amysuemc

[amysuemc]

Five Hundred Times

[Adrian Chase x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: He’s always the one who comes back bleeding, but this time, it’s your heart on the line {GIF: @tinalbion}

WC: 1855

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Blood + Injuries {TW: Adrian being… well, Adrian. Which includes, but is not limited to: emotionally-stunted love confessions, gore-related quips, and bleeding on your furniture like it’s a love language}.

I may or may not have a new obsession 👀

『••✎••』

You smell blood before you see it.

Not the kind that reeks of death or sterile gauze, but something faintly metallic, woven into the sweat on his skin like it's been there long enough to get bored of being noticed. You don’t register it fully at first — too distracted by the scrape of keys against the door, the quiet grunt he makes when he shoulder-checks it open because one of his arms isn’t working.

And there he is.

Adrian Chase, dressed in blood and bulletproof nylon, wearing that same boyish smirk like a band-aid on a gaping wound. One eye is puffed and half-shut, there's a cut above his brow that’s still wet, and he's limping like someone took a crowbar to his knee.

But he grins like it’s funny.

"Babe," he drawls, stumbling into the living room like this is just another Tuesday. "So, weird story. Turns out, you can get stabbed in the same shoulder three times and still do a somersault over a moving car. Science."

You freeze in the kitchen doorway, a half-empty mug of tea cooling in your hands. You’d made it for him. Stupid, you think. Stupid, like warm drinks fix bullet wounds.

Your heart’s hammering behind your ribs—panic, fury, the kind of cold, sharp fear that makes you feel like your bones might splinter from the inside. He sees it, you think. Sees all of it and keeps walking.

He doesn’t sit. Just drops his mask on the floor like it was dirty laundry and starts pulling off the top half of his suit, fingers clumsy with dried blood. There’s a spreading stain on his side, dark and sluggish.

You haven’t moved. Your throat feels tight.

"Adrian," you say, and it comes out too soft. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just small.

He glances up, and there’s a flicker in his expression—guilt, maybe, or something adjacent to it. But it passes like a cloud over the sun.

"Hey, it’s fine. Just a little... hole." He gestures vaguely to his side. "Think I’ve had worse papercuts, honestly."

You exhale sharply, jaw twitching.

"A papercut?"

"Yeah, y’know—big, aggressive paper. Like, militant origami."

His words are candy-coated, tossed out like a deflection grenade. You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, not from anger this time, but from something deeper. Rawer. The kind of helpless grief that’s been piling up like unspoken words between the cracks of each visit, each stitched-up night, each half-lie he’s smiled through.

He keeps talking — something about the guy who did this, how he "kind of respected his dedication to stabbing," how he managed to make a pun mid-fight that he was really proud of — and you snap.

Not loud. Not violent. But something in you gives.

You set the mug down with shaking hands. Walk over slowly. Kneel in front of him. Not to patch him up. Not yet. Just to look.

His hand is resting on his thigh. You touch it, and he flinches — barely, like his nerves can’t quite decide if they’re online — but he lets you. You lift his fingers. Blood under his nails. Calluses from the last time he shattered someone’s jaw.

"You’re not okay," you whisper. It’s not a question.

Adrian stares down at you. The air is too still. You wonder if he’s going to say something flippant, some callback to a joke from two nights ago — "Define okay," or "Baby, I’m invincible." But he doesn’t. Not yet.

You continue. Voice tight.

"You keep coming back like this. And I keep pretending it’s fine. Because you pretend it’s fine. But I’m—I can’t keep doing it, Ade. I can’t keep watching you bleed and smile like it’s a sitcom punchline."

His jaw tightens. There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s still considering the punchline. But he doesn’t say it.

So you keep going. You have to.

"You laugh through pain like it’s a party trick. You get stabbed and joke about origami, and I’m here—every time—I’m just waiting for the time you don’t come back. Or the time you do, but you’re not you anymore. Just pieces of you. And I don’t think I can survive that, Adrian. I don’t think I’d even want to."

You don’t cry. Not really. You just press your forehead to his uninjured knee, breathing, shaking against the fabric of his suit.

Silence.

Then—

"You worry," he says.

It’s quiet. Not a question. Not even a thought, really —more like something that slipped out before his brain had a chance to process it.

His eyes are on you, but not in the way they usually are—no teasing, no deflection. Just that wide, strangely boyish sort of look, like he’s seeing you for the first time and it’s short-circuiting something inside him.

"You worry… about me."

He blinks slowly, as if the sentence is taking up more space in his head than he knows what to do with.

"I mean," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand, "I knew you cared, obviously. You're here, you make tea, you patch me up when I’m leaking red stuff—very loving, very Florence Nightingale." He gestures vaguely, trying to play it cool, but his tone is all over the place—like he's trying to match what he thinks he should sound like and completely failing. "But this? This is like… real-deal worry. Like, emotional distress. Because of me."

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, barely holding together. "That’s wild."

You stare at him, stunned. The emotional rawness is still boiling just under your skin, and he’s over here having a mild existential revelation about the fact that someone loves him.

He leans back slightly, breath catching as it pulls at the wound on his side. Still smiling. Not the cocky kind—no, this one’s soft and stunned and almost… reverent.

"You love me," he says again, like he’s trying it out in different lighting. Like it might taste different if he says it slower.

You pull away, just enough to meet his eyes head-on. "Adrian, you’re bleeding."

"I know," he says, bright and breathless. "And you’re devastated about it."

His voice hitches on a laugh, and you don’t know whether to shake him or scream. Maybe both. Because this-this thing he’s doing, this delight in your suffering—he doesn’t even realize it’s breaking you.

"Why is that a joke to you?" you ask, quieter now. Fragile.

And that stops him.

Adrian’s grin falters, like someone blew out the candle behind his eyes.

"I’m not joking about you," he says, and it’s honest—plainspoken in a way that sounds strange coming from him. "I’m just… I didn’t think anyone could feel that way about me. Not really. Not past the first couple dates, anyway."

You blink, the words hitting you somewhere low in the chest. "You think I’m still here out of politeness?"

"I don’t know," he says, voice low. "I guess I thought you just had a hero thing. Or a kink. I don't know, man, it's confusing. I've never been loved before."

The words hang in the air, awkward and too heavy for how simply he said them, like a punchline that forgot to land.

He doesn’t meet your eyes now — just stares a little past you, past the room, past himself maybe. His breathing is shallow, and not just from the pain in his side. There’s something deeper in it. That quiet, jittery type of fear that has nothing to do with knives or bullets.

You blink at him. Slowly. Like, if you do it too fast, the weight of what he just said might tip you over completely.

"You... seriously think that?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "That I’m here because I have a kink?"

“I said maybe,” he mutters quickly, defensive in that dumb, knee-jerk way of his. “Could be. I mean—come on, have you seen me in this suit?”

Your expression doesn’t change.

His smirk flickers. Dies as he exhales, looking away again. "Sorry. That was—yeah. Not the time."

A beat passes. You sit back on your heels and stare at him, arms limp at your sides. Not because you’re angry anymore. You’re not even sure what you are. Hollow, maybe. Bone-tired.

"I thought you knew," you say, finally. "That I loved you."

"I mean, yeah. Kind of. You say nice things sometimes. You look at me like I’m not completely insane. You make soup." He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, then winces. "But I didn’t know it meant something. Not like this. Not in a 'you break down when I’m bleeding' way."

You shake your head slowly. "Adrian… love is that. It means that. It’s not just soup and looking at each other. It’s being scared out of your mind because the person you care about walks into your house full of holes like it’s a joke.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance down at his side. Blood is still seeping through the half-unzipped suit, slower now, but enough to make your stomach turn. You reach for the med kit on the table beside you, pull out gauze with shaking fingers, and move closer.

He watches you quietly, for once not narrating every second of it.

"I don’t want you to change who you are," you say softly as you press gauze against the wound. He hisses between his teeth but doesn’t pull away. "But I need you to stop acting like your life is disposable. Like it’s fine if you don’t come back one day."

Adrian swallows hard. "It’s not that I think it’s fine. I just… I don’t think about it."

"That’s the problem," you say, your voice breaking at the edges. "I think about it all the time."

He’s silent again. The tension in his jaw twitches under the weight of whatever he’s holding back. You tape the gauze in place and sit there for a long moment, hands still hovering over his ribs.

"I don’t want you to die thinking you’re unloved," you whisper.

That gets him. Visibly.

His fingers curl around your wrist, not hard, just enough to make you look up at him. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes—glassier now—search yours like he’s trying to memorize this moment, every sharp, fragile bit of it.

"I won’t die," he says, voice cracking in a way he clearly hates. "Not without telling you that I love you too. Probably, like, five hundred times. In a row. In increasingly bad accents."

You huff out something like a laugh, watery and aching.

"I’m serious," he goes on. "You’re gonna get so tired of hearing it. Like, 'Shut up, Adrian, I know you love me, you’ve said it in an Irish accent and a pirate voice and while bleeding out in my kitchen—'"

"Ade."

He stops.

You lean forward, gently pressing your forehead to his. His breath catches.

"I love you," you say, quiet but sure.

And when he says it back—rough and soft and a little terrified—you know he means it.

No punchline. No mask. Just Adrian. Still bleeding, still broken.

But real.

And finally, finally—loved.

[amysuemc]

The boyfriend act, part 3: "The one with the birthday party" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERIST

Chapter Summary: At Frankie’s mom’s birthday party, you aim to keep a low profile, doing just enough to blend in. But the night takes an unexpected turn—his family pulls you in more than you anticipated, catching you off guard with their warmth. And then, just when you think you’ve made it through unscathed, the pavement has a surprise for you too. WC: 18.8k (CAREFUL, THIS BABY IS LOOOONG LOL)

A/N: Alright, it's here at last! You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to sharing this chapter. For some reason, life kept getting in the way and I couldn’t finish it sooner, but NOW IT’S FINALLY DONE! I’d love to know what you think—your feedback always helps me improve, and I really enjoy reading your comments! <3 LOVE YOU YOU ALL, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs!

Friday, August 9th. 

“Hey,” you said as you opened the door, stepping aside to let Frankie in. You barely glanced at him before turning toward the other room. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

He walked in without a word, shutting the door with a soft click. His silence felt heavier than it should have, like an unspoken critique. You gestured toward the door on the right, in front of the stairs that led to the second floor and to your apartment.

You went into the bookshop, and he followed you, his shoes heavy against the floor.

Inside, Frankie lingered by the doorway, his eyes darting around the room as though assessing it for structural integrity. You ignored him, sliding behind the counter to finish typing something on the computer.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the counter with the practiced impatience of someone who believes they’re above waiting. His tone had a sharp edge, as if the concept of you having a to-do list offended him. “Can’t this wait?”

You exhaled, a soft, deliberate sigh that was barely audible over the quiet clatter of the keys.

“Just finishing an order. If you’re going to stand there and criticize, at least try to look useful.” A few more taps, and you turned the screen toward him with a mock flourish. “There. Done. Satisfied?”

Frankie didn’t bother responding, his attention shifting to you instead. His gaze dragged up and down, his expression a mix of scrutiny and reluctant approval.

You stepped around to the other side of the counter, reaching for the bookshop keys. With them in hand, you paused in front of him, your gaze drifting down the length of his body.

“Well, this is… unexpected,” you said, letting your eyes linger pointedly on his polished black coat, white buttoned shirt and neatly pressed pants. “You look decent.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. “And you look…” His eyes trailed to your dress, narrowing. “Half-dressed.”

“Excuse me?”

Frankie crossed his arms, tilting his head as though giving your outfit a second appraisal.

“I’m not joking. Did you forget part of your dress? Or is it supposed to look like that?”

Confused, you glanced down at yourself. You were wearing one of your favorite dresses—a white one with delicate straps and a fit that was snug but not tight, elegant in its simplicity. It was modest enough: the neckline wasn’t too low, the hem rested just above your knees. Perfectly normal. Perfectly appropriate.

“There’s nothing wrong with my dress. You’re just being annoying and mean.”

“Your back,” he said flatly, gesturing with his hand.

Your fingers flew to the back of the dress, and sure enough, they met the unzipped fabric.

“Oh,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I… I was going to zip it upstairs. I have this little hook thing for it—”

“For god’s sake,” Frankie cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was the single most inconvenient thing anyone had ever asked of him. “Turn around. I’ll do it.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested performing open-heart surgery.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s a zipper, not a marriage proposal. Turn around.”

Reluctantly, you turned, feeling his presence close behind you. His fingers were quick but precise as he tugged the zipper up, the movement so mundane yet strangely charged. The warmth of his breath hit the back of your neck, and you froze for a second, hyperaware of the proximity.

“There,” he said gruffly, stepping back as if the contact had been nothing more than a chore. “Happy now? Let's go.”

You turned to face him, adjusting the straps with an exaggerated shake of your shoulders.

“Ecstatic,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly life-changing.”

Frankie rolled his eyes and made a beeline for the door, opening it with a sharp glance over his shoulder.

“Are you done with the dramatics?”

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you followed him outside, muttering under your breath just loud enough for him to hear.

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you to tie my heels.”

The party was being held in the gilded elegance of the Golden Room at Hotel Le Grand. Frankie had mentioned, in passing, that he and his sisters had been planning the event for months—though it was clear Luna had been the one to shoulder the real burden. Frankie didn’t strike you as someone who knew how to color-coordinate table linens or confirm catering orders. Luna, on the other hand, sounded like the kind of woman who thrived on spreadsheets and perfectly executed itineraries.

You walked down the wide, carpeted hallway toward the entrance, feeling an unfamiliar kind of nervousness bloom in your chest. It wasn’t fear exactly, nor excitement—it was something in between, something that lived in the pit of your stomach and coiled tighter the closer you got. You could hear the faint hum of voices, glasses clinking, the muffled thrum of music filtering out from the room ahead. Frankie’s pace slowed beside you, his polished shoes scuffing lightly against the floor.

When you turned to look at him, his expression was hard to read. He was studying you, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’d done something suspicious, though you couldn’t imagine what.

“Wait,” he said abruptly, stepping closer and grabbing your arm—not roughly, but firmly enough that you stumbled slightly.

“What—”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you along a few steps before opening a nearby door and tugging you inside.

“What the hell are you doing, Francisco?” you hissed, glancing around the dim, utilitarian room. It smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner, the air heavy with the static quiet of spaces not meant to be used by guests. Stacks of chairs loomed in uneven piles against the walls, making the room feel even smaller.

Frankie shut the door behind you with an exhale.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” he said, his voice low and edged with impatience.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just—humor me, okay?” He glanced at you, his dark eyes darting quickly over your face before he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he replied, too fast. He planted his hands on his hips, his expression careful. “Santi introduced us. We’ve been dating for two months. We kept it private because we wanted to talk to him first. It’s… fine. Normal. Our relationship is easy.”

“Easy?” 

“Yes, easy. It just happened. The usual.”

“You’re so nervous,” you said, fighting the urge to laugh. “Look at you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re definitely nervous.”

“I just need you to promise me that you’re not going to do anything to ruin this. Okay? Can you promise me that?”

You scoffed, clicking your tongue in mock offense.

“Why do you automatically assume I’m the one who’s going to ruin it? If you want my honest opinion, you’re way more likely to mess this up. Look at you—you’re sweating.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You look like a dog with its tail between its legs,” you said, lightly poking his shoulder with two fingers.

“You are going to make me fucking nervous if you keep talking like that,” he said, pushing your shoulder with two fingers, a perfect imitation of your earlier gesture.

You exaggerated the movement, stumbling back as though his touch had been far more forceful than it was.

“Deny it all you want, but I’m not the nervous one, and I’m not going to ruin this. I still need you for the wedding, remember? Or has that slipped your mind?”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I guess so. What a ridiculous plan,” he said, his voice dripping with faux superiority. When his gaze found yours again, it was sharp. “And I’m not nervous.”

Frankie didn’t seem to realize how obvious his nerves were. His eyes darted around like they were chasing his thoughts, moving too quickly for comfort. Every so often, his eyebrows would twitch in a way that betrayed the tight control he thought he had over himself. And you’d noticed it earlier, too, during the car ride—his restlessness, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, harder and faster than usual. It was almost endearing, if not for the fact that he refused to admit it. Instead, he was blaming you.  

A thought sparked in your mind and you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning into it. Your eyes brightened as you tilted your head, feigning an exaggerated air of curiosity.  

“Well, if you say so,” you sighed, looking away for just a beat before locking eyes with him again. “So, where can I touch you?”  

Frankie froze, his entire body going rigid.  

“What?” 

“Where can I touch you?” you repeated, slowly, as if he might need help processing the question. “Like, can I hold your hand? Touch your face? Your arms? Anywhere that’s off-limits? I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”  

You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching, fighting the urge to fully smile. God, this was too easy. He looked equal parts horrified and confused, his eyebrows knitting together as his eyes widened slightly.  

“Stick to the basics,” he said, his tone clipped and no-nonsense. He was trying to regain control, though the way he crossed his arms over his chest only made him look more defensive. 

“And what exactly are the basics, Francisco?”  

“It doesn’t matter. This is a family event. Just don’t—don’t overdo it.”  

“Well, that’s a start,” you said, nodding like you were taking mental notes. “So, can I hold your hand? Or is that too intimate for you? If I make you nervous, you can just say so.”

Your voice had softened into something almost saccharine, a honeyed sweetness that didn’t belong to you. 

Frankie stared at you in silence, his dark, intense eyes fixed on your face like they were trying to strip you down to your core. You could almost feel him siphoning your energy, leaving you lighter, emptier.

“Yes, you can hold my fucking hand.”

“Great,” you said brightly, nodding as if you were in complete agreement. “And what about kissing?”

“There’s no need.”

“No need? That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” You paused, letting the silence settle just long enough to be deliberate. “Now I’ll tell you what I’ll allow.”

Frankie frowned, his head tilting slightly in irritation.

“There’s no need. I don’t plan to—”

“You can hold my hand, my shoulders, and my waist. My waist, but no lower—understood?” You raised your index finger for emphasis, looking up at him with mock authority.

Frankie blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He stifled a laugh, though you caught the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest like a disappointed teacher.

“What? Are you seriously planning to convince your family that you’re head over heels for me without even touching my shoulders? That’s ambitious, Francisco. And, honestly, not very convincing. You’re out of your depth here. And nervous,” you added, tilting your head to one side with a knowing smirk. “But I get it. You’re not exactly the picture of confidence, are you? In fact, you strike me as one of those guys who find it really difficult to socialize with women. You know the type.”

Frankie’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually snap. But instead, he nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek as a bitter, humorless smile spread across his face.

“I’m very sociable with women, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth and edged with something sharp. “The thing is, I have to like them first.”

You raised your eyebrows, disbelief etched across your face.

“Well, I think that makes you a bad actor. You’re not cut out for the job.”  

Frankie leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze, steady and unflinching, fixed on you like he was deciding whether you were worth responding to.

“Oh, no?”  

“Yeah, you know, for the act,” you said, tilting your head.  

“You’re ridiculous.”  

“And you’re a nervous coward.”  

Frankie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at you, his silence stretching long enough to make you shift under the weight of his gaze. You could see the wheels turning in his head, and for a brief, panicked moment, you thought he might just open the door, leave you standing there alone, and abandon the whole charade.  

But then, his face shifted. A smug expression slid into place, slow and calculated, accompanied by that crooked smile that always made your stomach tighten—not in a pleasant way, but in a way that felt like a warning.  

“And what about you, Meryl Streep?” he asked, his tone light but laced with an edge. “You want to talk about bad acting, but yesterday, after I kissed you, you looked completely out of place.”  

You sighed, a deliberate move to buy yourself a second to think.

“Sorry,” you said finally, tilting your head like you were truly apologetic. “I guess that happens when I get the most unpleasant kiss in the world.”  

Frankie laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Then it shouldn’t bother you that this party is kiss-free, should it? Little physical contact, just the necessary effort.”  

For a moment, you felt the wind knocked out of you—not by his words, but by the realization that he had managed to flip the conversation so seamlessly, deflating your earlier momentum. But you recovered quickly, letting a slow, understanding smile spread across your face.

You leaned in slightly, your hand lifting toward his face. Frankie, ever cautious, instinctively moved his head back, but you didn’t stop. Your fingers found his cheek, warm under your touch, and your thumb rested lightly at the corner of his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy it when you come begging for a kiss or a small demonstration of affection, Francisco,” you said softly, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Because even though I know how much you hate this whole thing, I also know that your need to make this convincing is even stronger.”

You dropped your hand and stepped back, feeling a delicious sense of control settle over you like a second skin.

Frankie’s jaw tightened as he turned toward the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly, knuckles faintly white. He paused just before opening it fully, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes sharp and impatient.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” you said lightly, brushing past him as you moved toward the door.

Already in the hallway, Frankie fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. Without warning, his fingers found yours, intertwining them in a quiet, deliberate motion. His steps were slow, measured, as you both neared the doorway leading back to the crowded hall.

You turned to him, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“I thought that—”

“No way,” a voice cut in from behind, smooth and teasing. “Sneaking off to a closet during Mom’s birthday party? That’s risky, Frankie.”

Frankie froze, his grip on your hand loosening for a second. He turned, his face momentarily pale, but when he saw her, something shifted. The tension in his jaw melted away, replaced by a warm, easy smile. You followed his gaze.

The woman approached, a grin already forming, arms outstretched. She pulled Frankie into a tight embrace, her dark eyes bright.

He kissed her cheek before pulling back.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice lighter than before. “How’s Mom? Is she happy?”

“She’s great, so so happy. She wants to see you,” the woman said, and then her attention flicked to you. Curiosity glimmered in her gaze. “Aren’t you going to... introduce me to your girl?”

Frankie hesitated, like the thought had only just occurred to him. Then, his hand slid to your waist, his grip warm and steady as he pulled you closer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and your name slipped from his lips with an unfamiliar sweetness. “My girlfriend.” He paused, like he was testing the words, then smiled. “And baby, this is my sister, Maia.”

The way he said it caught you off guard. There was a natural ease to it, like he’d said it a hundred times before. Like it wasn’t the first time he was calling you that in front of someone else. Baby.

Your mind went back to what Frankie had told you the night before. Maia, of all his sisters, was the most perceptive. She’ll figure us out if we’re not careful.

You turned to her with a genuine smile. She was beautiful—big brown eyes framed by long lashes, dark hair swept back effortlessly. There was something about her features, the sharp cheekbones, the knowing glint in her eyes, that reminded you of Frankie. 

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” you said, meaning it. “Your brother’s told me so much about you. You look gorgeous.”

Maia’s grin widened, a pink flush rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, stop, really? You’re gorgeous.” She reached out, touching your arm lightly. Her hands were soft. “I wish I could say the same, but this idiot kept you a secret. He’s told us next to nothing.”

“Maia,” Frankie started, already formulating an excuse.

"It’s my fault," you cut in, glancing at him briefly before turning back to her. "I asked him to keep it private, at least until we told my brother."

Maia's brows lifted. "Oh? And why—"

Frankie exhaled. “She’s Santi’s sister.”

Maia’s mouth fell open slightly, then curved into an amused, knowing smile.

“Shut up,” she said, her tone laced with delight. “You’re dating your best friend’s little sister?”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Can you believe it?” you said, glancing at Frankie before turning back to her. “And I’m dating my brother’s best friend. Talk about a cliché.”

“Unbelievable,” Maia echoed, her laughter bright and infectious. “And what did he say when you told him?”

“Oh, Santi thought it was a little ridiculous at first,” you admitted, glancing at Frankie, amusement dancing in your expression. “But he got over it pretty fast.”

Your eyes met his then, full of plastic love.

Maia smirked knowingly.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “this just got interesting.”

Frankie cut the conversation short, brushing off Maia’s questions with the kind of firm, practiced ease that suggested he’d been doing it his whole life. She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further, leading the two of you deeper into the party.

His hand found your waist again as you stepped inside the hall. The space was vast and elegant, bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights strung overhead. White tablecloths stretched across the tables, each adorned with delicate centerpieces of white lilies—his mother’s favorite, according to Frankie. The scent was soft, fresh.

Maia wove through the gathering guests with the effortless familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. You, however, were hyper-aware of every step, every shift of movement. The closer you got to the main table, where the rest of his family sat in easy conversation, the more your nerves crept up, curling around your ribs like vines. Without thinking, your fingers sought Frankie’s again, gripping them tighter than necessary.

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance meant only for you. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, even if you weren’t entirely convinced.

Then Helena spotted Frankie, and everything else in the room faded.

Her eyes went wide, bright with unfiltered joy. “Francisco!”

She pushed back her chair in an instant, standing with her arms already outstretched. Frankie barely had time to let go of your hand before she pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him the way only a mother could—like she needed to be sure he was still whole. She kissed both his cheeks, then held his face between her hands, searching it, memorizing him.

“Esta fiesta es increible, mi amor (this party is incredible, my love),” she told him, eyes still shining. “The best gift of all. Just having everyone together, that’s all I wanted. All my babies with me.”

Frankie smiled, a real one, the kind that made his entire face look younger, lighter.

“Feliz cumpleaños, ma, te mereces esto y mucho más. Una fiesta increible para una mujer increible, ¿o no?. (Happy birthday, Mom, you deserve this and much more. An incredible party for an incredible woman, right?)” 

You felt something swell in your chest at the way he said it, at the way his voice sounded softer in spanish—his voice warm with love.

Helena beamed, then turned toward you.

The shift was subtle, but sharp. Her gaze landed on you with something keen behind it, something appraising. 

“Mom,” he said, his fingers brushing your back again, “I want you to meet someone.” He pulled you closer, and when he said your name, it was softer than usual, careful. “She’s my... She's my girlfriend.”

The word hit the air, and you felt Frankie tense beside you, just for a second.

Helena didn’t react right away. She simply looked at you, studying, deciding. And then—she smiled. Broadly, like she’d decided something in your favor.

She repeated your name, and up close, you saw it now—how much of her was in Frankie. The same warm brown eyes, the same mischievous pull at the corner of the mouth, like they were both always half a second away from teasing you.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” she said, reaching for your hands. “What a lovely surprise, sweetheart.”

Your face warmed immediately, heat spreading down to your chest, and you knew you were blushing. Next to you, Frankie smirked, clearly amused by your reaction.

“Thank you so much,” you managed, shifting slightly closer to him for balance. “And happy birthday. It’s really wonderful to finally meet you, Helena. Francisco has told me nothing but amazing things about you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she teased, tossing her son a look before giving his arm a gentle pat. “And I do hope you’ll fill in the gaps. I’ve been waiting so long for this one to bring someone home, you have no idea. If you only knew!” She clasped her hands together in mock prayer. “Now, come—come! Come meet the rest of our family.”

Before you could react, she had already taken your arm, gently pulling you away from Frankie. You barely had time to glance back at him, your expression somewhere between help and save me, before you saw the exact same look mirrored on his face. He could do nothing but follow as Helena paraded you toward the table.

Introductions unfolded in a series of warm, overlapping voices.

Luna was stunning, exactly as you’d imagined. Her dark hair was swept back, save for a few loose strands that framed her delicate features. Her green eyes carried a quiet curiosity as she hugged you gently, greeting you with the kind of reserved kindness that made you think she was someone who observed before she spoke.

Next to her was Henry, her husband, who greeted you with a polite nod and a brief kiss on the cheek. Jamie, their son, waved shyly from his seat, his big brown eyes round with something close to awe. His curls bounced slightly when he moved, making him look like some kind of cherub from a Renaissance painting.

Then came Grace, Frankie’s niece, who stood just long enough to kiss your cheek before shyly murmuring, “I like your dress.” She had the kind of effortless sweetness that made you instantly want to protect her.

Her mother, Sofia, was beside her. Of all the sisters, she resembled Helena the most. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders, her smile was warm and knowing, and something about her presence felt effortlessly welcoming.

And then Maia, despite having already met you, stood again to press another kiss to your cheek, like she simply had to.

Once everyone was settled, Helena guided you to the empty chair beside her, which you realized—only as Frankie moved toward it—was the seat he had been planning to take. He hesitated for half a second, then shifted to the free chair on your right instead.

You exhaled, trying to ignore the way your nerves still buzzed under your skin. But when you turned your head, Frankie was already watching you.

He leaned in, his breath just barely grazing your ear.

“Calm down,” he murmured, his voice low, easy. “Just do the minimum.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

“Like you?” you whispered back.

Frankie gave you a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with the urge to fire something back at you. But he held it in.

“So, how did you two meet?” Grace asked, her voice sweet, playful. She turned to Frankie with a teasing grin. “I didn’t know you had it in you to charm such a pretty girl.”

Frankie let out a low chuckle. You felt heat creep up your neck.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Maia said, eyebrows arching in anticipation.

“Frankie was a total heartbreaker when we were kids, baby,” Luna added, her tone rich with amusement. “The girls loved the whole brooding, shy boy act.”

“I was shy,” Frankie defended, frowning slightly, as if the memory still perplexed him. “I think that was just my secret weapon.” He shrugged, then winked.

Helena shook her head, smiling.

“And how did this happen?” She turned to you, her gaze warm, almost knowing. “Francisco hasn’t told me a thing, no matter how much I insisted on it. I can’t believe he kept it a secret—especially with someone as lovely as you.”

“I thought he was about to take a vow of celibacy,” Sofia chimed in dryly, swirling her wine before taking a sip. “After he turned down that date with Genevieve’s daughter, we were convinced. She’s very pretty.”

“What’s celibacy?” Jamie piped up.

Henry, sitting next to him, burst out laughing.

Frankie exhaled through his nose, then leaned in, his arm draping over the back of your chair. The shift in posture was subtle but intentional. You felt the warmth of him at your side.

“Yeah, well, did you ever think that maybe you all just wore me out with that?” His voice was even, but his eyes moved slowly across the table.

“Ay, sweetheart, we were just worried,” Helena said, her concern soft and painfully genuine. “We just want you to be happy, genuinely happy. And after everything that’s happened…” She hesitated, her gaze lingering on her son.

Frankie stiffened, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked to hers, a silent warning: Don’t say it.

Helena caught it instantly. She inhaled, then softened her expression. “I’m just happy to hear you say that you’re happy with someone great.”

You turned to look at Frankie. He was still close, his face unreadable, his body warm next to yours.

What exactly had he told them? That he was happy? That he was in love? How intense was it all according to him?

“How did you two meet?” Sofía asked, her voice light but perceptive, her gaze flickering between you and Frankie. She had noticed his discomfort—of course, she had.

“It’s a funny story, actually.” His eyes found yours, holding them for a fraction too long, something unspoken passing between you. A silent negotiation. A mutual recognition. “Do you remember Santi?”

Everyone nodded. Even Henry, who had never met your brother but had certainly heard his name before.

“Well,” Frankie said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world, “she’s his sister.”

For a second, there was silence, the air thick with realization. Then—

Helena, Luna, and Sofía all widened their eyes in synchronized surprise. Grace, on the other hand, grinned like she had just won something.

“You’re Santiago’s sister?” Helena asked, reaching out and taking your arm gently, warmth in her touch. She looked genuinely delighted, like this was some grand revelation that connected dots she hadn’t even known were unconnected.

You nodded, already feeling heat crawl up your neck.

“Oh my God, Francisco, why didn’t you tell me?” She asked her son, her tone accusatory.

Frankie shrugged, but before he could speak, you jumped in.

“Oh, that was because of me,” you admitted, smiling at her. “I asked Frankie to keep it private until I had the chance to talk to Santi. I… I wanted to tell him first.”

Luna, who had been watching with her chin propped on her palm, suddenly straightened, her lips curving into something sharp and entertained.

“Wait, but how?” she demanded, eyes glinting. “Was it sudden? Was it a secret? Please tell me everything.”

Frankie clicked his tongue.

“Jesus, relax.”

“Hey, we want to know!” Maia chimed in, twisting in her seat to get a better angle on you both. Grace nodded eagerly beside her, practically vibrating with interest.

Frankie glanced at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—caution, amusement, curiosity. A silent question.

You held his gaze, then gave the smallest nod. Permission granted.

He turned back to them, exhaling like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“It just happened,” Frankie said, his tone edged with impatience, like he was eager to get it over with. “We’d known each other for years, but we never really talked. Not much, anyway. Then Santi asked me to pick her up in Dallas because he couldn’t go, and he’d already promised. So I did.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering the weight of his own words. “It was the longest trip of my life.” He glanced at you then, a slow, almost taunting smile curving his lips. “But I think something changed there. Don’t you?”

You held his gaze, matching his expression, refusing to break first.

For his family, this was a love story. For you, it was the beginning of a nightmare in a roadside diner, the longest meal of your life.

“Oh, of course it did,” you said, letting your hand fall onto his knee without warning. You felt him tense under your touch—so subtle no one else would have noticed. But you did. The corners of your mouth lifted, amusement flickering in your eyes as you smoothed it over with something softer, something that could be mistaken for affection.

“Actually,” you continued, turning toward Helena, who was watching you with quiet curiosity, “we never got along too well. The few times we saw each other, we ended up arguing, or worse.” You flicked your gaze back to Frankie, like you were measuring his reaction. “I always thought he disliked me. He always seemed uncomfortable, like he was disgusted by me.” You let the words hang in the air for a second longer than necessary before adding, lightly, “Apparently, not at all.”

“He liked you,” Grace said, beaming as if this was the best news she’d heard all night. “It’s so obvious.”

“Ah, typical,” Maia chimed in, crossing her arms, as if she had seen this exact scenario unfold a hundred times before.

Helena, still completely engrossed, leaned in slightly. “So what happened then?”

Frankie exhaled, his voice smoothing into something more deliberate, as if the story was forming in real-time.

“She left something in my car. I went to drop it off at her place a few days later. We talked for a while and—”

“And he kissed me,” you cut in, turning to look at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Frankie’s expression barely changed, but you caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the way his jaw tensed for half a second. He had been telling the story clean, simple, effortless. And now, suddenly, you had made it romantic. More than it needed to be.

Helena squeezed your arm gently, as if this moment—this entire fabricated story—was something to be treasured.

“Oh, who would have imagined it!” she said, delighted. “And what did your brother say? Was he angry? Did he approve?”

You tilted your head, considering. “Well, at first, he was just… shocked.” You smiled, remembering the way Santiago had looked at you when you told him your plan the day before, like he genuinely thought he had misheard. “I don’t think he was angry, exactly. More like—‘of all the people in the world, you and Francisco?’” You mimicked your brother’s voice, shaking your head. “His exact words: You two couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing.” Okay. That was fake, he never said that, but was it a lie?

Helena laughed, eyes warm.

Frankie sighed beside you, and when you glanced at him, his gaze was already on you—steady, unreadable. A story told a little too well. 

“Well,” he said finally, his voice dry. “I guess people change.”

“Well, actually, I don’t find it strange at all,” Helena said suddenly, glancing at her daughters as if they should have known this already. “When I met your father, I didn’t like him. Not even a little. I thought he was insufferable, so arrogant. He asked me out five times, and I turned him down every single time. I was convinced he was conceited.” She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “In reality, he was just… shy and a little bit awkward.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. Maybe that had been true for Frankie's father, but not for his son. With you, Frankie hadn’t been misunderstood—he had been downright mean. What had he called you once? Ah, yes, “little insufferable brat.” 

The memory made you tighten your grip around your glass.

Luckily, the party had started to fill with more guests, and Helena excused herself to greet them. Frankie’s sisters kept you in their orbit a little longer, but their questions were harmless. You answered lightly, intentionally keeping your responses vague, avoiding any personal detail that might reveal too much.

By the time dinner was served, the conversation had shifted entirely, now centered on Helena’s upcoming trip. She was going to Maui with her two sisters.

“Maybe I’ll just stay and live there,” she mused at one point, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her wine. “If the sand convinces me.”

“I think you’re going to love it,” Luna said. “Honestly, I think it’s the best thing you can do. Travel. Go to all those places you always told us about.”

Helena smiled at her daughter, but there was something behind it. A flicker of sadness, a private grief.

“Oh, yes,” she said, exhaling softly. “I just wish I could have had my Gabriel with me.” She smiled as she said it, but the words landed heavier than anything else had all evening.

You glanced at Frankie without meaning to, and that’s when you noticed how he was looking at his mother. Not just listening, watching, the way someone does when they know exactly what’s behind a statement like that. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The same quiet ache was there, in his eyes, in the way his fingers curled loosely around the stem of his glass. Then he caught you looking and dropped his gaze to his plate.

After dinner, Luna and Sofía stood under the spotlights, microphones in hand, offering heartfelt words to their mother. Helena sat at the center of it all, her expression soft, her eyes shining as she listened. Friends and family followed, sharing anecdotes—some sentimental, others ridiculous.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying the evening. Frankie's family was incredible—funny, loud, and full of life. The stories they told about Helena were the kind of stories that made you want to listen forever. 

At one point, Eli, one of her oldest friends, recounted a story about the time she and Helena had snuck into David Bowie’s hotel as teenagers, only to steal a pair of underwear that—to this day—they weren’t entirely sure had belonged to Bowie himself or just some unfortunate member of his team. Either way, they still had them, tucked away somewhere.

The entire room erupted into laughter.

You were still caught in the story, your attention fully on the speaker, when you felt the weight of Frankie’s arm settle lightly against your back. He leaned in, his mouth near your ear, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“You didn’t have to say all that,” he murmured. 

It took a second for you to register what he meant.

“Huh?” You turned slightly over your shoulder, catching the sharpness in his expression.

“This doesn’t have to be romantic.”

You blinked at him. Then scoffed.

“There’s no way it’s not romantic,” you whispered back, exasperated. “I’m your best friend’s sister. It just happened. How do you expect people not to romanticize it?”

Frankie exhaled, his hand briefly flexing against your back before he pulled it away.

“Just… just leave it to me from now on, okay?”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the spotlight, where Helena’s friend was still mid-story.

“Fine,” you muttered.

The party carried on the way these gatherings always did—laughter spilling into the air, the clinking of glasses as a few heartfelt toasts were made, voices overlapping in lively conversation. At the center of it all stood the towering delicious cake, drawing admiration before being sliced and passed around on small plates. Cameras flashed as family members huddled together for pictures, arms wrapped around shoulders, cheeks pressed close, and after a few more anecdotes and a couple more glasses of wine, Frankie leaned in, his breath warm against your shoulder as he murmured that he needed to find the bathroom. You nodded, barely looking up, stretching your legs as you stood. The air inside had started to feel thick, a little too warm, a little too full of laughter and clinking glasses.

You wandered toward the courtyard at the heart of the hall, a quiet oasis strung with soft lights, vines curling around wrought iron railings. The hotel was stunning, all old-world charm and careful elegance, the kind of place you’d never had a reason to visit before tonight.

Sinking onto a small stone bench, you exhaled slowly, watching the golden glow of the party through the enormous windows. Inside, the music throbbed, rich and nostalgic—ABBA, because of course it was. Guests twirled and swayed, arms flung around each other, faces flushed with wine and joy.

You lifted your glass to your lips, the white wine still pleasantly cool, still sweet. For a moment, you stared down at your shoes, tracing patterns on the stone floor with the tip of your toe. This was ridiculous. All of it.

What the hell were you doing here, at Frankie’s mother’s party? How had you let yourself get talked into this? His family was lovely, yes. His mother, especially. But did you really need to be here, sitting among strangers, smiling politely at old stories that weren’t yours? And Harry’s wedding—did you really want to go to that, after everything?

“Enjoying the peace and quiet?”

The voice startled you out of your thoughts. You turned to see Helena stepping into the courtyard, lifting the hem of her dress as she walked. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair slightly undone from all the dancing.

You smiled despite yourself, tilting your head.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said, glancing around as she lowered herself onto the bench beside you. “It’s a beautiful place.”

She hummed in agreement, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Yes, it is. My kids did a good job.”

“It’s a wonderful party. You have so many people who love you.” You hesitated, then laughed lightly. “The stories were funny.”

Helena smiled, and for a split second, you saw Frankie in her—the dimple that appeared when she laughed, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I really liked them,” you added.

“Yeah?” she asked, turning to you, her expression open, curious.

You nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Me too.” Her gaze drifted toward the party, toward the window where music and voices poured through. “The years go by, and sometimes I forget just how much has happened to me. It’s strange. Sometimes it feels like my life after Gabriel passed away is… something separate. Like a different life entirely, like I became another woman without even realizing it.”

She looked down at her hands, twisting her ring absentmindedly.

