences you. His clothed cock presses against you, feeling how hard he is, the size of him making you clench your thighs as cool air kisses the back of your legs when he grabs a fist full of your dress.

“Gonna get rid of these.”

It’s deft, his finger—hooking in the band of your panties as he drags the soaked fabric down your thighs, letting it fall the rest of the way as the fabric finds a home around your ankles. For a moment they just remain there, not entirely confident you can step out of them until he holds you steady, talks you through it:

One foot, then the other. That's it, baby.

Because your body is on auto-pilot, doing things for you, for him. Like parting your thighs as his hand rests on your back as he softly urges you down. Your forearms find the bench, hingeing at the waist, lying your chest flat on his bench, sawdust filling your nose and stitching itself into the upper part of your dress as you turn your head, flakes sticking to your cheek.

And for a moment, an expanse of time, you forget how to breathe, how to be, where you are as you stare at him.

This man, this person who one day you didn’t know and the next you did—is now yours, all yours. Mine, he’d said in bedsheets after the conversation in the kitchen. Like that you’re mine, Rainy. A man you trust, like, lov—

Frankie, who is all handsome, broad and fucking kind, is now looking at you as if you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to devour in his life. Do it, you silently plead, beg, metaphorically getting on your knees as he washes you in almond-brown eyes.

He’s a sight you couldn’t have ever made up, least of all this one. Fingers, thick—one wrapped in a bandaid—pulling down on the brim of his hat, hiding his eyes, casting half of him in a shadow that makes you almost moan. There’s just the tip of his nose, just his mouth on show, lips spread and curled into a smirk as he lines his cock at your entrance.

You sure? He asks, fingers brushing over your hip, keeping the fabric back, as you smile, nod, and whisper for him to make you feel good before he eases the head of his cock in. It's then your mouth parts around a silent cry of his name, pussy welcoming each inch of him, opening, as you let him slide all he wants to give.

“Know you can take me,” he hushes, “I’m good at measurements, calculations—“

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, you like that.”

Whining his name, he smirks. Because both the feel of him and the act is something you couldn’t have ever concocted. Fuck, a year ago you wouldn’t believe the person you are either. Not this confident being almost laid down on his workbench, feeling this good, this attractive, all bold—asking for this, for what you want. No flicker of shyness or nervousness.

Then there’s him. A sight your mind is struggling to process. Frankie with his teeth glistening with spit as he stares down at you, as he sweeps that burning gaze over you and grunts at the feel of you. One hand, large, slightly calloused, finding meaning on your waist, the other holding your dress up your spine, pressing down, light, but firm—don’t move, baby, stay still.

As if you ever would.

The stretch is welcomed, a dull ache answered, all buried to the hilt. Remaining there, still.

“Move, please—fuck, Frankie, I beg of you.”

He chuckles. A low laugh.

But he does, pulling out before driving back in, making your vision swim, blur. It all overwhelming. Both the sensation and everything else—scents, sounds and touch. His hips slowly moving, his belt buckle clanging and it’s easier to find yourself draped over the bench, cheeks on the wood, inhaling it—the scent that lives in his clothes, in his fingers and aura.

Frankie, just Frankie. Your Frankie—

“So g—fuck—good for me.”

Your fingers dig, grasp—his cock kissing that spot inside of you that forces your toes to curl in your shoes, your mouth managing half of his name before it fades to a moan. All breathy, doused in whimpers and yes’s falling in a verse that leads to a chorus.

“Feel so—oh, good, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Perfect. Feel perfect.”

He moans—low, tinged in a grunt, a hiss, your name etched somewhere in the sound—as he pulls almost all the way out, drawn out, an emptiness beginning to register before he thrusts in. Somehow deeper, somehow filling you more perfectly as you squeeze your grip on the bench.

And you’re close, all light and boneless—but heavy and alive, so alive you feel like fire courses in your veins and you could become more flame than a person.

“Come for me, baby. Right on my bench—fuck, you feel good, so tight—need y’to come. Right here.”

And it crashes against you, all of it. Suddenly unable to smell a thing, hear a thing—you just feel. Feel the sensation of just him and the tip of him hitting that spot which makes you arch as pleasure, all blinding and molten lava rushes through your blood, and flows into your muscles.

All numb and yet tingly.

It takes a moment, but your senses come back one by one, panting, breathless—muscles tired and depleted—as you feel his hips stuttering, the strained noises from behind forcing your eyes open.

He’s a picture, a work of art—a statue that should be carved by someone with talent. Sun streaks in and basks him in a golden hue, illuminating that heart patch on his jaw—the way his tongue is pinned between pearly white teeth, and the vein in his neck throbs angrily as he reaches his own climax.

You clench, aware of it, ogling and admiring pushing him over the edge as he curses, tensing, rigid, pace lost as he spills inside of you, happily taking it all, wishing to wring him dry and ensure he’s empty. Greedy, desperate and fucking needy.

Before his body finds refuge on top of yours, heart hammering against your spine—hat falling, tumbling off onto the floor as the two of you catch your breaths. His hand finds your cheek, stroking his thumb against it.

“Never… I’ve never done that before.”

Smiling, you gaze at him as best as you can. “I like how you drill,” you say, playfully, feeling his laugh rumble through him before he kisses your hairline.

It’s light—perfect.

Feeling the laugh bounce from bone to bone inside of you before he turns and eases you up, chest to chest, murmuring against your lips about a shower, about cleaning you up. And you keep smiling, even more so when he checks your chin and cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing over and over.

