#Frankie catfish morales x Fem!reader

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡

Word count: 12.2k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier

Make us come, baby. Make us come together. 

These words are yours. 

Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep. 

He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body. 

They’re yours, right? 

Even if you don’t get to see him ever again. 

—

It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles. 

Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here. 

It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.

Not today. Please. Not today.

Friday. 

Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head. 

Today is Friday. 

You reject the obvious.

Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.

Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.

Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night. 

You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons. 

Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours. 

Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping. 

Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.

And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you. 

You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet. 

You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.

Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can. 

You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine. 

It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor. 

—

On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body. 

You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze. 

You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste. 

Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.

Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you. 

If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be. 

With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia. 

You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste. 

All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down. 

Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums. 

At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again. 

All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.

Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.

You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black. 

—

In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation. 

You did want to get better. 

You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities. 

On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results. 

But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality. 

For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.

Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were. 

Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. 

As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.

Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.  

Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all. 

And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.

—

The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places. 

Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed. 

Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…

Frankie. 

You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?

“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”

Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through. 

Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before. 

He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel. 

The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.  

Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish. 

There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.

So many cords. Too many sensors. 

“Where’s my phone?” you mumble. 

Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore. 

“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed. 

You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.

“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”

He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness. 

“What day is it?” you try again. 

“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”

The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.

“What happened?” 

“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”

You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you. 

Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it. 

“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.” 

You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape. 

Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”

“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.

It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.

Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most. 

The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate. 

“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”

“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week. 

Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.  

“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.

There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping. 

“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”

So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known. 

It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute. 

“Polly’s not old,” is your answer. 

“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”

“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”

“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.

The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt. 

“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”

You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline. 

He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small. 

“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”

The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence. 

“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation? 

You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out. 

You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show. 

Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology. 

“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!” 

He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine. 

“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.

“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink. 

And he’s gone.

Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping. 

Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse. 

The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location. 

Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.

Is this how it ends?

Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close. 

You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday. 

Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.

The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.

Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE. 

The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case. 

Your heart rate slows down. 

Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.

—

The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you. 

You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.

On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation. 

Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed. 

You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.

You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.

After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.  

One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you. 

You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.    

Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.

Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.

Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week. 

In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak. 

You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid. 

Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.

You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours. 

You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it. 

On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in. 

She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child. 

While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse. 

True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material. 

At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”

So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image. 

“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”

As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.

Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC. 

That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood. 

You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted. 

You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.

“Fuck it.”

You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic. 

The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour. 

It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut. 

Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper. 

As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor. 

You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.

Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks. 

That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.

You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity. 

Is this how it ends?

Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here. 

Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours. 

The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes. 

Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar. 

“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“

A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again. 

“I come in every week?” 

Jesus. 

“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”

“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”

You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.  

“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”

“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”

“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”

“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund.  Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“

“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”

Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long? 

If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will. 

“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”

The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe. 

“Do you want to book it?”

You shake your head slowly.

“No. Thank you.”

Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot. 

He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding. 

You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you. 

You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.

All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years. 

The before and the after him. 

He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him. 

Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story. 

The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed. 

That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel. 

“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan. 

His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob. 

It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind. 

Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.  

“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers. 

“What?”

His smile drops when you take a step back. 

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“ 

Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall. 

He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.

“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.

“What happened to you?”

The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms. 

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper. 

“Did he do that to you?”

“What?”

“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.

“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”

“How did you fall?” he presses. 

He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to. 

The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own. 

“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”

“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze. 

“You can barely stand.”

However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.

“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.” 

“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”

“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”

He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.

The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all. 

“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.

“Wanna bet?”

You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could. 

“Listen,” he begins with a sigh. 

“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“

“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.

His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness. 

“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”

Our minds. 

He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control. 

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Yes, ok.”

He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”

— 

The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you. 

What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?

On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing. 

You hate yourself for that, too. 

After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard. 

Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual. 

The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it. 

“Hey. You ok there?”

In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. 

He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate. 