Frankie had never talked to you about his father, but you knew. He had died suddenly two years ago. Santi had mentioned it in passing on the day of the funeral, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—grief, exhaustion, maybe both. You had called him that morning, not knowing what had happened, and when he told you, it felt like the air had changed. Gabriel. You remembered the name, the way Santi had said it so carefully, like it was something fragile. He loved him, that much was clear. Like a second father, he said.

Helena’s words pressed against something in you, something raw. You and Santi had lost your own father a couple of years ago, when you were twenty-three. It had been sudden, too—death always seemed to be, no matter how much warning you had. Your mother had taken it the hardest. She couldn’t bear to stay in the house they had shared for nearly thirty-five years. The grief sat too thick in the walls, in the corners of every room, in the quiet that used to be filled with his voice. So she left. Packed her things and moved to New York to live with your aunt. Sometimes, when she called, she sounded lighter. Other times, she just sounded far away.

You glanced at Helena, something warm and unspoken passing between you.

“As if you had been torn in two,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “As if there was the version of you that knew him, and a new one that spends every day missing him.”

Helena turned toward you, studying you in the dim light. Then she nodded, her gaze drifting back to the party, to the golden glow of the room beyond the window.

“That’s right,” she murmured. “But I’m very lucky, aren’t I? To have a family like this?” She turned back to you, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Tell me, do you like us?”

You let out a breath of laughter, shaking your head slightly.

“Oh, of course I do,” you said, meaning it. “You have a beautiful family.”

Helena studied you for a long moment, her smile still in place but something shifting behind her eyes. A quiet kind of consideration.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hesitated, then nodded, suddenly unsure of yourself, worried you weren’t as good an actress as you had hoped.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice warm, gentle. There was no interrogation in it, only concern, the careful curiosity of a mother trying not to overstep but unable to help herself. “I don’t want to be that kind of mother, but… I think I am.” She smiled, a little self-deprecating. “Of all my children, he’s always been the most sensitive. Did you know that?”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? You didn’t know Frankie. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Your impression of him had been built on a handful of unfortunate encounters, on snide comments exchanged in passing, on the way he always seemed to carry himself like he had something to prove.

She watched you hesitate, and before you could scramble for an answer, she reached out, her hand landing gently on your leg, a mother’s touch—steadying, reassuring.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t mean to pry—”

“Oh, no,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I…” You let out a breath, deciding there was no point in pretending. “He’s fine. Maybe a little nervous about tonight.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Helena sighed, nodding knowingly.

“Oh, yeah. I noticed that. That boy isn’t very good at hiding things, dear.” She smiled again, her expression fond. “He’s always been like that. Very transparent with his feelings. From the moment he arrived, I could tell—he looked as nervous as a cat backed into a corner.”

You laughed, unable to help it.

“Oh, yes,” you agreed. “On the way here, he was humming this song, and I swear, it was the funniest thing. And before we even walked in, he gave me this whole speech—like, a full-on monologue.”

Helena let out a laugh, shaking her head.

“But you have nothing to worry about,” she said softly. “I already like you very much.”

Her hand came up, brushing against your cheek for the briefest moment, warm and gentle. You felt yourself smile, unthinking, almost reflexive.

“And I’m really sorry about what I said at the table,” she continued, her voice quiet, careful. “I am happy that he’s happy. It’s just… when he told me the other day that he was seeing someone, I really thought he was lying. I hate to admit that, but I did.” She sighed, shaking her head lightly. “My daughters and I have been… a little difficult with him. And I know he wouldn’t want me to talk about this, but I feel like I have to.”

You nodded.

“Of course,” you murmured, your brows pulling together.

She looked at you then, as if weighing something, as if considering whether or not she should say the thing already forming on her tongue.

“I worry about him,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “After Rachel…” She hesitated. “Did he ever talk to you about her?”

You nodded once.

“Well,” she exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I had never seen him like that before.” She glanced away, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of her dress. “Of course, it wasn’t just her. It was everything. His father’s death shattered him, and Rachel… well, she only made it worse. And Francisco has always been strong, but underneath all that, there’s his enormous heart, and he tucks everything away in there. He carries it all.”

Her eyes softened, as if remembering something.

“And when he finally started to come back to himself, I noticed he was… lonely,” she admitted. “I know I can be overbearing, and I know he’s probably told you all about the blind dates.”

She raised her eyebrows, smiling a little.

You laughed, nodding. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Helena let out a small chuckle, shaking her head, but the warmth in her expression didn’t fade. She studied you for a long moment, as if trying to piece something together, as if she had already made up her mind about you and was simply waiting for you to realize it, too.

“I think you’re a good person,” she said at last. “No, I know you are. My intuition is rarely wrong about these things.” She tilted her head slightly, considering you. “And you’re Santiago’s sister. I know no one of his blood could have a bad heart.”

She leaned forward then. “Can I trust you?”

Your breath caught for a second.

You stared at her, your smile slowly slipping away, your expression shifting into something more uncertain. Could she trust you?

No.

She couldn’t.

You were nothing more than a woman her son had convinced to pretend. A stranger caught up in a performance. And yet, here she was, speaking to you with nothing but honesty, with nothing but trust. Her words settled into you, heavy and warm, and you felt something tighten in your chest, something uncomfortable, something that almost hurt.

“Hey. There you are.”

The voice cut through the quiet, startling you. You turned instinctively, your body tensing before your eyes even landed on him.

Frankie.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the garden lights, his expression pulled into something that looked like a smile, but wasn’t. His eyes gave him away—something sharp, something unsettled lurking just beneath the surface.

Helena moved first. She stood, smoothing out the skirt of her dress as if shaking off the weight of your conversation. By the time she reached her son, any trace of emotion had been neatly tucked away.

“I’ll leave you two,” she said lightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t abandon my own party just yet.”

Frankie barely glanced at her, his gaze still fixed on you. Helena disappeared through the doorway, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.

You stayed where you were, fingers pressed against the fabric of your dress, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, edged with something you didn’t like. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He moved toward you, sinking onto the bench beside you. Too close.

“What the hell were you doing talking to my mom?”

You exhaled sharply, already exhausted by the conversation before it had even properly begun.

“I just needed air,” you said, leveling him with a look. “She just… showed up.”

“Well, no. Don’t.”

You blinked at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to her.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“What did you want me to do, Francisco? Turn my back on her?”

He didn’t answer right away, just studied you, his jaw tight.

“What did you say to her?” 

The accusatory edge in his tone made something twist inside you—something hot, something unpleasant. Your heart kicked up a little, the way it had when you were younger and had done something wrong, when an adult’s disappointment settled over you like a heavy weight. But this wasn’t that. You weren’t a child, and Frankie sure as hell wasn’t some authority figure.

Still, something about this—his sharp words, his narrowed eyes—made you feel small. And maybe, just maybe, that conversation with Helena had already set something loose inside you. Had already made you feel like the fraud you were.

“I didn’t say anything,” you said firmly. “Seriously.”

Frankie let out a harsh breath, rubbing a hand over his face before gesturing sharply with his hands.

“You already ruined it,” he said, his voice low but forceful. “What was that at dinner, huh?”

“What?”

“Everything. I thought we’d been clear. Nothing too personal. Nothing too over the top.”

You inhaled, slow and steady, trying to keep your irritation in check. But it was creeping in, needling its way under your skin.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I just acted how we agreed—”

“No,” he interrupted, turning to fully face you. His expression had hardened, frustration and something else—something darker—etched into the lines of his face. “You went too far. You did it wrong.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I did exactly what we agreed on,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “It’s not my fault your mom wanted to talk to me—”

“You said too much—”

“No, I was just being myself but a little—”

“Exactly,” he cut in, his voice a little louder, a little rougher. “You shouldn’t have been you!”

You felt it like a slap.

Your breath hitched, your throat tightening, heat rising to your face before you could stop it. The burn started behind your nose, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

Frankie’s expression shifted just the slightest bit, his mouth pressing into a tight line, as if he had only just realized what he’d said. As if he could see it—the way you were gripping your empty wine glass too tightly, the way your whole body had gone rigid.

But he didn’t have time to take it back.

Because you stood so quickly the bench wobbled slightly beneath you. And then you were moving—away from him, away from the awful heat crawling up your neck, away from the sharp edge of his words.

“Hey—” Frankie started, standing just as fast, his voice breaking through the air. But it was useless.

The music swelled, drowning him out, swallowing whatever poor attempt at damage control he was about to make.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

The farther you walked into the party, the harder your heart pounded, the sound of it loud in your ears, almost drowning out the music. The heat in your face hadn’t faded. Neither had the sharp, lingering sting of Frankie’s words, pressing like a bruise against your ribs.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the room. The dim lighting worked in your favor—candles flickering on the tables, the dance floor bathed in a shifting wash of blues and reds, everything softened by the haze of too much champagne and conversation. You doubted anyone would notice you slipping away.

For a brief second, you considered heading straight for the door. Walking out, stepping into the night, inhaling air that wasn’t thick with perfume and laughter and the weight of everything that had just happened.

But instead, you turned on your heel and went to the bar.

You weren’t going to leave. Not yet.

You were angry, and there was an open bar. It would be stupid not to take advantage.

You slid onto a stool, pressing your elbows onto the smooth wood, and ordered a margarita.

The bartender nodded, reaching for a bottle of tequila, his movements fluid, practiced. You watched him pour, shake, pour again. The salt rim sparkled under the low lights. When he finally set the drink in front of you, you didn’t hesitate—lifting the glass to your lips and taking a long, slow pull. The cold hit your tongue first, followed by the sharpness of the lime, the bite of the alcohol. You drank like you had something to prove, and by the time you set the glass back down, it was already halfway empty.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement.

Frankie.

He slid onto the stool next to you, his presence shifting the air before you even fully registered him. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, his body angled toward you, his forearm resting on the bar, his fingers absently grazing his mouth like he was considering his next words. Or maybe biting them back.

Your jaw tightened.

Then he ordered a whiskey, and you rolled your eyes—not at the drink itself, but at the sound of his voice, at the way it cut through the music and curled under your skin.

Still, he didn’t speak. Just watched you, his gaze flicking toward you every few seconds, charged with something unreadable. You refused to meet it, keeping your attention locked onto anything else—the melting ice in your glass, the vodka label in front of you, the way the bartender’s hands moved as he made another round of drinks.

And so it went.

You started your second margarita. He started his second whiskey.

Minutes passed.

Then, finally, you turned to look at him for the first time since the courtyard.

He was already looking at you.

“I know you’re nervous, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that.”

Frankie opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could get a word out.

“You’re not going to talk to me like that,” you repeated, quieter this time, sharper.

His eyes flickered—something hesitant, something almost guilty.

“I’m—”

“Look at me,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your words landed between you, closer than they needed to be. “I spent hours getting ready for this. Hours making sure I looked perfect for this stupid charade. Do you have any idea how long it took me to fix my hair? No, you don’t. Because you’re a complete idiot. An idiot who treats me like shit when I’m the one standing here, at your mother’s party, pretending to be someone I’m not—for you. And do you know why I'm doing this, Frankie?” Your voice wavered, not with weakness but with the sheer force of your anger. “Because I chose to. Not because you deserve it or I need you for another stupid lie. Because let’s be honest—” you tilted your head, smiling coldly, “—we’re not even fucking friends.”

His gaze hardened, but he didn’t look away.

“You owed me,” he said simply, like that was supposed to mean something.

You let out a quiet scoff, your eyes flicking to the dance floor, where Maia was watching the two of you from a distance, her expression unreadable.

When you turned back to Frankie, something had shifted in your eyes—something lighter, something amused. A slow, deliberate smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand, resting it against his cheek.

His brows knit together in confusion.

“Your sister is watching,” you murmured.

His shoulders relaxed, his expression softening just slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek, slow and calculated.

“Forget about the wedding,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head, your smile still sweet, still deceptive. “Because after tonight, I don’t want to spend another fucking second with you.”

Frankie let out a low breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I’m useful to you,” he said, his voice smooth, certain.

“You’re useless to me.”

He leaned in just enough that your knees touched. “I don’t think so, shortcake.”

"Huh?" You let out an incredulous laugh, letting your eyes flick across his face—his mouth, his jaw, the slight smugness settled into his features. Beneath your hand, you could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse beneath your palm.

Your fingers slid from his cheek to his neck, and you squeezed, just enough to make a point.

“To me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against his skin, “you’re nothing but a pathetic, desperate little loser trying to convince his mommy he’s something he’s not.”

Frankie let out a quiet, bitter laugh, the kind that barely curled the edges of his mouth but darkened his eyes in a way that made your stomach twist. He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers around yours, prying them gently from his neck. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he laced his fingers with yours, lowering your joined hands to his chest.  

His body shifted forward, closing the already dangerous space between you. If you leaned in even slightly, your nose would brush against his.  

Your breath hitched, the heat pooling in your cheeks betraying every emotion you were trying to suppress. Anger, frustration, something sharper beneath the surface.  

Frankie studied you for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice low, edged with amusement.  

“You sound a little too confident for someone who might be a pathetic, desperate loser herself,” he murmured. 

You swallowed, your pulse a steady, insistent beat against your ribs.  

“Can I ask you a question?” he continued, his fingers flexing against yours.  

“No.”  

He ignored you, tilting his head slightly, considering something. And then—  

“Which came first,” he asked, voice almost teasing, “the moon or the sun? I thought you were afraid of needles.”

You stared at him in silence, the smug smile on his lips igniting something hot and restless inside you. It wasn’t just anger—it was something stranger, something you didn’t want to name.

Your tattoo.

He must have seen it earlier, when he helped you with your dress. A small moon and sun, delicately inked on your lower back—a reckless decision from a night out drinking with Emma. She was the sun, you were the moon. At the time, in your drunken haze, it had seemed like an aesthetically brilliant idea. Sober, you weren’t so sure.

A quiet laugh slipped from your lips, amusement curling at the edges of your mouth. Your fingers tightened slightly, gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath his hand.

“Look at you, a regular voyeur,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Why do you ask, Francisco? Is it you talking, or the whiskey? And how many glasses of wine had you had before this? Three? Four? ”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, his gaze trailing over your face like he was enjoying something about this moment, about you.

“I really didn't think of you as the type of person who would wear a tattoo like that.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smile.

“Ah, funny. So, you spend a lot of time thinking about me and what I wear? Or is it only when you’re bored, staring at the walls of your sad, monotonous life?”

“Said the woman who spends her nights with a cat and an imaginary boyfriend,” Frankie said, grinning as he watched you roll your eyes. The dim bar light caught the edge of his smile, sharpening it. He lifted his glass—dark amber, expensive—and took a slow sip. You followed the movement of his throat, the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“Mr. Darcy’s excellent company. And at least I have a cat. What do you have?”

Frankie made a show of looking around, scanning the crowded room like the answer might be hidden somewhere between the swaying bodies on the dance floor or in the clinking glasses behind the bar. Then his gaze settled back on you, steady, assessing.

“What do I have?” He hummed as if considering it, then leaned in just slightly. “I think I really want to have another drink to make being around you more bearable.”

You pressed your lips together, biting back a retort. The warmth of alcohol sat low in your stomach, and the room was just a little too bright, a little too soft at the edges.

Across the room, Frankie’s sisters were dancing, their hair spilling over their shoulders, their laughter rising above the music. Maia caught your eye, her face flushed, and raised her eyebrows in an invitation. Without a second thought, you hopped off your stool, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Frankie watched you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He parted his lips like he was about to say something, but before he could, you turned and walked away. His mouth actually dropped open when he saw where you were going.

Maia pulled you in by the arm, and just like that, you were dancing, your body falling easily into the rhythm of the music. The moment felt expansive, electric. A kind of joy buzzed beneath your skin—the kind that only came from being a little tipsy and surrounded by people who knew how to have fun. You let it take you, the laughter, the music, the hands brushing against yours as you moved.

And yet—his words clung to you like the aftertaste of something bitter. You need to seem... normal. Forgettable, even. Like he was the authority on that. Like it was his job to keep you contained, manageable.

Well, if he wanted you to behave, maybe you should do something to really piss him off.

You turned to find him, just to check. Luna leaned in, murmured something nice about your dress, but you barely registered it. Frankie was still at the bar, one arm draped lazily against the counter, the other wrapped around his glass. His expression was unreadable—neutral, detached—but you knew better. You knew him. And if you had to guess, he was furious.

A song passed, then another. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little wild. Helena was dancing beside you, swaying Jamie from side to side, both of them beaming. The kind of easy happiness you never saw at parties in your own family. Frankie was still there, but his eyes weren’t on you anymore. He was looking at his phone.

Two songs later, you weren’t thinking about him at all.

You were laughing, lost in the pulse of the music, your head tipped back as you let it all go. Then—fingers wrapped around your arm. Warm. Familiar. Frankie.

Helena appeared beside him, her voice bright and teasing. “Finally! A girl shouldn’t dance alone when her boyfriend’s around.”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just smiled at his mother—an easy, charming kind of smile that didn’t fool you at all—before tugging you toward him. You stumbled a little, your hands catching against his chest as he turned you, pulled you in close.

Your breath hitched, but your smile didn’t falter. You tilted your chin up at him, your fingers settling on his shoulders.

“Are you going to dance with me now, honey?” you asked, your voice syrupy sweet, thick with amusement.

His hand tightened around yours.

Yeah, he was mad.

And you were having the best time.

Frankie licked his teeth, a slow, deliberate motion, like he was holding something back. A smile curved at the corner of his mouth, tight and humorless. He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

"I see what you're doing," he murmured, his voice slurring slightly, softened by alcohol. "I think you should stop."

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you lifted your chin, closing the space between you until your lips were just beside his ear.

"I'm just having fun," you said, your voice light, teasing. "Completely harmless."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Amusement flickered across his face, but his eyes told another story—sharp, dark, frustrated. Like enduring this moment, enduring you, required every ounce of patience he had left.

Then, without warning, his hands slid to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you aware of them. Before you could react, he pulled you closer, the movement rough, unhesitating. Your chest bumped against his, knocking the air from your lungs in a quiet, startled gasp.

Your eyes met, and something flickered in the space between you.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, a nervous smile pulling at your lips.

Frankie tilted his head, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady on yours.

"I’m playing your game, didn’t you want to dance?"

You could smell the whiskey on him, the faint traces of something else—lavender, salt, the remnants of the night on his skin. Your hands were still on his shoulders, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt, and for a brief, unsteady second, you let yourself feel it. The warmth of him. The way his body fit against yours.

You flicked a glance around the room, searching for familiar faces—Maia, Sofía, Helena, someone who might be watching. But no. Everyone was lost in their own drunken happiness, in laughter, in swaying bodies and half-empty glasses.

Then Frankie moved.

He stepped forward, hands firm at your waist, steering you with him. The crowd swallowed you both, the music vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, through him.

"This isn't a good idea," you murmured, but you didn't pull away.

Frankie barely reacted. His hand traced up your arm, fingers curling around yours, guiding them into place, his movements seamless, practiced. He looked down at you, his mouth twitching at the corner, like he was already enjoying whatever this was more than he should.

"Oh no? Why not?"

His face was close. Too close.

Then, before you could register it, his cheek brushed against yours, a fleeting touch, just enough to make your breath hitch. The warmth of his skin, the slow, deliberate way he moved to the rhythm of the music—it was too much, all of it. Your fingers tightened around his without thinking.

You exhaled, a slow, shuddering sigh, and with it came the scent of him—warm skin, whiskey, and something else. Something deeper. Was it cologne? Was he wearing fucking cologne?

Whatever it was, he smelled fucking good.

Your eyes fluttered shut, as if that might help erase the fact that Francisco Morales, of all people, smelled good, and that his body was pressed against yours, and—worst of all—that none of it felt bad. In fact, your feet lifted slightly onto your toes, seeking some fraction of closeness, your body betraying you in real time.

It was the alcohol.

It was absolutely, one hundred percent the alcohol. That, and the undeniable, frustrating fact that you were touch-starved. When was the last time a man had held you like this? You couldn’t remember. Your mind was too foggy, too wrapped up in the moment, in the warmth of him, in the firm weight of his hands.

But then it hit you.

It was Frankie. Frankie was the one holding you.

Your eyes snapped open, the realization jolting through you like a slap. Without thinking, you yanked yourself away, stumbling backward. It was clumsy, too sudden, and your own body felt unsteady, like it hadn’t caught up with your decision yet. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Frankie just watched you, an amused, almost devilish grin tugging at his lips. And then, slowly, that amusement shifted into something else—confusion, curiosity—as he took in your wide eyes, your rapid breath, your entire mess of a reaction.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and bolted, and didn’t stop moving until you were outside, back in the courtyard.

The air was crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the heat burning beneath your skin. You stepped into the garden, tilting your head back, letting the night air kiss your cheeks. It helped, a little. It grounded you, just enough to breathe, just enough to press your hands against your ribs like you could steady your own heartbeat.

"Hey, you okay?"

You stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Of course he followed you.

You didn’t turn around. You heard his footsteps approach, felt him standing just a little too close beside you. He was silent for a moment, and for some reason, that was worse than if he’d said something right away.

"You should drink some water," he said finally, his voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges. You caught the sound of his palm scraping over the back of his neck. "And so should I, honestly. I think I drank—"

“Stop pretending to care,” you snapped, cutting him off. Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be, your arms folding tightly across your chest. And why were you angry? You weren’t even sure. You just were.

Frankie let out a soft, amused breath. He clicked his tongue, then shifted his weight, considering you.

“I’m not pretending anything. I promised Santi I’d look after you.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, finally turning to face him.

“What, like you’re my fucking babysitter or something?” You shook your head, your words dripping with frustration. “I’m twenty-nine, Francisco. I can take care of myself.”

Frankie’s jaw tightened. His hands went to his hips, his eyes dropping to your feet like he was biting back whatever he actually wanted to say.

“Fine,” he muttered.

The silence between you stretched, thin but not fragile, the kind that neither of you felt the need to break. You both stood still, eyes moving across the garden as though searching for something worth commenting on. The music inside thrummed against the walls of the house, muffled but insistent, the bass vibrating faintly under your skin.

And then you became aware of your body—every muscle, every inch of discomfort. The dull ache in your feet flared as if your nerves had only just remembered to complain.

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to the cool night air.

“My feet are killing me,” you murmured, shifting your weight, closing your eyes for just a second. 

Frankie snorted. You cracked an eye open in time to see him glance down at your heels—six inches of poor decision-making, glossy under the dim garden lights. His gaze moved up your legs, thoughtful. Then he scratched his chin, eyes narrowing slightly, as if making a decision.

“Sit down,” he said after a pause, nodding toward the bench you’d been perched on earlier, next to Helena. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Before you could ask where he was going, he was already walking off, disappearing through the door.

You hesitated, then lowered yourself onto the seat—not because he told you to, obviously, just because you wanted to. You stretched your legs out, rolling your ankles, relishing the brief relief.

A couple of minutes passed. The music shifted to something softer, slower. You had just started to wonder if Frankie had left you out here for good when the door creaked open again.

He stepped back outside, a crease between his brows and—

You blinked.

“What are you doing?” Your voice carried an edge of suspicion. “What are those?”

Frankie knelt in front of you, setting a pair of slippers at your feet. His expression was flat, unimpressed.

He sighed, already irritated, already prepared for your resistance.

“They’re new, don't worry,” he said, like it was nothing, like this was something he did all the time. His fingers curled around your ankle before you could flinch away. Warm, certain. “Sofia gave them to me, but they’re too small and... not my style anyway. I left them in the car to exchange them, but I never got around to it.” He shot you a pointed look, as if to say, So really, I’m doing us both a favor. “Might as well put them to use.”

Before you could argue, before you could come up with something clever to deflect the strange weight of this moment, he unclipped your heel and slid it off with practiced ease.

You swallowed. Watched him. Felt a strange, unwelcome awareness creep up your spine.

The pads of his fingers brushed over your ankle as he repeated the motion with the other shoe. His focus stayed on the task, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, something in your chest wound too tight, a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago.

You didn’t like it.

Frankie slid the slippers onto your feet, adjusting them slightly before leaning back on his heels with a groan. He pushed himself up, exhaling through his nose, then dropped onto the bench beside you. A hand scrubbed over his face, rubbing at his eyes, and a yawn slipped past his lips.

You looked down at your feet, flexing your toes experimentally against the soft fabric. You weren’t sure what to say.

But, despite yourself, it did feel better.

“Thanks,” you murmured, voice flat, almost absent.

Frankie nodded, his gaze flicking to your feet, now resting comfortably on the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, silence. The kind that stretched and settled, filling the space between you like heavy fog. Through the glass windows, the muffled thrum of music hummed in the background, but all you could really hear was your own breathing, steady but uneven. Would it be rude if you told him you were ready to go home?

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, pulling you from the thought.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting slightly in your seat. “My feet don’t hurt anymore.”

Frankie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head tipped down between his shoulders. He exhaled, like he was bracing himself.

“I meant before,” he said, glancing up at you. “I—”

“Ah. Yeah.” 

His fingers brushed idly over the seam of his pants, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a murmur.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole to you.” He hesitated, as if deciding whether to keep going. “You just... you... you get under my skin sometimes, but—anyway. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him.

“It’s okay.”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. Instead, he let out a short, breathy laugh and leaned back in his chair.

“This was a fucking terrible idea,” he admitted, shaking his head, his eyes glinting with something light, something almost fond. “What the hell were we thinking?”

A laugh bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it. “I have no idea.”

Frankie grinned, pushing to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face as if that might somehow wipe away the flush of warmth creeping up his neck. When he looked back at you, his expression was softer.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “Let’s stay a little longer, and then I’ll take you home. Deal?”

You eyed his hand, hesitating. There was something about the gesture—about the unspoken truce it implied—that made your chest tighten. But still, after a beat, you placed your palm against his.

Frankie pulled you to your feet, steadying you before letting go.

“You’re drunk,” you observed. “Are you seriously going to drive like that?”

“I’ll call a cab,” he said immediately, as if he’d already made up his mind. 

You nodded, about to say something else when the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside, his movements sluggish, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Frankie shifted closer to you, his body angling slightly in your direction.

“Hey, it's our little pilot,” the man drawled, his words slurring together as his eyes flicked lazily between the two of you. A smirk played on his lips. “How’s it going?”

Frankie’s expression barely changed.

“Ian,” he said, his voice unreadable. “Didn’t see you earlier.”

“Nah, I was running late,” Ian replied with a slow shrug. “You know how it is—time moves like shit when you wanna leave work early.” He clicked his tongue, his gaze dragging over you with undisguised interest. “So, this your new girl?”

Frankie didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said smoothly. “We were actually just heading out—”

“You still having those problems?” Ian interrupted, tilting his head.

Frankie exhaled sharply. “Not really any of your business.” A beat. “You still avoiding your ex-wife?”

You raised your eyebrows, glancing between them. Ian laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me,” he mused, voice laced with something cruel. “Does your dick even work with all those antidepressants? Must be a fucking nightmare trying to keep up with something as sweet as this one.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, his smirk widening.

Your stomach twisted in revulsion.

Frankie went still beside you, his jaw locking, his shoulders tight. His gaze was fixed on Ian, his expression eerily blank, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. You thought of Helena’s words about her son and felt something sharp and bitter curdle in your chest.

Ian chuckled to himself, clearly entertained, clearly drunk beyond reason. Frankie was about to say something—you could see it in the way his mouth parted slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—but before he could, before he even had the chance, the anger—and maybe the alcohol—made the decision for you.

“Oh, not that it’s any of your business, Ian,” you said, tilting your head slightly, voice light, almost sweet. “But since you’re so curious…”

You let out a soft chuckle, flicking your gaze to Frankie for the briefest moment before returning your attention to the man in front of you.

“I suppose I could tell you that... yeah, it works. Before we came here, this man had me seeing stars. Multiple times, actually.” You paused, just long enough to watch the words land, to see the flicker of surprise cross Ian’s face. “So really, I guess that answers your question, doesn’t it?”

You reached out then, the movement slow, deliberate, brushing your fingers along Frankie’s cheek, letting your thumb rest lightly against his lips. His breath caught, just for a second, and his eyes darted to yours, startled but composed, like he wasn’t entirely sure what you were doing but was curious enough to let it happen.

Ian scoffed, recovering quickly.

“Sure,” he said, dragging the word out, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused, vaguely condescending. “I doubt that, gorgeous.”

Your gaze flicked over him, head to toe, as if you were appraising something unimpressive on display. You didn’t bother hiding the disdain curling at the corners of your mouth.

Still, your hand remained on Frankie’s face, still at your side. Turning back to him, you found him already watching you, his lips twitching like he was barely resisting a smile. He didn’t care about Ian’s words, about his tone—he was far more interested in whatever it was you were doing.

And then, without really thinking, without hesitating, you pushed up onto your toes and cradled his face in both hands.

You kissed him.

Not a tentative, testing-the-waters kind of kiss. No, this was different. Your lips pressed against his like you’d been wanting to all night, like you didn’t particularly care if Ian was still standing there, gaping at you. Frankie made a sound in the back of his throat, one of surprise that melted quickly into something else. His hands found your waist, firm and steady, pulling you closer as he angled his head, deepening it.

Your tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he let you in, meeting you there, matching you effortlessly. When you finally broke apart, the sound between you was wet and sharp, but you barely had a second to take a breath before you kissed him again.

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, your fingers curling there as you smiled against his lips.

Frankie exhaled a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing your hip.

And then, just because you could, because it felt like the right thing to do, you nipped lightly at his bottom lip before pulling back completely. When you finally turned to Ian, his face was frozen in something close to shock, his eyebrows nearly at his hairline, his mouth slightly open like he wasn’t sure if he should speak or just accept his defeat.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, and turned to Frankie again. He was staring at you now, serious, a little dazed, his hands still resting on your waist.

“Now take me home, baby,” you murmured, your voice just loud enough for Ian to hear.

Frankie blinked, as if snapping back into himself.

“I—” His lips parted, then curved into something lopsided, something close to a smirk. “Of course, baby.”

His hand found yours easily, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned, stepping past Ian with a saccharine smile.

“Bye, Ian,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

Frankie pushed open the door, and the pulse of the music hit you instantly—deep bass reverberating through your chest, the sharp hum of laughter and voices filling the gaps between beats. You stepped inside, weaving through the press of bodies until you reached the edge of the dance floor. The lights were dim, warm, shifting in color. The air smelled like spilled beer, expensive perfume, and something sweet you couldn’t quite place.  

You turned to Frankie, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth.  

“Who the fuck was that?” you asked, voice teasing as you lifted onto your toes, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.  

Frankie dipped his head slightly, his breath warm against your ear.  

“My cousin,” he murmured. “He’s an asshole.”  

You huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”  

His gaze locked onto yours, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something else entirely. For two long seconds, neither of you spoke. Then, his focus shifted over your shoulder.  

“They’re watching,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. “Don’t turn around.”  

Your brows lifted slightly. “Who?”  

“Mai and Sofía,” he said. “They’re having fun with us.”  

The adrenaline still buzzed under your skin, your pulse quick from everything that had just unfolded. You laughed, looping your arms around his neck without thinking, and his hands found their place at your waist like it was second nature.  

Frankie exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh but not quite. His fingers flexed slightly against your hips, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you tighter or let go.

“I think you should kiss me again,” he said suddenly, like the thought had slipped out before he could catch it, voice rougher than before.

You tilted your head, studying him, letting him sit with what he’d just said.  

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips. “See? What did I tell you, Francisco? Begging for a little kiss. It was only a matter of time.”  

Frankie’s throat worked around a swallowed laugh. His grip on your waist tightened for just a second.  

“I’m not begging for anything,” he muttered.  

“Sure.”  

You lifted your chin slightly, and he didn’t waste a second—he ducked his head, his mouth finding yours with an easy sort of urgency.

This time, the kiss was different—less urgent, less about spectacle. His lips found yours with a quiet kind of certainty, warm and unhurried, like something unfolding naturally rather than something being taken. His palm slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before settling against your cheek, his skin rough but his touch impossibly gentle. His thumb moved absently over your cheekbone, a slow, soothing motion, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.  

When his tongue met yours, it wasn’t demanding, just deliberate—like he was tasting the moment, like he was letting it settle between you before deciding what to do with it.  

And then, before it could tip into something deeper, he pulled back. His lips lingered for a second longer, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before he pressed one last, fleeting kiss against your mouth—light, almost absentminded. Then his hand slipped from your cheek, leaving behind the ghost of his touch.

A small smile played at your lips.

“I thought this was supposed to be a kiss-free party.”

“You started it.”

“And you were the one asking for another,” you countered, tilting your head.

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t take much asking.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, smacking his arm lightly.

“Oh, by the way—you’re welcome.”

His brows knitted together, head tilting slightly, a stray curl slipping over his forehead. “For what?”

“For what?” you echoed. “I don’t know, Francisco, maybe for showing up to your mom’s party? For saving you a second ago out there?”

“Right. Yes. Thank you. You know that.”

“Do I?” You raised an eyebrow. “How would I know?”

He leaned back a little, his hands slipping away from your waist.

“I thought witches just… knew things like that.”

Your mouth fell open in mock offense as you crossed your arms. Then, without another word, you turned toward the bar, fully aware of him following you, just a step behind.

“You’re not going to the wedding, then?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the bar, watching you carefully.

You shook your head, meeting his gaze. “Why would I?”

He pursed his lips, tilting his head like he was considering something.

“I thought you wanted to prove a point. Show him you were happy. And, I mean… do you even know what kind of food they’re serving?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You sound very invested in this wedding all of a sudden. If you want to go, Francisco, just go. You don’t need me.”

“Maybe I will,” he mused. “Might even steal a bottle or two of champagne while I’m at it.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, light and unguarded.

Your gaze drifted across the bar, unfocused, catching on the row of glass bottles lined up neatly on the shelves. Their labels were intricate, embossed with gold filigree and elegant cursive, the kind of lettering that—under normal circumstances—you might have found charming. Right now, though, your brain, pleasantly fogged from alcohol, couldn’t make sense of them. The letters blurred together, swirling into something abstract and unreadable.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulder as if shaking off the evening itself. The sound of a cork popping somewhere behind the bar made you flinch slightly, and you let your hand drift absently over your opposite arm.

“Ready to go home?”

Frankie’s voice was low, steady, just beside you.

You nodded but didn’t look at him, your eyes lingering instead on the dance floor. Helena was still out there, her laughter bright and careless, her arms thrown around one of her friends. Of Frankie’s sisters, only Luna remained, swaying easily to the music with Henry, her movements fluid, like she could keep going for hours.

Frankie pulled out his phone and stepped away to call an Uber. You tracked his movements for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a light touch on your arm pulled your focus back.

Maia had appeared on the stool next to you, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose and a little wild. She was smiling, the kind of grin that promised trouble.

“My brother’s a pain in the ass,” she announced. “Dragged you off the dance floor, didn’t he?”

You smirked, amused but not denying it.

“He’s afraid we’ll scare you off,” she continued, lifting an eyebrow in mock seriousness. “But it’s too late for that now. You’ve already witnessed my mom shaking her ass—so, what do you say? One last drink?”

You hesitated for all of three seconds before shrugging and settling back onto the stool. One more wouldn’t kill you. Probably.

Maia was quick with her order—tequila, no hesitation. When the bartender set up the shot glasses in front of you, you eyed them warily, unsure if your stomach was on board with this decision. Was it irresponsible to drink this much at your boyfriend’s mother’s birthday party? Absolutely. But then again, Frankie wasn’t your boyfriend. So, really, what did it matter?

Ten minutes later, the tequila had done its job, blurring the edges of the evening, making everything feel a little looser, a little funnier. Maia had leaned in close, her voice low and conspiratorial, her hands gesturing dramatically as she spoke.

“I mean, she wasn’t explicitly awful,” she said, dragging out the word like she was still weighing it. “But she had… this energy. Something off. You know what I mean? Like, no matter how hard I tried, I could never figure her out. And she could never blend in with the family, like something was repelling her. I know—no, I know—she hated me.”

You shook your head, appalled, as if this was the greatest injustice you had ever heard.

“But you’re so cute,” you blurted, voice thick and slow, your eyes shining with conviction.

“Right?” Maia snorted. “That’s what I’ve been saying. But Frankie didn’t get it. She was nothing like him. Too cold, too shallow. And every time she treated him like an idiot, I swear I—”

“What are you two talking about?”

A new voice cut through the moment, clear and direct, and you turned just in time to see Frankie standing there with Helena at his side. His eyes flicked between you and Maia, suspicion creeping into his expression.

“Maia, shut your mouth,” he said, more exhausted than angry.

Maia made a dismissive sound. “Oh, please, we’re having girl talk.”

“Well, our cab’s here in five,” Frankie said. His voice was flat, final.

You felt a small pang of disappointment. The conversation had been just getting interesting.

Helena stepped forward, her smile soft and radiant, her cheeks flushed from dancing and champagne. She reached for your arm, her touch warm, familiar, like she’d known you for years instead of just a few hours.

“It was so lovely to meet you, sweetheart,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity. “You have to come over for dinner one of these nights so we can actually sit down and talk properly. How about it?”

Frankie was watching you. Not just watching—staring, as if he was trying to telepathically send you some urgent message. But you weren’t looking at him. You were too busy giggling, too charmed by Helena’s smile, too caught up in the easy, affectionate way she spoke to you.

“I’d love to!” you said, too eagerly, too enthusiastically.

Helena clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! How about next week?”

Before you could answer, Frankie’s hand landed on your lower back, grounding, insistent. His voice was tight when he spoke.

“I think we should go.”

Maia let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head.

“Don’t be rude, Frankie.” Then she turned back to you, her grin conspiratorial. “So? Next week?”

You blinked, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in headlights. But Maia and Helena were both looking at you with those eyes—hopeful, expectant, impossible to refuse.

“Yes,” you murmured, stepping off the stool, your smile a little uncertain.

The car door shut with a muted thud. Frankie exhaled, pressing himself into the seat beside you, saying something to the driver in a voice that was trying very hard to sound composed. It didn’t quite land.

You slumped against the seat, your arms folded over your chest, your head feeling heavy on your shoulders. He had practically dragged you out of there. You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to the rest of his family.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of streetlights and neon, and the radio hummed something soft and familiar—an ‘80s ballad, the kind that lived permanently in the background of cab rides at ungodly hours. The dashboard clock read 4:03 a.m.

After a few minutes, he turned his head toward you.

“You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, eyes closed.

“Good.”

A silence settled between you, neither comfortable nor tense, just thick with something unspoken.

After a while, he exhaled sharply.

You cracked one eye open. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” he said, staring ahead. “I’m just tired.”

“Me too.”

Another beat of silence. Then he said, “Why did you accepted? Now I have to come up with some excuse to get you out of dinner.”

You turned your head lazily toward him, your eyebrows knitting together.

“I felt cornered, okay? They were both looking at me with those eyes…” You trailed off, searching for the right words before finally landing on him, blinking slowly. “Those eyes. Exactly.”

His expression didn’t change. “They’re just my eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“I don’t know. They’re kind of… intense.”

“Is that an insult?”

You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall back against the seat.

“I don’t even know anymore. I’m too drunk for your dumb questions.”

Frankie let out a short, derisive snort, shifting his gaze toward the window, his thoughts scattering in odd, untraceable directions.

“You left your car at the hotel,” you murmured after a beat, your voice quiet beneath the steady hum of the radio. Maneater by Daryl Hall played, tinny through the car speakers.

He turned his head toward you with an excruciating slowness, like he already knew you’d be looking at him. And you were. Your head tilted back against the seat, arms curled tightly around yourself, fingers bunched into the fabric of your dress.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” he muttered, as though your comment had somehow irritated him.

“Do what you want.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “What’s with you and that attitude?”

You exhaled, your shoulders rising and falling as you turned toward the window, the passing streetlights slicing gold ribbons across the glass.

“What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“A lot of things.”

Your eyes flicked back to his, the darkness between you not quite enough to make out his expression, but enough to catch the sharp glint of his gaze. The passing lights reflected off them like tiny, fractured stars.

“You look just like your mom,” you said, the words slipping out, direct and unfiltered. “Same eyes. Same dimples.” Your hand moved before you could think better of it, the tip of your finger pressing into the crease of his mouth. “But she’s nice.”

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, my mom’s nice.”