“You promised me I wouldn’t get messy.”

Thumb pausing on your cheek, he smirks. “I can clean you up, baby?”

Smirking, you shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “How are you planning on doing that?”

He tilts his head, before slowly grasping the bench, descending to his knees. Your mouth unable to stop itself from falling open, all wide, surprised as he presses a kiss to your knee.

“Might want to hold onto something, baby,” he says, writing it against your inner thigh. “Might take me a minute to make sure you’re all cleaned up.”

NEXT CHAPTER ->

an: while we still have some more chapters of these two, I've been experimenting with a few things and while it won't have any bearing on the main series, there will be some smutty-one-shots that can be read as and when, and if so people wish. they won't require reading of the series, but rather allow anyone to enjoy two people who are becoming comfortable with one another, exploring a few different things. i'm not sure on when the first will be out, but it won't replace normal uploads for them. but rather just be small little things i'd love to include but would feel shoe-horned into my plan. also if there's anything you'd love a bit more of, whether it's a bit more on rainy/frankie or their relationship, my inbox is always open. thank you for letting these pair into your heart.

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales smut #francisco morales smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #pedrostories #jo: dmy #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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undercoverpena · 2 months

Text

4. green smoke

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter four of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.7k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over IG. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used, you wear a date outfit but not specified and the shoes have heels but not mentioned what kind. minor discussion of past canon events incl. drugs. no use of y/n. an: if this as a friends episode this would be called "the one where they talk"

prev chapter | frankie's ig

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Friday soon arrives.

It comes hand-in-hand with a tumultuous storm, bringing with it ominous rumbles echoing through your house. The air feels charged with tension, wrung tight, all sense—as if it’s holding its breath while the world around seems to retreat into darkness. Even if the time on your laptop says 14:43.

Your gaze fixates on beads of rain running down the window, all racing one another—like you have been for several minutes. The steady patter provides a rhythmic backdrop to your solitude, interrupted only by the occasional sighs that escape your lips and the soft tapping of your pencil against the notebook—a feeble attempt at pretending you’re concentrating.

Pretend is the optimum word.

Merely putting on a show of focusing on the task at hand. In reality, your eyes keep flicking to your phone—the one lying silent on the counter, eagerly anticipating the next notification that’ll make it illuminate.

Your work, the one thankfully with a deadline of next week, continues to sit ignored—barely considered, never mind plotted. Because it isn’t what fills your mind.

It’s him.

Just thoughts of him—mind populated with vivid memories that refuse to fade, unable to stop lingering on the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles or his infectious laugh. The one which has dug itself a place into the walls of your home, lit it up.

Then, you think of his lips, the ones that are purposeful, all heavenly. The mere thought of them sends a shiver down your spine, a longing present, spreading—

Unloading a delivery and you’re falling on me.

It's difficult not to smile at his message.

Something he effortlessly elicits from you now. Has done so since the very beginning. A thing he continues to do so the more the two of you speak.

It's giddy, almost teenage-like, the way your heart scampers to catch itself as your fingers try to pretend they're not darting to reply.

Excuse me? Rain. Oh, that is such a dad joke. It was. I’m pretty proud of it. Bet it made you smile. I will not confirm or deny. So that means it did. Shut up.

Thumbs swirling over the screen, you roll your lips, toes twitching on the floor as you grin.

So, how big is the candle going to be in the middle of the table? Ummm, appropriately sized for a restaurant? Hmm, I have only gone on dates with inappropriately sized candles. Are you flirting with me when I’m at work? Are you saying that like you don’t flirt with me when I’m at work? In my defence, you choose your own hours. Do you mind me flirting with you? Not even a little bit. Good. Because guess what I’m wearing right now? Hopefully nothing. I’m wearing sweats and a baggy T-shirt. Still hot. Get back to work, Butterscotch.

You know it’s not long—a handful of hours until you’ll be across from him.

Likely with your smile hurting your cheeks, eyes unable to stand looking away from him for more than a few minutes. Unable to explain or rationalise how straightforward it is with him, how natural it feels to get swept up in all of this and find yourself wanting to be around him.

Something you try to put to the back of your mind, to not clock-watch, not count down. Doing well at it until you hear your phone buzz and see his name appear on your screen.

The laundry you're putting away ignored, the item dropped from your hand to the floor, before wiping your hands on your thighs, taking a measured breath, then lifting the phone to swipe it.

His voice fills your ear almost immediately. All hello and your name, a can you hear me? following.

And your heart skips a beat—missing a whole thud against your ribs as you stare at the outfit hanging on the closet door.

“I’m really sorry—“

And your heart falls. Descends gradually, like a feather freefalling. Doing so until it has nowhere else to go but sit in the hollow void. Disappointment beating, pulsating.

“—Harold… he had to leave early, his heart was playing up and he said he’d come back. But I can’t make him do that, wouldn’t be able to enjoy ourselves if he just—"

“—Frankie—“

“—And I’ve tried to move the reservation, rang the restaurant. But, they’re booked up and I really want to take you there—”

“—Frankie?”

You brush the fabric, the hanger holding on to the top of the door with sheer will as you do so between thumb and finger. Half-smiling—even still. Listening to the way he takes a breath, to the way he cares so much.

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, swallowing, shoving the dismay down. “I… promise.”