“C’mere.”

The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his. 

The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer. 

You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart. 

“I’m not married.”

“Ok.”

The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it. 

“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”

“Ok.”

The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit. 

“And I really fell.”

He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist. 

“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”

You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened. 

He tightens his embrace. 

“That when you hurt your head?”

“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”

“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”

“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”

You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”

How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again? 

“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.

If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight. 

“Does it still hurt?” he asks. 

“No,” you lie. 

“Mmh. And for real?”

You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines. 

Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.

“He wouldn’t hit me.”

“Ok.”

“That’s not what he does.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. 

“What does he do?”

You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason. 

“He makes me doubt.”

“Him?”

“Myself. And him too.”

Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel. 

The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights. 

His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist. 

Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber. 

“You ok? Want me to close the window?”

His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”

Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy. 

—

When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare. 

Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone. 

You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin. 

At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light. 

You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there. 

Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then. 

You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh. 

“Wait. I need to talk to you.”

His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will. 

You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him. 

“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes. 

Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest. 

“I understand.”

“I imagine you can’t be here either.”

No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always. 

“No, I can’t.”

The following week, either. But you don’t share that.

This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.

Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.

In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you? 

Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket. 

“Kiss me, Frankie, please.” 

“Yes.”

His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips. 

All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his. 

Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else. 

His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too. 

You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness. 

Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire. 

There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent. 

He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.

Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles. 

“Want me to make you come, baby?”

He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration. 

“No, I want you inside me.” 

“Shit, you sure?”

“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.” 

You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth. 

“You think I don’t know that?”

So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back. 

Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.

“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.” 

It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place. 

“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans. 

“I know you can.”

When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair. 

It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.   

You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside. 

In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes. 

He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart. 

Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue. 

Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.

Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.

“You ok?”

His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff. 

His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.  

Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it. 

He stays like that for a while. 

Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes. 

“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”  

“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”

You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts? 

“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.

But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him. 

Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”

You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within. 

“I want you.”

His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion. 

He doesn’t. 

He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling. 

Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named. 

You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice. 

“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt. 

The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties. 

You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face. 

He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest. 

The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale. 

Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you. 

“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”

He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.

“Fuck you’re tight.”

“Please, Frankie–”

His frame tenses up under your palms.

“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”

“No!”

That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out. 

“I can—“ You trip over your words. 

“What?”

“I can sit on it.”

Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles. 

“Yea. Yea you can.”

He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal. 

“Spit on it,” he says. 

You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.  

“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”

Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed. 

His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours. 

“Sit on it, now.”

His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look. 

“Yes,” you pant. 

Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.  

Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing. 

The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel. 

Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back. 

You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help. 

You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically. 

His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs. 

“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”

You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.

A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.  

You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats. 

His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall. 

“Too much?”

“Oh god yes.”

You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.

“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”

His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind. 

You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.” 

He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire. 

His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.

“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?” 

You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are? 

“Say it again, please.” 

“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you. 

“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”

“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.” 

He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon. 

You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already. 

He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk. 

You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave. 

And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss. 

****

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Grays II

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays - Part I | Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, matchmaking elements, meddlesome mother, lots of teasing, not-quite-friends to lovers dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, oral sex (F and M receiving), protected sex, dirty talk.

Word count: 8.5k

Notes: It's here - 4 months later! First of all, thank you so much for the love for Grays Part I. I still can't quite believe the reaction to Frankie and Shiv, you guys sure know how to make a writer feel special 🥰 This one was so much fun to write, and nervous as I am posting this follow-up, I'm telling myself to let go of my insecurities and just enjoy it because that's what it's all about. I hope y'all will have a good time at this wedding with the gang 😘

Francisco Morales likes to think of himself as a reasonably competent man. 

He can pilot a helicopter under intense enemy fire. He can take out a target from miles away in the tightest of spots. 

But he can’t do his fucking hair.

He glares at himself in the mirror. He can’t put his finger on it, it just doesn’t look like how you did it. He’s already washed it out and started over twice, and for a second, he considers driving to your salon. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s far too late for that now.