You nodded, shifting back against the seat. “Yeah. Not like you, Francisco.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but you caught the faint twitch of his lips as he turned away, like he was suppressing a smirk. He was pretending to be less drunk than he was. But so were you.

A few minutes later, the Uber rolled to a stop in front of your house. You sighed, pushing the door open, but before stepping out, you turned back, fixing Frankie with a long, unfocused look.

“See ya,” you mumbled, dragging your feet out of the car, your gaze still locked onto his. “I hope this never happens again—oh, fuck—”

The next second, the world tilted sharply. There was no time to react, no time to process the way gravity wrenched you down. Just the sudden, violent awareness of pavement rushing toward your face.

Somewhere behind you, the driver made a startled sound. But Frankie’s reaction was immediate. The car door slammed, quick footsteps on asphalt. Then his hands—warm, steady, bracing under your arms, lifting you before you had time to register the impact.

“Jesus—Are you okay? Fuck—fuck—are you bleeding?” His voice was strained, almost frantic, his palm finding your chin, tilting your face up.

There was a sharp, metallic tang on your tongue. Something wet trickled past your lips. You blinked down at your hands, lifted them into the glow of the streetlamp. Blood.

“Oh, shit.” Your breath caught. Your stomach lurched. “Oh my God, how bad is it? How bad is it?”

Frankie didn’t let go of your face. His fingers pressed lightly beneath your jaw, guiding your head back.

“You’re fine. It’s fine. Just a nosebleed—stop moving, Jesus—hold still.”

You let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry, your hands still hovering uselessly in front of your face.

“It was the slippers,” you muttered, voice thick, your fingers pressing beneath your nose as Frankie tilted your head back. “They’re too big. I tripped.”

Frankie exhaled, a short, sharp breath.

“It wasn’t my fault, if that’s what you’re implying.” Then, when you tried to look at him, he clicked his tongue and pressed his palm against your forehead, forcing your head back again. “No, keep it back. Jesus.”

You made a weak sound of protest but obeyed.

“Where are your keys?”

You blinked at him for a second like you had to remember what keys were. Then, with exaggerated effort, you fumbled through your bag, fingers clumsy as they scraped against receipts and loose change. When you finally found them, you thrust them toward him, and Frankie took them without comment, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

The door wasn’t hard to unlock. He nudged it open, watching as you hesitated on the threshold, swaying slightly. He helped you inside, his hand warm around your wrist as he guided you up the stairs.

Halfway up, you mumbled, “They’re moving.”

Frankie frowned. “What?”

“The stairs.” You squinted. “They’re moving.”

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “No, you’re drunk.”

Then, without thinking, he tightened his grip on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled again.

As soon as the door of your apartment clicked shut, a small, sleepy meow filled the quiet. Mr. Darcy stirred from his spot on the couch, stretching lazily before trotting toward you, his tail curling high in greeting.

“My child,” you said dramatically, bending down as if to scoop him up, only to pause when you caught sight of your own hand, still slick with blood. “Oh—no. Later, my love. Later.”

Frankie crouched down with far less hesitation, rubbing the cat’s head in that familiar, absentminded way. Darcy pushed into his touch, purring loudly, winding between his legs like he belonged to him instead of you.

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t know why he likes you so much.”

Frankie shrugged, still scratching behind the cat’s ears.

You snorted, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through your nose. Frankie caught it immediately. He stood, his expression shifting into something more serious, brows drawn together.

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You look awful.”

“Huh?”

“No, I mean—really bad.” His hand found your jaw, holding it lightly between his fingers as he turned your face toward the light. He made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t think you’re gonna recover. Honestly, I think it’s permanent.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Frankie’s lips twitched, but before he could say anything else, you swatted his hand away and shoved past him, making a beeline for the bathroom. The second you flicked on the light and caught your reflection, your mouth fell open.

Your face, usually warm and flushed, was pale beneath the streaks of dried blood smeared across your cheeks, your mouth, your chin. Your nose was red and swollen. Your hair was a mess. You looked—

“Oh my God.”

Frankie leaned against the doorway, watching you with amused curiosity.

“I look like Carrie,” you whispered, horrified.

You turned on the faucet and bent over the sink, splashing cold water onto your face with frantic urgency. Beneath you, pink-tinted water ran down the white porcelain, swirling toward the drain.

“Hey,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His voice had softened slightly. “I was kidding.”

You didn’t answer, just scrubbed harder.

Frankie sighed, then reached out, gathering your hair in his hands and pulling it back, holding it away from your face. His grip was gentle, careful, his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck.

“It hurts,” you blurted, voice uneven, breaking on the last syllable.

Your upper lip throbbed—hot, swollen, like it was pulsing with its own heartbeat. Your nose ached with a sharp, stinging pain that settled deep in the bridge, radiating outward. The tears welled without permission, collecting on your lashes, blurring the edges of the bathroom light.

Frankie’s eyes flickered with something close to panic. He shifted on his feet, glancing around the room like the answer to fixing you was written somewhere on the walls.

“Okay, okay,” he said, voice slightly unsteady. “I—uh—come on, sit down. Sit on the toilet.”

He guided you gently, hands pressing into your shoulders until you sank onto the closed lid. Your body was sluggish, your movements heavy. You let your head tip back, exhaling sharply as a fresh wave of discomfort spread across your face.

Most of the blood was gone now, wiped away in streaks of pink-tinted water, revealing the damage beneath. The split in your upper lip was small but deep, the skin torn at the center, already swelling around it. Your lower lip, though unbroken, was puffy. And your nose—God, your nose.

Frankie crouched in front of you, his knees pressing into the tile. “Show me your teeth.”

You parted your lips obediently, and he leaned in, squinting like he was searching for something. After a second, he sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. They’re fine.”

You blinked at him, still dazed, then let your gaze drop to his shirt. A dark red smear stretched across the fabric, half-dried, stark against the soft white cotton.

“You have blood on you,” you mumbled.

Frankie looked down, as if just now noticing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then turned abruptly, yanking open the nearest drawer and shuffling through it.

You watched, brow furrowing, as he fumbled through an assortment of things that had nothing to do with first aid—spare toothbrushes, old makeup, boxes of tampons, a crumpled tube of moisturizer. His hands moved too fast, fingers twitching as he knocked things over, searching for something useful.

You let out a small huff. “Not there.”

“I know that now,” he grumbled, slamming it shut and pulling open another one.

Finally, he found a bottle of antiseptic and a pack of cotton pads, exhaling like he’d just won a small battle. He turned back to you, unscrewing the cap with his thumb.

“Hold still,” he said.

You did as you were told, though every so often a soft, involuntary whimper escaped you, the pain still sharp enough to make your breath catch. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough to make everything feel worse—amplified by exhaustion, by alcohol, by the surreal absurdity of it all.

Frankie moved carefully, dabbing the antiseptic along your lip, then your nose, pausing when fresh blood welled up from the split skin. He wiped it away, slow and methodical, before moving on to your knees, gently cleaning the scraped skin there too. You had forgotten about them, but the second the cotton touched the raw, stinging patches, you inhaled sharply.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered under your breath.

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Scraped knees suck.”

A few minutes later, he tossed the stained cotton into the small trash can and started putting things back where he found them.

When you stood, Frankie’s gaze snapped to your nose, scanning for any new blood. You caught the movement and narrowed your eyes at him.

“What?”

“Just making sure you’re not gonna start gushing again.”

You turned to the mirror, taking in your reflection with a fresh wave of despair. Your skin was still damp, your nose and cheeks flushed from scrubbing and crying. Your lip looked even worse now, swollen and bruising at the edges. And your dress—your favorite dress—was ruined. White satin, now streaked with dark, rust-colored stains.

Your throat tightened. “I look awful.”

Frankie sighed. “You don’t—”

“My dress is ruined.” You turned to face him, your expression nothing short of tragic. “I love this dress, Francisco.”

“We’ll fix it,” he assured you, nodding quickly. “We’ll take it to the laundry—”

“It’s white.”

“I know.” He waved his hands, exasperated. “But they know how to get these stains out, don’t they?”

You frowned. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

“They do,” he said, nodding like it was law. Then, after a beat—“Do you have any anti-inflammatories?”

“In the kitchen.”

Frankie waited, then lifted his eyebrows. “Where?”

“In the kitchen,” you repeated.

He rolled his eyes. “I know in the kitchen, where in the kitchen?”

You thought for a second. “Oh. Over the fridge.”

Frankie shifted, his body tilting toward the door, ready to leave. But before he could get too far, your fingers curled around his wrist.

He stopped. Turned. His frown was immediate, brow creased like he was bracing for whatever was coming next.

“Can you—” you hesitated, suddenly too aware of the weight of your own request. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

You were already turning before he could answer, offering him your back like you were giving him no real choice in the matter. Your hand ghosted over the clasp, fingertips brushing the delicate fabric, then dropping to your side in silent surrender.

Behind you, Frankie let out a long, tired sigh. Then, a moment later, the unmistakable sound of the zipper being drawn down, slow and careful. The fabric parted beneath his touch, cool air rushing in where warmth had been. His knuckles skimmed the length of your spine, steady and impersonal, but still—

A few hours ago, you might have been embarrassed.

Now, not so much.

The man had seen your bloodied face. Your tampons. Your secret tattoo, the one no one was supposed to know about. What was left to be embarrassed about? Any lingering self-consciousness had evaporated somewhere between the pavement and the bathroom floor. Or maybe it was just the alcohol, stripping you of inhibition, loosening things that might have otherwise remained tightly wound. Maybe.

The zipper reached its end. Frankie’s hand fell away. He left the bathroom without another word, and you didn’t wait to see him go.

You hurried to your room, pushing the door shut behind you.

The dress slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Your slippers followed, discarded without care. You unclasped your strapless bra with an exhausted groan and tossed it somewhere—where, exactly, didn’t matter.

The closet door creaked as you pulled it open, grabbing the first thing within reach: a worn-out T-shirt, oversized enough to swallow you whole. You pulled it over your head, wincing as soreness pulsed through your body, a dull and aching reminder of the fall.

Then, just as you were tucking the fabric against your thighs, a knock at the door.

A dull thud, careful but firm.

“Don’t come in!” you called instinctively.

Frankie’s voice filtered through the wood, low and steady.

“You okay? I brought you some aspirin.”

You exhaled, raking a hand through your tangled hair.

“Wait,” you warned, shifting on your feet, making sure the shirt was long enough, that everything was—decent. Or as decent as it could be at this point.

Once satisfied, you reached for the doorknob and cracked the door open.

Frankie stood there, quiet, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small white pill in the other. His gaze flickered briefly—to the dress on the floor, then back up—but he didn’t let his eyes stray from your face.

He held out the aspirin. You took it without a word, placing it on your tongue before chasing it down with a sip of water. He watched you carefully, noting how your swollen lip pressed against the rim of the glass, how you winced slightly, the tenderness in your face growing more pronounced with every passing minute.

Something twisted in his chest. A strange, unnameable thing.

He swallowed.

“You feeling okay?” His voice had softened.

You nodded, then immediately regretted it as your lip pulled in protest. Grimacing, you wordlessly handed him back the empty glass.

Frankie hesitated before taking it from you, his brow still creased with that same look—something tight and unreadable, like watching an injured animal struggle to stand. Like witnessing something fragile and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"I'm sleepy, I..."

Your voice trailed off as you turned toward your bed, your gaze settling on the smooth, undisturbed surface of the sheets. They looked impossibly soft, the kind of soft that could swallow you whole, erase the sting in your knees, the throbbing in your mouth, the hazy weight of the night pressing on your shoulders.

Frankie nodded, shifting his weight. "Yeah. You need rest. Get some sleep."

He took a small step back, like he was giving you space, but not too much. 

Without much thought, you turned and walked toward your bed, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. The second you reached it, you collapsed onto the mattress, sinking in, the cool fabric pressing against your skin. You didn’t even bother with the quilt.

"Good night," you mumbled, already curling into yourself, your back to him.

Frankie hesitated. He stood there for a moment, watching you, feeling strangely uncertain, though he wasn’t sure why.

"I'll call an Uber," he said after a beat, voice quiet, as if he wasn’t sure if you were still awake enough to hear him. "Head home."

"Okay." Your response was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep.

"Okay." A pause. "Good night."

He waited a second longer, then turned and made his way out of the room, walking slowly into the dimly lit living room. The air was cooler here, quieter. Mr. Darcy was waiting for him, perched on the coffee table like some kind of tiny, judgmental sentry. The cat’s tail flicked, his green eyes tracking Frankie’s every move.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand down his face before stepping toward him. He reached out, dragging his fingers gently over soft fur. Mr. Darcy purred instantly, pressing into the touch, rubbing his face against Frankie’s hand like he’d been waiting for this all night.

Frankie huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sat down on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the Uber app. His body was too heavy, too worn out, but he forced himself to go through the motions—searching for a ride, entering the address, preparing to leave.

But then—

A small weight landed on his lap.

Mr. Darcy, stretching out comfortably, his tiny paws kneading into Frankie’s thigh before settling completely, purring so loudly it was practically vibrating through him.

Frankie sighed, phone slipping from his hand onto the cushion beside him.

It was only for a second, just to close his eyes, just to let his body sink into something solid. Just until the exhaustion stopped weighing so heavily on his limbs.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, his arm draped over his stomach, the cat now curled up on his chest. Frankie’s breathing slowed, deepened, and before he could fight it, his eyes shut completely.

His body gave in.

And then—sleep.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 (some tags aren't working apparently sorry!)

[amysuemc]

a self-preservation thing [frankie morales x f!reader]

summary: And why not take advantage of no strings attached sex while you can? One day, Benny will find someone he can’t get enough of, and that person will be everything he’s ever wanted. And for the first time in your life, that is actually fine with you. You might not be the one for him, but he isn’t the one for you, either.

The real complication, the real threat to your peaceful existence with your friend Benny and your place in the little group? Francisco Morales.

or

Frankie doesn't like you and you think you might know why.

warnings: smut, fluff, misunderstandings, Frankie Morales pussy eating king, please read full warnings on Ao3

read on Ao3

[amysuemc]

nut vid with the sound on

frankie "catfish" morales x f!reader

You accidently send Frankie a text that he wasn't supposed to see.

~1.5k words

tags: EXPLICIT, accidently sending a screenshot meant for someone else, reader is feral (she just like me), sexting, mention of light choking, virtual mutual masturbation (m & f!), flirting, Frankie is a consent king!, dirtyyyy talk, voice notes, nudes, nut vid with the sound on, they're so horny for each other

this is my first Frankie fic and I've been thoroughly enjoying myself in the Catfish Pond ;) I hope y'all like the text format, I had fun writing it like this. special shoutout to my babe @almostempty !!! she matches my freak, feeds my delusions & sparks my horny thots. thank you for cheering me on and helping with the dialogue I love you LOTS <3333

consulted this page for spanish used :)

translations:

princesa - princess

tócame - touch me

que cosa/cosita mas linda - what a pretty/pretty little thing

mierda - shit

ay dios - oh god

hazme el amor - make love to me

banners by: @cafekitsune <3

smut below the cut, y'all know the drill!

Frankie: You coming tomorrow? 

You: Yes, of course :) 

Frankie: Good. 

Bestie: bitch if you don’t make a move on fish

Bestie: It’s been months!!! Find out why they call him Catfish ;) 

You: STOPPPP 

You: you’re right tho I am dying to know

You: Wanna suck his dick til the skin falls OFF 

You caption the screenshot of Frankie’s latest Instagram post and text it to your bestie who will appreciate your level of freakiness. 

You continue your scrolling. 

*ding* 

Frankie: I don't think this message was meant for me, princesa.  

Opening his text, you realize to your horror that you sent your thirsty thoughts TO Frankie. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuuuuuck!

You: shit, I’m SO so so incredibly sorry! Totally inappropriate and not cool. I definitely meant to send that to someone else. Totally exiling myself from the group. 

Frankie: You meant to tell someone else that you wanna suck my dick til the skin falls off? 

You: It wasn’t for you. Please forget you saw it. Please Frankie :( 

Frankie: hell of a thing to send to someone. how am I supposed to forget the idea now?

You: Pretend. It was a mistake. 

Frankie: a mistake? as in, you didn’t mean it? 

You: Can we drop it? 

Frankie: seemed pretty specific for a mistake. you got freaky with it

You: It doesn’t matter. It was stupid. Please let it go 

Frankie: I don’t think I can, princesa

Frankie: not after imagining it 

Frankie: You sent a whole screenshot, with a colorful caption attached. That's intentional.

If you weren’t so humiliated, you’d be giggling and kicking your feet in the air that he is calling you princess, but you can only assume he is being patronizing. 

You: This is so fucking embarrassing. 

Frankie: Not too embarrassed to keep texting though…

You: Frankie don’t 

Frankie: You really think about me like that? 

You: I think you already know the answer to that

Frankie: I do, but I wanted to hear it from you. This time directly to me

Frankie: I think about you 

Frankie: All the time

You: Frankie, please. 

You: I already feel terrible 

Frankie: Never thought you’d see me like that. Now you’re telling me you’ve been thinking about my cock? and you want me to drop it? 

You: Please don’t fuck with me. I’m already mortified beyond belief like I can’t show my face around here anymore!! I’m sorry I sent it okay? 

You: I’ll skip the kickback if it's going to be too weird now. 

Frankie: Wouldn’t be the same without you there. I’d never tell you not to come. 

Frankie: If you really want me to drop it, I will. just say the word 

Frankie: but you should know

Frankie: I think you’re gorgeous, hilarious, too fucking smart to be hanging out with us  

Frankie: I lose my mind goddamn mind when I’m near you 

Frankie: and knowing you’ve been thinking about me too has me hard as a fucking rock 

You: Do you really mean that? 

Frankie: Yes I do, baby. You have no idea what you do to me 

You: Yeah? I might need some enlightenment. 

There’s a pause. You brace for impact; that he is really pulling your leg and he and the guys are doubled over laughing at your expense. 

Frankie: Might be better if you hear it straight from the Fish’s mouth

Frankie: Get it? Like horse’s mouth but it’s a fish instead 

You: I hate to admit I did one of those huff exhales that you do when something is amusing but not quite funny enough to warrant a full laugh

Frankie: At least you smiled. That’s good enough for me

Frankie: Sending a voice note, is that okay? 

You: Of course

Then the notification for a voice memo appears. Your fingers hover over the screen before you press play and Frankie’s low, gravelly voice spills into your ears. 

“Bebita, you have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. I’ve been yours since I first laid eyes on you…You’ve got me sitting here in my truck, trying to keep my shit together, but all I can think about is you on your knees for me. Told the guys I had to take a call… they’d give me shit right now if they knew… they’ve been ribbing me for months to ask you out but I was too chicken shit… way too pretty for me… definitely funnier and smarter than me, but you should know I’m not intimidated by that it's fucking hot… Fuck you’d look so good for me. I’d slide my cock into your mouth so slow, watch your lips stretch around me. You have the prettiest eyes and lips, you’d be heaven down on your knees for me…Shit, I’d lose my mind watching you take it. You’d look so pretty with your mouth full of me, baby. So fucking pretty.” 

Frankie: Are you touching yourself? Tell me, pretty girl 

You: And if I was?

Frankie: Good girl 

Frankie: What are you thinking? How do you feel?

You: So so good, Frankie

You: Thinking about your big strong hands all over me has me drooling baby

Another voice memo appears. When you press play, there’s a groan—a low, throaty sound that makes your entire body shiver. 

“You been thinking about my hands, princesa? Want me to hold those pretty tits with my hands, hmmm? Play with your nipples, massage them…maybe you’d like one of my hands gently pressing into the sides of your throat… if you’re into it of course!” 

Frankie’s urgency to make sure you’re into that sort of thing makes you smile. The caring, thoughtful Frankie that you know. 

“I am so hard for you– ay dios!…Thinking about you sitting on my face, trapped underneath your gorgeous thighs… make you come all over my face. Need you to make a mess on me… rub your pretty little clit on my nose, that’s why I have this big nose… so you can use it fuuuuuuuck…”

His voice grows rougher, more ragged. You can hear the slick, clapping sounds and his breathing. Heavy and uneven. 

“Mierda, I’m so fucking close, wish you were here baby–unghhhhh… wanna feel you around me, your pussy squeezin’ my cock… make you come ‘til you’re begging me to stop… do whatever you ask me to…”

You: Show me. I want to see Frankie, please 

Frankie: Wanna hear you say it in your pretty voice 

Frankie: Let me hear you beg all sweet like for me and I’ll show you what you do to me 

You: “Frankie ohhhhh baby I need you so bad… tócame, Frankie, por favor…Always think about climbing in your lap, running my hands through those— ahhhhhh!— curls, wanna feel how deep you get when I ride you… wanna feel you in my goddamn throat — fuck, can you hear how wet I am? I’m making such a mess oh my godddddd… never been this fucking wet baby…”

Frankie: babygirl you’re gonna be the death of me

Frankie: love your voice and the pretty sounds your pussy is making for me 

You: can I send a video? 

Frankie: no pressure. only if you’re comfortable with it 😘

You: that’s not what I asked, Francisco

Frankie: I know you mean business when you use my government name 

Frankie: yeah baby i wanna see whatever you wanna show me 

You: Attachment: 1 Video 

“Hazme el amor, Frankie…” 

Your legs are spread open, your core on display for the camera. He smiles thinking you probably had to find something to prop your phone on. You’ve got two fingers teasing in and out of your glistening pussy.

Frankie: que cosa cosita más linda 

Frankie: You have the prettiest, messiest little pussy baby. Thank you for showing me. I can’t wait to taste her

Frankie: As promised, you want something in return for being such a good girl for me? 

You: yes please 😇

Frankie: sound up 😘

Attachment: 1 Video 

“Fuuuuuuck babygirl… see what you do to me… need to be close to you, need to feel you… make you feel good like you deserve… this is all for you, I am all for you baby…”

Frankie has his cock pulled out of his unzipped jeans, still in his truck, pumping himself. You admire the size and girth of him, so thick and gorgeous. You know the sting and stretch of him entering you for the first time will be delicious. It’s so hot knowing he had to slip away from the guy's night to relieve himself—couldn’t even wait til he got home. 

“Been dreaming of you for months, always imagine you when I’m touching myself, you’re in all my thoughts baby… mierda I’m gonna come, fuck baby—unghhhhhh— gonna come so hard for you — ohhhhhhhh fuck…” 

Thick ropes of cum drip down his hand, where he’s slowly riding out his high, breath heaving in exhaustion. 

You: I think I just blacked out 

You: I came so hard watching you fuck

Frankie: Such a good girl, baby. You did so good making yourself come 

Frankie: Drink some water 😘

You: Thank you Frankie :) 🩷

You: chugging some water as we speak🫡 

Frankie: that’s my girl 

Frankie: get some sleep, I’ll be seeing you tomorrow 😘😘

BONUS: frankie's insta

tagging babes who might enjoy: @katiexpunk @evolnoomym @studioghibelli @joelmillerisapunk @joelslegalwhre @sanarsi @itwasntimethatdidit40 @milly-louise <3333

@pedrostories

[amysuemc]

kinktober day twenty nine - secret relationship sex

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 summary: finding a moment alone with your boyfriend away from the rest of the group (Merle Dixon x !fem reader)

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 setting: prison era

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 warnings: smut, p in v, creampie, riding, tiniest mention of shane (one line), merle himself, secret relationship, kinda ooc merle towards the end, merle calls reader sugar tits (once), uh pretty sure that’s it, lmk if there’s any typos

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 word count: 966

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a/n: i think michael rooker is so fine, so fully self indulgent

prev day | next day kinktober masterlist | main masterlist

you’d been with the group since the beginning, becoming as valuable as Shane allowed you to be within the group. 

you knew Merle was a dick, someone the group didn’t really need in any way, but you found him interesting in a sense. 

the same way that led to you now being in a secret relationship with him. 

since he reappeared at the prison, you’d been sneaking around together. 

sneaking him into your room whenever no one else was around, just like now. 

the rest of the group were elsewhere dealing with other things, giving you ample time with Merle. 

you were on top of him, knees on either side of his hips as he lay against the back wall in your bunk. his cock snug and nestled in your warmth while you rolled your hips against him. 

his hands lay heavy on your hips, helping to guide your movements. 

“c’mon doll, know ye’ve got it”

he encouraged, his voice laced with his usual drawl and mixed with a hint of teasing. biting down on your bottom lip to stifle a moan while your hands grabbed at his shoulders, steadying yourself as you started to rise and drop your hips against him. 

the sound of your ass slapping against his thighs filled the empty room, and growing louder as your hips sped up— chasing the release bubbling tightly in your belly. 

letting out a breathy “oh fuck” as his cock began hitting all the spots that had you seeing stars and your toes curling in your socks. 

“that’s it darlin’, bouncing real pretty f’me”

mewling at his words, breathy moans threatening to spill from your lips as your walls fluttered desperately around him. 

one of his big hands lifting to tug down the neckline of your tank top, letting your boobs spill free; garnering a groan from deep in his chest. 

“prettiest fuckin’ tits”

he groaned out, his head dipping to flick his tongue against one of your pebbled nipples. 

cunt fluttering around him at the new sensation, the pool of warmth bubbling in your belly as you teetered on the edge with every drop of your hips onto him. 

your head lulling back as you chased your orgasm, his face still pressed in against your boobs as his hands helped you move atop of him. 

getting lost in the feeling of his cock dragging against your walls, each drop down onto him tugging at your climax and coaxing you closer and closer. 

“gonna cum”

you warn, walls clamping tightly around him as your hips falter. teetering on the edge while his lips continued across the swell of your breasts, eyes shut in bliss as the feeling of him consumed all of your senses. 

gasping and opening your eyes to meet his teasing gaze after he bit at your left boob, a subtle indent of his teeth grazing the skin as he pulled back with a cocky smirk. 

and surprisingly, that was your undoing. 

cumming with a shaky and breathless cry of his name while your walls spasmed around him, the coil in your belly snapping as you toppled forwards against his chest.

babbling incoherently against his throat as you basked in the height of your pleasure, walls continuing to flutter rapidly around him while your release coated his cock. 

“there we go, ‘ats it sugar tits”

hiding your face in against his throat at the name, heat flooding through your body in something akin to embarrassment. 

his hands holding firmly onto your hips as he started to rock up into you, chasing his own high as you lay pliant against his chest. 

“know yer tired but need you to help me ‘ere, got it?”

nodding your head tiredly, not making an effort to move as you continued to lay against his chest. 

the velocity of his thrusts up into you had overstimulated whines toppling from your lips, the slapping of your ass against his thighs filling the room again. 

his thrusts sloppy and stuttering as the coil within him snapped, listening to him groan loudly as his climax hit him. clinging impossibly closer to him as he shot his release into your warmth, spurt after spurt of his cum coating your walls. 

“there we go sugar, there we go”

he cooed, pulling out of you reluctantly and causing both of you to hiss at the sudden withdrawal of him. burying your face tighter against his throat as the feeling of his cum dripping out of you started. 

his hands soothed across the swell of your ass, carefully moving you off of him and down into the worn mattress of the bunk. 

your state worn and drowsy now, making him chuckle at the sight. 

you barely registered the way he slipped out from your side, standing next to your bunk and pulling his pants back on and redoing his belt in the process. 

if anything, if the world hadn’t gone to shit, Merle would’ve left you exactly like this. practically naked and exposed, but now he felt some sort of urge to help take care of you afterwards— still nothing worldly though. 

he grabbed your panties he’d previously tugged off, helping pull them back on before grabbing the sweatpants he’d also removed from you in his frenzy to get you naked. he allowed his gaze to rake down your now redressed body, bar your still exposed boobs which he also helped fix back into your tank top. 

the feelings he had for you were so foreign, so new. 

he didn’t know how to deal with them, which is why he always slipped out before you regained any awareness. 

before he slipped out this time however, he was leaning in to press a kiss to your temple before murmuring out to you. 

“see you next time darlin’”

⋆˚࿔ reblogs are highly appreciated 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

[amysuemc]

lemme watch you

francisco "frankie" morales x ofc!reader

summary: things get a little sweet, before frankie asks you to show him what you get up to when he's not around...

warnings: smut. use of sex toy, a small sniff of sub!frankie.

thank you to @luxurychristmaspudding for beta'ing and checking my smut, smuts.

READ ON AO3

[amysuemc]

i know vitamin c basically neutralizes adhd meds but lemonade good

[amysuemc]

STICK BUDDIES CHAPTER 5

words: 8.1k

rating: 18+

pairing: Frankie!Morales x f!reader

series masterlist here

a/n: Y'all I don't think its possible for me to write a short series. I mean JFC this was supposed to be 6 chapters max. I'm gonna try to wrap it up in that amount but. . . we'll see. This is one of my favorite Readers I've written so its kinda hard!

Chapter 5: An Imperial FU

slang. in reference to odd/conflicting orders

Frankie's hand skates down your back, warm palm resting heavily at the base of your spine. You feel little jolts of excitement go through you, tingling with every brush of his bicep or when you catch a whiff of his soap. 

Frankie meanwhile can't believe this is happening. How willing to were to follow him through the resort lobby, sandals slapping against the ceramic tile. How you clearly want this as much as he  does.

You both pass through a group of chattering tourists but Frankie's eyes are stuck on your profile. How did he never realize you were so sexy? He'd always thought you were attractive. He'd have to be blind not to. But you were casual, funny and clever. He'd respected you, found you to be a true friend, just like he did with Yovanna and Jean. He'd never really focused on the fact that you were a hot blooded woman during his marriage. Even when you dated Jack you were private with your affection. 

But now Frankie's head spins as he fights himself to look away from you. He knows he should be concerned, he should be thinking about what comes next. What does sex mean? Is it just a vacation fling? Is it something more? Does he want it to be more? Do you? 

You stop at the elevator, back pressing against the cool wall, needing to ground yourself. This is a huge thing. This is Frankie and sex! Frankie presses the button for the elevator before moving to you, his body caging yours against the wall gently. You stare up at him, eyes heavy. 

Frankie feels a thrum starting in his lower back, creeping up every vertebra, tingling in the top of his head making him feel warm. You want this; he can see that so clearly. And he wants you more than he can stand; it makes him feel dizzy.

"There's so much I wanna do with you," Frankie murmurs, his eyes roving your body. "Don't know where to start."

You're trying to remain composed but you need that elevator to get here immediately. You feel an oily grin spread over your features when you see how blown out his pupils are. Your hand slides up under his t-shirt, nails grazing his belly as you tilt forward. 

"I've got an idea," you whisper against his cheek, your forefinger skimming the top of his board shorts. "You wanna start by showing me how you got your call sign, Catfish?"

Frankie groans a low, sinful sound against your jaw, offering a rumbled 'fuck yeah I do'. The way he says it makes you think he'll do it right here if the elevator doesn't arrive this very second.

"Hey Fish!"

A voice sounds from behind Frankie and you turn to see a smiling Will jogging towards you. Fuck. The two of you move apart and Frankie feels his stomach sink when he sees the determination in his friend's light eyes. 

"You snuck off so fast," Will says as he makes it to you. "Come back and join us."

The elevator dings, the doors opening. Salvation rests behind those doors, pleasure, and excitement. You try to edge towards it. 

"Nah, we're good," Frankie says politely, curling his hand around your hip and attempting to guide you forward into the elevator.

But Wills meaty hand lands heavily on Frankie's shoulder, stopping him. The elevator doors close with a thump. Frankie exhales as he turns, brows raised. 

"C'mon Fish, the guys are getting together to go over plans for tonight. Benny's having a tough time deciding where he wants to go first." 

"I'm sure you can figure it out without me."

"Nah, he really needs your input," Will says and Frankie doesn't miss the narrowing of his friends eyes. 

You watch this exchange, feeling the tension crackle between the two of them, uneasy. You don't understand exactly why though. 

"Unless I'm interrupting something," Will says flatly, his eyes flicking between the two of you. "But I don't think that could be, right? Marcella isn't even in here so..." 

Your cheeks flush, embarrassed at being caught out by Will. Frankie's jaw clenches and he exhales out his nose before giving you a forced smile. 

"I should go. I'll see you later."

You hide your disappointment with a thin smile.

"Cool. Have fun guys."

You punch the elevator button again, pretending that you're not bothered but you're fucking pissed off. Your body is yearning desperately, your core tightening as you watch Frankie’s handsome face disappear between the closing elevator doors.

Frankie walks back with Will, his teeth clenched. 

"Are you insane?" Will murmurs as the two of them stride through the throng of guests. "You were what? Just gonna go up to the room and fuck all afternoon?"

Thoughts of just that play behind Frankie's eyes. He holds in a groan of disappointment. 

The two men edge towards the pool, sidestepping a zealous child running through the crowd. They walk towards the bar by the pool. 

"I'm not just doing this for you, Fish," Will explains in soft voice. "You know she's delicate. Ever since Jack-"

"She's a grown woman."

"For the last two years we've had to dance around the two of you and the fallout from your fight," Will explains diplomatically. "We finally got the two of you at the same events this year."

"So?"

"So we like being friends with both of you. And if you two fuck and then go home and realize it was a mistake then guess what? We'll never see either of you at the same event again." Will sighs. "Or worse, it sends you reaching for bottle or coke again."

Frankie thinks back to his time in the room last night; the desperate desire to drink to take away the pain. Will orders Frankie a mock tail and a beer for himself. 

"It makes things complicated, Cat. The bad kind of complicated." 

Frankie's lips thin in irritation. He looks at the mock tail being pushed towards him. He hates that Will is always right.  

"I get that you need to play a part when Marcella's around," Will says, accepting the beer from the smiling man behind the bar. "But I think you guys are doing too much." 

Frankie wants to retort with something cutting, something that will make his friend immediately retract. But it's impossible... Will's right. This was an impulsive decision and aside from mutual pleasure, it's a bad idea. 

What if you guys sleep together and it makes things worse between you? It's been so nice having you back in his life. Laughing, relaxing. There's a real chance for him of moving past all that shit from the BBQ and he wants that. 

So that's what he needs to do. 

//

That evening you stand in front of the room mirror, frowning. The dress you brought seems fancy, almost too fancy for a simple bachelorette on the town. Your hair looks great, makeup perfect. You look really good in the dress but you wish it was a little longer. You feel a bit exposed with the plunging neckline. 

You slip on the raised wedge sandals, taking a once over of yourself before grabbing your purse and heading for the lobby. 

As you make your way your thoughts are troubled because Frankie never came back to the room. You don't blame him, the situation with Will downstairs was awkward, but at the same time you can't help but think it was for the best. 

Now that you've got a clearer head (thanks to the rose toy and a vivid imagination involving Frankie exiting the pool with no shirt) you're starting to see how this could have blown up in your face. 

You're starting to feel tender towards Frankie. It's cracking through the ice wall of what you've been through. On vacation it's like living as an alternative version of yourselves heedless of consequences. 

You enter the lobby seeing the guys have already taken off, leaving just Lydia and her bachelorette group which sadly involves Marcella. 

She gives you a once over when you approach to the squeaks of the other girls. Lydia wears a slinky pink number and looks luminous. She pulls you into a tight hug and within moments the group is off. 

The first stop is a cute little drag bar in town. Marcella sits as far away from you as possible, studiously ignoring you as she chats with one of the cousins. 

Jean and Yovanna buttress you, almost as if they long to keep you safe from the drama and you appreciate it, watching the drag queen come and sit on a laughing Lydia's lap. 

"So I gotta ask," Jean murmurs to you quietly through the applause. "You and Frankie seem pretty... You know."

"Just doing him a favor," you shrug airily, taking a deep sip of your non-alcoholic pink slush drink. "Everyone knew how much he didn't want to show up here without a date, with Marcela being engaged and all."

"Right. But, I mean, c'mon," Jean presses. "We all saw that kiss. And it was some kiss.” 

Jean is a good friend. She's always been there to tell you the good from the bad. You owe it to her to be just a little honest. You want to say the words but they don't come. 

I forgot how much I missed him. 

But that's all you're willing to admit even to yourself at this time. 

"Just good acting," you insist.

"I swear there was steam coming off the two of you at the pool," Jean grins, slotting her teeth around her straw. 

"We're just selling it," you insist, taking a deep sip of your drink. Part of you loves talking about Frankie, another part wants the subject dropped. 

Couples mill around you chatting loudly in the club. 

"After everything that happened with you two I never thought it was possible you'd be friends again," Jean muses quietly. 

And suddenly your stomach roils. What Frankie did to you. Of course. How could you forget? You can't tell Jean that you're starting to have real feelings for your former friend. There's such shame there - after what he did to you, how could you be with him and hold your head up high? You'd look pathetic. 

"I'm doing a favor, Jean. That's all."

You push yourself to a stand, making your way shakily to the bar. You need a real drink. 

///

"I need all your matches to involve luchador masks from now on," Santi shouts as the guys sit ringside with a roaring crowd.

Save for Frankie each man holds a huge beer in his hand. They're stuffed from the Mexican food earlier and Benny is already looking bleary eyed from everyone plying him with drinks. A blonde woman with a bright smile brings a fresh round, winking at Benny before strutting off. 

"Last night as a free man," Santi tells Benny sagely. "You should take advantage."

"Lydia's better."

"Of course she's better," Santi says rolling his eyes. "Not saying you can't just take a look before you're tied down to one woman forever."

"Nah it's not like that with Lydia," Benny slurs, smiling sleepily. "She makes me so happy. She's my best friend. Fuck, I wish I was with her right now."

The other guys smile over his head, abused at his candor. Will slaps him on the back companionably telling him to focus back on the match. 

Frankie swallows as images of you come to mind. You were one of his best friends for a time. He counted on you. He misses you. Not just this sexy vixen version of you that's appeared with bare legs and skimpy swim suits on this vacation.

He misses unbridled laughter and throwing popcorn at the screen during bad movies. He misses watching you burn your marshmallows over a campfire every single year, frowning and stubbornly shaking your head at Will's offer to help you. 

He feels his phone vibrate and he glance at it to see a private message from you. He tilts the screen away from the group, opening it and scanning quickly. 

9:44pm:  Hey sorry if things got weird today. Think we both got caught up in the moment. No more green bikini for a bit I think ha ha. Hope you have fun tonight. Weather report doesn't say rain so I don't mind sleeping in the hammock again. Night! 

He visibly deflates. So much for thinking that you liked him. It's clear you're trying to backpedal after his pathetic attempt at taking you to bed earlier today. For all he knows you're secretly laughing at him. 

A muscle feathers at his jaw and he types back quickly before shoving the phone back into his pocket. Santiago nudges his arm with the bottom of his chilled beer. 

"What's up, Fish?"

"Huh?"

"Your guy won," Santi says motioning to his ticket. "Why do you look like someone took a shit in your cornflakes?"

"I'm fine," Frankie insists. He forces a smile to his face, clapping and cheering as a new match begins. 

"Everything's fine."

///

You approach the bar and order a drink in broken Spanish, your pulse ticking. You take a seat in one of the stools, your mind fixated on the conversation with Jean. 

“A tequila please,” you ask the waiting bartender.

 Frankie and you hurt each other and it's taken a lot to get here. Maybe you'll never really move past it. Maybe you're both just caught up in the moment. Earlier today was a bad idea. You shouldn't have agreed to go back to the room with him. You were both just flying high on the adrenaline of the kiss. You need to fix this. 

You pull out your phone, tapping his name in the Whatsapp group, sending him a private message. 

Hey sorry if things got weird today. Think we got caught up in the moment. No more green bikini for a bit I think ha ha. Hope you have fun tonight. Weather report doesn't say rain so I don't mind sleeping in the hammock again. Night! 

You hit send and bite your thumbnail. You wait for a response, and it comes in fairly quickly, only it's not what you expect. 

Frankie [9:46pm]: K 

K. 

K?!

He couldn't even be bothered to write the entire two letters?!

You swallow thickly, hating how casual Frankie seems about this. He really doesn't care does he? You're the only idiot pining after a man acting a part. 

You wait for the young guy behind the bar to retrieve your tequila, feeling as someone stands beside the stool next to yours. The bartender returns, flashing you a smile and sliding your drink to you across the bar. 

"Oh so you do drink?"

Marcella. 

Of course it's her. You turn, a fake smile plastered on your face. She's wearing a white bodycon dress, her hair and makeup flawless. But her eyes are bleary and her lipstick smudged.

"Hey. Yeah, I just try not to do it in front of Frankie."

"Of course," she says with a fake smile, almost a small. "You're so thoughtful."