The voice you hear back is soft. So tinged with sadness, and regret, you half-want to call him Butterscotch just to make him laugh. “You sure?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you reassure him, comfort him—voice steady as you do so, "We can reschedule. It's not a problem."

A moment of silence follows, with a sense of letdown settling in the air like fog. It sits there, resting, hanging. Because even if you know it’s just a minor adjustment, a twinge of disappointment still seeps in. Not so much a sharp pang, but a lingering weight that makes your shoulders sag, as though everything had deflated like a balloon slowly losing air.

“Baby… I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, a smile making its way onto your face despite the circumstances. "There's always next time."

“Not drove you away then?” he half-laughs, one you imagine is a little forced.

“Not even a little bit.”

Sighing, you swear you hear him smile with it. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You grin, nothing but light and easy, “Just make sure next time you can show up, that’ll be a good start."

Frankie laughs, it flowing down your ear before it’s joined by a promise that he will and he can call you later, if you like? A thing which sounds like a good idea, even more so when it's followed by the fact he wishes he could stay—talk, but you know. Nodding to no one but yourself as you bid him goodbye, leaning against the wall—hanging up, full of bittersweet.

You let your head fall against it, rolling it there as your eyes flick back up at your clothes, lingering over it.

And an idea appears.

It grows—smothering over sadness before it blooms.

Then, you’re grinning. One almost as large as you do when he makes you giggle. Almost.

You’re thankful the sign still says open when you step out of your car—fingers tugging at fabric, ensuring it sits how it’s supposed to.

Even for a surprise, you wanted to look as picture-perfect as you should have been entering the restaurant. The paper bags catch your leg, noise crinkling against the air as you yank on the handle—entering, being washed in wood chippings, bleach and paint.

For a moment, one stuck between time and space, you look. Glance. Unsure where to find him, until your eyes land on him and find his head lifting at the sound of your entering.

Whatever Frankie had been in his hand dropped, all forgotten. His mouth parting at the sight of you. Taking you in. Sweeping brown, surprised eyes all over you as heat rises up your neck and brushes over your ears.

“I know I’m a little overdressed for buying a hammer, but…”

Mouth falling open, he looks torn between grinning and speaking. “What are you…”

Shrugging, watching his eyes roam up and down the outfit you’d chosen. The one that had been on the hanger for days—one you’d not thought could be replaced by anything else.

“Well,” you begin, smirking, “My date got caught up at work and I’d been really looking forward to seeing him.”

Frankie smiles, hand rubbing along his jaw as he stares.

“But then, someone told me there’s a secret restaurant here. One behind a metal door that says, Staff Only?”

Dropping his hand, and swiping his tongue across his lips—he slowly moves around the register. Coming to join you as you hold the bags up, the heels of your shoes clicking on the shop floor tiles as you meet him halfway.

“I also suspect that you might not have eaten, since you've been alone for most of the day.”

It’s at that moment his stomach roars. It grinds, what you assume is coffee, before groaning inside of him as he claps a hand on his apron.

“The only problem is,” you say, narrowing your eyes, scrunching your nose. “I… I didn’t know what you would like, so I might have bought a ridiculous amount of food.”

Taking a bag, his eyes widen when he opens it. “You’re staying, right? To help me?”

Reaching inside the bag he didn’t take, you pull out a single, battery-powered candle. “It’s a date.”

He gives you a wide smile, his eyes twinkling with happiness. "I just need to lock up," he says.

You watch with a flutter of excited nervousness as he moves around the store, flipping the sign on the door from 'Open' to 'Closed', and then securing the door. The lock clicks into place, echoing in the quiet store. He then proceeds to shut off the lights, plunging the store into a soft, inviting darkness lit only by the glow from the streetlights outside.

Turning back to you, he extends a hand.

"Shall we?" he asks, his voice filled with anticipation. You place your hand in his, feeling the warmth spreading through your fingers.

As you walk together towards the back of the store, a tinge of excitement flutters in the air. The 'Staff Only' sign looms above the door like a secret entrance to a place you shouldn't be, but with a gentle gesture, he ushers you inside.

You don't miss the way his fingers brush your lower back, the heat they ignite up your spine as his chest meets your back, face close to yours. Lingering, eyes sweeping over you.

"Lemme just..." he whispers, elongating it, before he bends to pull you a chair out—one with three wheels, no back—fingers sliding up to brush over your shoulders as you sit down.

“Careful.”

Swallowing, you suppress the effect he's having on you, forcing a smirk. “Oh, I’ll try, Morales. Don’t want you to have to fill out the accident book.”

“Harold would murder me.”

Snorting, you watch him join you—taking the candle from your hand, flicking it on and placing it directly in the middle before the two of you begin taking food out. He gazes at bundled packaged burgers, stealing a fry from the bag before it’s laid out over the desk.

“So, as it’s our third date.” His eyes flick to you, mid-bite of his food as you twirl a fry in your fingers. “I get to ask you challenging questions, right?”

“Fuck,” he says, under his breath. Grinning. “Alright, let me have it.”

Nudging him with the tip of your shoe he laughs. “Okay. You and Luca’s mom?”

“Ah.”

Grabbing a napkin, he wipes his mouth. “You don’t have to worry.”

“And as everyone in history knows, those words are how people stop worrying.”

Smirking, he turns on the wheely stool, facing you, knees abutting yours. “We haven’t been together since he was born—we… we weren’t even together by the time he reached six months. He… he doesn’t know any different. We have things we say, and truly, she’s a fantastic mom, we have a great co-parenting situation.”