Leaning over the sink, he says to his reflection, ‘Focus, pendejo. You can do it.’

He’s a pilot for fuck’s sake. He’s a man of procedure, he can follow steps. He just needs to break it down.

Hair half-dry - check.

Hair mousse applied - check.

Now he just needs to dry his hair all the way and style it - but the how is where it gets hazy. 

Frankie closes his eyes and casts his mind back to your salon. He’s sitting in the chair and you’re standing behind him. He wills himself to recall what you were doing with your hands, but all he remembers is the scrape of your of your fingertips on his scalp, the ghost of your breath on the back of his neck, and then -

Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.

He scrubs a frustrated palm down his face when his cock twitches in his haphazardly ironed dress pants, not for the first time… hell, not even the fourth time since he left your salon on Wednesday afternoon.

‘Goddamnit,’ he bites out, dropping the hairdryer with a clunk and grips the porcelain sink. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

He didn’t ask for - this, whatever this is. You’re you. You’re Shiv. The loudmouth with the wild hair he’s known since fifth grade. The fourth wheel at guys’ drinks when Will can’t make it. A relentless tease on a good day, and downright insufferable when you get enough tequila in you.

And quite possibly, the only person who’s ever driven him to the brink of unconsciousness with just the touch of their bare hands.

Frankie pinches the bridge of his nose. Maybe you’re right. It has been a while since he’s been with a woman. He just needs to get laid at the wedding, get this weird tension out of his system. And then hopefully, he’ll be able to go to sleep without being kept up by you telling him to go harder, deeper -

By the time he gets his head out of his ass, it’s too late for second-guessing. He rakes his fingers through his hair, sets it with hairspray, and quickly rubs the beard oil he bought in town yesterday into his whiskers. He takes a moment to look himself over while he clumsily does up the tie he borrowed from Pope.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

He’s the designated driver tonight. By some miracle, he’s only five minutes late when he cruises into Pope’s driveway, where all three of the boys are waiting and sipping on beers.

‘Damn Fish, you look good,’ crows Santi as he climbs into the passenger seat, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You should get your hair cut at Shiv’s from now on.’

‘Only if you keep paying for it,’ retorts Frankie while he backs out of the driveway. He pauses as he changes gears, and adds in a grumble. ‘She’s making me use shampoo and conditioner.’

Pope barks in laughter, twisting in his seat to give Benny a knowing grin. ‘Someone had to, you caveman.’

The younger Miller brother ribs good-naturedly, ‘You ready for some action tonight, Fish? I brought some extra rubbers just in case.’

Meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, Frankie rips into him mercilessly. ‘You know your small ass condoms don’t fit me, Benjamin.’ 

The car erupts with playful jeers, and the corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile as he palms the steering wheel.

‘That’s some fighting talk, Fish!’ goads Santi, punching him on the arm.

Will joins in the banter. ‘You better watch out, little bro. Big Dick Morales came out swinging tonight.’

Benny grins. ‘Ok, I see how it is. Let’s make it interesting, Fish. Whoever picks up a one night stand first wins a hundred bucks.’

Frankie shrugs in mock nonchalance and quips, ‘I mean, I can use the cash. Shampoo ain’t cheap.’

Benny chuckles and clasps his shoulder. ‘You’re on, man.’

It’s eight on the dot when you lock up the salon. While you did RSVP for wedding drinks - opting out of the sit-down dinner earlier in the evening - you hadn’t planned on actually going. But it seems like the whole town did, you’ve barely had two customers walk through the door all afternoon. 

So you let Ashton go home early, and after a quick snack, you take your time getting ready. Might as well have a Saturday night out - your first in many months.

The hotel is just a short Uber ride away. When you climb out of the car, you bite your bottom lip at the unfamiliar tension humming under your skin.

Nerves.

You’re nervous.

And worse, you know exactly what you’re nervous about. 

Or more precisely - who.