You shrug, taking the drink from the bartender. You notice that Marcella is swaying a bit in her heels. She seems to notice as well as she slides into the stool next to yours. She orders a tequila shot as well before giving another grimace of a smile. 

"So you and Frankie," she says sucking her teeth. "That seems to be going well."

You curl your fingers around the lip of the bar, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. It's clear she isn't saying this to be nice. 

"Yeah. It's really nice."

You're not selling this great, but Marcella doesn't even seem to be listening to you. She's come to hear herself talk. 

"You know I'm not even surprised the two of you became an item," Marcella laughs, forcing it. "I mean the way Frankie looked at you when we were married..."

She trails off, eyes peering blurrily at you. You don't know what to say to that. You just know you don't like it. Frankie looked at you romantically when he was married? The thought makes your stomach toss but not with pleasure. 

"I think that's part of the reason we split up," Marcella tells you as she orders another shot of tequila. "He was half in love with you."

You've never looked at Frankie as someone who would look outside his marriage. He definitely made no overtures to you anytime before this vacation and you don't like what Marcella is insinuating. 

"I'm sure that's not true, Marcella." A drag queen is serenading Lydia with a Spanish version of 'Like a Virgin' and you try to divert the conversation."Let's go back and-"

"Oh, come on," Marcella says and now she looks pissed off, nearly tumbling off of her stool. "I know you two were sleeping together when we were still married." 

You move back as if she's physically slapped you, your face flaming with anger. 

"Excuse me? That never fucking happened." 

"You're telling me all those nights the two of you sat in our kitchen over coffee, the parties I couldn't make it to, you never once tried anything?" 

Not only are you offended, you're also impossibly hurt. This is what she thinks of you? What she thought of you this whole time? Is that why she stopped talking to you? 

"Marcella. That's so fucking... No, I never went after Frankie and he never tried anything with me. He never would, he was so in love with you. I'm pretty sure a part of him still is." 

Marcella blinks, something getting through to her in the haze of alcohol. 

"I mean, was," you correct yourself hurriedly, hoping she doesn't notice the faux pas. "All he did was tell me over and over how much he wanted your marriage to work. Even after you gave him the divorce papers." 

Marcella doesn't look convinced.  

"You were this little club of two. Always laughing, always talking to the side. Even when we all hung out at the bar or during poker nights."

"We were friends, Marcella. Only ever friends." 

"You called off your engagement." 

"That was for totally different reasons," you say, not wanting to delve into that particular topic at this point. "And if we were so in love with each other why would we have waited years to start dating?"

"I ... I don't ..."

"Because there was nothing between us. Not until recently." 

"I don't believe you." 

Your patience has reached its end. You throw back your drink, slamming the glass onto the bar top angrily.

"Know what I think, Marcella? I think you cheated on Frankie and felt guilty so you made up this bullshit about him cheating on you, which we both know he could never do berceuse it's not in his nature." 

You're almost foaming at the mouth with anger and Marcella who has been smug this entire trip actually looks taken aback, her eyes widening as she stares at you. 

"And now you're engaged to that smug asshole Richard and you're still not happy!" You throw up your hands. "You want Frankie totally miserable. The only thing I can't figure out is why. Are you just so unhappy that you want everyone else to suffer too?"

Marcella's eyes fill to the brim with tears. You don't even care that your words were harsh, she deserved to hear them. You stand abruptly, disgusted. 

"Wake up Marcella," you spit. "The only one who ended your marriage was you." 

You spin on your heels to go back to the table and join the girls, leaving a paling Marcella staring after you, her face crumpled. 

///

The guys pile into the back of the taxi, one of Benny taking the front seat. Frankie is wedged between Will and Santi uncomfortably. 

"Where to next?" Santi shouts over the cab driver's music. 

"Salsa club!" Benny announces with a sly smile. He gives the address to the driver and the cab takes off, music blasting. 

Will is half asleep by the window, his forehead against the cool glass. Frankie feels Santiago's eyes on him but he ignores it. Santi has the annoying habit of growing quite sentimental when he drinks .

Fuck it sucks being sober when everyone else is drunk. Santi leans over, wafting his peppermint gum over Frankie. His voice lowers so only his friend can hear. 

"We gonna talk about it, Fish?"

Santi knows Frankie better than anyone, even better than Will. Frankie knows exactly what this is about. 

"Rather not."

Santi smirks, laughing a bit to himself. Benny and Will start talking back and forth about the family, citing that their mom is being overwhelmingly overbearing (not that they'd ever tell her). 

"C'mon man," Santi says nudging him with his elbow. It's sharp in his side at such a close proximity. "I'm not blind."

Frankie sighs. "She's fun."

"She's always been fun," Santi says, blinking in the dark of the cab. "What's changed this week?"

Frankie swallows, neck bobbing. 

"Nothing. It's all fake," he replies morosely. "She's getting paid-"

"I've known her a long time," Santi interrupts. "That kiss wasn't that. The way you look at each other isn't that, Frank." 

"You wouldn't know-"

"No, but Yovanna would," Santi says with a smug smirk.

Frankie's pulse quickens. Is it possible? Do you like him? Is there an actual hope there? Should there be? If nothing else maybe this means your friendship can get back on track. 

"What did Yovanna say?"

Santiago realizes he may have said too much because his smile dims momentarily. He looks uncertainly around the cab before looking back at his friend. 

"Shit, maybe I shouldn't-"

"Pope."

Frankie fixes his friend with a dark stare, a look of brotherhood passing between them. Santi sighs. 

"A couple months back Yovanna was over at her place. Girls night to watch some sappy movie. Yovanna arrives and guess whose wearing that old Nirvana shirt you used to be obsessed with?" Santi smirks. "Yovanna asks her why she's wearing that ratty old t-shirt and she says, and I quote it’s my favorite shirt, it makes me feel safe when I wear it." 

Frankie's eyes blow wide. Is that actually true? It must be. So then is there a part of you that misses him? Will sighs next to him, bringing Frankie away from those warm thoughts. 

"Will thinks I'm doing too much."

"Who cares what Will thinks?" Santi scoffs. "He still lets his mom shop for him."

"What did you say about me?" Will asks with a slur from the other side of Frankie. Santi reaches over, pushing his shoulder. 

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Will grumbles but does just that, dozing lightly against the window of the cab. 

Frankie could deny over and over but something about being with his best friends knowing they're probably too drunk to remember much has him feeling strangely open. 

"It's weird," Frankie admits to Santi in a murmur, "but when I'm with her I feel like I'm worth something." 

The truth spoken out loud has his heart racing. Santiago's eyes are strangely soft as he stares at him. 

"You were always worth something, Fish."

"As a soldier, as your friend, yeah," Frankie says with a nod, "but... She makes me feel like I'm worth something as my own person."

Santi looks at his friend with a soft smile, nodding shallowly. 

"What did she say?"

"It's not in so many words," Frankie shrugs, although your praise of his sobriety still rings in his ears. "It's just this... It's like when I'm with her and we're getting along I feel like the best parts of me come alive."

"When you get along," Santi emphasizes with a grin. 

"We used to," Frankie says sourly. "We used to be close. If it weren't for that fucking BBQ..." 

The cab pulls up to the curb outside a club with pulsing music and attractive people walking in, cutting Frankie off. 

"Sirs, we are here."

///

You and the girls take a cab to the next destination that Lydia has organize. Some of the cousins stay behind at the drag club and all but you wave at Marcella when she gets into a separate cab and cites she needed to go back to the hotel. 

You're happy not to have to look at her miserable face the whole night. You're still shaken by what she said. 

Inside it's dark and crowded with catchy salsa music and a dance floor full of talented dancers that move like liquid across the floors. 

You stand watching them in awe before Lydia, Jean and Yovanna urge you to join them at the booth. You're a bit buzzed from the tequila, but you can't blame it all on the booze. Images of Frankie won't leave you. The feeling if his hand on your spine today, his soft mouth. 

"Party crashers!"

The group of you look up to see Benny and Will smiling down at you. Lydia shrieks and throws herself drunkenly into Benny's waiting arms. 

"Ben! What are you doing here?"

"This place was on my stag night list, baby!"

"It was on my bachelorette party list," Lydia pouts. "You copied."

Benny gives her a broad grin. "What's yours is mine."

"Not until tomorrow!" Lydia says, shrieking with laughter when Benny kisses her neck and drags her onto the dance floor. You watch with a goofy smile as the two attempt a sloppy tango. 

"Where is Santiago?" Yovanna asks Will behind you. 

"Over there with Catfish." 

Your eyes scan through the crowd, searching until you see the broad of his back near one of the tables, the curls he's left natural and without a hat on. 

You remember the K he sent you. And yet despite this your heart leaps at the sight of him. Maybe he's someone who doesn't do well with texting? You want to go and talk to him but you feel strangely shy. Marcella isn't here so it seems pointless to insinuate yourself over there. You watch as Yovanna goes to Pope, feeling envious. 

You glance at the bar, struck with inspiration. You excuse yourself and offer Will your seat next to Jean which he takes happily, pulling her into a kiss as you leave. 

///

Santi isn't letting the previous conversation go. He's cornered Frankie by one of the tables, looking at him seriously. 

"You could just tell her how you feel."

"No, Pope."

"Why?"

"I don't trust how I feel on this vacation," Frankie explains. "I mean up until this trip we were barely speaking." 

"Have you ever apologized to her for it?" Santi asks, eyes glancing at the dance floor and then back to a suddenly terse Frankie. 

"She's never apologized to me."

"Then nothing's really gonna change," Santi explains with a disappointed shake of his head. "You're not ready."

Frankie feels struck dumb by this. He goes to defend himself when Santi laughs, pointing at the dance floor. 

"Looks like the girls are here."

"Huh?" Frankie's brow saddles as he looks over his shoulder to see Lydia and Benny in a sloppy rendition of a tango. Nearby he thinks he sees Jean and Will, but there's no you.  Disappointment stabs at him. He wanted to see you tonight.

Yovanna approaches, giving Santi a smile as he brings her into his lap in the nearby chair. She throws her arms around his neck, kissing him gently. 

"This is a pleasant surprise," he says looking at her with adoration. "When did you get here?"

"Four of us took a cab," Yovanna says. She glances over at Frankie and waves. "Your girl is here too." 

He's about to reply when Frankie sees you sail by his table in the dark club, noticing the way your ass twitches away as you walk to the bar. Fuck you look good. He should have told Will to fuck off earlier. All he wants to do is take you to bed and make you feel so fucking good. 

He knows it's pathetic but he stands immediately. "You guys want anything to drink?"

Santi doesn't hide his grin. "Nah we're good. Go see your girl." 

Frankie gives a lopsided grin at that before he's weaving through the throng of dancing people. He sees you tilting over the bar, saying something. The female bartender nods, stepping away. 

You stand waiting, looking strangely nervous. Frankie can hear his heartbeat as he moves towards you, a smile starting when he sees your profile. He sees the deep cut of your dress and he feels his stomach tighten in arousal.

You look stunning.

Frankie stops suddenly, watching as a tall man with tattoos approaches you. Frankie's seen this guy hitting on every girl since he got here. From here Frankie can hear the man's voice through the crowd. 

"Hey sexy lady. Can I buy you a drink?"

Frankie holds his breath, hiding in the crowd and listening for your answer. Your voice is sweet, full of smiles. 

"You know, I'd love a glass of champagne."

Frankie feels himself see red. He has to physically remove himself from the vicinity, going to stand near the beam strung with colorful lights. What the fuck? Flirting with some asshole at the bar?

Minutes later you take your Coke and the flute of champagne with you from the bar, leaving the tattooed man looking after you with a frown. You giggle to yourself before seeing Lydia exiting the dance floor. You pass her the champagne and laugh as she throws it back. 

"If you want another one you're gonna have to do some really good fake flirting," you tell her. "I'm gonna go give this to Frankie." 

You take a deep breath, looking for him in the crowd. He's not at the table or the dance floor. Did he go home already? You deflate slightly before a low voice says you're name. You turn back to see Frankie glowering in the corner, hidden partially in shadows.

“Hey Flyboy.”

"Having fun?"

"So-so," you reply. "Not a big fan of crowds like this."

You motion to the bustling club, getting shouldered by a young woman passing by in a slinky red dress as you speak. Frankie sucks at his teeth, eyes still burning. 

"Seemed like you were getting along great at the bar." 

"Huh?"

"Pretty sure it looks bad for my girlfriend to be flirting with some random dickhead for a drink," Frankie growls, his dark eyes burning. “Or did you forget that you’re getting paid for this?”

You step back, wounded.

"Excuse me?" You shoot him a furious grimace. "I was getting you a drink. And I only let that guy talk to me like that because I wanted free champagne for Lydia."

Frankie's eyes drop to the frosted bottle of Coke sweating in your hand. Frankie feels his neck warm at that. Regret lines his features and he swallows. 

"I didn't-"

You’re angry. How dare he? He gives you mixed signals, barely talks to you today and now this? You hate that you felt something for him.

"And as for flirting I can do whatever I want as long as Marcella isn't around."

Frankie feels that familiar drip of poison in his veins. The one that makes his teeth clench. 

"That's not the deal."

 "Last time I checked you aren't my actual boyfriend, Franny. So as long as I'm not making you look bad in front of Marcella and Richard, I could go over and fuck that guy if I wanted to." 

You shove his drink at him. It splashes against his chest as, fumbling; he takes it from you, fuming.  

"Not a chance." 

"Oh yeah?"

Without another word you stride over to the tall tattoo guy at the bar. A man with more muscles than brains if your dull conversation at the bar earlier was anything to go off of. 

You feel Frankie's eyes on you as you smile, apologizing for taking off so suddenly earlier. 

"That's okay Mamacita," he says licking his lips grotesquely as he eyes your cleavage. 

You feel a thrum begin in your chest knowing that Frankie is watching all of this. 

The guy grins, a hand coming to rest on your hip, pulling you close. 

"You wanna go somewhere a little more private?"

"No, she doesn't."

You both turn to see Frankie glaring from beside you. Before you can say anything he's taken a step forward. 

"Let's go," Frankie announces, grabbing your wrist and tugging. You let out a squeak, waving goodbye to the man at the bar with a breathless laugh. He all but drags you through the busy crowd, his legs scissoring quickly as you follow, stumbling slightly on your high shoes. 

"Get in the taxi," he orders when the two of you are outside, hailing a cab, "or you can kiss that two grand goodbye."

You want to fight him on that. You want to tell him off and ignore him. But the fact of the matter is you need that $2,000. You need it if there's any chance of you returning back to school this year. 

Stuck between a rock and a hard place you shoot him a glowering look before pulling yourself into the cab with Frankie following in after you. 

You both travel in tense silence, Frankie staring out the window and you with your arms crossed staring at your lap. It's not long before you're back at the resort, throwing yourself from the cab while Frankie pays the driver. 

You stomp your way to the elevator in front of him, furious. You try to close the doors on him but his wide hand slices through the crack between them, triggering them to slide back open with a clunk. 

You cross your arms, looking away from him. You're so fucking angry at him for embarrassing you back there. And you're so incredibly hurt that he thinks you'd do that to him in the first place. Like you're Marcella, trying to hurt him on purpose. It makes you think of that day you want to forget. 

He slides into the empty elevator beside you, towering over you as he punches the button to close the doors. For the first time you wish he was wearing his hat because when he wears it he resembles your friend from long ago. This man in a button up and slicked back curls is a stranger to you, one you pins you in spot with his fierce eyes. 

"That was needlessly humiliating," you spit out, needing to resolve the tension somehow and anger feels right. 

"You deserved it," Frankie insists, closing any remainder of space between your bodies. "You're acting ridiculously." 

"Oh, and you're such a delight," you shoot back. "Can't even let me have a minute of fun." 

You punch the floor number when you realize you're both just arguing in a static elevator softly playing calypso music. It hums to life, carrying you two upwards. 

"Your idea of fun is acting like a cheap slut." 

As soon as the words hit the air Frankie wishes he could take them back. He sees the way your brows rise, horrified. And then your hand is flying out to give him a sharp slap across the face. He catches your wrist with ease, pushing it and you against the wall with a grunt. 

"Enough." 

He's stronger than you by a mile. He overpowers you with ease. The thought should terrify you, but instead it pumps something in your blood. You know Frankie would never hurt you, not unless you asked him to. 

The undercurrent is strong between you, the moment charged as you glare at one another and Frankie is horrified when he feels himself growing hard against your thigh. 

"You're a piece of shit, you know that, Morales?" 

"You're acting pretty cocky for a girl who's at my mercy right now," Frankie snarls through clenched teeth. 

"You wouldn't do anything," you sneer, unaware of what's happening. All you can feel is this pulsing anger that is translating into a strange desire to have his hands on you.  

Frankie feels his temper rising along with his blood pressure. Before he can stop himself he tugs your wrist from where it's pinned against the wall. He uses it to whirl you around, pushing your chest against the elevator wall with a grunt. 

His eyes are fixated on the hem of your skirt which has ridden up.

You let out a small gasp of surprise when you feel his hands coming to tease around the ruffled hem before raising the fabric quickly. You feel the cool air hit your bare flesh and you flush, embarrassed as Frankie exposes you. The elevator could stop at any moment to let guests on.

Seeing your ass barely covered by a pair of your familiar lace panties has Frankie groaning against the back of your head. He's rock hard. Satisfied he bunches your skirt at your waist. 

"Stay still," Frankie says huskily. 

You feel his eyes take in the lace of your black panties; hear the hitch in his breath. Your face burns, eyes pinched shut. Can he tell you're getting off on this? Can he see how wet you are? 

And then it happens. 

You feel the wide slap off his hand swat your ass. You gasp in surprise, eyes blown wide. There is a hideous moment of silence that hangs between the two of you in the room. Frankie realizing what he's just done, his blood roaring in his ears. 

Your cunt throbs, dampening your panties. You squirm, embarrassed. Frankie slaps a hand against the elevator wall, startling you. 

"Did I say you could move?" 

A shiver races down your spine at the guttural tone of his rasp. His hips gently circle your ass, pressing his clothed length between your thighs. 

Frankie's never been like this with you. This cold almost detached voice, this firm way of touching you.  

Another slap lands on your right cheek, hard enough to sting. You whimper even as the sting turns into a warm, lingering pleasure. 

"Answer me," he commands against the back of your neck. "Did I say you could move?"

"No," you offer in a husky gasp. "You didn't." 

"Are you going to listen?"

"Yes." 

Frankie bites down on a groan at the softness in your tone. Something about having bossy, brash, you submitting like this has him crazy.

"You're a mess," Frankie huffs against your ear. "You need to learn discipline." 

You feel his wide palm slap your right ass cheek again. Enough to make it jiggle deliciously for him but not hard enough to hurt. 

It surprises you though, causing you to jolt against the wall, gasping before collecting yourself. Frankie's stopped, his heavy breathing the only sound in the elevator. 

 You twist slowly, eyes traveling up his arm to his shoulder, mouth and then finally resting at his eyes. You sneer. 

"That's all you got?" 

The words are barely out of your mouth when his large hand lands another sharp crack against your left cheek. You hiss pleasurably, body tightening. 

He does it again, and again. Each time he does you can feel arousal starting to gather between your thighs. You feel your pussy throbbing with need. How are you going to look Frankie in the face tomorrow? 

He grips it in his hand, watching it recoil when he drops it. The elevator could open at any time but he doesn't mind. The urgency is half the fun. 

Frankie grunts, spanking your ass again. He lets a small groan out when you arch your back, moaning. He slaps your ass harder, blow after blow as you press your forehead to the wall, eyes cheating to the back of your head. 

"You leave wet towels on the floor," Frankie grunts out, slapping and then rubbing your warm flesh. "Never make your side of the bed. Your fucking clothes were everywhere."

You lean into his touch, a sleazy smile overtaking your features as you gaze back at him over your shoulder. 

"Harder."

Oh shit. Frankie's eyes widen the way you're groaning when you say it, arching your ass out for his palm in a way that has him rock hard. 

At the next slap, a cracking sound goes through the air. Frankie watches, hypnotized as your pink ass jumps. It's warm under his touch as he soothes it, hand moving in gentle circles. You lean into his touch, your moans muffled. 

Fuck it feels good to have this, especially from Frankie who seems to know just what to do and where to touch. 

He realizes your left ass cheek bears the faint outline of his hand. Something in him, possessiveness at marking you as his makes his cock leak into his boxers. His hips suddenly press against your ass, pinning you to the wall.

And then all at once the elevator stops, a ding letting you know that you've arrived at your floor. 

He releases you, stepping back to give you space. Your dress falls back over your ass. His breathing is ragged and his palm tingles.You turn around and he sees your cheeks are red and your eyes are glassy. Your eyes are stuck on his mouth, desire swirling in your belly. 

The two of you break from your haze just long enough to make it down the hallway and back into the room. Frankie's hand is sweaty when he slides the plastic keycard against the door.  

Its seconds before he ushers you inside and you face him, chest heaving. He looks wrecked, his dark eyes ravenous. 

Kiss me kiss me. 

And then like he can hear you, his mouth crashes against yours. Nothing like the kiss at the pool, this one is all teeth and spit and vicious scrabbling for dominance, both your heads tilting when both your tongues dab. 

And there's no one around to fool, no crowd to entertain. Just the two of you desperate for one another, groaning into each other's mouths.

Frankie is almost vibrating with how good you feel to him. You're warm and pliant and giving of yourself to him. Your fingers tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck, causing a shiver to go through him when you pull lightly. 

His cock lengthens in his pants, his hips starting to grind into yours more aggressively. Your thighs part, welcoming the sensation. 

Don't go too far. Don't go too far. 

The words echo in his mind. He's a pleasure seeker. He has to make sure that's not what this is. He needs to prove that getting himself off isn't what this is about. 

He wedges his thigh between your legs, urging you down onto it as he continues to kiss you against the wall. You allow it, hips rolling without thought. All you can focus on is how good he feels and smells. 

Frankie feels your thighs squeeze his leg, the rasp of your panties against his leg like a sweet, addictive drug. He knows which ones you wear, he folded them himself. 

"That's feels good doesn't it?" He murmurs against your temple. You’re so far gone you can’t even form real words.

"Uh huh."

"Think you can come like this?" 

You give a little whisper of surprise when his hands drop to your hips, pressing you down and encouraging you to rub yourself harder against his thigh. Frankie grins to himself when you instinctively begin to roll your hips. 

"Yeah, you can come like this."

The sensation of your lace panties and the friction of his pants make electricity shoot through your body at each drag of your pussy, making you moan. 

Frankie can't help himself, his hands move to shove your dress off your shoulders, easily exposing the breasts he's been thinking about for days. They bounce as you squeeze his thigh with your legs. 

You continue rolling your hips, your dress around your waist and your chest bare. Your eyes are heavy as you gaze at Frankie and he feels his cock weeping when you reach for his wrists, urging his hands to your chest. 

"Touch me, Frankie," you beg breathlessly. 

Frankie groans, his hands coming to cup your warm breasts, thumbs brushing each erect nipple. His mouth is warm and wet and he breathes heavily as he moves to give the other the same treatment.  

Without thought his mouth latches onto one, sucking and licking. You wrap your arms around his head, wanting more. 

Your hips are both rutting against one another, and you ride his thigh quicker. You're so close you can feel that pleasurable buildup beginning in your core. Your eyes are trained on his, hands uselessly at your sides. 

"C'mon pretty girl," Frankie growls, hands digging into your hips, forcing you to drag harder over the fabric covering his thigh. "Right here and now."

He pulls back from you, his nostrils flared as he watches you. Frankie has never seen anything sexier. 

Your head feels fuzzy, lust overtaking you as he coaxes you to orgasm. It comes on quickly, your head thrown back.

"Yes, yes, oh fuck, yes," he groans breathlessly, watching you shudder for him, thighs squeezing. "Just like that. There you go." 

Your spine lengthens and you give a final whimper and moan before slumping forward into his shoulder, panting there as Frankie holds you. You both pause, panting deeply against one another. Your eyes shutter, inhaling his cologne and the scent of his sweat.  

"That was ... That was really nice," you croak, unable to think much further than that. You've never been able to get off like that before. Your legs feel like jello and you tilt back, eyes heavy with sleep.

Frankie gives you a crooked grin, slipping the thin straps of your dress back up over your shoulders, disappointed to hide your gorgeous breasts from him. Your palm raises, attempting to slide down the front of his pants where he throbs. You want to pay him back.

He hisses at the contact, stopping himself from thrusting into your palm. 

"Not tonight," he murmurs, unpinning you from the wall. 

His arms don't leave your middle as he guides you to the bed, flicking off the lights. You’re thankful for it, your legs still shaky. You gaze at his profile with glazed eyes, your body filled with those sweet chemicals that make you want to kiss him.

“Here.”

He props you on the edge of the plush mattress with you looking at him concerned as he crosses the room to the dresser. 

"But it's my turn to sleep in-"

"You're not sleeping in the hammock," he tells you. "Neither of us are." 

He reaches into your dresser and pulls out the Nirvana shirt. You allow him to tug it over your head with a soft smile up at him. 

He kneels down beside the bed, slipping your heels off as you watch him. He takes his time, letting his fingers linger on your bare calves, the smooth of your ankle, the delicate arch of your foot. You breathe open-mouthed as he does this, noting that he’s between your legs now. He glances up to see the heated gaze of your expression. He swallows before he kisses your kneecap and stands

You shimmy out of your dress, leaving you in the Nirvana shirt and panties. He pulls off his button down and shucks off his trousers, leaving only his boxers. Wordlessly the two of you slip under the covers.

You prepare to roll away from him but he wraps his arm around your waist, bringing your front to his. He's still hard, but he doesn't do anything about it. He just smiles at you, brushing some of your hair from your face so he can better see your eyes. 

You feel a warmth spreading through your body, loosening your muscles and your inhibitions. You lean forward to kiss him, relieved when he does the same, sighing softly when you part. 

"Night, Frankie."

His eyes are butter soft before he kisses you once more. 

"Night, baby." 

----------------------------

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[amysuemc]

STICK BUDDIES PART 4

words: 8.7k

rating: 18+

pairing: Frankie!Morales x f!reader

tags: Frankie jorkin' it, imagining reader jorkin' it, makin' out with tongues, all the tropes, Will is a buzzkill, mentions of rose toy (you can blame @almostempty for that).

series masterlist here

a/n: I love how much y'all are enjoying this so I had to post early. Also a huge, giant, massive thank you to everyone who donated for my new laptop. It arrives this weekend and I'm gonna be tippy-tapping away like crazy! Thank you to everyone who donated. I love you, I love this community.

Chapter 4: S.N.A.F.U.

slang. S.N.A.F.U. : Situation Normal All Fucked Up

By the next morning the rain has washed away all the clouds and left nothing but a beautiful, sunny day. Frankie blinks awake slowly, letting the room come slowly into view. He notices the sliding door is open, letting in a sweet breeze. 

He blinks again harshly, recalling last night. You rushing inside soaking wet. You crawling into bed with him. Him sleepily pulling you into his arms, the way it felt so serene falling asleep to the sound of your breathing, to inhale your skin as he drifted off. 

Fuck. 

Frankie blinks furiously, eyes clearing of sleep to see you next to him. His forearm is tucked up underneath your sleep-warmed body. One of your hands sprawls over his elbow, your face half-pressed into his bicep. 

You're slumbering deeply, eyes flicking behind your eyelids and hair wild around you on his pillow. You look beautiful like that. No scowl or rolled eyes shot his way, no Franny or Fishface (he'll never tell you he doesn't mind Flyboy).

You look content, almost angelic. He lets his eyes drift to your bare shoulders, your neck, your plump mouth slack with sleep. Tendrils of your hair rest on the pillow. He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo from them.

And then all at once he thinks about what he found when he was unpacking your clothes last night. 

He'd been bored out of his mind, desperate for some distraction after huffing away from Will. He was furious at the judgment from the man, at the pity everyone was shooting his way. He slammed the door after him, pacing around the floors. 

Fuck, he wished he had some coke. Or a shot of whiskey. Anything that could take away this horrible fucking ache in his belly and fury in his veins. 

"Remember group," he told himself, going through the list of coping strategies.

Watch TV. Dance. Work out. 

He didn't want to do that. The desire for oblivion was too tempting. He deserved it after all he'd been through. Just one shot. One shot won’t ruin anything. He can still be sober. It’s just one time. One small thing it barely even counts.

Frankie’s trembling fingers went towards the phone, stopping only when he eyed one of your sparkly yellow scrunchies sitting next to it. His fingers stilled as your face popped into his head, your voice melodic.

Have I told you lately how proud I am of you baby? 

You'd meant it that night. You told him so. The shine in your eyes, the delight in your expression, you really were proud of him. 

His hand dropped and he stood abruptly, shaking his shoulders, jumping in spot. It was a technique his sponsor had taught him. 

"Distraction," he told himself as he jumped from foot to foot. "Need a distraction."

Frankie had glanced around the room, noting how haphazard it was in areas. 

His stuff was already placed away in drawers, folded army perfect or hung in the closet. Your stuff was not, which was hardly surprising because bits of you existed everywhere in this hotel room. 

He'd never shared a room with you in all the years of friendship. Camping trips were tents, you never hosted BBQs or games nights with Jack. Looking around Frankie realized you would be the worst roommate ever. 

Your makeup littered the desk, shoes kicked whenever you felt like. Old pyjama pants lay in puddles of water in the bathroom. He tossed those into a bag marked laundry, shaking his head. 

You're a slob. A gremlin of chaos disrupting order wherever you go. You're loud and you're opinionated and colorful and you drove Frankie insane every moment of this trip. 

And yet there he was, picking up your mess, wiping the bathroom floor clean and all he wanted more than anything was for you to come to the room. 

He wanted your chaos and your loud laugh right now. He wanted you to tease him or to. He just wanted you close by. 

He'd pulled out his phone, about to open WhatsApp when he stopped himself. He hadn't wanted to look pathetic, especially when he'd already stomped off from the group without so much as a goodbye. 

With the phone returned to his back pocket and your damp clothing placed in the laundry bag he had taken another look around the space. Your clean clothing was a pile in your suitcase, spilling over onto the marble floor. 

He decided then that your suitcase would be next. He heaved it onto the bed with a grunt. He folded your laundry quickly, not even registering what he was doing until he came to a pair of your lace panties, colorful and feminine. 

He quickly folded the rest, trying his hardest not to imagine what you looked like in them. But his fingers trailed over the ruffled edges of the pink pair, eyes drawn to the cute bows on the hips of another. 

Frankie had been surprised to find himself flushing in embarrassment when he realized he was just standing there, staring at your panties. What was he doing? 

Your clothing was quickly deposited into your dresser, organized neatly. He'd gone back to the bag, seeing if anything else needed to be put away. He reached into the side pouch, distracted by your panties, not expecting to come upon a small pink bag. 

He pulled it out, eyes scanning the floral print of the bag and the logo alongside swirling gold script.

For your garden of pleasure. 

When he thinks back on it now, he realizes he was an idiot not to draw the conclusion of the mystery item immediately. 

Instead he opened up the bag and saw a silicone rose. Confused he took it out, looking at it. Was it for makeup application? His thumb pressed into the side as he took a view at it from all angles, dropping it onto the bed in shock when it began to vibrate.  

"Oh shit!"

The blush colored item had begun vibrating around on the bed, sending out puffs of air as Frankie hurriedly grabbed at it, struggling to press it again to turn off. But to his horror every time he pressed it, the vibrating just got louder and faster. 

"Fuck, fuck." 

He'd heard footsteps outside the door and felt himself panic. How could he explain this if you came back? Him holding your vibrator as it buzzed away in his hand?

"Just fucking turn off you fucking fuck," Frankie had urged the toy angrily. Several stabs of his wide thumb later and the toy mercifully fell silent. 

He'd held his breath, waiting for a beep at the door but none came. The footsteps were leading to another door on this floor. 

He was alone. Alone with your travel-sized vibrator. You obviously didn't think about sharing a room with him. That much is evident by the t-shirt alone. But this? This just solidified that you really thought you'd have privacy. He almost felt guilty. 

He placed it back inside the bag, shoving it into your suitcase once more, telling himself he'd just pretend he never saw it and save you both the embarrassment. 

"Distractions," he'd told his red-faced reflection above the dresser. "Just need more distractions." 

After a simple room service delivery for dinner, copious games on his phone and an hour of Spanish television he decided he might as well go to sleep. 

When Frankie finally tucked himself under the covers he was extremely thankful he got the bed that night. He didn't think his back could handle another night in the hammock. He hugged the pillow under his head, eyes falling shut. 

But instead of the familiar dark of sleep, Frankie had been assaulted by visions of the toy in your bag. He'd tried to blink it away, tried rolling on his side but nothing helped. 

Instead his mind painted a lusty picture for him. You in the bed with your legs spread, the white covers of the bed strewn back. 

"Distraction," he told himself as he'd allowed himself to get swept up into the fantasy. "This is just a distraction."

He could picture the arch of your back as you wore his t-shirt, your lusty eyes heavy as you gazed at him. 

And he thought of those panties with the bows on the hips. How you'd be so desperate you'd push them to the side, revealing yourself to him. 

He could imagine that rose toy held between your trembling legs, your hips rolling as your chest heaved. And he could picture his name on your quivering lips. 

And then, the thought that forced him onto his back and his hand to snake down his boxers to grip his aching length. 

Had you ever thought of Frankie when using it? Did thoughts of his mouth on your body make you come? What does your face look like when you do? Do you tremble? Whimper? Do you moan his name?

And then he spilled over his knuckles to thoughts of just that seared into his brain. 

And now that thought comes roaring back into the forefront of his mind as he lies next to you, inhaling the warm vanilla coconut of your soap, gaze stuck on your mouth. 

You give a soft little sigh in your sleep and that about does him in. He's hard as a rock and he needs to take care of it. 

He slides himself out gently from under your touch, eyes peeled on your face. You make a small huffing noise before rolling onto your other side, hugging the pillow to your chest. 

He rushes into the shower, jumping in when it's still tepid because he can't stand not touching himself. It's only seconds before he's releasing himself all over the tiles, his free hand over his mouth to keep from groaning loudly.

"Jesus," he breathes raggedly, one palm resting against the glass shower door, the other dropping his cock to hang heavily between his legs. His body feels spent, sluggish and yet his attention is sharp as he hears you rustle the sheets outside. 

He exits dressed and groomed moments later, eyeing you on the balcony. You stretch over, stomach curved over the ledge to look at something below. He averts his eyes, concerned he'll need another shower if he doesn't. 

You hear his approach and you slowly tilt back down, wild hair over your shoulder and a sleepy smile on your face. Frankie feels his breath leave him as he sees you there back lit by the sun. You’re luminous.

"Sleep okay?"

"Mhm."

"Even after I barged in here like a wet cat?"

Frankie huffs a soft laugh, barely heard over the ocean waves at the shore. 

"Don't even remember it to be honest."

He really doesn't. He has glimpses of memory, you coming in, you nestling in his arms. Now you stand and watch him with a curious expression. The breeze ruffles the sleep clothes you wear, your hair lifting and falling. 

"What happened to you yesterday?" 

Frankie wishes this conversation could be dropped. He moves to the railing, his hands curving over the edge. He looks over the side, watching the resort patrons walk back and forth to the pools, the bars, the lounge chairs, and the water. They remind him of ants from up here.

"Will just said something that pissed me off," Frankie shrugs. "Put me in a shitty mood and I just felt like being alone."

He glances over at you, seeing how your eyes follow his. 

"Sorry I didn't tell you."

"S'okay." 

You look like you want to say more but you just flash him a quick smile and head inside, pulling open the drawers. He hears your voice hitch, a thread of panic ringing in the air. 

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you go through my whole bag?" You ask in a tight voice. "Like, did you put anything else away?"

He can't see you from where he stands but he can picture the pinched expression you likely wear. He licks his lip nervously, clearing his throat and forcing the wobble from it.

"Nope, just the clothes."

You exhale gratefully before announcing you'll be ready for breakfast in five minutes. 

///

At breakfast (technically brunch) everyone is hung-over aside from Frankie. He takes full advantage of this, smirking at the group as you both approach. Everyone is wearing sunglasses and drinking coffee. The girls are grabbing "hangover fuel" from the buffet. You're not too bad, more sleepy than anything. You attribute it to the early shower from mother nature.

"Can you pass the coffee?" You ask Frankie who replies very loudly as he hands you the carafe. 

"Of course!"

"Keep your voice down," Benny groans, holding his head.

Frankie leans back in his chair, grinning at his friends. The girls return from the buffet with plates piled high. Eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns and green juice. Conversation is brief, punctuated by sips of coffee and grudging bites of dry toast.

"There's trivia poolside," Lydia says as she takes a seat next to Benny and digs in. "Who's going to join?"

"S'too early,” Jean says between yawns. 

"It's noon." 

"If we get our shit together Pope and I were gonna do some tennis in the courts," Will says with a stretch in his chair. Frankie doesn't even look his way, still irritated with yesterday. 

"I was just gonna hang by the pool anyway so I'm in," you say from behind your oversized sunglasses. "Stupid jet skis are booked up again today." 

No matter how early you go to the front desk you can't manage to secure a spot to use the resort jet skis. They only book 24 hours in advance and apparently everyone else is much more organized than you. 

"I feel like this group could do well, you're all very competitive," Yovanna says shooting Santi and Frankie a grin. "You gonna play, Catfish?"

Frankie feels the tips of his ears pinking under his curls. The truth is he thinks he might have to stay away from you entirely today. As much as he hates to admit it, Will was right, he is a pleasure chaser. 

Waking up this morning he had you in his arms, a hard on, and a desperate desire to know what your face looked like when you come. Thoughts he's never really had for you until this trip. He's chasing a forbidden high.  He’s thankful when Jean pipes off, taking the attention off of him and the subject of participation.

"You guys give each other the worst call signs," Jean laughs, biting into your pancake. "I mean, Catfish for a pilot?"

You pause, blinking. You never thought it was weird, Santi was Pope after all since he was raised Catholic. But now that you think about it, yeah, you suppose it is strange for Frankie to have that handle. You just got so used to it. 

"Oh, we didn't give Fish his call sign," Santi says with a smirk across the table. "That was earned an entirely different way."

You raise a brow at this, lowering your coffee to the table, intrigued. You don't miss the way Frankie's jaw sets, lips thinning.  

"Do not keep going," Frankie says his voice a dark growl. The guys ignore this, laughing and talking over one another. 

"We actually called him Patches for the longest time," Will says across the table, full of caffeine and good spirits. 

"Patches?"

"The beard," Santi explains, motioning towards his own clean shaven face. 

You glance over to see Frankie's cheeks going a deep red as his friends speak. You notice the way his beard has small patches where it doesn't grow as thick.  

"So why Catfish?"

Frankie has slumped down in his chair, the tips of his ears turning pink. 

"We were in Basic," Santi starts. 

Benny and Will nod. "Yep. Down in Fort Bliss. Don't let the name fool ya."

Frankie knows where this is going and he does not want you to hear it. 

“You guys-“

"So Frankie here always attracted the ladies with those big brown eyes, looking like a lost puppy," Santi teases, ignoring how Frankie pulls the brim of his hat lower. “The women go crazy for it.”

Frankie rolls his eyes dramatically. "Hardly."

"You did," Will insists. "You just never believed it." 

Frankie wants to crawl under the table in embarrassment. But you're bright eyed, curious and smiling expectantly. Jean kicks Frankie’s foot under the table with her sandals.

"You were a real heart breaker, huh Fish?"

"Christ."

"So anyway, we go to the bar and there's this chick that's just....mmm," Santi makes a sound of appreciation. "Sexy little southern twang, skimpy little dress-"

"Oh, I see," Yovanna says tightly. "Cheap dresses do it for you?"

"I mean she wasn't my type," Santi corrects at lightning speed, placing his arm around Yovanna as the group hide their smirks. "But at the time I was single and desperate. So we're all eyeing her and who does she go home with? This fucker right here who's been silent pretty much the whole time." 

Frankie isn't even looking up at the group anymore; his chin is planted firmly on his collar. His curls stick out, trailing halfway down his neck. His dark eyes are fixed on his shoes, then your toenails, then his shoes again.

"We see her next day and she's all smiles. Says he's the best she's ever had because, and I quote," at this point Santi adopts an exaggerated southern accent; "Y'all he's like a catfish between my legs. He likes it wet and stays down for hours." 