“Okay.”

His fingers land on your knee, dancing over them, light and feathery as he sighs. Heavy. Weighted. It makes you swallow, makes you want to dig your fingers into your leg to stop yourself worrying, thinking—overdramatising whatever it is.

Scratching his head, he rolls his tongue from his cheek to the front of his teeth. “I wasn’t a good person then… a lot of shit had happened—I’d left the service, found myself… haunted, I guess? Me and her, we met, we… seemed good. She seemed good. And then, I…”

Your hand slides over his, one of your fries still in hand as you do. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.”

Nodding, he half smiles.

And then he does.

He tells you about his days in the army—and the sleepless nights when he was back home. The sense of loss he felt without it, the uniform that meant nothing when he joined a regular job. How flying helicopters for people with money who had no cares in the world began to make him hollow, carving a piece inside of him that didn’t fill with laughter at barbecues and trivia nights. He tells you how he’d rambled to someone about the lack of sleep, before he found a little white bag in his locker—an opportunity, a chance to not overthink.

That it had stayed there for days, almost a week until there had been news about someone he had once worked with.

Then he explained how it wasn’t a problem, but it also very much was. How he was lost, drowning—that people reached out, but the lights had been on, but no one was home. How it became a coping mechanism, a small dose to take the ache away—before he learnt he was going to be a dad. Her worries about him making her ignore the signs, much further on than they thought—and then, one month later, how he failed a drug test.

Trace amounts, barely anything, but still plenty.

His license, revoked—paused. His future dwindled, a baby due to arrive, one he’d heard the heartbeat off at the same time as he found himself at the threat of being alone. A second chance dangled, offered—do better, Frank. Don’t be selfish.

“—but, I didn’t change. Don’t change.”

Your heart falls, and descends.

Watching him shake his head, grabbing a handful of fries before stuffing them into his mouth as he chews, and you pick at one from your own box.

“Things were good—Luca, he had ten toes, ten fingers. He was great, happy. It made us being good seem real? But, it lingered, y’know? If work kept me later, there was this distrust, this question. And I couldn’t blame her, didn’t. Never would either. I broke that, I know I did. But…”

“It wasn’t healthy?”

Shrugging, he swallows, before nodding. “Then, I helped a friend, one from my squad. Had to… it was dangerous. I was gone longer than I said—and she worried, panicked. I knew before I left that when I got back I’d likely find my stuff packed—not that I blame her. I know we tried. But, I broke it. But now we’re better… better co-parents than partners, you know?”

Nodding, you chew, rolling the salt on your lips together. A beat passes, ice clanging in the drinks, cartons scratching against the table as the two of you eat.

“That was probably a lot.”

“It’s okay. Are you… are you good now?”

Nodding, he chews another fry. “Clean since Luca was born. Five years, fifty-seven days.”

“Well, I know this might be weird to say, but I’m proud of you.”

Smiling, he chews his cheek, meeting your eyes for the first time since he began sharing. “You’re a bit too good for me, you know that?”

Smirking, you steal one of his fries. “Oh, a hundred per cent. You might have a bunch of followers and good taste in paint colours, but did you know that I can sand down a dresser to the point a prominent Instagram DIYer has told me ‘I did a good job’.”

“Doesn’t sound that trustworthy. Bet he doesn’t know what you call wrenches.”

Pouting, you narrow your eyes as he laughs. “Thank you for telling me.”

Nodding, he rolls his lips. “I had to… ‘cause… are we enacting third date-talk honesty?”

“Of course.”

Half-smiling, he nudges himself closer on the stool. “I really like you.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you look up at the ceiling, before grabbing his knees and wheeling yourself closer. “I quite like you too.”

Smile spreading, he places his hands on top of yours. “Yeah? Because I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to… run from all of that.”

Smirking, you try to move closer, even if the wheels of both stools try to prevent you. “Did you know, honesty is really, really hot?”

Brows raising, chin lifting, his lips slide further into his cheek. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad too.”

Swallowing, his fingers slide in between yours, eyes flicking from one eye to the other. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous, that.”

“Well, I’ve seen your house now.”

Nodding, you smile. Feeling it, whatever he’s going to say, ask, think lingering in the silence. His grin widens, a spark igniting in his eyes that sends a rush of warmth through you.

“So, I think it only seems fair you see mine.”

Wiping your hands on your napkin, licking your lips as you cross a leg over the other. “Well, for fair sake I definitely should.”

“Do you want to… now?”

“Tonight?”

Nodding, that same flush of pink rises up his neck, up his jaw.

Smirking, you loosen your hand from his—resting your palm on his cheek, elbow on your knee. “I’d like that.”

The car ride to his should be tense, but it isn't.

Instead, it's filled with soft laughter, teasing comments and shared glances—your fingers twitching, wondering whether a hand on his knee is too soon. Even when everything else feels so normal, natural.

When he pulls up outside his place, anticipation fills the air—a rush of warmth flooding through you, making your fingers clamp together and stare out at the place as he says, this is it.

It’s nice, well-kept—charming, from what you can already tell. Eyes spot chalk drawings on the patio, lit up by the outside lights and a plastic red car close to where he's parked.

“Luca has some good parking,” you smile, pointing to it next to you both. “You learn from him, or?”

Smirking, he undoes his belt. “Maybe, I taught him how to park. I’m very good with heavy transportation.”

You don’t miss the way he emphasises the sentence. Your 'oh' is swallowed by the sound of him opening the door and telling you to wait.