The entire table erupts into whooping cheers. Lydia is wide-eyed and repeating ‘No!’ Benny is slapping the table in amusement while the other girls throw their heads back in laughter. You yourself are laughing so hard that tears are in your eyes. But it doesn't stop the strange rhythm of your pulse. 

Frankie likes to go down on women? The best she ever had? Stays down for hours? The image of his head between your own thighs shows up in your brain like a rude party guest that won't leave. You take a sip of your coffee to distract it.

Frankie has buried his face in his hands, shaking his head dramatically as the crowd cheers. Your eyes jump in amusement, smile sliding into a cheek. You give his shoulder a playful shove with yours, prompting Frankie to give in and grin at the ribbing.

You don’t know what compels you, but you move your lips next to his ear, voice hushed. 

"S'nice to know my fake boyfriend is good in bed. Makes me fake proud."

Frankie feels his spine tingle at that. He wants to show you how good. He just knows you'd taste perfect. Images of that rose toy flash in his mind and he has to distract himself. 

He refuses to look at you from behind his aviators. You're too appealing in your colorful sundress and sparkly sandals.He shifts awkwardly as he feels himself twitching with interest below the belt. Fuck. 

The laughter around the table ebbs and a new topic is presented, that of the stags tonight. 

"Don't forget to wear something cute and we meet in the lobby at six pm tonight," she informs the girls. 

"Same goes for you guys," Benny says grinning, "'Except for the dress cute part. I don't give a shit what you wear." 

///

A short while later the group is in its usual spot under the cabana at the pool. A large plate of nachos, a basket of tacos and beer bottles are scattered between the chairs. 

Santi has dragged his lounge chair out into the sun and is basking in it, a towel over his face. Benny and Lydia are snuggled up together napping on one of the couple loungers. Will is doing a crossword in between watching Jean diving. You and Frankie rest next to one another both invested in what you're reading. 

You can't help but sneak glances at him out the corner of your eyes. You never realized he sticks out his lower lip slightly when he reads. Or that when lays back in the chair that he folds his ankles over each other. Or that if he moves at certain angles you can see the clear outline of his large, flaccid cock. 

He's not monstrously huge, but it's... A biggie. Intimidating enough that you imagine bouncing on it would be a challenge. 

Why are you thinking about bouncing on Frankie's cock right now? What the fuck is wrong with you? He's literally using you to make his ex jealous. How could you possibly think a man who hasn't spoken to you until three days ago is a good idea to lust after?

Yovanna and Jean come back from the pool, dripping as they collapse into their lounge chairs. 

"The water is perfect," Jean insists, shaking her hair over Will. 

"Brat," he teases, pinching her bottom playfully. Jean shrieks a giggle, waking Benny before pushing him away. 

"Shuddap," Benny grumbles before going back to his nap. You and Jean catch eyes and giggle. 

You can't help but be a bit envious of Benny and Lydia cuddled there together in the balmy day. They look so sweet snuggled up like that. You almost wish Marcella was around so you could have a reason to suggest it to Frankie.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

You’re just horny and Frankie is just there. You just need to get laid. But how to do that when pretending to be dating Frankie? Odds are you’d run into Marcella or Richard running out of some random guy’s room. Plus flings aren’t your thing anymore.

Not long after Santi and Will go headed off in the direction of the tennis courts, waving at the group as they wander off. 

"Benny and I have to go too," Lydia says stretching. "Boring wedding stuff. See you all tonight!" 

With that the lovebirds retreat; Lydia tucked up under Benny's arm. Again a stab of jealousy goes through you. It's been a long time since you were actually dating someone. It's been one night stands and short term flings for you the past few years.  

But the feel of Frankie's arms around you in bed last night had felt pleasantly domestic. It made you realized that perhaps you were missing that connection to another person. 

“Is it just me or does she get more obnoxious with every passing day?” Jean groans, breaking you from your thoughts. “I mean, honestly.”

You glance up to see where she’s motioning with her chin and you can’t help but agree with her assessment. Marcella and Richard have arrived wearing matching white swim gear and Marcella’s towel that says ‘Future Mrs.’ in glittery script.

You see Frankie staring at her from behind his glasses, his jaw ticking.

He feels his temper rising as he watched Marcella laugh gaily at something Richard says. He watches as his ex wife massages another man’s shoulders, her engagement ring glinting in the sunlight. Richard grins broadly at her, his teeth bleached and perfect.

Marcella chose that phony fucker over Frankie. She threw away five years for that asshole. The thought makes his nostrils flair in irritation, almost giving into the black cloud that hangs overhead when he feels it, the feather light touch of your hand over his. 

Your fingers rest lightly atop his knuckles. He stares at them, mesmerized by the shape of your nails, at how delicate your fingers look against the back of his brawny hand 

"You okay, Morales?"

His eyes slide up your arm to your face, seeing the concern reflected in them. You've sensed that he's upset by Marcella and you're trying to comfort him. His heart throbs. 

"Yeah, I am. Thanks."

"I wonder what the trivia is on," Yovanna says, wrapping a towel around her waist, trying to change the subject.

As if on cue the recreation staff Cha Cha comes to the pool holding a microphone and a clipboard. She's a fit woman of about thirty with bleached hair and long decorative nails. 

Another staff member sets up six chairs behind her along the edge of the pool at her instruction. Three sets of two chairs facing back to back. 

"Hello my friends! Today we have a special trivia for you," Cha Cha announces through her thick accent when everything is set up. 

The poolside is crowded, but only half the patrons are listening. Many are sleeping under the umbrellas or sprawled in the sun, their golden body’s slick with oil. 

Cha Cha doesn't seem bothered by this, likely used to the intermittent apathy presented to her at her job. She smiles a wide, teeth-baring smile and points one long-nailed finger the crowd. 

 "I need three brave couples to volunteer."

She scans the crowd dramatically, pulling forth a few nervous giggles.

“First I need a couple who is married!”

An elderly couple is called up next and you clap loudly for them. They take a seat on the chairs facing back to back. 

“Now an engaged couple!”

She points at a couple in the crowd who have their hands raised. You glance over to see its Marcella and Richard. Of course they would volunteer. There's a smattering of applause as the two of them take their seats facing back to back.

Cha Cha surveys the crowd, coming to walk dramatically along the radius of the pool before stopping abruptly in front of you and Frankie when she hears Jean call out from behind you. 

“These two!” Jean shouts, pointing at you and Frankie like the antagonist she is. “They’re dating!”

You and Frankie basically melt into your chairs. 

"Perfect! Beautiful couple please join us!" 

Cha Cha points at you and Frankie and the two of you cringe before shooting a look of concern at one another from behind your sunglasses. Jean is grinning devilishly from behind her sunglasses, raising a drink in your direction.

"We're okay, thanks anyway," you say, waving your hand and forcing yourself to smile politely. 

"Oh come on!" Cha Cha insists with a fake pout that has the crowd laughing. "Please? For Cha Cha?" 

Yovanna and Jean are clapping and giggling wildly, encouraging you to go up. You hold up your hands, about to deny it further when you glance up. 

Marcella is sitting there facing you like the cat who got the cream, her smile arrogant. The following sneer she gives you makes you stand suddenly, holding out your hand to a still seated, and very surprised Frankie.

"What do you think, baby?"

Frankie takes your hand, surreptitiously tapping twice into your palm.

Two taps, I'm good to go. 

Then he grips your hand tightly, standing before the two of you are being ushered to the side of the pool amidst scattered applause. Most of it comes from your group of Yovanna and Jean who whistle and cheer loudly. 

You take the seats in the middle; you seated facing Marcella and Richard. You cross your legs as Frankie exhales behind you.  

"Alright sexy couples, we are going to take turns asking you about your partner! We ask that you hold your answers until we tell you to reveal them. The couple with the most points will be crowned the winner and given a prize!"

There's applause from around the pool at this. You and Frankie clutch the arms of the chairs until your knuckles are blanched. A staff hands all the women a clipboard holding blank pages and a felt marker. 

You feel yourself stiffen. How much do you and Frankie really know about each other? You have two whole years of missing life experience from one another. Frankie is feeling the same way, his dark eyes narrowed on the crowd as he glances to his left. 

Cha Cha dances over to the group, making them introduce themselves via the mic. Frankie is sweating, nervous as he mumbles his name to a brief applause. You see some of the girls from the elevator shooting him a wolf whistle and you grin into your hand.

"Frrrrrankie!" Cha Cha yells, rolling her R's dramatically. "You and your girlfriend are such a beautiful couple!"

Frankie spots you flush, and he grins in amusement. 

"I'm a very lucky man."

Cha Cha claps along with the audience and moves onto the other couples. Frankie drums on his knee nervously with his left hand. You tilt your body towards him, head falling against his shoulder. 

"Is this a terrible idea?"

He smirks over at you. 

"Probably." 

He jolts when a staff places a blindfold over his eyes. As it turns out all the men are blindfolded with silk red strips of fabric as Cha Cha paces back and forth in front of the couples holding her wireless mic. 

"Alright ladies, no answering out loud! You will write your answers on the sheet provided. This is understood, yes?"

Everyone answers the affirmative. 

"This is question one. If your partner had to pick his ideal activity to unwind after a long week, what would he say?"

Movement catches your eyes and got see Marcella writes hurriedly onto her paper, looking confident. She catches your eye, raising a curious brow your way. Your eyes dart back to the paper. 

You feel a hiccup of panic as you search your mind for an answer. What does Frankie like to do?

Drinking at the pub used to be a normal end of the week hang for the group, but he's sober now. He likes movies but he often gets stressed by the gunfire in action ones so he usually sticks with comedies. He reads, yeah, but you don't know if that's how he'd choose to relax after a long week. 

Then you think of it - darts! Frankie often commented that it was a great way to blow off steam. You've seen how he enjoys it, the focus and precision that melts away into a crooked grin when he gets a bulls eye. You debate it a moment before scribbling down.

Darts. 

Cha Cha is ready for question number two. She gives a sexy shake of her hips as she asks it.

"If we asked your partner to pick his favorite part of your body, what would he say?"

The crowd laughs as the old woman covers her mouth, shocked. 

Marcella gives a little trilling laugh that sets your teeth on edge. The old woman behind you writes slowly, giggling to herself. She casts a wink at you when she catches you staring over your shoulder. 

Shit, this is a tough one. 

You don't know Frankie's preferences. He was always with Marcella when you knew him but they weren't that demonstrative. Frankie wasn't like the rest of the guys who didn't shy from what they appreciated in a woman. 

You think back to yesterday and to the slap on your ass. It's as good a guess as any. You hurriedly write your answer.

Butt.

Several more questions are asked and you find you can answer most of them without any trouble. Some are funny (who is the better driver?) and some are just weird (if your partner was a topping on a pizza what would he be?). 

"Alright ladies, in five words or less describe what you thought of your partner the first time you met him."

You try to recall the first time you met Frankie at that dart game. You close your eyes, sailing back to that moment. Back to when you were paired up for the game, before you knew he was married, before everything when he was just some guy that you were going to throw darts with. 

Cute. You'd thought. Sexy, even.

His hair curling from under his hat, the little dip in his cheek when he grinned at one of your jokes. He smelled good, he looked good. He was sweetly shy to start, opening up as the game went along. It wasn't long before the two of you were laughing between throws. 

And then he mentioned something casually in passing about his wife and you'd noticed the ring on his left hand and you'd felt a stab of disappointment. But then you met the rest of the guys and before long you were invited to game nights, pub crawls, introduced to their girlfriends, welcomed into this friendship group and thankful for it. 

But in that hour long game when you didn't know anything about him, you realize you'd been attracted to Frankie. But Frankie can't know that. You hurriedly write Ugly Hat. 

Frankie feels his face sweating from the thick bandana. How the hell is he expected to answer these? How is this going to go well? Why did he think the two of you could pull this off with his ex wife only feet away? He's going to be humiliated. 

"Okay men's turn!"

You feel as a blindfold is placed over your eyes, your anxiety creeping. You know a bit about Frankie but you doubt he knows anything about you. 

Frankie blinks as his blindfold is removed. He glances down at the marker and paper handed to him as Cha Cha begins to ask her questions. She starts out with a soft ball, smiling in that bared-teeth way of hers.

"Name your partners favorite candy."

Okay, easy enough. He's seen you down more than one bag of Sour Patch Kids in his time. 

"Who will you partner say is the better driver?"

Tough. Frankie knows he's a better driver but what will you answer? You drive crazily, half focused on the radio, half focused on chatting to your passenger. It’s a miracle you’ve never been in a car accident.

Frankie sneaks little glances at Marcella every once in awhile, but he doesn't know why. Seeing her with Richard just makes the knife in his gut twist deeper. 

There are a few more questions, mostly silly, earning a few chuckles from the audience which has now grown to include Will and Santi near the back having returned from the tennis match. 

Cha Cha spins around the groups, nodding her head sagely as she looks at the men writing before raising her voice. 

"Okay final question for the boys! What do you love most about your partner?"

Both you and Frankie clench up, little spikes of anxiety going through your bodies. 

How the fuck is Frankie supposed to answer that? How are you supposed to guess it? 

Frankie tries to think of what you would say, but nothing comes to mind. He glances up, seeing the old man across from him writing shakily on his paper. The old man's mouth twitches into a smile. Frankie watches the man for a moment, married for decades and looking so joyful as he writes about what he loves most about his wife after all this time. 

Frankie feels jealousy of course, but also a desperate longing. A desire for the comfortable domestic picture he's created in his head. Of a life with a partner that makes him laugh and feel good.  

"Time is almost up!"

Cha Cha's voice breaks Frankie from his thoughts and he forces his eyes to his paper. 

You. He has to think about you. 

Your smile. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. He thinks of Russell, he thinks of the way you always included everyone who came to darts nights, how you've gone to great lengths to support his sobriety here at the resort and finally, after a moment's hesitation he writes one word. 

And then all too short a time the sheets are taken from the men, their chairs sat side by side to face the audience. Your pulse is throbbing and your ribs feel like they're tightening. You almost jump when Frankie's hand comes to land on your knee, squeezing affectionately. He leans over to you, his dark curls grazing your cheek. 

"S'okay, don't panic. Hopefully we get one or two and we laugh it off when the rest of our answers bomb." 

“Deal.”

You both sneak a look to see Richard and Marcella are hand in hand smiling at one another cheerily as Cha Cha begins, half facing the crowd, half facing the couples.

"Couple number one, I asked you if your partner had to pick his ideal way to unwind after a long week, what would he say?" Cha Cha looks at Richard. "And so?"

Richard chuckles lightly, glancing at his fiancé. "I would have to say racquetball."

Marcella's smile immediately drops. 

"I am sorry," Cha Cha says sympathetically, reading through Marcella's written answers. "Your fiancé said that your idea was to unwind with a massage." 

You and Frankie glance passively at one another before Cha Cha turns to face you both.  

"Couple two, same question."

Your fingers tighten around the arm of the chair. Frankie's lower lip sticks out in thought. He doesn't do much of anything these days except darts, movies, building model planes (no one knows that humiliating detail). 

"Uh, I guess darts?"

"Correct!" 

Frankie's eyes widen and a surprised grin reaches his face. He turns to look at you beaming at him. Cha Cha continues with the elderly couple who guess correctly (gardening). 

"Question two, let's start with couple number two. Now, we asked your girlfriend to name your favorite part of her body. What do you think she said?"

Frankie doesn't mean to, but his eyes sail over your body, traveling like a map over the curves of your breasts, the lusciousness of your lips. But his answer is there, has been there since the spanking by the pool. 

"Her ass. Or, er butt."

You flush a bright pink and cover your warm face but you laugh along with the rest of the crowd. Frankie grins embarrassed, his neck flushing pink. Cha Cha announces he's correct and the crowd cheers on in support. 

Marcella and Richard answer that one correctly. Apparently Richard really has a thing for her ears? Frankie has to force himself to keep from looking at her as she answers. The game continues and your turn comes up again. 

"Pretty lady, who is the better driver out of the two of you?"

You barely take time to think before answering. 

"Frankie."

You hear a sharp laugh coming from your left. You don't need to glance over to see that it's coming from Marcella who clearly disagrees. You spy Frankie clenching his jaw, even when Cha Cha tells you that you got the question right. 

Marcella and Richard get the next ones correct, irritating you. So do the elderly couple who seem very amused by the entire affair. You've learned their names are Mary and Phil. The next question comes and they miss it. Then its your turn again.

"What do you think your partner said is your favorite candy?"

You think about it for a moment. 

"Skittles." 

Cha Cha shakes her head, disappointed. 

"Since when?" Frankie demands, surprised as he turns to look at you head on in his chair. "You always eat sour patch kids. At the movies, at the beach, camping..."

"I switched over to Skittles."

"Why?"

"They're cheaper."

You're looking at Frankie strangely, a small half smirk on your face that he matches. It occurs to you that you sound like a real couple right now. 

"Okay okay lovebirds," Cha Cha says as the crowd laughs. "Moving on."

More questions are asked, more points tallied. You're shocked that you and Frankie aren't in last place. Everyone is laughing and having a good time, even Frankie seems more relaxed, leaning back in his chair. 

Cha Cha swans over up Frankie, holding up her question card.

"Handsome Frrrrankie, we asked your girlfriend to tell us in five words or less to describe what she thought of you the first time she met you. Any guesses?"

Frankie searches his mind for the day the two of you met. He holds a fist up, raising a finger for each word. 

"Pain. In. The. Ass." 

Laughter and cheers go around the pool and you join in. Cha Cha laughs before shaking her head. 

"No Mister Frankie, she says ugly hat!"

Frankie taps the brim of his cap. 

"This gorgeous hat right here?"  

"That's the one," you nod, smile disappearing into your cheek. 

Frankie pretends mock outage as you giggle again. You hear Marcella and Richard mumbling behind you but you ignore it. Eventually the rest of the questions are read through and answered, leaving you neck-in-neck with Marcella and Richard. 

"We have the last question my darlings," Cha Cha announces with a sad exaggerated pout. She starts with you and Frankie again, looking at you intently. 

"Now what do you think your boyfriend wrote when I asked him what he loves the most about you?"

Your mouth feels dry at the question. It makes you gaze out at the crowd gathered around the pool. Suddenly it's like everyone is monumental, serious and staring at you. 

"Uh..."

You feel Marcella's eyes on you and you feel compelled to glance her way. You assumed she'd be looking smugly at you floundering. But instead she looks glassy-eyed, looking away when you meet her eyes. 

"Uh..." 

Your eyes begin drifting over to see your group of friends waiting completely still, as if they too are curious about your answer.

You need to think of something. 

"My t-shirt collection," you finally say with a cheeky grin.  

It's not going to be the right answer, but at least it's a funny one. You're surprised when Frankie doesn't shine a smile back at you in return. Cha Cha shakes her head, looking down at the piece of paper.

"No, he wrote heart."

She pauses before positioning her microphone in front of Frankie's lips.

"Mister Frankie can you explain this answer? To me is a little vague."

You notice the way Frankie fidgets with his long fingers against his kneecap while the crowd laughs. He refuses to look at you. 

"Uh, just what I wrote," Frankie says and a quick glance to your left sees his face turning pink. "Uh, because she’s really caring, like with Russell and other people.. Uh, yeah, just her heart, it's good and..."

He trails off, feeling your eyes on him. You have a lump in your throat, your eyes strangely glossy. 

An awww goes around from the crowd. You can feel Marcella burning a hole in the side if you head but you refuse to look in her direction. 

You don't even hear Marcella's answers, all you can focus on is the way Frankie's tongue swipes his lower lip nervously, the sheen of sweat on his neck leading into his t-shirt, and the words he's just said about your heart. 

"Team number one, Miss Marcella and Mister Richard, you have twelve points!"

Claps go around, you and Frankie politely join in even though it pains you to do so. 

"Mister and Mrs Harris you have eight points, thank you so much for playing." Cha Cha presents Mary and Phil with a bottle of champagne. "As a thank you." 

The crowd claps the elderly couple off the stage as you try to recall how many correct answers you got. You hear your name and your attention goes to Cha Cha. 

"... and Mister Frankie, twelve points!" 

Your group cheers loudly over the crowd, all smiles, save for Will who is looking worriedly at an oblivious Frankie. 

"It seems we have a tie," Cha Cha announces, "which means we will have my favorite tie breaker!" 

She orders you and Frankie to stand alongside Marcella and Richard. 

"Face your partner."

The two sets of couples face one another, your back to Marcella and Richard. Frankie stares at Marcella, seeing the way her light eyes flick over her fiancé’s shoulder to land on Frankie's before skittering away. 

"Okay couples," Cha Cha giggles into the microphone, "now you will show us your best kiss! The audience applause will decide on the winners so make it good!"

You feel yourself stricken and a quick look at Frankie sees him looking at you with similar fear. You've never kissed before, nothing more than a graze on the cheek. 

"Couple One!" Cha Cha says pointing at Marcella and Richard. "Begin!"

You glance over your shoulder, watching as Marcella throws herself into Richards’s arms and they immediately begin going for it. She's winding her leg around his, moaning while they kiss sloppily. 

You don't miss how she cracks open her eyes to glance at Frankie, making an exaggerated moan when there gazes connect. Thankfully it's brief as Frankie gazes over at you, noticing the way you watch Marcella and Richard. You don't look upset or amused or angry, you look pitying. 

The crowd loves the two of them, cheering loudly for their over the top affection. 

This goes on for a while before a laughing Cha Cha announces their time is up. Marcella breaks away from Richard, smiling widely. Richard is red -faced with traces of Marcella's lip-gloss all over his mouth.  

You sneak a glance at Frankie, seeing how his eyes are stuck on the ground. You can't imagine how horrible it must feel to watch his ex so happy and so over him with her new man. 

"Alright you two!" Cha Cha announces as she points at you. "Begin!"

You turn slowly, almost anxiously to Frankie. You're internally praying that he'll take the lead. He seems to sense that because he steps closer to you. His dark eyes flick over your shoulder at Marcella briefly before they land back on you. 

He raises his brows. Ready? 

You give a brief nod. Let’s do this.

Frankie takes in a sharp intake of breath, still not quite believing that he's going to do this. Even if you weren't enemies, the two of you have never done this with one another, never even thought of it until this trio. It makes it feel forbidden and strange and exciting. Knowing Marcella is watching makes Frankie feel bold. You gaze up at him, lips curving into a wry smirk. 

Before you can tell him to get going his hands are on either side of your face, thumbs at your jaw, guiding your face to his. You lean into his touch, eyes falling shut as your mouths connect. 

And then something shifts. 

You don't know why but the moment your lips press against Frankie's it's like a frisson you feel sparking between the two of you, something electric. The kiss is soft and tender and you melt into it almost immediately, shocking yourself.

His palms slide to your back, running his hands down your spine, gripping you there. Goosebumps rise underneath his touch, as if your skin wants to prolong the contact it has with him.

Frankie's on fire from the inside, you're so soft, so sweet, and so natural in his arms. The kiss is slow and languid and Frankie's eyes flutter shut at the sweetness in it. But there’s a desire there, a searing fire that makes him groan lightly.  

Are you feeling this too? 

Frankie pulls back a fraction, your lips still brushing. He watches your eyes open slowly, glassy and heavy, the pupils blown wide. 

Yeah, you're feeling it too. 

"Come on now," Cha Cha insists with a dramatic roll of her eyes, breaking into your moment. "You can do better than that!"

The crowd is laughing and agreeing. Frankie meanwhile is gazing down at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. Frankie's eyes flick briefly over to the group of friends. Will shoots him a concerned look, but Frankie ignores it. He likes how this feels, you liked it too. He wants more of it. 

He's about to say something when he feels your fingers slide to the back of his neck, your forefinger tapping. 

One. two. 

Good to go. 

You shoot a crooked smirk that Frankie echoes. He moves his lips to your ear. 

"Let's give ‘em something to talk about, pretty girl." 

Your core tightens at how husky his voice has gone. You grip the front of his t-shirt tightly before your mouths meet in a bruising kiss .And now you feel the tendrils begin to unfurl in your abdomen, the warmth that pools between your thighs. This sweet pleasure that winds around your body, making you groan against his lips. 

Frankie's eyes are closed languidly, his mouth pressing firmly to your own. His hands can't stop touching everywhere on your body, squeezing, grazing, holding. You're so fucking sexy, so warm, so pliant in his grip. 

His wide hands slide around your waist before coming to rest at the start of your ass, pulling you against him. You gasp at the sensation before your arms crook around his neck. 

He tastes like the coffee he was drinking at breakfast, he smells like that woodsy deodorant he's worn since he was in basic and he kisses you so perfectly that you whimper softly into his mouth. This only makes him kiss you deeper, his tongue coming to dab yours before licking needfully into your mouth when you acquiesce. You gasp at the feeling as he urges your mouth to open further, sucking your tongue into his mouth.

Fuck, you're sweet. Frankie needs more of you, his hands gripping your ass firmly now, pulling you against him so tight and high that your heels leave your sandals. 

More.

He wants more of this. More of you. You need the same, arms tightening around his neck. You never want to stop kissing him. He’s so good, his mouth and his tongue and his hands. It’s like he knows exactly the amount of pressure you need, the exact way you want to be held.

His nostrils blow hot and fierce against your cheek as he deepens the kiss, the movements of you both greedy. He captures your lower lip in a brief nibble, making you gasp before he’s sliding his tongue along yours, tasting you as your brows saddle and you arch.

"Damn! Now that's a kiss!"

You both stop when you hear thunderous applause and whistling begin around you. 

"Damn, you two!" Cha Cha says with a giggle, pretending to fan herself dramatically. "That was muy caliente!" 

The crowd laughs, still cheering and whistling as the two of you break apart, smiling but red-faced as Frankie takes your hand in his. 

Marcella looks as if she's about to be nauseous. She murmurs something to Richard who nods, glaring at you both.  

"I think it's pretty clear who won today!" Cha Cha says laughing as she announces your names. "Come and get your prize!"

You and Frankie stand up to the cheering. You give an awkward little curtsy to the crowd that makes him laugh.  Cha Cha comes over, handing you the prize box with a smile. 

 "You two are incredibly sweet together. So compatible." 

You and Frankie just nod as you thank her, trying to keep in your laughter as she walks away.

Marcella and Richard shoot you dark looks from the other end of the pool. Cha Cha hands them a bottle of champagne for participating and they thank her before gathering up their towels and leaving the pool area. 

"What did we win?" Frankie asks, looking at you with a flushed face as you open the prize box. You grin up at him, laughter bubbling forth. 

"A hotel stationary set."

Frankie is really laughing now, the kind of laughter that makes his eyes squint and his dimple pop. 

"Totally worth the stress."

You both laugh gently, eyes roving one another's. Your heart is still racing from the kiss. Your eyes land on his mouth, unable to break from it. His lips are so plump and luscious, you want to try your hand at nibbling them. 

Frankie's hand slides over yours, thumb tracing your knuckles. Desire is coursing through his veins as he gazes down at you. You blink up at him through your lashes, your face sun-kissed and beaming. 

You hold your breath when his face drifts forward to yours once more. He inhales gently, the scent of coconut and vanilla invading his senses. His voice drops an entire register when he finally murmurs against your ear, his lips grazing the lobe. 

"You wanna go back to the room, pretty girl?" 

He’s delighted when he sees your lashes flutter. He pulls back slowly, nose grazing your cheek. He waits for your answer, his impossibly beautiful eyes scanning yours. Your hand is still in his, and he feels it you shift it to get a better angle.  

You tap his palm twice.

[amysuemc]

SIT BACK, BABY

written for @joelmillerisapunk's #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Frankie Morales x f!Reader BODY PART: Thighs | WORD COUNT: 4.1k CW: Smut (m!oral), pwp, drinking (not during smut), sorta sub!Frankie.

SUMMARY: You've got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Your alarm clock reads 2:02 A.M. when you stir from a sweat-stained dream. 

Someone is breaking into your apartment.

Or sounds like they're trying to break in, at least. The awkward stabbing and metal scrape of disobedient picks and keys. A sudden fear cleaves through you, skull to stomach, and just like that you’re wide awake. Then you hear a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking please—”

And you sigh. You’re not in any danger.

Yellow light leaks into your apartment from the hall where you find your mountain of a neighbor slumped on his knees at your feet, one hand raised at the level of your lock, a silver key pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He tilts his chin up, letting you glimpse beneath the brim of his navy ball cap the glassiness of his warm eyes, the flush of his cheeks. His lips part, bewildered or lost. The man looks hopelessly drunk. 

“Haanng on,” Frankie grins, squinting up at you. “You’re in my apartment?”

He drops his hand and his apartment key slips from his grasp onto the floor, unnoticed by him. You’ve lived across the hall from him for two years, steadfast in your belief that fucking anyone who lives in your building—or frankly, within a three block radius—is a hideous mistake. Has that made your hopeless crush on him any less… crushing?

Absolutely fucking not.

Now, seeing Frankie on his knees is doing something terrible to your brain. Giving it all sorts of ideas. You blame his jeans, the brawn of his thighs—how badly you’d like to sink your teeth into them surprises you.

“My apartment, actually,” you correct, lifting one finger to point over his shoulder, across the hall. Frankie turns and, sure enough, recognizes his apartment number gleaming on the door.

“Shit,” he says. You make a point of staring him dead in the eye even when you’d usually look away, just so you don’t look at his legs. The spread of his knees on the carpeted floor. 

Doe-eyed, Frankie blinks up at you—helpless as a pup—as need stirs in your stomach. The urge to hold him. To take care of him for a while.

“I’m a lil’ drunk,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a secret, like you wouldn’t have known.

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You don’t say.”

He buries his face in his palms and groans quietly, embarrassed. “Hermosa,” he muffles, making your mouth go dry. When his hands drop, his gaze lands at your feet, rising slowly to your legs—he turns, you think, the color of a berry. Something that bursts red against your fingertips in summer.

“You’re not wearing pants,” Frankie says plainly, his eyebrows high on his head.

Shit.

You cross your arms over your chest as if that’ll hide your legs, bare beneath the t-shirt you sleep in. You can’t remember what underwear you have on, if it’s a cute pair or a laundry day pair, and pray quietly that he can’t glimpse them from where he’s sitting, though he probably can. What’s worse, though, is that you can tell Frankie’s not trying to peek. He’s looking you in the eye—respectful, it seems, even on the verge of a blackout.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, trying not to blush. “Y’woke me up.”

Poor, drunk Frankie’s face just folds. Devastated to have bothered you—he huffs softly, lets his eyes stutter closed, dark lashes shivering on his cheeks. It really isn’t fair, how cute he is like this. Grown, drunk men are idiots. Nuisances, at best. And yet here he is—this broad mass of a man, solid in his calm, easy way—managing to be both out of his mind and entirely endearing at the same time. It’s almost annoying, how not annoyed you are to be disturbed from a fit of slumber. You’re sort of glad.

“M’sorry,” Frankie mumbles, staring at the floor. He lifts one finger and with your breath held you watch it move slowly toward your foot until his fingertip meets your bare ankle. Softly, so softly. You hardly feel it, this small touch, his fragile apology. 

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. It’s like he knows you’ve had some stupid crush on him for two years.

“Come on,” you say, as you crouch down to retrieve his forgotten key, then his arm, warm and solid in your grasp. “Think you better get into bed.”

He giggles as he lurches to his feet, thankfully able to stand after you steady him and release the weight of his arm. Cheeks warm, you walk his key across the hall, unlock the door, and step aside for him to go in with a sweep of your hand.

“How embarrassed should I be tomorrow?” Frankie asks, coming to stand at your side to stare down the tunnel of darkness formed by his entryway.

You shrug. “Willing to bet you won’t remember this in the morning,” you say, smirk nagging at your lips as you nudge his key back into his hand.

At the contact, he turns, face shadowed by his hat and curls licking playfully beneath the brim, and though you expect him to laugh or smile there’s not a drop of humor in his expression—he looks, you think, disappointed. Like maybe he doesn’t want to forget. Squinting, you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment, but Frankie doesn’t move. He blinks drowsily at you, bottom lip pouting again.

This is probably the most you’ve ever spoken in one go.

The closest you’ve ever stood.

“Pope’s never gonna le’me live this down,” he mumbles.

You huff a short chuckle under your breath and set one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him inside—clearly the man’s never going to go in on his own. 

“That one of your broad shouldered friends?” you tease.

Frankie only budges a step closer to the doorway, frowning as he rolls his shoulders, standing up a little straighter as if to make a point. “Yes,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you tease, then drop your hand from his back. “You’re very broad, too.”

“I feel bad I woke you up,” Frankie says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, and you feel it again—that impulse to hold him, make it better. Rub his shoulders or something, just to help him relax.

“It is,” Frankie mumbles sorrily.

“Did you mean to wake me up?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Were you trying to break in, or did you get mixed up?”

“Got mixed up,” he admits quietly.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small smile. “Then I forgive you,” you say. “No harm done, seriously. You’re not the worst person to find at my door.”

This seems to settle him, at least a little, because with one final, frowning huff Frankie surrenders his guilt and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, and time stands briefly still as he moves toward you—leaning in to graze his lips against your cheek, his stubble brushing your skin. 

You stand, statued by your surprise, unable even to breathe.

“G’night, nena.”

“Goodnight,” you choke out, grateful that in his state he doesn’t seem to register your shock or the tremble in your voice. If he weren’t drunk, you’re pretty sure that would’ve snapped you. You’d have told him right now and right here that you’ll take care of him, help him unwind a little—that you’ve wanted to touch him for two years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, orbiting him without the guts to swing yourself closer to his gravity.

But he is drunk. Three quarters out of his mind, if you had to guess, based on the clumsy muddle of his footsteps as he at last sways into his apartment, shutting the door behind him. Leaving you breathless in the hallway, alone.

In the morning, you wake to a band of sunlight searing through your curtains. You’ve slept through your alarm all the way till ten, and lift your phone to find a text waiting on your lock screen, sent two hours ago.

Think I owe you an apology, neighbor.

Groggy, you frown at the string of digits you don’t recognize until the night comes back to you, piece by piece. Your heart stutters as you sit up in bed, letting your bedsheets pool in your lap as you type out a reply.

How did you get my number?

Also, you got up at 8am?? Are you even alive?

You get a reply only minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth.

Told the building manager that I was getting your mail and wanted to return it. Little scary how few questions they asked.

You scoff, only to have your phone ding again immediately.

Sure hope I’m alive. I have a very thoughtful neighbor to thank for getting me home safe.

You spit into the sink, then rinse your mouth, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

Thoughtful, huh?

Pretty, too. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet.

Still feel bad about last night. Let me make it up to you.

No more than six hours later, you’re pulled from whatever TV show’s been rotting your brain all afternoon by a steady knock on your front door. Your skin twinkles with nerves.

You’re fully clothed this time—showered too, thankfully—and when you open the door Frankie isn’t on his knees. He’s standing, curls squashed beneath his hat, t-shirt stretched across his chest, in black athletic shorts baring him below the knee, as he holds up two plastic bags that fill the hallway with a smell you know all too well: takeout from the Chinese place you love down the road. When your eyes round at the sight, Frankie grins, letting you glimpse the dimple that winks from his cheek. 

You see, too, his exhaustion. The navy shadows bruised beneath his glassy eyes. He may be alive, but it’s painfully obvious that he must, beneath that smile, be suffering a brutal hangover. And he’s bringing you food—too generous a gesture, you think, for such a small crime.

“Hoped you might like this place,” he says.

“You really didn’t have to—” you start to say, but Frankie shakes his head before squeezing past you in the doorway to come inside.

“Only fair,” he insists, and you shut the door while he toes out of his shoes, thoughtful enough not to drag dirt into your apartment as he breezes into your kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before. Opening the bags, cracking each container, fishing through drawers until he finds your cutlery. Domestic and entirely alien: this man you’ve known for two years who’s never entered your space, making himself at home. Trying to serve you.

Dumbstruck, you watch him, unsure what to say and the longer you do, the more the ache of him seems to radiate. You swear you see him wince when a drawer slams too hard, when he looks up accidentally into the ceiling light. With one hand, you reach out and turn the dimmer switch to soften the lights over his head, and Frankie looks up from the styrofoam containers to catch your eye. 

The grin drops from his face. “Shit—is this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Frankie wipes his hands on his thighs as he rounds the kitchen island to stand before you, dark lashes batting worriedly over his freckled cheeks as he lowers his head to meet your eye. “If you want, I can just leave you with the food. Don't wanna be here if you don't want me to be.”

A soft scoff leaves your lips, the first breath of disbelief disguised as laughter. “Frankie,” you breathe, and his chest puffs at the way you say his name. “You look like you feel like shit. Your head must be killing you. And you brought me food.”

His jaw ticks, and you wonder if he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too.

“No more fussing over me,” you say, lifting your hands slowly to rest on his shoulders. 

Frankie flinches but doesn’t pull away, his warm eyes flickering between yours like he’s trying to unpuzzle you. 

“Let me help,” you say.

“Hermosa,” he murmurs, sounding winded. Desperate. He shakes his head.

With a soft grin you slip your hands down his arms—firm and hot beneath your palms—to guide him toward your couch, warmed by a box of sunlight cast through the windows. Frankie sits with a gentle sigh, biceps tensing beneath your grasp, not yet sure what to make of you. You give his arms a light squeeze, flash him a grin you hope might ease his nerves, and sink to the carpet between his knees.

Frankie’s eyes go black.

The air simmers, woozy as the space above molten tarmac in the dead of summer. It’s a kind of spell, you think. His sharpened breath. Your hands slipping easily over his bare knees. And it’s obvious: the riot of guilt surging behind his lust-blown eyes, his instinct to politely turn you down as you rub his joints softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t have to,” you tell him, careful to hold his eye so he’ll see you mean them. “But I’d like to, if you want. Could take care of you for a while.”

Frankie lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes slam shut before he drops his head on the back of your couch. “Shit—are you—shit.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, groans quietly, and from the floor you watch the way his whole body shudders as he struggles for air.

“That a yes or a no, let’s eat Chinese food?” you ask softly, hands frozen on his knees until he answers. “Either is good.”

“Shit—yes, that’s a yes,” Frankie pants, still hiding behind his hands with his head tipped back.

You lift one hand from his knee to reach for him, curling your fingertips around his forearm, pulling it away from his eyes. “Mírame,” you say, and it’s possible Frankie comes undone right then and there—chest deflating, arms slumping limp into his lap, head lolling to look down at you in disbelief.

Lips parted, his tongue slips across his bottom lip, sending a thrill through your body and a sudden stutter to your heart. But this isn’t about you; it’s about him, so you squeeze your thighs together as Frankie shifts his hips on the couch and nods shakily.

Oh, this is dangerous. How he already looks ready to fall apart beneath your hands. You might never get enough of it.

Testing the waters, you slide your hands slowly up his thighs just far enough to brush your fingertips to the hem of his shorts, the roped muscles in his legs tensing beneath your caress. “If you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

Frankie shakes his head, licks his lip again, and your eyes follow the glide of his tongue. “Not gonna want you to stop,” he breathes, as his cheek dimples with the flash of a sheepish grin.

You hum softly, shuffle closer to the couch, encouraging him to spread his legs wider with a press of your hands. “Just sit back, baby,” you murmur.

So he does. Frankie grunts as you patiently knead the mesa of his thighs—the hills of muscle bound tight beneath golden skin, so hot to the touch—and lower your lips to lay a kiss on his knee, glancing up through your lashes to gauge his reaction.

He rewards you with a needy groan that goes straight to your cunt.

You smile against his skin, let your hands wander, thumbs digging into his thighs as you work loose their knotted web. Humming, your hands slipping beneath the black curtain of his shorts to stray higher as you work, you slide the flat of your tongue up his inner thigh and Frankie’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck—nena, shit,” he pants, just before one hand bolts out to cover the crown of your head, stilling your movements. 

You take your mouth off him and look up, basking in the abyss of his dark eyes and the red of his neck. “Want me to stop?” you ask.

Immediately, Frankie’s head shakes nonono as he gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. “Que cosa mas linda. So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s easy, but you knew it would be, watching his body twitch and melt beneath your ministrations, the caress of your attentive hands. The wet suckle of your lips and tongue rising towards his hips. Slowly, you unwind him. Let him dissolve into your couch, always with some sweet nothing on his lips that could ruin you if you let it—mierda, feels so—so fucking good, perfect hands, holy shit, tan suave.

The taste of his skin is a balm in itself, heady, a little sweat-kissed, addictive. With his shorts shoved high on his hips, you latch at the supple flesh of his inner thigh and suck, drawing a tortured whimper from Frankie as he shivers, his chest rising faster with every breath.

“Shit—por favor, please,” he begs, as the hand in your hair gently scratches your scalp. It’s so gentle you almost believe he doesn’t know he’s doing it—that touching you like this, so tenderly, so ruinously, is to Frankie instinct alone.

“So sweet to me,” you murmur against his thigh, licking the pink mark you’ve left on his skin. “So strong, so warm. Just wanna take care of you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hermosa,” he groans, desperate now, his cock twitching beneath the black of his shorts.

The square of sunlight glows over you both, warming you just as much as his body. Beyond the cracked window you can hear the chirp of birds finding their way to each other, the squeal of distant traffic, the churn of wind through the alley. All of it—all that raucous city noise that used to keep you up all night—feels tranquil now. A serene soundtrack whispering below the rasps of Frankie’s pleasure.

“Wanted to for a long time,” you tell him, before latching again at the top of his other thigh, marking satin skin with a matching brand. “Wanted to touch you so bad.”

He’s gasping now, lungs desperate for air like he’s been running, and his other hand grabs hold of your shoulder to pull you closer. “Would’a—” he wheezes, and lets his head drop back against the couch again like it’s too much to look right at you. “Would’ve let you if I’d—fuck—if I’d known.”

You hum against his leg, reach both hands high enough to dig your thumbs in the crevice of his hips, and Frankie jolts, hissing a strangled fuck before settling again, more liquid than before.

Higher, your mouth climbs, desperate for more of him. Electric with the feeling of his need, the way his hands keep you near to him—thumb sweet on your shoulder, fingertips drawing little circles on your scalp. It’s possible you’ve never liked pleasuring someone so much, and you’ve liked it before. But Frankie responds to your every movement and breath, every change in pressure or place, strung taut as a bow that’s fighting not to snap.

With a final glance up at Frankie, his head hung back to unveil the gold of his throat, the stubble scattered along his jaw, you nuzzle your nose gently against his crotch and feel his cock throb, hitting your cheek.

“Baby,” he whines, hand tightening in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” you coo, and draw your own out of his shorts to hook into the waistband. “Gonna take you out now, is that okay?”

“Fuck—yes—fucking yes it’s okay,” he begs, and the light sting of his hand pulling your hair tighter paints a smile on your face. 

Slowly, you peel down his shorts and find no boxers beneath them, only the heavy length of him which bobs up against his t-shirt, thick and swollen and aching. “No underwear? Frankie,” you tease, and he chuckles hoarsely as you cast his shorts aside.

“Laundry day,” he wheezes, and you click your tongue before scooting forward until your chest presses against the cushions, framed by his legs.

He’s beautiful like this, destroyed but in the good way—dragged out of his head for a while by your dutiful hands, your thumbs digging into the meat of his thighs. His cock leaking and twitching every time the warmth of your breath fans over his soft skin.

With one hand, you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that leaves Frankie’s lips in reply might be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wet your tongue along his length, tasting the earth of him before wrapping your lips around his tip, trading off between suckling and licking.

The hand in your hair locks up suddenly, not moving your head but clamping down hard. You moan softly and he twitches on your tongue. Grows harder, somehow, when a moment ago you’d have thought it impossible.

“Ay,” he croaks. “Fuck—your fucking mouth, baby.”

Perhaps this is what emboldens you, makes you sloppy—just as needy as him. Drool slicking to his length as you bob, drinking in his every moan and babble. Your fist pumping what you can’t take, jaw aching around his girth. Frankie might come apart at the molecules, you think. Evanesce cell by cell, held in the heat of your mouth as you swallow around his length, forcing the head of his cock to the back of your throat.

When you gag, eyes watering, heart a hummingbird in your chest, he makes a desperate whine and his hand tenses on your shoulder. 

You’d stay here the rest of the night, if he’d let you, but he doesn’t.

Frankie thighs twitch, breaths coming faster now, shorter. Close. 

“Necesito sentirte,” he says as he squeezes your shoulder again. “Please—shit, gonna come if you don’t stop—fuck, nena, please let me feel you. Wanna feel you so fucking bad. Wanted you—fuckfuck—wanted you the day you moved in.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you see his hat has tumbled off, leaving the crown of his head a mess of flattened down curls broken up by the occasional stray, and something about how he looks in this moment, fuckedout and gone and desperate, makes you want to stay right where you are. 

Still, you hollow your cheeks as you ease off him with a wet pop, one hand pumping his thick cock while the other rubs his muscled thigh. You shake your head, bottom lip bitten. “Next time,” you promise, with a smirk rich on your lips. Then you’re on him again, throat open and accepting as he teeters on the edge of falling apart. 

“Mmmph, shit—nena, so good, oh my god,” Frankie gasps, hands back in your hair to hold it out of your way. “Gonna make me—fuck, where do I—where do you—”

He doesn’t get the rest out; the moment you slip your hand beneath his balls and sink your lips to the base of his heavy length, taking him to the hilt, Frankie comes with a sudden cry. Warmth pumps down your aching throat as he pants, fingers tangled in your hair, and you swallow it all hungrily while you moan.

He whimpers when you lift off his spent cock to look up at him with a satisfied grin. If you thought he looked ruined before, you were wrong. This is what he looks like when you’ve wrecked him. 

“Come here,” he croaks, then with a grunt Frankie yanks you off the floor and onto his lap to envelope you in his arms. You settle on his thighs, try not to swoon at his strength, and when he kisses you it isn’t at all what you’re expecting—there’s no roar, no taking, not a drop of desperation left in him at all. No, Frankie kisses you wholly, gently, all lithe tongue and sweetness and gratitude, and the longer it goes on the more you both smile, struggling to kiss around laughter and teeth.

When he pulls back, his pupils are still blown but warm too, so warm. His face and beard gilded with late afternoon light. He strokes a thumb across your cheek, then bumps his nose against yours, and you sink against his chest to chase his mouth. Before you can, Frankie's arms lock around your waist; he throws you down onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with a smug little smile.

“This time I get to taste you, hermosa,” he promises, then seals it with a kiss.

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals <3

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @leslie-lyman @biggetywitch @evolnoomym

@pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours @jessthebaker

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@ozarkthedog @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@littlemisspascal @perotovar @goodwithcheese @joelalorian

[amysuemc]

I will find you.

— pairing: simon x fem!reader

— type: one-shot

— summary: simon was your dad's best friend, & after your father's death, was tasked with looking after you. the two of you found solace in each other, until you were separated. you reunite when he one day shows up in alexandria w/ the saviors

— tags: age gap, traveling, angst, falling in love

— tw: major trauma bonding, hate sex, p in v sex, choking, degradation, humiliation, m receiving oral, slapping, spanking, hitting with a belt, abusive relationship, sex without a condom, depression, suicidal ideation

— word count: 8,408

— a/n: i am aware i switched tenses incorrectly a few times in this. i edited it some, but am leaving things as-is for now. this is simply who i am (someone who can't get her tenses fucking straight) lmao

You had intended to be in your house before the saviors pulled in, but you'd been late coming back from the pantry—you'd been helping Olivia take inventory, and had simply lost track of time.

You keep your head down, trying your utmost to remain invisible as you round a street corner, your home within eye-sight.

The street in front of it? Crawling with saviors. You pray that, so long as you seem harmless enough, they'll leave you be.

You've nearly reached your front porch when you stop dead in your tracks, an all-too familiar voice echoing off the houses.

"Alright, everybody knows the drill: spread out and half of everything. Negan wants a thorough cleaning done this time around. He's a bit concerned the 'fine residents' here might be holding out on us."

You stare at the back of his head—his thick cropping of dark-brown hair—then to his tall frame, strong shoulders, thick tanned arms.

No. He...he was dead.

You'd denied that truth to yourself for months, wanting to believe anything but. And then you'd come to accept it, knowing you had no other choice if you were to go on living. Or trying to, at least.

You shake your head. You're just hearing things. But you still silently plead for him to turn so you can see for yourself that it's not really him.

He settles his hands on his hips.

You take a tiny step closer. "Simon?"

You're so quiet when you say it that you barely even hear yourself.

Another step closer. "S-Simon?" Your voice has risen now, considerably, your tone almost panicked.

He slowly turns to face you and at first when his eyes settle on you, he stills. Then, "Oh, baby girl."

You break into a run, slamming against his solid chest and he quickly picks you up. You wrap your legs and arms around him, crying tears of joy, running your fingers through his hair.

"I found you. I found you. You're alive!"

You crush your lips to his, and you kiss him so long and so fervently, that when you finally pull away you're forced to draw in ragged breaths.

He nearly falls, stumbling as he lowers the two of you to the warm pavement, you in his lap, peppering his face with kisses as he laughs.

Neither of you see your people, or his staring at the two of you, some with jaws dropped in utter shock.

All you see is each other.

He slides his hands under the back of your shirt. "Oh, sweetheart, I thought..." He shakes his head, willing those horrible fucking thoughts from his mind. "Doesn't matter. You're here. You're safe. Alive and healthy."

You nod fervently. "I can't believe you're here."

Tears shimmer in your eyes and he removes one of his hands from your bare skin he'd missed touching so goddamn much to brush them away.

"I'm here, baby girl."

You press yourself against him, his own arms holding you in a tight embrace, terrified of ever letting you go again.

After the world fell apart, you, Simon, and your dad had been on the road together. You watched as they gradually changed right before your eyes. As the smiles and laughing and jokes they used to easily share over BBQs and working on cars disappeared and were instead replaced by paranoia, anger, dejectedness.

You grew more and more quiet as time went on. You had no idea how to survive something like this, whereas they got the three of you by alright. Hunting and scavenging. Even killing, once it became necessary.

You still remembered the first time Simon ever shot someone.

You'd been looting supplies from a local grocery store, which had, unfortunately, already been pretty-well picked over. You had wandered into the back when you'd felt a pair of arms wrap around your middle and throw you down on the floor. You'd only had enough time to scream as loud as you possibly could before a boot met the soft flesh of your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. It took you so long to catch your breath, you were afraid a lung had collapsed.

The only thing you saw when you finally looked up, was a very brief glimpse of his face before a bullet went through his head, blood spraying outward before he fell forward—dead.

Simon had kneeled down next to you, pulling you against his chest as you began to cry. "Baby girl, I'm sorry."

You'd never clung to him before like you did in that moment.

You didn't know what it was—gratefulness, trauma bonding, the fact he made you feel safe—but after that day, you began to look at him differently.

You were in your early-twenties, so no longer a child, but obviously now was not the time to admit some girlish crush on your dad's best friend. You felt mortified that you felt that way in the first place. Especially when you looked at the new state of the world around you.

But as the three of you walked, you couldn't help but admire his tall stature, broad shoulders and strong chest, the veins in his rough hands, the way he carried himself. Even his voice.

He'd only caught you staring once or twice, to which you'd always looked quickly away.

He had thought nothing of it.

He didn't think of you like that. Never had. He'd known you your entire life.

You were okay with nothing more ever coming from whatever it was that you felt. It was just nice to feel something other than fear for once.

Until grief consumed you when your dad died.

He'd gotten bit and forced the two of you to leave him behind. You'd begged and pleaded to stay with him, out of your mind with denial. You told him he'd be okay. You'd find medicine—something—and he'd be okay. He had to be. He was your whole world. You couldn't live without him. Couldn't live in a world where he no longer existed. That you'd never stand a chance of surviving without him there to protect you.

He'd told you that he loved you. That you were his whole heart and the best thing he ever did. That he was proud of you.

That Simon would take care of you from now on.

Simon had had to pull you away, even if you'd fought against him with everything you had, until you had relented, for your dad. It was his last wish.

You'd only been walking for a handful of minutes before you heard the gunshot.

After, your feelings constantly rotated through anger, grief, mourning, depression, hopelessness, rage...it took a long, long time to try and accept that your dad was gone. Even just barely.

You and Simon didn't talk much at first. Neither of you knew what to say. Maybe you had nothing left to say.

He did as your dad had asked of him: he protected you, kept you safe and fed. You tried to contribute as best you could, even if you didn't see the point. That's how you both felt. But you kept going for him.

Sometimes you resented your dad for it. Because all you wanted to do sometimes was lie down and give up.

The first time it happened was nearly three weeks later. The two of you had been lying on your sleeping bags, you staring up at the stars, head empty, apart from one thought.

It hadn't been about lust. Hadn't been about your crush that you'd forgotten about as soon as that biter had latched onto your dad's shoulder.

It had been about...working something out of yourself. You didn't have many options in terms of working out your problems—you couldn't exactly start firing off rounds out of anger; it'd waste ammo you didn't have, not to mention what it might attract. You couldn't expend your energy trying to hunt down biters that might bring you to the same fate as your father.

"Do you want to have sex?"

You weren't sure whether you hoped he was awake or not.

"No." Had been his immediate answer.

But you decided not to listen. You stood, walking over to him, lying down next to him, trying to press yourself against him, reaching down, trying to find his cock, even if it was flaccid.

He'd promptly rolled over, turning his back to you. "Go the fuck to sleep."

"No," you repeated back at him. Then you'd slid your hand along the side of him. "Please," you'd whispered, your voice pleading.

He'd remained silent. "Please, Simon. Please."

He'd growled, rolling back to his other side, hand coming up to wrap firmly, but gently around your throat. "I said get away from me."

Undeterred, you'd reached down, finding him hard. You'd gently squeezed his erection over his pants and his grip around your throat had tightened. "Stop it."

You did it again, palming him. "Please."

"I don't have any goddamn condoms. Are you stupid?"

When had he grown to hate you so much? You didn't care. You hated him, too. It should've been him instead. At least if it had been, your dad would still be here.

"I don't care," you'd craned your neck toward him, trying your utmost to press your lips to his, but he'd held firm.

He studied you for a moment, the look on his face hard, if not nearly irate.

Finally, he pulled you toward him, crushing his lips to yours so hard that it hurt. He'd grown a thick beard by this point, no longer seeing the point in shaving. The wiry hairs scraped against your soft skin, but it didn't matter. You knew: you wanted the pain. Wanted more of it.

He'd climbed on top of you, roughly pulling against his belt, unzipping his jeans, and then his erection sprang free. He scooted higher until his cock was directly in your face. "This what you want? Huh? Whole world fuckin' gone to shit and this is what's on your mind?" His voice was raised, breaths ragged, and all you could do in response was nod.

He'd gripped the back of your head, fingers tangling painfully in your hair as he forced your mouth down the full length of him.

You gagged as he shoved himself further down, using both hands to fuck himself inside your mouth.

The only sounds to fill the previously silent forest were you gagging for air—gagging against him—him grunting and moaning.

Drool covered the length of him, the salty taste of pre-cum coated your tongue.

You looked up to him, desperate for him to slip out of you long enough to let you get a breath of air.

Instead, he’d looked down. “You wanna breathe?”

You’d done your best to nod, despite his hands holding you firmly down on him.

He shoved himself further in, your nose pressed against his stomach. “Take it. Fucking all of it. Swallow it.”

You’d choked against him—his thick length filling your throat. Tears stung your eyes and you felt dizzy, black spots filling your vision.

Finally, he pulled out and you drew in a long, ragged gasp of air. His thick cock hung before you, covered in spit and dripping cum.

He grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers, stroking his cock with his free hand. “Open your fucking mouth. Now.”

You did. Wide, sticking out your tongue.

He sneered.

You wondered if it was in disgust. You felt the same toward yourself. Not even you understood what had come over you. What the hell you were doing.

You didn’t care to think long enough on it to try and find out. All you wanted was his cock back in your mouth so you could focus on sucking him off instead.

He shoved himself back in and laughed. Laughed. “Looks like daddy’s 'good little girl' isn’t so fucking good after all.” He gripped your hair again, bobbing your head against him over and over. “Fucking whore.”

You choked on him again, but he'd merely kept going. “Finally found a use for you. All this time looking after you and for what? Risking my ass to keep yours fed? Guess I found my repayment.”

He slipped out until only the tip of him was on your tongue, then plunged back in so hard that it had hurt.

“Swallow my fucking cock, you stupid slut.”

You circled your tongue around him as best you could and his hips jerked. “Do it again.”

You did as you were told and he moaned.

He slipped himself out of your mouth once more, then stood. “Take off your goddamn clothes.”

You couldn't get undressed fast enough.

Once the two of you had not a stitch of clothing on you, you spread your legs apart and he snorted. He then got on his knees, grabbed you roughly by the hips, and flipped you onto your front side, your ass in the air. He used one hand to direct himself inside of you—shoving himself into your cunt in one swift motion, which made you cry out in pain—the other pushing your head into the dirt.

“You made me do this,” he said each word between rough grunts.

As he pounded into you brutally from behind, all you could think was how good it felt to finally do so: feel.

Something.

Anything.

Even that, even pain. Even humiliation.

It didn't take long for his climax to build, and when he finished, it was all over your back, his cum warm...and there was so much of it. You'd briefly wondered when he last came. Then you'd thought how you didn't really care.

When he fell back on his ass, he'd taken a moment to look at your gaping red hole, satisfied with his work. He didn't give a shit if you'd finished as he dressed himself.

You stood, doing the same after cleaning him off of you.

Neither of you spoke another word to the other before lying down and both of you falling quickly to sleep.

When you woke the next morning, it’d been to a new soreness between your legs, but it felt good.

Simon glanced to you every few moments, and you didn't know it, but he’d been filled with complete fucking guilt. How could he have done that? Have spoken to you like that? You were such a good girl. Innocent, sweet. He’d been so fucking rough with you. Had…had that been your first time? Did you consider it a mistake? Or something worse? Something so terrible he couldn't even think the word.

“We should talk about last night.”

You didn't even look at him, but you did roll your eyes. “No.”

“Y/N,” he said, taking a step closer to you.

You felt disgusted by the guilty tone of his voice.

You looked up to him. “I wanted to get fucked and you gave it to me. We don’t need to talk. About anything. Got it?”

You started heading out of the woods, toward the road.

His feelings of guilt quickly fled him, instead replaced with a need to fill that foul fucking mouth again.

As the two of you traversed this road and that, you tried not to focus on whatever had happened to you—your sudden change in demeanor. It had started before last night: the feelings of absolute hate that now filled you.

Simon had gotten his release, but not you. Instead, you'd just felt sexually frustrated. You looked at him with a glare, at how relaxed he seemed, then back to the road. Prick.

You didn't know it, but when the two of you raided a pharmacy, Simon had taken nearly every single condom he could find, stuffing them into his backpack as he looked at you—thinking about all the things he wanted to make you do and do to you.

That night, after a rabbit dinner, he'd leaned back against a tree, and stared at you staring into the fire.

“Do you want to fuck?” He asked.

You looked at him and shrugged. “Sure.”

You took your time undressing, while all he bothered doing was pulling his pants down, rolling a condom over his already-hard member.

“Where did you get those?”

“Pharmacy.”

You didn't even nod in reply before straddling his lap, easing him into you with your dominant hand. You threw your head back and moaned in the back of your throat.

He gripped your hips so tightly you were sure he’d leave bruises. In fact, you hoped he would.

You'd begun to ride him, roughly, the back of his shirt scraping against the tree bark behind him. You'd reached up one hand, gripping his hair, forcing his head back, the other coming up to grip his face. You stared down at him with loathing as you looked into his eyes.

“I fucking hate you. It should’ve been you.”

You'd rode him harder, growing wetter.

He smacked your ass.

“Fuck you,” you said before crushing your lips against his.

He'd then pulled away. “Already are, you stupid slut.” He spanked you again and you clenched around him. So he did it again and again, alternating between ass cheeks.

Until, finally, he gripped both, guiding you against him as you began to bounce on his member.

When you came, it was so overpowering that you had to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming in ecstasy. You drew blood.

He followed shortly after, your tight walls clenching, encouraging him toward the edge.

Everyday became like that. For awhile. There were times the two of you fucked up to five times a day—sometimes having to stop in the middle of a road, or doing it up against a tree, him rutting away behind you, hand fisted in your hair as filthy obscenities spilled from his mouth.

Once, you did it against the counter of some office you’d looked through—your feet dangling, your stomach flat against the countertop as the edges pressed painfully into your ribs, him fucking himself inside of you, telling you how pathetic you were, both of you cumming twice and loudly.

Another time, you’d been in a store and had knocked the shelf he’d been fucking you against over, your legs wrapped around his hips, both of you completely naked. You had been so wet it’d gotten all over your thighs and stomach. He’d mocked you relentlessly the entire time about it, about how disgusting it was that you could get that turned on when you’d just watched him kill a bunch of rotting, walking corpses outside. That you were truly fucked in the head now.

A number of nights he fucked you much like the first one—into the dirt, refusing to look at you, or teasing you with his cock, telling you that you didn’t deserve it until you proved that you really needed it. He made you do humiliating things to earn it, like tell him your most depraved fantasies. And then he used them against you when you least expected it.

But he always made them come true. Always. Those were the times the both of you came the hardest.

One time, you’d come across an abandoned neighborhood. He’d selected a house for you to stay in while he scavenged nearby.

When he returned, you’d been in the master bedroom, ass in the air, hand between your thighs as you rubbed away and fingered yourself.

He’d loudly dropped his bag, but you had barely given a reaction at his presence behind you. Other than slightly turning your head back to him, never stopping with rubbing your dripping cunt, and telling him to “get out”.

He’d walked over to the closet, found a satin tie and climbed onto the bed behind you.

You’d stopped touching yourself then as he leaned over you, breath hot against your ear as he told you lowly “this is what happens when you play with toys and don’t share with others”.

He’d bound your wrists together, then knotted the tie around the wrought-iron headboard.

He’d found another tie and yanked your head back. “I don’t want to fucking hear that foul mouth while I fuck you. Turns me off.”

Even though you knew otherwise.

He didn’t gag you with it until you nodded your head.

Finally, he’d climbed off the bed, breathing raggedly, heart pounding as he removed his belt.

“I’m going to spank you with this, little girl, and I’m not fucking stopping until I’ve broken skin. Do you understand me? It’s time you learn a lesson.”

You looked back to him, erection bobbing between his legs, then to his leather belt and then to him.

You nodded again.

“Let’s start then.”

He wailed against your bottom hard enough to make you cry out in pain and tears sprang to your eyes.

He huffed. “Not hard enough. Guess I need to try again.”

He brought the belt back down and you choked against the tie.

“Still not hard enough.” He walked around to the side of you and squeezed your face in his hand. “Maybe I should put my back into it. What'd’ya say, sweetheart?”

You nodded eagerly.

He studied you for only a moment before walking back behind you and bringing the belt down as hard as he could.

You screamed in agony that time.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” was the last thing he said before you heard his belt clatter to the floor and the mattress dipped behind you and he plunged his throbbing erection between your dripping folds. “Oh yeah, much fucking better.”

He fucked you brutally that night. You’d been in tears the entire time, drooling against that tie, snot running down your face and you were so wet you could hear it.

And your ass hurt horribly as he pounded into you from behind.

“You like that, you needy little cunt? Hm? That what you wanted from me? You wanted me to fucking hurt you? God, you’re so fucked up.”

You clenched around him.

“Jesus Christ, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

You clenched again. And then he fucked you harder.

After coming once, he’d tossed the used condom on the floor before walking around and untying your mouth. He smirked at the sight of the pillow below you, even your breasts, covered in spit and drool.

“Open your hole.”

You opened your mouth, wide, and he shoved himself in.

Your lips closed around him and the both of you moaned.

You bobbed your head against him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking as hard as you could, swirling your tongue around him.

He leaned back, his cock jamming against the back of your throat before standing straight again. He gripped the hair at the top of your head, forcing your eyes to look up at him standing over you, the tie around your wrists pulling tightly. “This is all you’re fucking good for, you dumb bitch. Having your holes fucked. This is the only use for that pretty little mouth. I can’t stand a single goddamn word that comes out of it. The sound of you sucking me off is so much better.”

He slips out, quickly grabbing your face, slapping you with his other hand. “Open, slut.”

You did and he forced your mouth back down. “I’m startin’ to get bored with that disgusting overused pussy. Maybe I’ll just fuck your ass next.”

You whimper, liking the sound of that.

“You like that, you nasty bitch?”

You suck harder.

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

He slips out of your throat again and you whine, looking up at him as he jacks himself off for a moment. Then he slaps you again and again. “Open. Open your fucking mouth.”

He brutally fucks the back of your throat, using both hands to control your head movements.

He doesn’t stop until you’re choking on his cum. He then unties your wrists

He puts on another condom, even though you feel exhausted. He eases into you from behind, wrapping your hair around his fist and he fucks you one last time, holding your backside against his front, palming your breasts, pulling painfully against your nipples.

He reaches down, slapping his palm against your clit and you cry in pain.

“Good. Keep crying. It makes my fucking dick hard.”

He does it again, then wraps his hand around your throat, gently squeezing. You clench around him and he squeezes harder.

“Mm, please.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear you talking. You want me to lose my erection?”

He reaches around, shoving his fingers in your mouth and you suck on them.

“Good little whore. Just like that.”

It’s only a few moments later when your breathing becomes more ragged, you begin clenching more quickly around him.

“You’re fucking close aren’t you? Go ahead, then. Come on my cock. Do it, you nasty fucking cunt.”

And you do. And you cry as it washes over you, fucking yourself back against him, riding out your high. Riding him.

He follows right after, shoving you face-first down into the mattress, not stopping until he’s satiated. He then gets off the bed, walking into the adjoining bathroom and returning with a couple towels. He tosses one at you.

“Clean yourself up.”

You wipe yourself off. Your face, your backside, your pussy and once you’ve deemed yourself clean enough, you lie down.

Simon had tossed his dirty towel in the bathtub and when he returns to the bedroom, you’re lying on top of the covers trembling, quietly crying, curled in on yourself.

He lies down next to you, wrapping his arms around you and you quickly sit up, pushing him away. “Get off of me! Get the fuck away from-”

He grabs you, forcing your arms down to your sides. “Stop fighting me and let me fucking hold you.”

You hang your head and begin to sob.

He tentatively wraps you in his arms again before pulling you into his chest. He pulls the covers back, settling them over you. He brings one hand up to very gently massage your head. “Just close your eyes. Get some rest,” he says it quietly against the dark of the room.

He pulls you impossibly closer and you fall asleep like that, breathing in the scent of him, counting the steady rises and falls of his chest.

When you wake in the morning, it’s to the feeling of Simon’s hands rubbing something cool and slippery on your ass.

You’d eventually, at some point in the night, rolled over onto your stomach, which was how you were laying now.

You try to sit up, but he grips the backs of your thighs. “Hold still.”

You look back at him. “What the hell are you doing? What is that?”

“Triple antibiotic. And lotion. Should’ve cleaned my fucking belt off before I used it on you.”

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

“To make sure you don’t get a goddamn infection. Fuck knows what’s gotten on it over time-”

“Who cares?”

He looks at you like you’re stupid.

You continue. “Who gives a shit if I get an infection, Simon? You should want that anyway. You’d finally be rid of me.”

He frowns and you roll your eyes, turning away from him.

“Means I’d have to find a new fuck toy. And the market isn’t exactly booming.”

You roll your eyes again.

Finally, he stands, walking around to the side of the bed and he sits. He squirts some lotion onto his hands, then reaches toward your face, which now has finger-shaped bruises.

You flinch away and he freezes.

He gently reaches toward you again, rubbing it into your cheeks, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot.

You’d spent the rest of the day in the house, lying on your stomach for most of it, far too sore to sit down. That night, you and Simon had eaten some jars of Chef Boyardee for dinner. And you’d fallen asleep with him holding you once again, even if you’d told him to fuck off somewhere else. That you hated when he touched you unless you were fucking.

You ignored your body slowly wrapping around his for warmth.

After that night, he never slapped you during sex again and grew angry whenever you asked for it. Not even taunting him got him to do it.

Eventually, the sex grinded to a halt. It became a couple times a day, then once, then every other day, then every other week.

You told him you’d grown bored of him. That his cock just didn’t do it for you anymore. He told you he felt likewise, that he’d used you all up, stretched you out. Wished he had a tighter cunt to play with.

You said horrible things to each other until you stopped speaking altogether.

And then you stopped eating.

And he stopped caring whether you did.

You killed walker after walker, hating every one you laid eyes on.

He told you you’d become a little monster yourself.

You told him you hated him and hoped he died and became one of them.

He told you likewise. At least he wouldn’t have to look at you anymore.

And then had come the night when something inside of you broke.

You’d been doing…quite badly for awhile. Each day got worse. You no longer felt angry. You didn’t feel anything. All you thought all day long were horrible things about yourself. And then you felt it: you were worse than the walkers. He’d been right: you were a monster.

And he’d be better off if you were gone.

So you’d left while he slept, leaving everything behind with him, minus a knife to kill with.

You decided you didn’t care anymore what happened to you. You knew he wouldn’t look for you.

Until he found you, out of his mind with anger at what you’d done. You’d merely stood there numbly as he yelled at you, telling you how fucking stupid you were, asking if you had any idea what could’ve happened to you.

You didn’t respond.

And then he’d finally opened his eyes and saw what he’d turned you into.

You looked just like them: a walking corpse. A shell of the girl you once were. Your eyes were completely empty and it fucking terrified him.

When he tried to touch you, you'd flinched, afraid.

You told him to kill you.

He refused. And then cried. You’d just stood there and watched.

He’d got on his knees and begged for your forgiveness for the things he’d done to you. Had pressed his forehead against your stomach, his trembling hands holding onto your hips. Had asked you to forgive those horrible things he’d said. How brutal he’d been when you had sex, using your for your body.

You said nothing in return. You didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Eventually, the two of you came across a small cottage in the woods. It wasn’t much, but there was a small garden you began to tend. You thought of dying every day, but kept breathing because he refused to give you your gun back. Or let you out of his sight.

You slowly began to gain weight again, even if food didn’t seem appetizing anymore.

You slept. A lot. Nearly all the time, really. You didn’t have interest in doing much of anything else.

Simon began to grow out his beard again—having shaved some time ago before he gave you oral once. Even if you’d insisted you didn’t mind, didn’t give a shit.

He tended a fire at night, making you both dinner, and you only traded a few meaningless words as a poor excuse at conversation here or there.

Until the night he refused to let you wallow in your misery any longer. Not without finally hearing him out.

“I’m sorry.”

You’d looked at him.

“After your dad-”

“I don’t care.”

You’d stood, tossing your blanket on the floor, but he’d gently grabbed your hand, pulling you into his lap, even if you withdrew from his touch in disgust. “Please come back to me,” he’d whispered, tears in his eyes. “Please. I can’t survive this without you.”

You looked at each other. For a long time.

You knew the things he’d said before—he’d not meant any of it. You’d known that all along. Just as you’d not meant the things you had said to him. You’d both just been so angry. So lost. You needed someone—anyone—to take it out on.

Sometimes it felt good when you hurt him. Even just for a second. You tried to ignore when the guilt set in.

He reached up then, cupping your cheek, and you let him.

He rubbed his thumb along your lower lip. Then leaned up and kissed you. So, so carefully.

And then he did it again. And again. He gently gripped your hips. “I want you. So please…”

You’d stood, taking his hand. “How?”

He’d nodded to the floor, the plush rug before the hearth. “Here.”

He’d slowly undressed you. Before he removed each item of your clothing, he’d looked at you, asking silently for permission. And you’d granted it each time.

And then he began to undress himself, until you sat up, your hands resting over his.

He let you take over without a second thought.

Once the two of you were naked, you explored his body with your hands. The hard planes of his abdomen had now softened a bit and you smiled slightly to yourself at that, for some reason liking it. And then you lightly touched his hips, his thighs, his calves. You reached up and gently tugged against his beard.

“Do you want me to get rid of-”

You’d promptly shaken your head before softly pressing your fingertips against his cheeks, then brows.

You pressed your lips to his, then laid back on the floor.

He’d leaned over you, softly cupping your cheeks, tracing your lips, then running the palm of one hand down the plane between your breasts, down your stomach, then gently squeezing your hips, touching your thighs. He planted kisses to your knees.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’d whispered.

You didn’t believe it, but you believed that he did.

He’d lain his body over yours, gripping himself in his hand. “I’d like to make love to you.”

You suddenly realized you’d never done that before. It’d always been so violent and angry when the two of you joined your bodies together.

You reached down, taking him into your hand instead and you guided him into you.

He’d been so slow as he eased in and out of you you were sure it was going to take all night. So you’d tried to wrap your legs around him, tried to scoot closer to begin fucking yourself against him, until he’d gently pressed your hips into the floor.

That was what he had taught you sex was. He hated himself for it. What he’d done to you.

“We have all the time in the world, angel. We don’t have to rush. Not this night.”

You hadn’t understood, but you’d planted your feet back on the floor.

After some time, he’d lifted you into his lap, still deep inside of you, and gently tugged against your hips before wrapping his arms around you. You began to move against him.

He tucked some hair behind your ear. “That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. Take your time.”

You pressed your forehead against his and whimpered.

“Shh, I’m right here. Just go slow, baby girl.”

Tears stung your eyes. That’d always been his name for you. When had he last called you it? You could no longer remember.

You laid your cheek against his shoulder, rocking your hips slowly against his, quietly crying.

Neither of you came that night. It hadn’t been about that. You’d just…enjoyed the intimacy. For hours. Until you fell asleep with him inside of you.

He’d carried you to bed, wrapping you in quilts before lying down beside you, holding you close.

You'd both slept until well after noon. When you woke, you'd traipsed into the kitchen to start cutting up some of the vegetables you'd recently harvested, Simon's shirt hanging from your frame, before you felt a pair of strong arms slowly wrapping around you from behind.

"I can do that?"

You shook your head, holding up a slice of potato, which he took from you, chewing on it. "It's ok."

So the two of you had sat and ate slices of potato covered in salt for breakfast. You didn't speak. Your only contact was one of your feet resting over his under the table.

And then you'd both gone back to bed and lied on your sides, looking into each other's eyes. Occasionally, he'd brush his fingers along the skin of your cheek, or you'd run your fingers through his beard.

Until, finally, you fell asleep again.

Everyday became like that. Eating, sleeping, few words shared between you. Communicating primarily through soft touches and gentle looks.

Sometimes it felt wrong. Because it wasn't what you were used to. Sometimes...sometimes you thought you wanted to go back to the way things were: him fucking you until you were both so raw neither of you could barely stand to walk, him continually adjusting himself trying to get comfortable as you traveled. Or fighting—saying the worst things imaginable about each other. Insulting one another's looks or short-comings or how you were in bed. Telling each other how you thought one another would die.

"You'll get bit. Only a matter of time. Fuckin' stupid enough to let it happen."

"Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll put that gun in your mouth one night. At least I won't have to be around you anymore. Probably just let the biters have you."

Even the sex became less rough and more...violent.

Him throwing you around, you hitting him, both of you leaving bruises on the other, him pulling out your hair, you leaving him covered in deep bleeding scratch marks, hoping they'd get infected. Or at the very least leave him in pain.

You both told the other nearly every day how much you hated each other. And just how deeply. How you wish you'd never met.

And yet you still stayed together.

One night at the cottage, Simon had been sitting in a recliner, looking at the fire and you'd gotten up from bed in search of him, wrapped in a quilt, naked underneath.

You'd climbed into his lap like that, legs bent, head resting against his chest. He'd placed one hand against your back, the other in your lap, which you took in both of your own hands, amusing yourself by tracing his callouses.

He'd rocked the both of you until you fell asleep there.

You'd woken first and placed a featherlight kiss on his lips. His eyes had fluttered open.

"Hi," you'd said softly, pressing more soft kisses to his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin.

"Morning," he replies quietly. "Did you sleep okay?"

You nod, resting your head back on his chest. "Yes."

He wraps his arms around you again. "Me too."

You close your eyes for a moment, until he speaks again.

"It's okay if you tell me no. But I'd like to eventually talk about...what happened to us out there."

You lift your head and bring one of your hands up to his cheek, rubbing your thumb against it. "It's not that I don't want to. I just...don't know how."

He begins to slowly rock the two of you. "I know, baby girl. It won't...be easy. I just...I think I just need to..." he sighs. "Guess I don't either," he says with a quiet chuckle.

After eating, the two of you had gone out to sit on the porch, your feet resting in his lap as you sat on the porch swing.

He didn't look at you as he spoke, massaging your feet. "The shit I said... Maybe at the time I thought I meant it. I was just so...so pissed off all the time. I was in pain, so I wanted to cause it, too. And you were there. Every hour of every day. So I made you into my own personal punching bag. Having brutal sex with you, saying evil shit... Sometimes it made me feel better, or made me forget how much I hated myself. I never bothered to pay attention to what it—I—was doing to you. Until it was too late."

You slid your feet from his hands, then climbed into his lap, sitting on his thigh, your eyes looking into his own.

"Simon, I... I wanted it. The angry sex...I asked you for that. I'm not a victim that you created. And I gave just as good as I got. What about the things I said...did? I missed my dad. I hated...everything. Hated just waking up in the morning. So I took all of it out on you, too."

You pressed your forehead to his. "I'm sorry. I never meant it: telling you that I wished you were dead." When you looked into his eyes, your own were shimmering with tears. "Because I would be without you. You kept me alive all that time. Despite no longer having a reason to."

You pressed your lips to his.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you against him. "I'm sorry too, baby girl." He began to sob.

You'd cradled the back of his head as he cried for what felt like hours. And you cried with him. The two of you kept apologizing to the other over and over and over again.

He told you he never wanted to have sex like that again.

You told him you weren't sure that you ever wanted to have sex again in general.

He told you he was okay with that. Even if guilt filled him at knowing he'd made it such an ugly thing for you to endure. He wasn't entirely sure that he believed you'd wanted it like that every time. He didn't want to think about the time he'd fucked you while you were on your period, telling you how revolting you were, but that the sight of the blood turned him on, because he could imagine what it would be like to watch you die.

You had slumped into the dirty mattress he'd taken you on then and sobbed as he finished into his condom.

You'd stayed away from him for the rest of the night, crying quietly across the room.

He wanted to stick a gun in his mouth for it.

Finally, he told you he loved you. More than anything in the entire world.

And you repaid the sentiment.

He said you were meant to be together.

You agreed with that.

And you knew the reason the two of you felt that way was because of what you'd gone through together—had put each other through. No one else would ever understand the other the way you two did.

He'd carried you back into the house, just liking the feeling of you safe in his arms, and he took you to bed and laid on his side looking down at you, telling you over and over and over how much he loved you.

That he would until his heart stopped beating.

You asked him through tears to please not talk about such a terrible thing.

He'd nodded, kissing you.

Later that evening, you'd gone outside and sat in the grass side-by-side. You watched the lightning bugs all around the property, flickering here and there. And he watched you.

You ate venison that night. Simon had killed it a couple days prior, then cooked the meat. You made a vegetable soup, at least as best you could. He told you it was the best meal he'd ever had.

Sometimes when you slept, you had horribly vivid nightmares. Sometimes they were about Simon doing terrible things to you. Sometimes they were memories.

But when you woke, he always took you into his arms and promised that you were safe now. That you could close your eyes again; it was okay.

One morning, Simon had found you in front of an open window at the front of the cottage, watching birds playing in the birdbath outside. He's wrapped you in a blanket and then his arms. "What're you thinking about?"

You laid your head back against him. "I keep waiting for this to end. For one of us to die, or for me to wake up and find out this was all just a dream. For us to go back to the people we were. Or for this place to get overrun or be taken from us. Nothing good lasts anymore."

"We've made it this far."

At what cost, you'd thought.

He'd brought his lips close your ear. "Maybe we can try and make this our new home?"

You'd only nodded slightly. "Maybe."

You should've never bothered.

It was a month later when a pack of four men stumbled across the cozy abode. Simon had been outside chopping wood when he heard them in the woods nearby. He'd come inside in a panic, shoving things into a bag for you.

He'd told you that you had to get out, that he'd find you.

"N-no, we can't be apart. Simon, please-"

He'd cupped your cheeks firmly. "Baby girl, you have to. We don't have time to talk about this. I will find you. I will find you, but you have to leave now."

They were now pounding on the front door.

"Slip out the back and I'll distract them while you run. Sweetheart, no matter what you do, do not stop running. And if you come across another person, kill them. Don't trust anyone."

"How will you-"

"We know someone is in there! C'mon out. Just want to talk. Nice lil' place you got here. Ain't no place this nice without a woman's touch." You heard some laughing and your bowels turned to water.