Watching as he moves around the vehicle, his eyes holding yours. Earlier, you'd been thankful that the rain had taken a pause; now you wished it hadn't stopped its lashings that glued clothing to skin, thighs pressing together on the seat before the door beside you opens.

“What a gentleman.”

“Just wanted another chance to chance to check you out, really.”

Swatting him, he takes your hand, his laugh blending with yours as he leads you up to his front door.

If he feels nervous, he doesn’t show it. Finding his keys and slides one into the lock without missing. Opening the door without as much as an awkward shove of the door.

If anything, it’s effortless. It not even squeaking or catching as he pushes it open.

“It’s not a lot…” he begins.

But he couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s cosy and warm. Exuding an unmistakable homeliness that immediately comforts you. Dark woods, off-whites, and splashes of orange, caramel, and greens intertwine harmoniously, creating a space that feels both freshly decorated and deeply loved. A balance you assume exists because of him being the one to bring it all together, knowing from the videos you've seen how talented he is.

As you glance around, you begin to see the traces of the Frankie you’ve been getting to know. Photographs of him at the beach, with his son, with friends and more with Luca at varying ages.

Then, there are the plants. An assorted mix of them, some big that you remember from photos, some greener than others—some tall and in plants with animal faces like raccoons and beavers, others in decorative pots placed on shelves.

As you step in further, you spot furniture you recognise from videos—even noting the stacked pile of books from a photo he’d shared recently and a record player on a side table.

“C’mon, let me show you around.”

He leads you, hand in yours, showing you his well-equipped kitchen, and dining space. Occasionally, he points things out, like the markings on a wall he’s using to measure how tall Luca gets and the scuff marks from dragging the dining table in after varnishing it. Before finally, the two of you are outside the half-open door to his bedroom.

Frankie giving you a wink, bodies almost flush.

“That where the magic happens?”

“Not usually…”

"Maybe that's cause people haven't been saying the right magic words." Shrugging, you lick your lower lip, staring at the beading on the door. "I should tell you, I've heard I'm quite good at magic words..."

You let it linger, sit. Before you turn on your heel, fingers brushing over a table as you head back in the direction of his living room.

He follows, a step or two behind, letting you and your eyes capture all the personal touches before you feel fingers on your wrist, tugging you back, body flush to his.

Wrapping an arm around your waist, you find your throat dry—eyes flicking to his mouth.

“Go take a seat, I’ll bring us a drink.”

It’s soft, the nod you do as he slips his hand from your waist. You move, almost on auto-pilot, to sit down on his sofa, running your fingers over a cushion—one stitched with greens, golds and oranges.

When he reappears, you look up at him, noticing the hint of nerves in his gaze as you plaster on a reassuring smile as he places them down on the coffee table.

Slowly, you reach out, squeezing his hand, "Your home is lovely, Frankie."

He chuckles, a soft blush creeping up his cheeks as he joins sitting down. "Yeah?"

Nodding, you press your knee against his. “So.”

“So.”

With a smirk, you draw a measured breath. “I believe... I want to kiss you now.”

Swallowing, his gaze flickers to your lips, lingering, before snapping back up to your eyes. Warmth spreads over your cheeks, neck and ears. “I believe you should, Rainy.”

A response there, nestled between teeth and tongue, is muffled as his lips meet yours—for the first time in several days.

an: as a warning, the next chapter will include smut. if you wish to skip the smut, you can miss the chapter as there will be no other scenes. the following chapter will pick up the next morning.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

339 notes · View notes

undercoverpena · 2 months

Text

3. heather purple

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter three of do me yourself

wordcount: 3.8k chapter warnings: [see masterlist for series warnings] meet cute, flirting. fluff. flirting in person and over IG. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used, you do wear a top and jeans tho. minor worrying/nervousness. no use of y/n. an: i love them i love them i love them

prev chapter | frankie's ig

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Nervous energy pulsates through you.

It first manifested as a rattle, an annoyance when your eyes opened this morning. Now, it had grown into moving things half an inch and constant tapping—on surfaces, on you, on walls. All restless, practically relentless—vibrating and thrumming.

Then, your teeth began lazily, grazing over your lower lip, eyes flicking to the clock—fingers adjusting your laptop on the counter for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes.

With a catch of your thumb, your phone illuminates, another nervous-tic, another thing you've been doing for the last so many moments.

Even if you know he’s on his way, having told you as much.

Normally, you would find it easy to calm yourself through pacing, the flexing of your fingers, and deep, soothing breaths. But not this time.

This time, it lingers. A persistent knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel and instead attempts to bathe in giddiness—a sensation you’d never imagined, never mind expected.

Suddenly, with another fluttering jolt, you wish you could backtrack the messages you had sent. The ones that had invited him—jovially, before seriously.

Because despite spending several minutes leaning on your cool, kitchen counter, with a glass of water pressed to your neck, warmth is still radiating from your skin.

The thinnest layer of sweat still remains on the base of your spine, sticking; the same as it is around your head—no matter how often you dab it away.

Admittedly, it’s all self-inflicted. Caused by the fact you had tried on a thousand things within the last half an hour. All of the failures were discarded, shoved (all unceremoniously), at the bottom of your closet, the door shoved shut in frustration.

Nothing had felt right. Nothing had looked right.