He crushed his lips to yours then. "I love you. Now go."

You spent weeks alone on the road after. Every time you heard a twig snap in the forest or the sound of a bird's wings taking flight, you'd jerked in this direction or that one, uttering his name, praying he'd finally done as he'd promised and found you.

But that never happened.

The both of you had only just begun to mend what had broken between the both of you and then...you were torn apart.

You were forced into being strong, no longer having him to rely on for survival. You scavenged on your own, took down walkers on your own, built your own fires.

Even despite how much you had grown to despise each other, he'd still made sure to teach you the necessities. And you loved him all the more for it.

Every day you spent wandering aimlessly.

Until one evening, you came upon large steel walls and a gate. You'd only just looked up long enough to see someone aiming a rifle at you before you blacked out.

And when you'd come to, it'd been like you'd been dropped into a whole new world.

Acclimating to Alexandria had been...difficult. You kept everyone at arm's length, and walked by that gate every day, considering going back out there. Perhaps permanently.

Until you adjusted, which had taken a long while to come around to.

You'd only told Deanna half-truths during your initial interview. And you knew that she knew that you were withholding half of your story. She told you as much. Then told you she was okay with it. She understood.

You'd cried.

And then she'd given you a job, helping with the pantry. She said it was, at the very least, something which would help occupy your time and hopefully take your mind off of whatever you'd endured out there.

And so you went to work every day. Olivia was cordial with you. Nice even. She understood you didn't want to make friends. So you worked in amicable silence.

And you slowly began to make the house you'd been given into a home.

Had started taking daily walks around Alexandria. You'd never know it, but Deanna watched you some days, a small smile on her face.

One afternoon, Spencer had been waiting on your porch for you when you got back. He'd asked you to sit, then nervously asked you over to dinner, offering to make anything you wanted.

You'd turned him down. Told him you were still in love with someone else. And that that fact would never change.

He'd pushed further, telling you that whoever he was was gone now. That you could move on and not have to feel guilty about it.

You'd stood without another word and slammed the door in his face.

He didn't try again after that.

You didn't want to consider his words as being true: that you'd never see Simon again. You didn't want to think he was...dead.

That one small conversation had sent you into a spiral. One where all you could think were the horrible things you'd put him through. What if he was gone and the last thing that went through his mind was you telling him that he deserved it?

You'd started volunteering to go on runs then. And you looked for him everywhere, but never found him. Not a trace.

Until he found you.

Once you and Simon finally stood, breathless from kissing, you'd firmly twined your fingers between his and led him inside your house, locking the door behind you.

He'd carried you upstairs to your bedroom and the two of you couldn't get undressed fast enough.

You'd made love repeatedly. Had said all those things you should've before. Had told each other of the things you'd done and been through while apart.

Simon had promised you'd never ever be parted again. That he would either stay in Alexandria, or you would come back to the Sanctuary with him. But going back out there...it wasn't an option.

Eventually, Simon had left you for just a moment. Long enough to go outside for just a moment.

A fellow savior had told him they were just finishing up.

He'd told them he was staying for now. And to relay a message to Negan: he finally found what he'd been looking for.

[amysuemc]

hope is a skill

[amysuemc]

Win Again

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x sex worker f!reader

Summary: Marcus has won yet another match, so to reward him, his master has granted him another hour with you.

warning: smut| unprotected piv, oral (f receiving), a whole lot of manhandling, he like uses your body idk how to explain it, multiple orgasms, and once again unnecessary feelings cause im not able to write something where they just fuck for some reason

a/n: i know im two days late but PLEASE read this still. (also) basic things for this guy that i've decided are canon: 1)he has a monster cock, like actually scarily big, 2) he's real fucking strong (hulk typa shit), 3) he's not a big talker (but he is a grunter). I need this man to fuck me more than i need my next breath (real), also i did so much research for this fic and you cant even fucking tell

It wasn't often that you didn't dread going to the barracks.

These were strong, ferocious, and dangerous men, and you were but a meek lamb in comparison.

But today was different, today you were seeing him, him who fit the previous description to a tee, and yet was so different from any man you had ever offered your services to.

And perhaps it was because it never felt like you were ever offering anything, ever since that first night, you had never given anything you hadn't wanted to.

The guards stopped as you arrived at his room and you felt a wave of excitement crawl up your spine the moment they opened the door, waiting for you to enter.

The armored men stepped aside to let you pass, the cobblestones on the ground sounding against your sandals as you made your way inside, looking back at the door just in time to see it being shut close.

It was his breathing you heard first, his heavy breathing coming from where you knew his bed sat on the room's left, and seconds after, the creaks of the wood as he stood up, his feet stalking your way.

You turned to him then, a smile almost making it to your lips as you saw him alive before you once again, granting yourself a second to relish in the fact he still breathed, he was still here.

"You've won again" you spoke softly, your hands slowly finding the string holding your dress together.

He didn't respond. The window behind him caused the moon's soft glow to fall on the stone floor, but not on his beautiful face, that, you had to watch closely to inspect.

A newer cut right above his left eyebrow had appeared, and his right arm was bandaged almost completely, but otherwise, he looked fine.

His eyes remained on yours until you'd undone the dress, until it fell at your feet- then, a low groan rumbled from his chest as he took you in, and took his turn inspecting every inch of your bare figure.

"How do you want m-"

You didn't have time to finish your sentence that he'd picked you up, effortlessly pulling your body up until your legs slung over his shoulders and his face was buried in your cunt.

He hadn't even given you a second to realize what was happening that his tongue was already lapping between your folds, desperately drinking everything your body gave him.

"Oh my g-" you threw your head back, your skull finding the wall behind you being the only reason you realized he'd moved, and you were now caged between him and stone as you forgot how to speak.

The moans you had faked so many times for so many clients were nothing like the ones your mouth was spilling now, these were higher, coarser, feral, and the way you were gripping his hair... there was no way that didn't hurt.

"Y-You only" a whine interrupted your words when you felt his tongue plunge into your hole, when he started fucking you with it just like he would with his cock "You only h-have me for an hour" you breathed, your thighs squeezing tighter around him contradicting the words you were about to speak "d-don't you want me to p-please you?"

His grip on your ass only tightened and his mouth halfheartedly parted from your core to answer you.

"You are"

And just like that, he'd gone back to work. The moment his mouth closed around your clit you knew you were done for, you knew there was no point in fighting what was inevitably going to come, and so you shut your eyes, as he brought you to heaven.

Your moans were getting higher and higher as your back arched to feed more of yourself to him, desperately craving the feel of his touch, of his nouse, of his beard against your thighs, of the lips he so devoutly was using to suck on your most sensitive spot.

"F-fuck- general I-" The fist you had wrapped around his hair tightened as every muscle in your belly did the same "Oh!"

Somehow, through all the chaos, while you were coming all over his face, while your moans reached levels never reached before, the only thing you could feel or hear, besides pure ecstasy of course, were his groans, his groans as he drank up every drop of your juices, as if your orgasm was bringing his as much pleasure as it was to you.

You barely had time to open your eyes that his strong, big hands and even stronger, bigger arms had pulled you down until your legs hugged his waist instead.

You really did weigh nothing for him, and if that wasn't enough to prove it, the next minutes definitely would.

Your heavy breathing was fanning over his mouth as he freed his cock from his pants, but while you were expecting him to kiss you, having been blatantly staring at your mouth since he had any way of seeing it, every thought in your brain turned to dust when with one hard fucking thrust, he drove his cock into you- or the first few inches at least.

You couldn't talk, you could do nothing but throw your head back as your eyes rolled to the back of it, and let him take whatever he wanted to take.

"I'm not a general anymore," he said with another thrust, stretching you out even further, even deeper.

You wanted to laugh at his words. Now? Now he was feeling the need to correct you? When you could barely breathe, let alone think?

But he didn't look interested in hearing a response from you, not when he grabbed your waist, and definitely not when he started moving you up and down on his shaft with just the sheer force of his muscles.

The moans, the lewd moans that crawled up your throat were filthy, even filthier than the sound of how wet, how unbelievably drenched you were as he plunged into you over and over, as he literally used you as a fucktoy, filling you up more and more, until he was finally sat inside you to the very hilt, until his pubic hairs were grazing your skin and the tip of his cock was touching your cervix.

"Oh my god" you whimpered, feeling tears prick your eyes as your toes curled at the feeling.

You could feel him everywhere, everywhere.

But he didn't pause, he wasn't one to take his time, and perhaps that was because he didn't have much; he resumed his movements again, retracting his hips while he pulled you up his cock, and slamming into you while pushing you down on it, leaving you breathless, a simple doll at his mercy.

His groans and growls were deep and filled with lust, just like the way he bent down to take your left tit into his mouth, just like the way he was fucking you, deep and hard, and God- God it was happening again.

"s-shit" you squeaked, your walls squeezing around him as you bit your lip, so fucked out you could barely remember your name or anything at all that wasn't how good he was making you feel.

"O-Oh my fuck-"

The arms you had intertwined behind his neck tightened with every spasm of your hole, with every flutter of your belly, until you'd come once more.

You opened your eyes, letting them trail downwards, to where his lips parted to suck in ragged breaths, begging him for a kiss.

"again" he said instead, and your eyes widened as you felt him starting to move anew

"I-I can't"

He looked at you now, really looked at you, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily, and then- then he kissed you. Marcus Acacius kissed you the same way he'd been fucking you for the last hour: like an animal.

It was a mess of teeth and tongues and yet it felt like the best thing on earth, better than wine, better than life, even better than the sex- it was perfect.

"again" he ordered once more, and what could you do, if not comply?

So he started again, he started fucking you again, even more ferociously than the previous time, even if you didn't think it possible.

The way his skin slapped with yours was drowned by both your desperate sounds, your legs started to tremble, beginning to fall from his hips as he moved you up and down his cock like it were nothing, and you- you didn't even know where you were anymore.

"please" you begged, a single tear of pleasure, of overstimulation falling to your cheek as he kissed you again, muting all your cries as he drove himself into you like a madman, like he was possessed.

"Time's up"

Two knocks sounded from the other side of the wall together with the warning, and you thanked Marcus for having rendered you such a mess because otherwise, that would have reminded you of how little time you two ever had, and how miserable everything really was.

His movements sped up at the notice, his dick plunging into you over and over and over until finally, it was happening again.

"give it to me" he said, and you did exactly as he asked- you gave it all to him, screaming and crying you let him have all you had to offer, feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

He came loudly just after you, groaning deeply as he filled you up to the very brim.

Out of all the words you could have said to him then, all the things you wanted to tell him at that moment, you chose none, because none would have said anything he didn't already know from the look in your eyes, from the same exact spark in your irises that ignited his own.

So he helped you to the ground until you stood on shaky legs, walked to where your dress lay on the floor, and dressed yourself again, his eyes never leaving you.

The door opened just as you were done, and you turned to him one last time again, a smile pulling at your lips.

"Win again for me, general"

He looked at you too for one last time again, as he thought about how you didn't know, you didn't know how big of a role you played in his victories, how many times he could only think of the taste of you, smell of you, feel and voice of you as he took his opponent's life, as he fought for another hour with you, another second.

"I will" he promised

[amysuemc]

the wedding night

hi: i wrote this in an afternoon on the bus and barely edited this. it only exists because seeing that photo of General Acacius made me feel hornee things®. I don't know shit about roman gladiator times, this is just a debauched excuse to be railed by the man.

trope: forced marriage

pedro character: Marcus Acacius x female reader (you)

warnings: innocence kink, age gap (not specified, but he an old peepaw just how we like him) , names like whore because i am one, forced marriage, Au as fuck because i have no idea what happens in the movie, virgin bullshit, eating out, pp in vv, dubconish, i think that's everything.

RATED 18+

"Take to the bed," the muscular man tells you in a raspy voice as you enter the bedroom, wishing you had your fur. "I leave early for battle at dawn." 

He makes no move to leave and so you glance from the waiting bed back over to the imposing figure standing by the fire. His tousled, greying curls are touched by the flickering reflection of the flames behind him. 

This is all new to you and almost surreal. You've been taken from your modest home and brought here to a lavish home in Rome. You glance over at your new husband timidly. 

"Are you to remain here all night?"

"We are wed," he replies with a wry grin. "Of course we shall spend the night together." 

You've been shipped here under your father's greedy love for coin. And now you stand here in the bed chambers of the man who became your husband only hours ago. 

General Marcus Acacius; a man double your age with the kind of quiet strength that made you anxious when you first laid eyes on him today, only moments before he slipped the ring onto your finger and you were announced as his. 

He drank only a bit of wine at the wedding, a stark contrast to the family of yours that acted like the animals in Marcus' stables with every glass poured. Of course they would celebrate; they'd made a small fortune on your marriage, having sold you off like cattle.

And you now stand across the room from him, your husband, General Acacius, Marcus. A man who served under the infamous Maximus. He cuts a fearsome figure both on and off the battlefield with his broad, muscled frame and serious countenance.  

You wear the traditional wedding night garment, a thin dress that is practically see-through. You pull your arms over your chest, hiding your nipples that poke through the thin fabric.

When you'd come to the room you'd been surprised to see Marcus there waiting for you, stoking the fire. You'd been told by the servants that your new husband would be preparing for battle all night. It had brought you some comfort.

But Marcus is here in nothing but his tunic cinched at the waist. His armour is in a pile by the door, his sword there as well. Without it he's still terrifying. 

Marcus notes the arms you hold over your chest for modesty and he feels arousal begin to drip lazily into his veins. 

"Undress," he says plainly, his dark eyes trailing over your body. 

You make no move to follow his orders. If anything you seem angry with him. His fingers twitch next to his thigh as he waits for your compliance. It doesn't come. 

The dark grey tunic he wears hangs just above his knees so when he walks over to you you're able to see his muscled legs rippling with power. You quiver as he finally stands in front of you. One thick forearm goes to rest against the wall above your head, his neck craning so he can look you in the face.  

"I said undress."

"You will not order me about as if I were your slave," you seethe, your head craning away from him. "I am your wife."  

"I am twice widowed," Marcus murmurs as his wide finger traces the curve of your delicate collarbone. "I have come to realize I have little need for a wife."

"Then why bring me here away from my family and my homeland? Why marry me at all if you have no need of me?"

"I have no need for a wife," Marcus repeats roughly, his exhalation landing over your face like a wine-soaked cloud. "But a man always has need for a ready cunt."

You rear back and your hand flies through the air so quickly he's clearly not expecting it. The slap you deliver to his bronzed cheek is so hard that he flinches back at the sensation, but his head remains facing you. 

"I am no whore," you hiss. You've never been spoken to like this. "Nor a hole for you to fill at your leisure." 

You're horrified when you see him lengthen under his tunic, thick and fearsome looking to your inexperienced eye. He smiles at you when you gaze back up at his face, a feral, ugly grin that has you backing against the stone wall as he advances, his pelvis nudging yours. 

"You will be fucked well," Marcus whispers. "So well you will happily call yourself my whore." 

You push at his broad chest, free of his usual armour and yet hard to the touch like iron. He doesn't budge, he just presses his pelvis into yours, pinning you to the wall. You feel him there between your legs, warm and waiting and large. 

His hand comes to grip your jaw, forcing your unwilling mouth to his. He kisses you fiercely, like he owns you. It disgusts you. He pries your lips open with his own and as he licks into your mouth his tongue tastes of sweet wine. 

You wince, trying to wrench from his grip. He only smiles, hands coming to meet at the collar of your nightdress.  You shriek as he begins tearing the delicate fabric down the middle and exposing your breasts to the chilled air. 

"I desire to see what is now mine," he murmurs, a hand coming to palm your breast. 

You bat his hand away, slipping sideways from him into the centre of the room near the bed. He doesn't look upset; he looks amused, as if he were playing a game. 

You hold the torn fabric of your dress at your chest, covering yourself as you back away from his advancing figure.  

"I am not your anything," you grimace. "Leave at once." 

Though your voice is strong you back away, a shuffled step for each strong stride of his until you feel the bed hit the back of your calves. 

"This is our wedding night," Marcus says silkily. "And we must consummate."

Before you can deny him he jabs his strong fingers on either side of your clavicle, causing you to fall backwards onto the bed. You gasp when he follows after you, lifting the hem of your dress. 

His head is thrust under, making you kick out your legs in fear. What is he doing under there? Fear has you convinced he may bite you. 

You go to pull away further when you feel him starting to part your thighs. You squeal anxiously, twisting. 

"Get off!"

"Calm yourself, wife," he orders gruffly from beneath your nightgown. He's stronger than you, his hands wide and it's only seconds before he's got your legs hinged over his shoulders. 

You continue to cry out, desperate for escape. You're terrified of this brute of a man. 

His mouth finds your cunt swollen and wet and when he lays his wide tongue flat and licks a stripe up the seam you suddenly go quiet. You can feel him smile against the lips of your pussy. 

"So soft," he murmurs, kissing your sex reverentially before his tongue darts out to sample you again. It's been so long since he had a cunt this soft and sweet against his tongue. 

Your hips jump and Marcus can't help but smirk. Under your nightgown all he can see and smell is your sex, open widely thanks to his hands, glistening with his saliva and your own arousal. He feasts on you, groaning as he gets swept away by the sensations your whimpers create in him. 

 You're on your back, looking up at the beautifully painted ceiling. A celestial pattern that mimics the night outside your window. Your chest heaves, nipples pert and straining as his mouth works against your cunt, making you tingle everywhere.

He's on his knees beside the bed, you're thighs hinged on his broad shoulders, the cream of your skin against his ears. He doesn't care that tomorrow his knees will ache because devouring you as you thrash for him on the bed has him feeling like a young man again. 

He sucks the lips of your pussy into his mouth with relish, his hips grinding into the edge of the bed when you cry out. You hear him chuckle before he continues and the sound reminds you that you don't want him touching you like this and bringing out these feelings you've only heard whispers about. Not a man who has decided you're nothing more than a thing to fill. 

"Ssstop," you slur above him, unable to focus as your vision blurs.  

"No."

You keen breathily, your hands scrabbling to grip the bed. His broad hands cup your ass, forcing your sex harshly against his mouth. You hear vulgar slurping noises coming from underneath your nightgown and your eyes roll back. 

You've never had a man before. Your mother warned you about husbands and their selfish desires in the bedroom. But this doesn't feel like what she warned you about. This feels good. 

You feel a pressure beginning between your legs and you panic, trying to force Marcus' head from between your thighs but he just grips stronger, tilting his head from side to side as he drinks you down, his tongue wide and stuffing your cunt. 

When be begins to suck brutally at your clit, bliss overtakes you, causing your back to arch and a shuddering scream to leave your throat. 

Your hips undulate as he continues to fuck you with his tongue, stopping only when you begin to whine that it is too much. He licks you gently after that, cleaning the evidence of your orgasm with relish. 

With a creak he stands beside the bed and removes his tunic. In a daze you lay on your elbows, gazing up at his broad, muscular body knowing that if he wanted to he could snap you like a twig. His cock rests heavily between his legs, just as thick and long as you thought. Despite the pleasure he brought you there's still that glint in his dark eyes, a mockery that you can't stand.

"Get away from me."

Your cunt pulses, drooling with your previous release. You try to curl into a ball, facing away from him. 

You think he may leave you be but you feel his hand grip your waist. You thrash as he rips the rest of the nightdress off your body before forcing you onto your hands and knees. 

"It is now my turn to take, wife. Ready yourself." 

He pushes you down onto your belly, curving your ass up to the sky. Then he crawls over you, his hands pinning yours to the bed under his.  You feel him there at your entrance and you feel terrified tears stream over your cheeks. 

"No need for fearful tears," he assures you as his mouth meets your neck. "You will be crying for more of my cock soon enough."

You cry out as he pushes the head of his length between your dripping folds. He's much too big, the intrusion too great. 

"I will make this quick," he grunts. "For your benefit."

Marcus can hardly believe how good the velvet clench of your cunt feels sliding along his cock as he pushes through your virginal barrier. Not since his first wife has he come close to anything this divine.

His teeth come to grip at your shoulder, biting there, marking you as he feeds his cock into your pussy from behind. 

Your cries are muted, your pain ignored, because all Marcus can feel is bliss. Bliss as he marks you forever as his. Bliss as his thick cock stretches your walls, bliss as your pussy stings straining to take him all. 

And by the time he's buried with his hips against your ass, your shoulder is bruised with the indents of his teeth. 

"No more," you beg as he begins to move within you. "Let it be done." 

"We have only started," he muses, kissing your damp cheek. "The best is yet to come."

His frame is so broad it covers you entirely, like you're wearing him as a robe draped over your curved body. He rocks into you as his massive hands press yours into the bed.  

You feel him pull slightly out before buying himself within your womb. You cry out, head falling forward as the slick feel of his cock buries itself deeper and deeper with every subsequent thrust. With every pump he moves the both of you forward before pulling you back. 

And just when the pain is too great, you feel it morph into pleasure. The feel of him thrusting in and out going from sharp to a pleasurable throb. 

Marcus senses the change in you when your back starts to arch and your hips start to lean back to meet his. You're enjoying it now, just as he knew you would. 

"You like this."

He grins to himself when you don't answer and instead let your head hang between your shoulders. 

He continues to tease you, never letting up, waiting until your noises become breathless and needy and then he recedes, chuckling when you whimper his name. 

What feels like eternity later the two of you are slick with sweat, your limbs shaking as Marcus watches you from above. His hands are on your hips now, pulling you against him. 

He spreads your cheeks wide, groaning when he watches his thick cock filling your tight pussy to the brim. 

You're begging for him to give you the same pleasure as before, nearly sobbing with how cock-drunk you are. He feels so good buried between your thighs. 

Marcus only smirks down at you, a hand pressed on your lower back, urging your ass up higher for him. He thinks about all the things he's going to do with you before leaving for battle. 

The thought is exciting him, sending him erratically pumping as he tilts you back, hand coming to strum your clit as your spine kisses his front. He holds you on his thighs, spread wide and bouncing.  

"What are you?" He pants, his lips squished against your cheek, his fingers curling, making you see stars. 

"You're. . . You're wife," you manage to croak out, your hands gripping his forearm slung over your chest. 

He fucks harder into you, his cock hitting the spot your own fingers can never manage. It's causing more stars behind your eyes, your body limp in his grip like a doll. 

"What are you?" Marcus demands again, only now he punctuates his question with a firm slap to your cunt.  

You ache where he slapped, but a pleasurable one that sends you closer and closer to falling off the edge of bliss once more. Only this feels so much bigger, so much more intense than when his mouth was on you. 

"Say it." 

You writhe on his cock, held by one arm around your middle, the other fucking you with his thick fingers over your clit and his thicker cock splitting you with every upward thrust. 

"Please, Marcus."

Marcus is so sweaty, his muscles gleaming in the low firelight. He moans lowly, the sound making your toes curl. Then his warm breath is hot on the side of your face. 

"Say it and I will give you all that you desire." 

You're so close, that pleasure ebbing and coming back stronger with every swipe and thrust. You try to sound it out, but the shame overtakes you again.

"I am you. . . I am your. . ."

Marcus is groaning into your ear again, his thighs twitching as your arousal soaks down his length. But he doesn't stop filling you over and over, his eyes closing as he revels in the pleasure of your milking cunt. 

"Say it." 

And now he presses the heel of his palm against your sex, holding you by the throat under your chin as your head snaps back onto his shoulder. Exposed like an animal Marcus stakes his claim, latching his mouth onto your neck and sucking. 

"I am . . . I am. . ." 

His thrusting continues and now he forces you back onto your hands and knees, draping his body over yours, fingers and cock never stopping, only drilling you from a new angle. He watches your sweet ass ripple for him as he pounds into your cunt, marvelling at how puffy and shiny and perfect she is. 

"Say it," he booms and you can feel his thrusting growing staggered, his body fucking into you with all that he has.

And you can't hold the words back any longer, not when it feels like your very ecstasy hinges on them being said out loud. It tears from you, ripped from your very vocal chords as he sinks into you, your voice shrill and cracked as you scream it.

"I am your whore!" 

The answering groan of Marcus in your ear makes you cry out loudly, coating his stroking fingers with hot arousal as you cum. 

“My whore,” he hisses as you buck against him.

You shake the entire time, confused at how everything in you burst like a ripe berry on the vine and yet you remain outwardly unchanged. Surely you very soul must have left you at that pinnacle of pleasure. You've never felt anything like it. 

And yet here you remain, in his arms in his bed, human and alive. You both pant heavily, the room smelling of sex and sweat and the oils in your hair. 

Marcus tugs you against him and you roll towards his body, pliant and willing. His mouth finds yours but it's soft and delicate. Your hands run through his soft, greying curls. 

"Are you satisfied?" 

You ask it quietly, almost afraid to know his true thoughts. He's experienced in so many ways, twice your age, strong and capable. And yet the kiss he gives you is gentle. It curves as he smiles against your waiting mouth. 

"I am, wife." 

[amysuemc]

Don’t Hate You- Joel Miller

An enemies to lovers story.

Word count: 3,298

Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, one spank, rougher sex, slight degrading, oral (m receiving) hate sex, but they actually don’t have each other!

Author’s Note: Love a good enemies to lovers. I did not proofread because I was ashamed!! :D

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

He was your neighbour; an interesting concept after 20 odd years of being alone with no sense of community. The apocalypse had torn through the world, separating friends from foe and dividing humanity into crushed pieces.

And then there was Jackson.

Jackson was small when you first showed up, bloody and beaten, tired of fighting. There were about 20 people at that time, all working hard to fix up the old town they had taken residence in. Maria had taken you in without any thought, allowing you to be someone after years of just living as another being, untrusting and rough, a shell of who you once were.

Five years later, you, along with the town, had blossomed. Buildings were now as new as they could be, with the resources the townspeople could find. Jackson had a bar, a laundrette, a clothes and a grocery store; things that had been hard to adjust to because your brain had been hardwired to live a certain way, were now able to just relax.

Slowly but surely, you were able to build yourself up into the personality you had before everything fell apart. A nicer, happier version of yourself. You knew everyone in town, always being greeted when you stepped out your door, they called you Honey.

“Sweet as honey, you are.” Eugene had said to you, an older man who had fought alongside Tommy in the fireflies.

The latter man scoffed, “Not to me, always teasin’ me, makin’ fun of me.”

You smile at him, “Chin up, Tommy. Someone has to keep that ego of yours in check.”

Every face in that town you could put a name to, until one day you couldn’t. Two new faces, one gruff with a frown, and the other smiley with her mouth constantly moving. You learned of their names; Joel, and Ellie. Before you could get the chance to introduce yourself, they had left.

“Where’s your brother? And the girl?” You hesitantly asked Tommy one day, raising the glass of whisky to your lips.

He shook his head once, downing his drink in one go, “Just needs to get something done. He’ll be back.”

Tommy's short reply had irked you more than it should have. Everyone in town was talking about the mystery man with his mystery kid; who were they? How long would they be away? You wish you knew the answer.

A few months later, you awoke to a distinctive voice; Tommy, yelling orders right outside your bedroom window. You tried to endure it for a while, a pillow placed over your head in an attempt to muffle the echo of his voice, but that proved to be a fail.

Thin cardigan around your body, fluffiest socks you could find, and a frown on your face, you move down the stairs in your house, muttering to yourself angrily. "Tommy!" You call out, gently closing your front door.

Tommy looked up with a guilty expression, "I'm sorry, I know-"

"It is the crack of dawn, you better have a good reason why I'm hearing your voice so early!" You finish, standing by the edge of your fence, arms crossed against your chest.

A third voice. A man stepping out of your neighbouring house. "Sorry, Ma'am, Tommy was just helpin' us settle in."

He was unapologetically handsome. Simply wearing jeans and a short sleeved shirt, with one expression plastered across his face at all times. Joel. You hated how at the sight of him, your arms unfolded from your body, hated how you couldn't really find yourself to be angry anymore.

You shift on your feet, cheeks flushing pink, "You're back."

Tommy raised his eyebrow, eyes moving between the two of you, "Honey, this is Joel, my brother, and your new neighbour."

Joel nodded in your direction, looking at you curiously. You shake your head softly, "Keep it down, Tommy." Your eyes move over to his brother, "Welcome to Jackson."

Then you were moving, back into the comfort of your own house where you slapped yourself in the face, embarrassment bubbling its way inside of you.

Two days later, you felt bad. Your bad impression with Joel replayed in your head endlessly, so bad that you had avoided going outside whenever you could hear voices next door. It was later when you knocked on their door, now in more appropriate clothes and with a clearer mind.

If he was shocked you were standing outside his door, he didn't show it, you spoke straight away. "I just wanted to properly introduce myself, I know you mustn't think too fondly of me." You give him your name along with a small smile.

Joel watched silently as you rambled an apology, only offering a small grunt and a nod of his head before closing the door in your face. You stood there for a moment, taking in what had just occurred. The rejection stung slightly, your inability to make amends with him weighing down on your shoulders. You hated how small that made you feel, hated how much you yearned for him to say something, just so you could hear his voice in that low, Southern drawl.

Tommy couldn't understand why your face soured whenever Joel's name was brought up, or why your fists clenched after watching his brother talk with other people. Why Joel seemed to talk to everyone except for you. Tommy sat in front of you in the booth at the bar, waiting for an opportunity to finally figure out what he had been suspecting. His eyes locked onto someone behind you and before you could ask, he was already calling out. “Joel! C'mere."

Your eyes widened slightly as you sat up straighter, kicking Tommy's leg under the table. You heard his boots stop next to you, his presence looming over the table you were leaning on. Tommy nodded his head slightly at you, "How're you guys gettin' along as neighbours? Haven't gotten any complaints yet, so must be goin' well."

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, eyes glancing over to you for a split second, "'S fine. Nice house you put me in."

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head with a smile, "Wasn't asking about the house, brother. You guys good?"

Joel looked down at you, eyes flickering down your face and to your hands that rest on the wooden table. “We’re good. She’s uh…” He paused, seemingly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “She’s a good neighbour.” He confirmed, suddenly looking everywhere but you and his brother.

Tommy smiled triumphantly, looking at you again. “Honey? He a good neighbour?”

You look at him unimpressed, feeling uncomfortable to be put in such a position, and furthermore the sight of Joel tapping his fingers against the table impatiently from the corner of your eye, made you feel angry. Unnecessarily so.

“Actually, Tommy, no. He’s not a good neighbour. He’s a dick. Always… slamming his gate when he gets back from night patrols.” You breathe out deeply, feeling the brothers’ gazes on you as you looked away. “I needa head back, I’ll see you Tommy.”

You hastily make your way out, “Oh god, why did I say that?” You whisper to yourself, embarrassment coursing through your body.

Three days after that incident , you had managed to avoid Joel like he was the plague; more than how you used to ignore him. His little girl, Ellie had approached you a few times, mocking your silence and asking why you didn't get along with the oldest Miller. You couldn't say that it was because how unnecessarily hot his accent was, or how he liked to wear tighter shirts that made your skin crawl with need, so you shrugged.

On the fourth day of ignoring Joel Miller, you had lost your streak.

It was later in the evening, everyone was either crowded in the dining hall, or in the comfort of their own homes, everyone but you. The winter coat you had on was not doing you justice, the freezing wind managing to slip through the small cracks, touching your skin. Although, you could barely call it a coat, material so worn and thin you would've been better in a long-sleeve shirt. You had been walking for a few minutes, nose pink, when you heard your name being called behind you.

"What the hell are you doin, wearing this in the middle of winter?" None other than Joel Miller scolded, grabbing you by the arm when he was close enough to. "You suicidal, woman?"

"Charming." You responded, trying so hard to ignore the warmth he provided by holding your arm. "Just walking, don't see the problem."

Joel scoffed, looking genuinely annoyed, "Don't see the pro-..." He trailed off for a moment, "You're going to freeze. And given our unpleasant history, I'll probably be blamed for your death."

Not waiting for a response, he started to pull you behind him, making a beeline for his house. You stuttered out, trying to object, "Joel, I'm perfectly capable of walking back to my house."

"Don't want you going back to your house. Need to talk with you." He shortly responded, ignoring your tugging. Once he had opened his door and you could feel the heat emitting from his house, you had settled slightly, but still shot Joel a glance as you entered.

"Go sit by the fire." He ordered, walking off into his kitchen, "Fuckin' hell." He mumbled.

You scowl at his back, debating with yourself for a second before deciding to follow his orders, sitting yourself down on the floor in front of the hot embers. You moan out in relief, shuffling a bit closer before turning your head to the side, watching Joel frown as he poured something in two mugs.

"Coffee." He grunted, walking over and placing the mug in your hands before sitting down on the chair next to you, sported with his own cup. "Drink it."

The mug helped you warm up faster, the heat reaching your fingertips and moving up your hands. "Prefer tea." You shortly respond, taking the drink up to your lips.

A moment of silence commenced before either of you talked again. Joel sighed deeply, and you saw from the corner of your eye his hand resting over his face, "Why're you so difficult?"

His words sunk into your brain. You scoffed, "I'm difficult?"

"Yes. You are."

You place the mug down beside you, looking into the flames for a moment. "I tried making amends with you, Joel. Tried being nice."

His silence fuelled your frustration. "Talking and smiling to everyone but me... Because I, what? I scolded your brother for being loud?" You continue, shaking your head.

Joel didn't talk, he didn't move. Only when he was sure you were finished talking did he speak. "You did try bein' nice... And uh... God, I hate this." He paused, taking a deep breath, "Didn't think it was a good idea for us to be nice. To talk."

"What?" You asked, turning to look at him, "You didn't think it was a good idea? That makes no sense, Joel. If you just don't like me, say that, don't try making up all these excuses!"

His eyebrows furrowed, he too had abandoned his mug onto the side table next to him. "Not makin' any excuses."

You laugh shortly, "Okay, Joel. I'll leave you then, get outta your hair... Seeming as this,' You gesture to the both of you, "Is not a good idea."

As you stood, Joel quickly followed, grabbing onto your shoulder to stop you from running. "I knew it would be a bad idea because the second I laid my eyes on you, you had me wrapped around your finger. Fuckin'," He took a breath, looking away from you for a moment, "Can't get you out of my head, you're everywhere."

"I don't..." You frown, looking up at him, your uneven breathing matching his, "I don't understand."

"I can't stay away from you, I can't do it anymore." He confessed, letting go of your shoulder, instead running his hands through his hair. "You don't even know what you do to me."

You watch him for a moment, trying to rationalise your feelings, "So, you... You act like a dick, and ignore me, shut doors in my face, and now I'm finding out it's because you can't stay away from me? That's so stupid!"

His neck was flushed, the pink hue travelling down to his chest, you forced yourself to keep your eyes on his face. He looked borderline desperate now as he stepped closer, "Tell me to stop, I will. If... If you let me have you, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"How did we go from hating each other to this?" You ask, eyes flickering over his face.

Joel shook his head gently, his hands moving up to touch your neck, fingers ghosting your skin. "Didn't really hate each other. Did we?"

"Hated you. You're arrogant." You whisper, taking off your thin jacket, a shirt on underneath.

"Keep goin'." He nodded, frowning at your choice in clothing.

His fingers moved on his own accord, moving down to the bottom of your shirt, tugging on it. "You slammed your door shut in my face." You continue, pulling the shirt off your body and throwing it on the floor.

"Like an ass." He agreed, his eyes taking in your upper half, hungrily staring at the bra you were wearing.

As if in a trance, you pulled your pants off yourself, "Just wanted to apologise to you for my bad impression." You tell him, now standing in your underwear in front oh his clothed self.

Joel nodded, his breath intaking as he looked at you, "Didn't care what you were sayin' that morning, baby. Comin'. out in that singlet of yours, tiny shorts. You thought that cardigan was gonna help ya? Was hopin' you'd yell at Tommy all day."

Your pussy clenched at his words, a gush of heat travelling upwards. "I was rude to you in the bar the other day... In front of Tommy." You confess, kneeling down in front of him, your face now in line with his growing bulge still restrained in his jeans.

"Yeah, baby." Joel agreed, "Had to listen to him lecture me for an hour." He reached down and moved your hair out of your face, looking deeply into your eyes.

His zipper was down before he could blink, quickly helping you pull down his pants, his boxers following soon after. His cock was big, bigger than you had expected it to be. Its red head was dripping with pre come, falling down the sides of him. Your hand experimentally wrapped around him, seeing how much you'd be able to take, only to find that your hand was not able to close properly.

"It's big, I know." Joel hummed, his cock twitching in your hands, "You can take it."

Your hands began moving after he spoke to you, making sure to squeeze down on him. His head fell back in pleasure, a groan releasing from his throat. After a few minutes of slowly jerking him off, you brought your head closer to his tip, carefully wrapping your lips around him. At the added pleasure, Joel looked down, letting out a whimper.

"Fuck, feel so good." He told you, scrunching his eyebrows together, "Look so good." He added, his hand coming down to hold your cheek.

With new profound confidence, you moved your head faster, making sure to match the speed with your hand. His moans grew louder, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your head, fisting some of your hair. "Alright, alright." Joel quickly said, pulling your head off his cock, now topped with the glisten of your saliva.

"Need it." You whisper, using his hand to help yourself up, tugging down your underwear before helping Joel out of his shirt. You look up at him expectedly, legs clenching together.

Joel looked down at the sight, mockingly sighing, "You wet, baby? Need me to take care of ya, huh?" He gently grabbed your hand pulling you behind him as he approached his couch. You watched as he sat down, spreading his legs widely, a sight that was truly sinful.

He gestured to his lap, and you took the hint. Climbing onto him, you didn't break eye contact, your chest pressed against his as you looked into his eyes. "Here." He whispered, reaching behind your back and unclasping your bra, peeling it away from your body. "God, you're..." He sighed, leaning back against the couch as he stared at your breasts, "You're gorgeous."

"Still hate you." You mumble, leaning up with your hands on his shoulders. He gripped his cock from under you, dragging the tip across your clit and down your pussy.

"Yeah?" He asked, looking up at your face as he placed himself up near your entrance, your legs already shaking with need. Your arousal dripped down the side of his dick, fluids mixing together. "Doesn't feel like you hate me."

You shook your head, moving downwards gently, just far enough that the tip of him slipped inside you. You both groan. "I do hate you." You try and convince him, taking him further inside you with every second that passed. When your ass met his thighs, you moaned out loudly, tilting your head backwards. "Feel so deep."

Joel smiled lazily, pressing his hand against your abdomen, "Right up here. Go on, show me how much ya hate me. Fuck it all outta ya." He slurred, his accent becoming more pronounced the further he lost himself inside you. You started with small grinds, getting your body used to the intrusion first, shaky breaths and pants falling from your mouth as your clit rubbed against his pubic hair.

He helped you bounce after, his large hands on your ass, pulling you up and down on his dick, roughly meeting those movements with his own thrusts below. Once he was confident you had found your rhythm, he leant back, watching. "Still hate me?" He shakily asked, his hands moving from your breasts down to your clit, rubbing slow circles there.

"No." You cry out, moving your body forwards so you were laying on him, your face resting in the crook of his neck. "Please." You beg, although you weren't sure of what.

Joel wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as his hips drive faster up into you. The sounds of your skin colliding echoing through his house, aiding in the pleasure you were feeling. Joel grunted in your ear, one of his hands coming down onto your ass, slapping it. "Gonna cum, baby. Come on, need to feel it."

You lean up slightly, chest heaving against his. "So close." You whisper, leaning your forehead against his. The sensation of his hands roaming your body, the feeling of his cock pistoning up into you, and your own need for him fuelled your orgasm. Just as you started clenching around him, Joel moved his head up, catching your lips in a kiss before his own orgasm escaped him. You came together, legs shaking and breaths coming out hot as you kissed.

Somehow, the kiss felt more intense than the mind-blowing sex you had just had, the intimacy of it had your heart clenching. "Don't hate you." You sighed, pulling away from his lips. "Hated how you made me feel. Wanted you so bad."

He nodded. "I know, baby. Me too."

As they dressed themselves and sat with each other by the fire, discovering new emotions and sensations with one another the rest of Jackson had continued moving around them, acting like another day; though your life would now be irrevocably changed.

[amysuemc]

seasons of you (year 1 - winter)

Blacksmith!Frankie Morales x F!Reader

summary: your first winter in the valley brings in a frosty breeze & a push towards a certain blacksmith

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, stardew valley AU, reader is a farmer & has a family but no physical description, shy & sweet!Frankie, major pining & yearning, friends to something more, Frankie being previously married/a bit secretive about his life, gift exchange as love language, use of nickname (Frankie calls reader “little farmer” affectionately but it’s no reflection on reader’s size), blooming romance

word count: 5.6k

a/n: we’ve arrived to Frankie’s first piece in our Stardew AU series! We’re starting ‘in the middle of things’ & it’s meant to show how slow/shy our relationship with Frankie unfolds that romance just starts rolling now, plus I needed Frankie’s story to begin this way so something else can maybe unfold in year two but that’s all I’m gonna saying lol, again couldn’t have done this without @lowlights @swiftispunk @perotovar & @burntheedges you babes are my guiding stars always and I’m eternally grateful. And to you, if you’re reading this, thank you too lovely

Snow crunches under your boots and the chilly air seeping through your coat feels different. This would be your first serious winter storm and you already sense it approaching.

Yanking open the blacksmith’s door, a wave of heat washes over and you sigh.

Thankfully Frankie’s shop is still open and you almost cry relieved.

“Sorry!” You apologize walking further towards the counter. “I know there’s five minutes left before closing, but I just wanted to swing by!”

You wanted to pick up your newly forged ax before the storm hit and of course…

You wanted to see him.

Autumn kept you so busy with the farm and the fall festival. Now you hope to see more of your favorite blacksmith.

Waiting for him, your eyes wander.

The shop, with its eternal flame flickering, holds so much personality in its walls. A military pilot flag hangs by the front. The low radio plays a soft rock ballad. A bulletin board by the side of the counter is covered in various flyers and photos. Your favorite snapshots are one of a smiling little baby girl with sweet chubby cheeks you still haven’t gotten to ask Frankie who she is. There’s another photo of a group of men in military uniform.

It’s all so familiar and welcoming now.

With all the time in the mines, you wonder if maybe your pickaxe needs work too. Sliding your backpack off, you examine your trusty tool. Worn, but not weathered, the steel speaks of the craftsmanship and skill of the blacksmith who first forged it for you.

“You waiting for that tool to do something or should I leave you two alone?”

Frankie.

You fight back a smile when his warm deep teasing voice floats in.

Frankie wasn’t this easy going with you at first. He kept his distance, was polite but rather reserved.

“He’s just shy. He was like that when I first moved in too,” Leah, your closest friend here in the valley, reassured you one night at the saloon.

Now those beautiful gem eyes of Francisco Morales blaze straight at you as he walks towards the counter. Wearing his trademark baseball cap you playfully glare at him.

“I’m just checking to see if I need to complain to my blacksmith about my pickaxe needing work.” You quip back to him.

“Oh well shit, thank god that isn’t me.” Frankie smirks and you snort at his comment.

Frankie reminds you of the flames and steel he works with. Hard working and gently intense, yet a warmth gleams beneath him and fills an entire room just like the heat from his kilns.

“You just had to come in five minutes before I closed huh?” Frankie sighs dramatically.

You think he’s teasing but guilt still strikes you quick. Rambling out apologies, you scramble to explain how it’s mainly for precaution with the storm coming.

“I can always come back later!” You urge panicking.

He chuckles, cozily deep, and you sputter to a stop.

“I kid little farmer, I kid.”

That nickname he so casually gave to you just this month sparks an electric warmth through your entire body. You weakly laugh back, not able to fully process a reply.

Frankie’s gorgeous features, his striking nose, and his warm eyes disarm you in a way that makes your knees want to fold.

He moves around the tables and workbenches to pull out your ax.

“There it is!” You happily cheer.

Frankie even playfully shows off the sleek new tool like he’s a hostess in a daytime game show and you clap appreciatively while you laugh. It surprises you how silly sometimes Frankie can be.

Moving back to the counter he places your ax onto it. Then he leans towards you and begins explaining what upgrades he did.

You should be listening, but you can’t. Not with him leaning so close to you.

You’ve had an embarrassing crush on Frankie since the first moment Mayor Lewis introduced you to him. But with how busy you’ve been settling into the valley, along with how shy and reserved Frankie is, your feelings simply have stayed crystallizing inside you.

Frankie’s diligent eyes are so focused on his work and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. How dedicated he is to his craft, how quietly passionate he is, you yearn to fall into him more.

Suddenly Frankie’s eyes flicker up and catch you staring at him. In a panic your gaze snaps down to your tool.

“Yup! Looks like it can still cut a tree! Good job, Morales.” You lamely reply and Frankie snorts.

You do sincerely thank him and even offer to get him coffee for making him stay this late.

Frankie waves you off casually. “Maybe next time, besides you gotta get home before the storm hits.”

He’s right. There's still so much you need to do before the night comes. The clatter of Frankie slowly shutting everything down for the night draws you out of your thoughts.

“Do you need any help?” You offer.

“Nah, I’m good. Plus I don’t need your pretty hands getting burned.” Frankie replies back.

Although he’s not looking at you, his sly compliment sends a spark through your body.

Scrambling to put your ax in its guard and then shoving it into your backpack, you thank Frankie again and plan to quietly leave.

“Wait!” Frankie suddenly calls out and you freeze.

“Wait, don’t head out yet. Let me walk you home.”

The chill from outside settles into the shop now that the fires are extinguished. Yet, Frankie’s words ignite a dizzying heat.

“Oh no it’s okay!” You quickly stammer out as a nervous energy spikes in you.

You know he lives besides the forge. It wouldn’t make sense for him to walk you home then have to head the way back here.

The lights from the back area turn off and Frankie already walks out towards you with his coat on.

Your eyes go wide.

“Come on.” He gently nudges you with his kind eyes and your body moves on autopilot.

Once outside the cold galvanizes you. The sky above stretches out a misty blue while the edges of evening’s midnight coloring slowly creeps in.

The entire walk back to your farm Frankie stays in step with you. The conversation is light, easy, simple talk of how his and your day went. Your heart hammers in your chest. Yet, it’s comforting to have someone beside you. He’s warm and stays close.

Now your farm stretches before you a soft welcome home. Frankie, like the gentleman he is, walks you to the door.

Appreciative, you warmly thank him and wish him a safe trip back home.

“Thanks and stay warm, little farmer.” He grins softly, kind.

After a sweet wave goodbye to him, you walk off the porch to do all the final errands before you call it a night.

“Wait, what’re you doing?” Frankie suddenly calls out and curiosity colors his voice.

You glance back and see he hasn’t moved an inch.

With an eased sleepy smile you tell him you have a few last minute things you need to do. Like check on your winter seeds, double check the coop and then make sure the pipes are covered.

“You need help?” He warmly asks concerned and sincere.

“Oh no, I’m good I promise!” You reply. If you were braver you’d joke about not wanting to hurt his pretty hands.

“Besides, you need to get home.” You firmly tell him.

It’s getting darker, not completely night out, but you feel guilty for Frankie walking out here.

So with one final sigh you give him a warm goodbye.

“Stay warm tonight, Morales.”

Frankie quietly grins back and you hope he makes it home safe. Now your focus turns to the small field and you kneel before it.

Your winter seeds aren’t ready just yet. A dread fills you wondering if they will last against the storm.

“What are you growing?”

Frankie.

You didn’t even hear his footsteps in the snow. Whipping your head up you watch Frankie lean down to squat beside you.

“You should be walking home!” You cry out surprised.

Frankie shrugs sleepily. “It’s still early, I’ll be fine.”

You make an indignant squeak that makes him chuckle. Frankie’s eyes return to the little saplings still making their way through the snow, stubbornly growing against the harsh winter.

“They’re just winter seeds.” You sigh explaining how you’ve been growing them mainly for the experience and money.

“You think they’re gonna make it?” He asks gently.

You hope so.

You’re about to get up when Frankie quickly stands above with his hand outstretched to you. Even though your hands are gloved and so are his, a flutter runs through your chest when you place your hand in his. Frankie lifts you up effortlessly and you thank him, trying to steady yourself.

“Alright, what’s next?” Frankie asks light.

“For you to go home, Morales!” You laugh.

“Well you’re walking towards the barn so…kinda doesn’t seem like you’re finished yet.” Frankie comments almost shyly as he stays walking beside you.

“I’m not, but I don’t need your help. Go home!” You urge with a weak laugh. Frankie simply shrugs.

Sliding open the coop door, warmth begs you to come inside. You’re thankful for investing in those barn heaters.

“Your chickens are so big.” Frankie admires quietly in awe at the sleeping birds.

You smile while double checking the coop. Everything seems secure and safe for whatever might come this way tonight.

Stepping back outside the cold air seems still, quiet.

“You need to head home.” You tell him sternly, more worried than ever about his walk back to town.

“What’s next?” He asks with steeled resolve in his voice with no sign of leaving.

“Go home Francisco.” You firmly urge saying his full name.

But then you catch the sight of your pipes and sigh. So you almost did forget to wrap them.

“You didn't wrap your pipes?” He sounds a bit worried.

“I thought I did earlier…” Now you’re extra grateful for double checking.

When the first snow came at the start of winter, everyone reassured you the pipes would be fine. It was during harder snow storms, blizzards, that you needed to be careful. And now one approaches fast.

Frankie follows you inside the house to grab the necessary materials.

You can’t even process him being in your home for the first time. Simply on a mission you and him work together swiftly grabbing duck tape, a ratty old towel and head to the pipes.

It’s a swift team effort. In minutes, the pipes are securely wrapped safely and snug. You and him even share a triumphant high five.

“I wish I could invite you in for a thank you hot chocolate but you need to head home now.” You press.

Frankie, with his hands in his coat pockets, shrugs easily.

“I can stay for some thank you hot coco.” He offers.

“You gotta get home before the storm hits!” You shriek.

He waves you off casually. “It’s not coming till later tonight I’ll be fine. Now come on, don’t you wanna impress me with your hot chocolate skills?”

The smirk he gives you is so boyishly charming, almost like he’s daring you to invite him in.

This side of him is rare. You’ve only seen him get this smug and cocky at the saloon during a game of darts. Now your heart flutters fast in your chest.

“Come on,” He pouts. “Think of this as a way to help keep me warm on the walk back.”

He makes a point. The panic of wanting him to make it home safe before the storm, becomes smaller against the thought of spending more time with this man.

To have this man in your home.

So with a sigh of defeat you crack. Nudging your chin towards the door, you let Frankie in.

He’s in your home now. You need to stay composed.

You do have budding feelings for him, something that’s evolved out of the simple crush you had. And having him here in your home feels like dipping your toe into the deep end of a pool before jumping in. But you shake those thoughts away.

“Your place is nice.” Frankie admires and you thank him.

It’s still small, cozy now that you’re slowly allowing yourself to fully settle into the old bones of your grandpa’s home.

You want to say more until Frankie’s stomach suddenly growls.

Looking at him with surprised eyes, he stares back with beautiful eyes the size of the full moons.

“Shit.”

You laugh at his panicked response.

“You okay with maybe staying and having a quick dinner or should I really kick you out so you can head home?” You leave the option up to him, place the ball in his court.

Frankie with the most bashful smile slides off his coat.

“Dinner sounds great, little farmer.”

Your heart floats up and gets tangled in your throat, but it’s incredible.

You have the leftover lasagna Evelyn gave you as a thank you. But you also think of the soup recipe you've been dying to make for this weather.

So you leave it up to your guest for the night.

“Soup or leftover lasagna?” You offer light.

Frankie’s eyebrows scrunched together adorable, thinking hard at the two options, and you keep back a giggle.

“Will the soup take you a while to make?” He sounds sweetly concerned.

You swear it will take less than twenty minutes.

“Soup it is.” Frankie grins and it touches his eyes.

You begin grabbing the various ingredients and hate how hyper aware you feel even in your own house.

“So what can I help with?” Frankie now slides beside you and you almost squeak in surprise.

For someone who makes so much noise when he works, you find he’s rather quiet, swift.

“You’re my guest, so don’t worry. Plus you’ve helped enough!” You shoo him away and don’t miss the way he playfully glares at you.

Conversation again unfolds effortlessly with him. Frankie talks about how Mayor Lewis was in the shop earlier bragging about you hitting a full year in the valley.

“And here I thought everyone had stopped gossiping about me.” You snort lightly and start grabbing the bowls.

It will be a full year since you moved to your grandpa’s family farm. However, you wonder when the newness of you living here will subside.

“There’s… still some gossip of course. Small town after all.” Frankie admits shyly, like a school boy admitting a secret.

“But don’t worry, I don’t let any of ‘em talk bad about you in my shop.” Frankie, endearingly sweet, adds. His words knock you breathless and you almost drop the bowls.

“I knew I could count on you, Morales.” You manage to say with a grin.

Thankfully quick, the soup turns out comforting and delicious. Frankie even gushes about how incredible it is and your ego inflates wild.

“Thanks so much for dinner.” Frankie beams with the brightness of a sun.

“Please, I’m the one who’s thankful for all your help.” You earnestly tell him.

“Plus, it’s nice to have good company for dinner.” You add.

“I understand,” Frankie nods. “Gets a bit quiet around my place too. S’nice to change it up.”

A dual sided emotion settles in you. You ache understanding but also yearn to uncover more about this beautiful and sturdy man.

Before you can dive more into this discussion, Frankie’s phone rings wild and loud. Hastily scrambling to grab it, once he discovers who’s calling his face drops for a flicker of a moment.

“Sorry little farmer, but gotta excuse myself real quick is that alright?” His voice wavers.

Of course you earnestly reassure him and even direct him to the bathroom so he can talk in private. Frankie thanks you graciously then rushes out.

The house is quiet and he didn’t fully close the bathroom door fully. So his conversation leaks out enough for you to catch it.

“Wait, so you wannna just spring this on me now?” His voice slices out sharp. You’ve never heard Frankie sound this upset.

“Yes of course I’m gonna take her. But do you know how fucking shitty this is, Diana? Did you even think about my schedule before you fucking planned this trip?” He snaps.

You’ve also never heard him curse and it snaps your snipe straight. He sighs incredibly frustrated and angered, allowing whoever is on the phone to talk.

“Oh yeah, yeah, real fucking nice. Always make me the bad guy, right?”

Then Frankie starts speaking fast and low in Spanish you can’t catch what he’s saying. His tone however feels barbed and venomous.

So many questions bubble up. You believe you heard the name ‘Diana’ but this could be a conversation about anything.

Now thinking about it, even though you’ve been here almost a full year… you don’t know much about Frankie personally and that truth sinks your heart.

Silence now settles into your home until Frankie’s footsteps echo returning down the hall.

“I’m so sorry.” Frankie’s voice jolts the air but with a deep sadness. “I think I’m gonna have to save that cup of hot chocolate for another day.”

You kind of figured. Besides, you didn’t want him to get caught in the storm.

Outside the air has chilled, but thankfully the snow hasn’t begun.

“Had a great time tonight, thanks again for having me for.” An earnest grace radiates from his words.

You’re the one who’s truly thankful for him and you repeatedly tell him that.

Unfortunately a dread hits you. You want to make sure he makes it home. Your worry must be evident on your face because Frankie’s eyes cloud with caution.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

When you tell him, a beautiful relief melts on Frankie’s face that you almost wish you could capture.

“Oh come on, that’s easy to fix, little farmer.”

He pulls out his phone and hands it to you.

He’s asking for your number.

Your heart beats so rapidly in your ears when you type your digits in.

“I’ll message you when I get home. Promise.” His warm voice is gilded with truth.

“Stay safe okay Frankie?” You tell him and his gorgeous eyes soften.

“Yeah, will do. And you stay safe too okay, little farmer? Stay warm and if you need anything.”

He holds his phone up and playfully wiggles it, a signal to say you should call him. You smile unbearably big and stay on the porch watching him leave until he vanishes from your sight.

You keep busy so you’re not simply staring at your phone waiting for his message. You clean up the remnants of dinner and feel comforted seeing two bowls in your sink.

Then your phone chimes and you scramble.

An message from an unknown number:

[Made it home safe!]

Another message flickers in.

[Also this is Frankie btw :)]

[Hi! 🪓]

The little ax emoji he adds makes you giggle giddy over how adorable this man can be.

You add his name and contact info into your phone. It warms you better than any sip of hot chocolate could.

- ❆ -

“Why do we even gotta celebrate ice?” One of the kids, you think Vincent, shouts that as you reach the edge of the forest and you snicker.

When you heard about the festival of ice, it simply sounded like a way for the town to break up the winter days. But it also reminded you how earnest and endearing the town can be.

Your heart jumps fast spotting Frankie bundled in his cozy jacket. He stands close to Willy and the two of them talk low, completely engaged with each other.

Whatever they’re discussing seems serious, evident in Frankie’s hard frown and Willy’s unusual somber expression. You decide not to interrupt them.

The fishing game is the highlight of the festival and to no shock the town’s head fisherman wins.

“It’s rigged.” You tease Willy and his hearty laugh is contagious.

“Don’t worry, next year you’ll be puttin’ me to shame.” Willy proudly declares.

When the event concludes for the day, Frankie already walks off without saying a word to you.

You try not to think about it too much.

When you’re about to head to bed, you find a message alert on your phone.

Frankie:

[Good try with the fishing tournament today! Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you today… have a lot of stuff going on. Also Willy wins every year. Think Lewis even adds fish into his crate to make sure it happens lol you’re the real winner in my book ]

You laugh as warmth balloons rapidly in your chest.

This message feels like a true victory for the day and it carries you for the rest of the week. Especially with how hard and brisk this final season of the year is.

Everyone warned you winter would be tough, and with your greenhouse still unfixed you’re realizing how true the warning is.

The days drag and bleed together. You throw yourself into the mines trying to gather more resources but that drains you fast. So you start doing a few errands around town to break up the days.

When Frankie requests a certain amount of wood you scramble quickly to complete the errand.

Inside the blacksmith shop, the familiar warmth greets you. However when Frankie walks out, a weariness looms over him. Heavy bangs hang around his eyes even as he smiles thin.

“Hey.” His voice is weary.

“Hey.” You reply back hesitantly. “I uh…have the wood you asked for.”

“Oh shit really?” He perks up. “Thanks, little farmer.”

You beam proud knowing you managed to at least brighten his day a little.

“Wait here, let me get your payment.”

You almost want to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but Frankie scrambles for his wallet.

“So, how ya been?” He asks.

“Good.” You partially lie. “How have you been?”

“Good.” He answers quickly, however you sense a lie buried.

You weakly smile. Exhausted, Frankie barely grins back and a pang pierces through you.

“Hey… Frankie.” You begin weakly. Frankie, midway pulling out your payment, freezes and blinks towards you.

“Yeah, little farmer what’s up?”

You know this might not mean much but you want to at least tell him.

“I just…” the words get stuck in your throat but with a deep inhale you unclog them.

“You just seem tired. I appreciate how hard you work but I just hope you get some rest when you can.” You tell him earnestly. “And… if there’s anything bothering you, I just wanted you to know you can always talk to me.”

You finish and hope you didn’t overstep.

Frankie’s gemstone eyes flicker stunned and then he sighs.

For the first time, Frankie slips his very notable baseball cap off and runs a hand over his hair.

His soft hat hair, the way you get this new glimpse of Frankie, lights something within your chest. You’ve never seen him without his cap. When he slips the baseball hat back on, his eyes seem cloudy and downcast.

“Thanks little farmer, appreciate it.” He mutters with another sigh. “It’s just stupid shit with my ex wife that’s taking longer than I expected to work out.”

Frankie’s words catapult you straight out of the atmosphere and your blood runs cold.

Ex wife.

Frankie was married before.

“I shouldn’t let it bother me and I don’t wanna be that type of ex husband, but holy shit she can be so damn difficult.” He shakes his head.

This feels like you’re meeting him again for the first time. But you’re grateful he’s sharing this with you.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this and with her being difficult.” You reply with a soft comfort.

“You’re a good guy Frankie. I hope she doesn’t make you forget that.” You add, meaning those words.

You and him might have just recently become closer, but this entire year you’ve been living in Pelican Town Frankie’s been so sincerely kind. Always being patient with you and how awful you sometimes are to your poor tools. Even just seeing his soft shy smile when you run into him has brightened your day many times.

Frankie’s eyes finally flicker to you. They search your face like he’s waiting for you to react.

His mouth opens slightly.

Then he says your name, breathes it out, and it kickstarts a wild flutter in your heart.

But the door suddenly yanks open wildly behind you, cutting him off rapidly.

Robin, the town’s ever handy carpenter, arrives with a warm welcome drawing all the attention to her. The moment flutters away with her entrance. With a fast goodbye to Frankie and a swift warm greeting to Robin, you scramble fast to leave.

“Wait I didn’t-”

You don’t even wait to hear what Frankie has to say before you’re out of the door and back into the cold winter air. With so many thoughts buzzing in your head like angry hornets you simply head to the mines.

You stay there until the dead of night and drag your body back to farm. Even with how tired you are, your mind still thinks of a certain blacksmith.

The next morning there are two letters waiting for you. One is from Lewis reminding you of the upcoming Winter Star festival. The other is from Frankie.

Your heart jumps fast.

Little farmer,

Thanks for thinking of me and wanting to look out for me. Appreciate it a lot. Also you forgot your payment yesterday, silly! Don’t work yourself too hard either. So you get some rest too, alright?

Hope you swing by again and maybe soon we’ll have time for that hot chocolate :)

He not only sent you the payment for the errand but also a sweet pack of maple bars.

An overwhelming sweetness consumes you and you wish it never leaves.

The next day you plan to make Frankie a hot chocolate to bring him in the morning. But you realize you used the last remaining bits a few nights ago when you snuggled in for a cozy reading night. You mentally kick yourself but decide a green tea will hopefully be the best second option.

The minute Frankie’s shop opens you’re there the first one inside.

“You’re here early.” Frankie greets you with crinkled smiling eyes.

“Thought I’d stop by before I head to the mines.” You reply back brightly.

“It’s not hot cocoa, but I hope it’s a nice treat.” You offer lightly while you hand him the cozy to go drink.

“You got this for me? Thanks so much.” Your heart flutters hearing how warm his voice gets.

He takes a sip and his eye brows shoot up under the cover of his hat. Oh no. Does he not like it?

“Is this green tea?” His voice jumps so excited. “I love green tea!”

His brilliant smile creates a sun bursting light in your chest and you’re a bit grateful now you ran out of hot chocolate.

- ❆ -

Gus is a full five minutes into his handmade candy cane discussion and while you adore the endearing saloon owner, you can only take so much.

The feast of the evening star still warms and eases you though. The twinkling decorations, the absolute grand festive tree, the delicious food - it’s all a cozy blanket to soak into.

So you allow dear Gus to ramble about his candy canes while you sip on your warm drink.

“So who’s your secret gift recipient?”

Frankie’s soft but playful voice catches you off guard and you almost sputter out your drink.

You caught sight of him earlier but he was busy laughing with Pierre and Caroline. Then you got caught up in greeting everyone. Now you’re thankful to finally talk to him.

“You know that’s a secret.” You playfully glare at him.

The blacksmith simply shrugs but the amusement tugging his lips makes you smile.

A beautiful flush crawls over Frankie’s face. A kaleidoscopic joy sparkles in his deep eyes. He seems better and joy fills you.

“So does that mean you’re not gonna tell me what your winter star wish is?” He asks light.

You roll your eyes, but giddiness consumes you fast.

“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” You surprisingly coyly reply.

Frankie snorts and his face crinkles up adorable.

“If I told ya, you probably wouldn’t even believe me.” He says casually then takes a sip of his drink.

“Wait,” you reply back. “Now you gotta tell me.”

Frankie doesn’t reply for a moment.

In the stillness of this moment, you notice how close he is. He’s leaning right beside you that you can smell the faint smoke of his work, and a crisp cologne you’ve never noticed before.

Then, you see it. His stunning amber gemstone eyes flicker to your lips.

It’s fast, happens in a breath of a moment. Your throat dries. You blame the warm food and festive atmosphere, but you ache to lean closer.

Before you can react or even wait for Frankie’s next move, Mayor Lewis claps loudly, breaking the spell.

“Time to exchange gifts everybody!” He declares.

Your body feels electric and immediately you try settling yourself down. You needed to give your gift.

Jodi, the sweet mother she is, deserves a nice sweet treat and you surprise her with a fully cooked chocolate cake. Her warm excited reaction is a treat itself.

Evelyn, ever the kind grandmother, gives you a pack of her delicious and warm cookies. You hug her tight thanking her.

The festival concludes with a gentle end and fizzles out softly. The clean up is eased, relaxed, and by the time it’s finished an unfortunately long yawn takes over you.

“Can I walk ya home, little farmer? You seem tired.”

Frankie again, so stealthy, suddenly appears out of thin air.

You squeak out a quick yes and his face melts soft.

“So a full year down huh? Hope we haven’t scared you off too badly.” Frankie offers hopeful.

It has been a year, feels like so much yet so little has been composed into your new life here in Pelican Town. You think of the dilapidated community center you’ve been keeping an eye on and working on.

You’ve taken this new journey slowly, at your own pace. You can almost hear your grandpa’s voice cheering you on saying just take it one step at a time.

“No way.” You laugh answering Frankie’s question. If anything, you’ve grown more attached to the valley than you ever imagined. You even tell Frankie this and his face lights up so beautifully it rivals the festival tree standing in the town plaza.

“Everything work out with your ex?” You ask gently and then sputter out an apology if you’ve overstepped.

Frankie chuckles. “Nah, I’m glad we can talk about it.”

That comforts you.

“And yeah, thankfully everything worked out.” Frankie grins sleepily. “I’m still really sorry you had to hear that.”

“No worries! And like what you just said, I’m glad I can be here for you. That’s what friends are for, remember?” You reassure him.

“Yeah, friends.” The way his voice hangs on the word friends gets tangled in your chest.

A quietness clouds the walk.

“So Gus tell you about homemade candy canes?” Until Frankie’s light voice breaks the silence and you laugh.

It might have been a slow start becoming friends with Frankie. But you’re glad, grateful, to finally arrive here.

Arriving at your farm you thank Frankie again.

“If it wasn’t so late I really would invite you in for that hot chocolate I’ve been promising you.” You sigh. You even begged Gus for a new pack just to be stocked up.

“Don’t worry about it. There will be another night, promise.” His words are gilded in a promise you want to treasure.

He suddenly says your name and now under the light of your porch, Frankie seems bashful as his eyes flicker around.

“I, uh, kind of have something for you.”

That takes you by surprise.

“Couldn’t give it to you earlier cause I know Mayor Lewis would’ve had my ass.” Frankie dryly snorts and then pulls out something concealed in the classic brown paper wrapping he uses at his shop.

“Happy feast of the winter star, little farmer.” He delicately hands it to you and your eyes feel as if they’re going to pop out any moment.

You cry in protest that he didn’t need to get you anything and guilt rushes in. You didn’t get him anything.

“Eh,” he shrugs. “No pasa nada.”

You’ve only caught small bits of him speaking Spanish before and now hearing him speak so casual sounds beautiful.

Unwrapping the surprise gift, you discover he got you an iridium bar and you inhale sharply.

You haven’t even been able to forge one yet. The most precious, coveted, type of metal bar and he just casually gave one to you right now.

“Francisco Morales, this is too much!” You shriek.

He laughs buoyantly and loud at your reaction.

“Trust me, it’s not. Besides, seen how hard you work. How much you do for me and the town. You deserve it.”

You don’t want to get emotional, but the tears clogging your throat say otherwise. Those tears and the bubbling emotions, gratitude and all other shades of thankfulness, overtake you. Before you can stop yourself you rush to Frankie and collide into him.

You hug him best as you can but realize what you’ve just done. You don’t even know if he’s okay with close contact like this.

Immediately Frankie wraps you in his arms and squeezes you back. He’s all encompassing, beautifully so.

Your mind, your thoughts, everything melt as you embrace him back.

“Thank you.” You earnestly tell him.

“Anytime.” Frankie whispers back.

You would never tell Frankie this… but your winter star wish came true because you couldn’t have wished for a better way to bid such a sweet farewell to this season here in the valley.

[amysuemc]

Something to prove: Frankie Morales x fem!reader blurb

Read the warnings.

Summary: you’re wrong. And Frankie wants to prove it.

Genre: steam / implied smut. Teasing / sexual tension. Brat /brat tamer or Dom / sub vibes.

A/n: okay, look. Frankie is cool, calm and collected. Expect when he’s not. And I just love finding the things that flip that switch on his composure and create, specifically, a Frankie of the u n h i n g e d and f e r a l variety. (That was my initial concept and then… this defo grew somewhat darker than I’d intended, so please do read the warnings! I dunno what happened but I guess I went a bit feral too don’t look at me 🙈)

Spoilery Warnings: there are definite dub-con elements here. Frankie is not checking-in thoroughly for consent and there’s one point where his thought-process /actions outright disregards consent (it’s Frankie’s POV). In my head, reader is enthusiastically on-board for everything which happens during the fic and for what is implied off-screen, but that’s definitely not made explicit in the text or even the internal monologue as it usually would be, and Frankie doesn’t know that for sure all the time. Consider yourself warned. As well, some dumbification here, reader called “stupid girl” etc. So… it’s a slightly darker!Frankie than I would usually write or characterise rather than aiming for canon so much! Also, implied threesome (or similar) off-screen, so a smidge of Santiago x reader which I opted not to tag as it isn’t the main focus. Some dub-con from Santi too. Daddy kink warning (once). (Light) Choking. Spitting (once). Dom / Sun, Brat / brat tamer vibes. Fingering. Definite theme in the language of “it’s for your own good / I know what’s best for you” which could be triggering, and could count as coercion. Explicit.

MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY

Gif by @santigarcia

No, the voice in Frankie’s head blares, the word defeaning - although no sound passes his lips. No. No. No!

You’re wrong.

Even as Santiago smiles smugly. Says “you got that right, sweetie.”

No.

Frankie’s jaw writhes, his hand clawing into his own thigh even as a gentle titter spreads throughout the room, passed amiably from mirth-crinkled eye to slanted mouth.

He’s not angry at you. Not exactly.

When Benny had asked, as the juvenile truth or dare game progressed, who you thought would be best in the sack, you’d had to pick someone.

It’s just that you’re wrong.

It’s him.

In his head it’s him. In his head, no-one else can give it to you the way he’s imagined making you come undone. No-one else could have you unfurling the way he’s plotted so meticulously; late at night, as he’s bucked his straining length into his own fist, wishing it was the warm, enclosing wetness of you.

You’re wrong.

He feels his pulse drum in his throat. Feels his face pinch into something angular and hard.

He rips an abrupt swig of beer from the mouth of his bottle. Abrupt like the way he wants to tear a kiss from your mouth. Sudden and harsh, showing you your mistake.

He’s not angry at you. He’s not.

He’s angry at himself; for not showing you; that you’re wrong.

He stands. “Excuse me,” he mutters gruffly, pacing to the kitchen. Opening the fridge to give some passing pretence to his exit. His broad shoulders curl in towards the cold, seeking to calm his suddenly heat-pricked skin. His shirt pulls taut over the writhing muscles in his back.

You find him like this a moment later when you enter, your sweet voice preceding the sight of you. And fuck. The contrast of your softness to the way he’s growing rigid in his jeans has his eyes fluttering closed, lashes fanning to his cheek. Has the circle of his plush lips dropping open as a pulse of need zips along his aching shaft.

No. No. No.

You’re so wrong.

And, for some reason, the thought of correcting your mistake, by setting the record straight himself? It has him coming undone.

“The boys are so easy to please, huh?” you breeze, apparently completely unaware of his predicament. Of the blood rushing in his ears so hard he can barely even hear your voice. Unless… did he imagine that teasing, provocative edge in your tone?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Frankie is fixed in place now. Rigid and imposing. Breaths mildly ragged; frayed at the edges. He hears you hop your ass up onto the counter with a breathy little - and seemingly deliberate - mmhmph. Knows that’s where you’re at, because that’s where you usually sit. That’s your spot when Santiago is cooking, all of the squad gathered around the kitchen island. That’s when Frankie usually leans his long frame against the wall right by you. Drinks in the way your thighs swell - full and soft- as they press into the counter. Imagines slipping his broad hands on to your knees. Sliding the flat of his palms up to part your warm, supple thighs. Slipping his fingers beneath the hem of your tantalising dress until they can spear your heat.

“Santiago’s” -Frankie juts his chin and curls his lip as you say his name- “so fucking needy.”

The word needy falling from your lips does something to him. Sends a throb of heat and dull ache to his length.

You have no idea how needy he is.

How needy he has been for you.

So… No.

Not Santiago’s name in your mouth instead of his. Not fantasies of Santiago fucking you bleeding into your dreams, keeping you up at night, making you slick between your legs.

You’re wrong.

In his head you’re wrong. In his head he’s had you coming apart on his cock a thousand different times. A thousand different ways. He never leaves you anything less than sated, breathless, boneless. He’s good for you. He’s the best. He’s what you need.

You’re wrong.

A low grunt rises in his throat.

Then, finally, with effort, Frankie delicately snaps the fridge closed. Turns towards you, his usually soft gaze intense and hard. Tongue curling around his plush upper lip. It makes the tentative smile you offer drop from your face.

Frankie watches your eyes skim down his taut, long body. Imagines that he sees your pupils blowing-out. A swallow sinking in your neck as he approach you like this. Harsh. Dominant. Maybe how he should have been with you all along. Maybe you would’ve liked that better.

At least, if he had, that way you’d already know.

His pulse beats a drum in his chest. Fuck. Those thighs of yours make his arousal swell painfully in his jeans.

“You believe it?” he grits, abrupt and forceful. Something dark in him activating. Something he isn’t proud of. Something that feels primal. Hungry, after so long caged away.

Your eyes widen like prey. “Believe what?”

Frankie looks at your mouth. You don’t even know. Don’t even know what’s good for you, do you? That he’s good for you. He’s going to show you. “Don’t play dumb. You know ‘what’.”

He crosses to you. Slots his hips between your thighs. Stands over you, muscles taut and rigid. Primed; yet contained. Reaches his thumb and forefinger out to grip and lift the point of your chin; deceptively soft.

Your mouth falls open. There is a sharp intake of breath, as though his touch is electricity on your skin. You writhe yourself into the counter. Arch your chest towards him, even as your eyes widen with slight apprehension. He’s never spoken to you like that before. Has only ever been soft with you. And look where that’s gotten him. Not buried balls-deep into your cunt, that’s for sure. “F-Frankie… I…”

No. No excuses.

“He was the obvious answer.”

No.

“I had to say someone.”

No.

“I couldn’t say… I c-couldn’t say you, could I?”

“Why not?” He shoves the pad of his thumb past your lips and into your mouth before you can even answer, sliding it over your tongue. Doesn’t even care in that moment if you want it. He wants it. Needs it. But he loves how instantly you pucker your lips to suck. Loves that the hot, wet glide of your tongue obediently greets him.

An awed smile drags over his mouth as you hum around him, already becoming putty. He imagines the wet spot he could make you leave on the counter, your slit all shined for him.

“Stupid girl,” he purrs, tone dripping with condescension, his voice honey over gravel. You moan as he withdraws from your mouth. Shifts his hands to clamp down on your thighs, snaking up. “I could give it to you so much better.”

You bat your eyes at him. Toying with him, like you always do - he sees it now. “H-How am I supposed to know that? I’ve…” you bite down on your pillowy lower lip. Looks like a nice place to rest his cock while he shoves into your warm throat, he thinks. “I’ve never fucked either of you.”

Still. You should already know. You should know it’s him.

You should know you’re wrong.

Frankie’s nostrils flare. He drags the pad of his thumb along the seam of his lips. Contains the anger pulsing in him. Has half a mind to unzip his pants right here. To shove you down on the floor and to fill up that pretty mouth of yours right here. Wants to.

“But you want it, don’t you, kitten?” He’s almost certain now. Certain that he hasn’t been imagining it, all these months. The teasing. The glances. The comments. These silly little outfits you wear around him. You’ve been trying to drive him to distraction, haven’t you? Playing him and Santiago off of one another. Riling them both up. Waiting for one of them - or maybe even both of them - to snap.

He drags you to him then, abrupt, your hands flying out to steady yourself against the counter. Your heat coming to rest over the clothed, straining mass of him as he bucks his hips up, grinding up against you. You yelp and it’s a pretty, pathetic little sound. “Don’t you?” he bites off, impatient for an answer now.

You want that. You want him to take it, don’t you?

All you can respond with is a loose, breathy affirmative as Frankie clamps his hand around your jaw and throat. He feels your heartbeat fluttering in your neck. It feels - to him - like want thrumming beneath your skin. Raw and red.

He dips his mouth towards the shell of your ear next, the scent of your perfume sending him into even more of a frenzy. “Did anyone ever tell you you should be careful what you wish for?”

He grips you harder, and your eyes flash with momentary apprehension as his grip closes over your throat. In the next moment however, your gaze is muddied by a glassy, blooming contentedness. A rising hunger. He jostles your head and you move with it, already pliant for him. It’s almost as though this is what you’ve been waiting for. Baiting him to snap. Baiting him to show you what he’s capable of.

Stupid girl.

How have you managed without him all this time? You need him. Need him just like he needs you. Need him to show you.

“Open your mouth.”

“What?”

“Open it.”

You oblige, showing him your pretty pink tongue, and a groan unspools from his chest at how pretty you look like this. Then, without warning, Frankie spits into your mouth.

You jump slightly from the suddenness of it, though once you realise what’s happened, you appear to relish it. Swallow it down and look at him with an altogether wolfish grin.

“Mmm. Thank you, Daddy.”

Such a fucking tease. His cock is so hard in his pants now, his arousal throbbing against the thick, constricting seam. In need of release. In need of that little wet cunt of yours, like he’s imagined a thousand times.

Well, thanks to your little games, he’s done imagining.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

Frankie grabs your hand. Tugs you down from the counter and back through the house.

“We’re leaving,” he announces to the remaining squad, paying their confused and concerned enquiries little mind. Then, he directs his next words only to Santiago. “You are too.”

The other man blinks in confusion. “Whu-“

When he responds, Frankie’s tone and his demeanour leave zero room for argument - he makes sure of it, the sounds carved sharp on the knife edge of his clenched teeth. “-Now.”

Santiago obliges rightaway. “Uh huh.”

“Hey. Big fella. What are we doing?” he asks as Frankie leads you hurriedly towards his truck, stalking down the gravel drive.

“Her.”

Frankie glances at Santiago in time to catch his thick eyebrows raise in surprise; but to his credit he only skips one pace before falling right back in step with him. “Oh. We are, huh?” Santiago looks to you. He looks hungry too. “Did you know about this, Princess?”

Frankie answers for you. “She knows exactly what she’s doing. And now, thanks to her, I’ve got something to prove.”

“Oh oh, Princesa,” Santiago purrs, a smug smirk claiming his mouth.

“Oh oh?” you ask with trepidation, as Frankie bundles you into the passenger seat of the car, clipping your seatbelt for you like you can’t do it for yourself. His eyes are consumed with fire as they meet yours, his tongue darting out along his lips. God, he could have you right here. Certainly doesn’t relish the waiting.

“Yeah,” Santiago breezes, slotting into the back. Frankie exchanges a dark, conspiratorial glance with Santiago in the wing mirror, before watching his buddy lean around the shoulder of your seat. “Honey. You’ve got no idea what you’re in for, do you?”

You’re wrong.

You’re so wrong. And Frankie’s gonna show you. Over and over.

“Get her ready, would you?” Frankie pipes up, not even dragging his eyes away from the road for a second. Even so, he hears you gasp and then moan in pleasure as Santiago’s nimble fingers peel the hem of your dress away from your thighs.

“It’s for your own good, Princess. You’re gonna need it,” Santiago explains as his fingers travel, finding the wet spot between your legs. “Frankie’s big.”

“Hmm. Sure. I’ve heard that before,” you punch out, in between abortive moans of pleasure as Santiago’s fingers work their way inside you.

“Oh, it’s not a brag, honey,” Santiago snickers. Frankie joins him in laughter, like the two of them share a joke that you’re just not in on. He slides his mouth up your throat. “Trust me. It’s a kindness.”

Frankie smiles. Clamps his hands down tighter on the wheel. Can’t wait to get you home.

You’re wrong.

You’re so wrong. And he’s going to show you.

You shouldn’t push someone with a dark side if you can’t handle the consequences, he thinks.

He risks a glance as you throw your head back, mouth dropping open in a silent moan of pleasure.

You’re wrong; but he’s going to have a lot of fun proving it.