A mess of worries and overthinking churning in your head, all caused by your friend's echoing voice as you stared at yourself in the mirror:

Do you think he’ll size up your new office and then size you up? Do you think this is a date? Do you think he’s expecting to see your bedroom? Because if you count the coffee, this is the third, which means—

At the time, it had been easy to laugh. Play it down—continue to wash your dishes and clean around the sink.

But, it’s when the goodbyes had been exchanged; when there were no more cups or plates to clean, and you found yourself alone with nothing but the sounds of suds swirling down the drain. That's when your mind began to wander. To weave patterns of concerns, begin concocting.

Do you think…Do you think?

Do you think?

Deep down, you know it doesn't matter. Less so as your hand brushes over your face, heavy sigh exhaled, because he'd be here soon.

In your home.

Frankie would be able to see the poor state of your “remodel” or “flip” or whatever term it is for when you buy a rundown thing and try and make it liveable. He'd be able to see exactly why you'd looked lost in the hardware store he works, because look at your home. The place where you rest, sleep and work.

You could come and see it for yourself, wouldn’t need to keep guessing what I’m dreaming up. Yeah? You sure? Well, it would be easier than me trying to explain the issues I’m faced with because until an hour ago I didn’t know what a wrench was called. What did you use to call it? Tightening-tighty. Fitting name. I thought so too—until your latest “helpful” video ruined it. At least you’re learning now how selfish I am. You are, but I’ll forgive you because you have a nice smile. Is the smile enough to upgrade me from DMs to a phone number? Oh, you are pushing it. Well, to keep on pushing and this is presumptuous, but I can come round tomorrow. After I’ve finished up at work. Luca is back with his mom. Yeah? Send me your address and I’ll be there, rainy. I’ll send you my number too, so you can call when you leave.

And you had.

Then, tomorrow had become today, and you’d found yourself trying to flood the worries from your half-a-job redecorating with cleaning.

Some of it alleviated by decluttering half-empty boxes from around the base of pale walls, but part of it added more issues to your plate because suddenly you wished you had more plants. More colour.

More anything.

Because it’s bare, a barren of nothing. There are marks on the floor not lifted from scrubbing and cracks in the wall that need filling.

Disappointment lands on your shoulders, weighed down with pinched regret—because you realise (once again, having lived in blissful ignorance) that there is so much to do.

Swallowing, you glance around, scents of wood polish and floor spray swirling. You glare at the many holes filled in by the previous owners. The ones not painted over just yet.

Because you hadn’t decided on a shade—no colour scheme having jumped out.

The place is all just pale, off-white or faded magnolia.

"Fuck."

The urge to crawl into a ball rises, a sickening feeling swirling.

Somehow, if the state of your home doesn’t scare him away, a small part of you knows it can find comfort that maybe your humour is enough to keep him around.

A thought that should relax you, but instead makes your stomach twist more. Because you're not actually sure you're that funny. A realisation that forces your palms to become tacky, the thinnest layer of sweat trying to appear there, as well as everywhere else.

Because you like him.

The knowledge of it pricking at you, making you bite the skin from your lip and pick at your nails; it makes you wiggle your toes inside your socks on the wooden floor and fight a smile at something funny he’d said last night.

And then you hear it.

Wheels. Tyres crunch gravel as a black pick-up pulls up outside your home. One you remember from outside the store, from parking several blocks down from yours.

He’s here.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s fucking here—

The thought rotating, spinning—like a whirlpool drenching you in more sweat and making your head dizzy all at once.

You can’t move, can’t unstick yourself from the floorboard you’re on. Watching. Transfixed. Both feeling joy that he has come (as he said he would) and filled with horror because it’s happening, it’s all fucking happening.

With each step he takes up your drive, you want to bolt from your place and hide in your bedroom. Pretend you’re not home. Pretend something came up.

But you can’t lie.

Guilt swallowing that immediate thought. Watching him get closer and closer, until his knuckles wrap on the door, the noise filling your barely-filled home.

Fuck.

You manage to move then. All quiet steps. Delicate in how you cross the room that’s become a poor attempt at a living room.

Wrapping your palm around the handle, you’re surprised at its sudden heaviness—all cold, so cool against your skin it almost makes you hiss. Almost slipping when you turn it, palm so slick with nervousness as your arm tries to vibrate in its socket.

Opening the door, you disguise it. Layer all your worries and unravelling under a mask. Smothering and burying it in a smile—practically instantaneously. As though it’s the easiest thing to do around him.

But then, it is.

Because even if the rest of your body is having some reaction to the idea he could be stepping inside, you find yourself unable to help but grin. Not able to help lighting up like fairy lights hanging in the darkest night.

And, in the milliseconds of the two of you standing there, you actually begin to feel better.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” you reply, grin growing, forcing your cheeks to hurt in a matter of beats.

And you know you should move, let him in. But, what does it mean if you do? That voice, the one growing louder, who speaks nothing but worse cases and negativity, begins to increase in pitch. Smothering the sound of birds and someone cutting their grass several houses down.

Because is he here to measure up, to give recommendations—or will he kiss you again like he did against your car? Will his mouth move to other places, hands busying themselves, peeling? Will he be disappointed by what lies underneath your comfortable t-shirt and—

“You gonna invite me in?”

Pausing, you lower your gaze to the floor, leaning against the door for a moment. Eyes catching spots of purple on his jeans, finding yourself staring, glancing at how they resemble petals scattered in a careless dance.

You know it likely was accidental, a mere mishap, but it looks pretty, intentional. Even if it's likely tarnished an overworn, maybe slightly beloved pair of jeans.

He says your name, forcing your head up. Speaking it all soft—so full of care and intention—it almost makes you swoon and crack. Almost makes you widen the door to let him inside.

“I’m embarrassed. It’s… it’s not even—“

“Hey, hey, look at me.” And you do, like nothing could be simpler. “I know you haven’t long moved in—and, you wouldn’t be askin’ for an opinion if it looked the best it ever could. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, let me in b… Rainy, please.”

You don’t miss it.

Even if you pretend you do.

It circling, playing. Imagination fuelled up and running the show now.

A thing which drowns the worries, holds its head under water as your brain begins to wonder what him calling you baby could sound like, be like.

Slowly, you lift your head from the door and step to the side to let him in.

Thankful you do, because you catch the scent of the hardware store—one you found you’ve actually really, really missed.

As though picking up on the thousand hints at how on edge you are, Frankie asks to see the dresser.

Makes a comment about needing to see if the paint covered, if butterscotch orange looked as good on wood as it did on walls.

You don’t argue, instead leading the way. Take him past your sofa and armchair right into the kitchen. As you do, he shares his day, weaves in bits on Harry—how he’s nothing but a torment, even if he says it with a grin.

“He asked about you.”

Thankful for the pot boiling, you pour him a cup of coffee, placing it down before clutching your own. Admiring the way he’s squatted down next to the dresser—fingers sliding over the edges.

“And, what did you tell him?”

Shrugging, Frankie looks over his shoulder—a smile there, evident, easily present. “Said I would ask when I saw you tonight—but, that I assumed you were good from how much you made me laugh last night.”

Heat burns your ears, almost making them match the temperature of your palms from being around the mug.

You think, search, and feel desperate for something to say, all aiming to fill the emptiness when you begin explaining what you’ve already done to your 'cheap find'.

Doing so with as many technical terms as you remember from videos—how you’d restored it, sanded it, etc, etc.

It’s only when he looks over his shoulder again, do you realise how not-weird this is. How it doesn’t feel wrong—relaxing at the realisation, the room and house following suit.

Resting the cup to your chest, you clear your throat, “You know, you’re the first person outside of my best friend that’s been here.”

Brows raising, lost under his hat and curls, his smile slides up further into one cheek. “That makes me special, right?”

“Oh, I think you know you’re special, Morales. I’ve read the comments under your videos.”

A bark of laughter leaves him, head shaking, attention turning back to the dresser as he runs his hand over the top.

“You’ve done good.”

Instantly, you grin. Folding your arms, remaining leaning against the side of the kitchen counter as you almost let a ‘yeah?’ escape, that you instead trade for: “You sound surprised.”

“You did imply you were hopeless.”

Shrugging, you watch him stand tall, fingers itching under the front of his hat as he leans against the wall.

“I am still hopeless.”

Shaking his head, he does nothing but grin—gifting you one full of warmth and sunshine. “I think you’ve just not had someone to show you, that’s all.”

“That going to be you?”

His tongue slides into his cheek, giving a half-shrug as he moves closer, pausing at the side of your kitchen counter. “If you want.”

“You don’t mind that I might have Pinterest boards?”

Chewing his cheek, he smirks as broad and as wide as his shoulders—as though it is difficult to contain. “You definitely have them. Wouldn’t believe you if you said you didn’t?”

Heat warms your cheek, and remains there—burning and pulsing as you avert your eyes briefly. “Maybe I have them.”

His laugh escapes quickly, almost loudly, booming and echoing like before. And you want him to do it again, needing to, as soon as it dies down to flood from him and land against the walls again.

But, instead, you take a large mouthful, placing the mug down. "Shall I show you my dream?"

Heading to show him the spare room, the one that you’re hoping to make into an office, his work boots sound out, echoing around the stripped-back hallway and bare flooring.

There's a comfortable quiet you don’t wish to allow to shift when you head down the hallway, beginning to explain. Hands moving, gesturing, sporadically glancing over your shoulder as he follows—finding his eyes don’t fall to the open boxes, but remain firmly on you.

It isn’t until you step inside the open doorway and he pauses at the do you (on command) continue talking. Slowly pointing to where you think you’d want things. Listing, nose-scrunching as you say how nice it would be to have floor-to-ceiling shelving, an armchair—a desk with space for work. A plant here, maybe one there.

How you want to move from your kitchen counter to in here for work—maybe put up a piece of art here, some nice curtains there. A real desk chair that’ll support your back.

You only stop when you look back and find him resting his forearm on the doorway, not looking anywhere around the room, just at you.

And it makes you pause. Mesmerised, by the way he rolls the pads of his fingers against his thumb, his forearm flexing and how the end of his t-shirt has slightly risen due to his leans. It undoes you, making you forget what room you're even standing in as your brain melts and you become rendered completely, fucking useless.

The spell doesn’t break until his arm drops, fingers push his hat up, eyes warming as he takes the space in. “You want to work near the window?”

Nodding, you move to the side, allowing him space, watching him as he takes his eyes off you, moves into the room and stares around. He sweeps his gaze, brows furrowing occasionally before he stops close to the window.

Sliding the pencil from the top of his ear, he pulls a pad of paper from his pocket. Jotting things down, sketching—eyes zig-zagging across the wall as he tries to mark whatever his thought is down. Mouth moving, occasionally hearing him working out numbers, before the sound is muffled by a scratch of the pencil.

You’re in awe. Just observing. Making no sense of what it is he’s drawing. Least of all what he’s thinking. But gosh, is he handsome when he does it.

More so, when that soft smile creeps back over his face at you watching him, and you worry (briefly) whether you’ve said it out loud.

“You’d have a nice view if your desk was here.”

“Got a nice one right now.”

Snorting, Frankie rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth ticking up into his cheek. “How much do you hate yourself for saying that?”

“Only a smidge,” you say, finger and thumb close together.

Holding his stare, you find the softness of his smile has spread to his eyes, and you can't help but roll your eyes. "Fine. Maybe a little more than a smidge," you amend, your own smile mirroring his.

His laughter fills the room once again, and you can't help but join in. The two of you standing there, and all you want to do is pinch yourself. Not sure how this could be real; how he could be, how all of this could be. How the grin on your face is really there and he’s really here—

“I’m thinking,” he begins. Voice clearing, eyes looking around. “We could build you a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves here like you want—maybe add some cupboards. Could be a nice backdrop if you’re sitting there. Can have it pre-built, or I can help you measure it, build it? Probably need—“

You should be listening. Maybe even making notes.

Not flicking your eyes to his lips, watching the way his face furrows or his lip curls in between listing things.

“How?"

"How, what?"

Swallowing, you exhale. "Did you get so good at that?”

His lips slide into his cheek. “At what?”

Tilting your head, you purse your lip, drop your arm from his shoulder, gesturing, finding the words. “I just watched you like—measure, with your head. I think I heard your brain... calculating?”

He pauses, mouth remaining open, a twinkle shimmering in his eye as he scratches at the curls hanging under his hat. “Oh, I… um. I used to fly. I was in the U.S. Army. Delta Force—guess I got good at measuring, doing calculations in my head, had to, you know?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that… that why you don't like to sit still either?”

Rolling his lips, he tucks the back behind his ear, nodding, a sheepish smile adorning his face.

“Well,” you say, “You’re good at it.”

Swallowing, he licks his lips, gaze not leaving you. “You not wanting to ask anything?”

“Should I?”

Shrugging, he licks his lip. Dragging it along slowly. “Some would.”

You shake your head, meeting his gaze. “I’m not some, am I?”

He considers it, your answer. Turns it over.

But his response isn’t verbal; it’s a gentle tug on the belt loop on your jeans, pulling you close. Out of instinct, your arm drapes over his shoulder. Silently thankful for the outfit choice, for choosing a nice top and jeans. Especially as you stand staring at him, eyes taking him in as he does the same.

Your heart pounds loudly in this definitive pause. A chance provided to cast your eyes away, to ask him what else he's thinking.

But that’s not what you want—not what you need.

Not as you close the small gap. Not as you watch his stare, all heavy and scorching, and how it drops to your lips, following a similar path you had taken on his face only a second prior.

Kiss me, you think.

But you realise as his lips slide into one cheek, dimple deepening, that the words had flowed out instead. Stretched out, laid a red carpet from yours to his.

And it’s inescapable, the pull you feel when your mouth marries itself to his, when your palm remains flush with his cheek, being greeted by the tickling of the wiry hairs on his jaw.

When he licks into your mouth, you’re gone—thrown off course and falling freely, all willingly, not wanting to ever land and not at all in fear of the descent as you grip him for stability. Neither of you stop when his hat falls from atop his head, landing with a crack on the floor.

Because it might be odd to have missed a mouth before, but you have.

Suddenly feeling all is right now it’s back against yours, where you write a story against his lips and taste the words he wishes to say in return. The room is empty, quiet—no backdrop this time compared to the street before—and so you can’t mask your whimpers, and you can’t mistake the sound of him groaning when you move him back so his back meets the walls.

Distantly aware of his hands gripping your waist, keeping you close, mouth chasing yours as you begin to grin, begin to feel him mirroring it.

And then he stops.

Pulls back.

A look on his face that’s unreadable and scrunched.

“I…”

Shame fires inside of you, like a key in an ignition, roaring itself to life. “I’m so sorry, Frankie—I thought, I mean—“

His hand comes around your wrist, stopping you, halting you in your desired path to move from him. “Stop, baby. Please.”

Baby.

It's there again. But this time, fully spoken, not held back.

“I just… I just want to do this right, is all. I’m… fuck, I’m here to help you. Meant to be a professional. Don’t… I don’t want you to think I tricked you into letting me in so I could… you know.”

Heat rises, billowing out across your cheek and neck. “I don’t… I don’t think that.”

“No?”

Shaking your head, you smile. “No.”

His chest fills before he lets out a loud exhale, thumb slowly drawing a circle on your wrist. “Good. ‘Cause…” he shakes his head as he bites his lower lip. “I want to take you out for dinner.” Index joining his thumb, both doing a pattern, as he whispers your name, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I want to treat you right. I… I don’t want to have come from work and—you know?”

Nodding you move a little closer, palm sliding over his cheek. “I know.”

He grins, sliding his palm down flush with yours, before he loops his fingers in between yours. “Good.”

“Good,” you whisper.

Tightening your hold on his, almost swinging it.

“Think you should kiss me again, though.”

Laughing, his eyes crinkle, dimple appearing briefly—but then he does.

Thank you for helping me move and assess the stability of my dresser.

No problem, glad to be of help.

I had a really nice time with you, Frankie.

How much did it pain you that you couldn’t work that into tease?

I’m wounded, bleeding out as we speak.

You need me to come back? Hold your hand.