‘Pull it together, Shiv,’ you mutter under your breath. Steeling yourself, you stride into the hotel.

From his vantage point at the bar, Benny watches in amusement as Frankie glances towards the doors of the reception hall yet again. He doubts the pilot even knows he’s doing it, or at the very least, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice.

Grabbing his beer, Benny sidles up to his friend. ‘Looking for something, Fish?’

Frankie takes a sip of his Coke and feigns nonchalance. ‘Yeah, looking to win that hundred bucks from you.’

‘Dunno ‘bout that. I don’t see you trying very hard.’

‘Biding my time, Miller. Just make sure you have enough cash to -’ 

When Frankie breaks off in the middle of his sentence, Benny doesn’t need to look to wager a guess what caught his attention.

Turning around as you approach, he flings his arms out to give you a hug, eyeing you up and down appreciatively. ‘Babe, look at you all dressed up! Doesn’t she look nice, Fish?’

In lieu of an answer, Frankie stares intently at some invisible spot over your shoulder until Benny elbows him right in his stomach, jerking him out of his trance. ‘Fish?’

Frankie clears his throat and stutters. ‘Um. I - I don’t know.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You don’t know if I look nice?’

Benny has to stopper his mouth with beer so he doesn’t laugh out loud at the panic on Frankie’s face as he fumbles for a response. ‘I mean. Um, nice… pants?’

‘It’s a jumpsuit, Morales. Try to keep up,’ you reply and take two steps towards him, which has him backpedalling so fast that he upsets the table behind him, sending half-empty glasses spilling wine all over the white tablecloth.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he growls at you like a cornered stray.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you pull him upright by his tie. ‘Is he ok, Ben? He’s even jumpier than usual.’

‘Well, it’s a funny night for him. Watching his ex get married and all.’

‘I swear to God, Benjamin Miller, if you don’t shut the fuck up -’ 

‘Pipe down, Morales, we’re just messing with you,’ you shush him, tugging on his slightly skewed shirt collar to set it straight. ‘Can’t believe you own a tie.’

‘Borrowed it from Pope,’ he grunts without making eye contact.

Smoothing the lapels of his slightly crumpled suit jacket, you probe, ‘You’ve been using shampoo and conditioner like I asked?’

Frankie huffs a dry laugh. ‘I don’t remember you asking.’

‘Someone’s mouthy tonight,’ you tease. ‘And the beard oil?’

He concedes with a sigh. ‘Yes, Shiv.’

‘You look good, Francisco,’ you grin and reach up to push his curls back from his eyes.

He looks away as he admits, ‘Took three fucking tries.’

At least he holds still when you make small adjustments to his hair, shoulders stiff with hands stuffed deep into his pockets. You catch yourself missing the way he leaned into your touch in your salon, and you have to forcefully push that thought away as you push your fingers through the roots to boost the volume. His curls feel softer already than you remember them, with a noticeably healthier sheen. 

After a final rustle to loosen up his fringe, you wink at him. ‘Mark my words, the bride will rue the day she dumped your ass when she sees you.’

A voice from behind you interrupts. ‘It’s a bit too late for that now, isn’t it?’

Trading a look with Frankie, who gives you a sarcastic thumbs up, you put on a smile and turn on your heels. ‘Mrs. Morales, it’s been too long!’

‘I see you haven’t dyed my son’s hair like I requested,’ she says by way of a greeting, drawing you into an embrace.

Frankie’s taunt is so quiet that you nearly miss it. ‘Told you she’d come after you.’

Without skipping a beat, you elbow him in the ribs, ignoring his pained oomph from behind you. ‘You look wonderful tonight, ma’am.’ 

‘You can’t sweet talk your way out of my question, young lady.’

You cross your arms with a sigh. ‘I didn’t dye it because he looks good with the grays.’ 

‘Well, I don’t think so.’

‘In my professional opinion, he does,’ you retort pointedly.

‘If he looks so good, why is he still single?’

Frankie throws his hands up in exasperation. ‘Gee, thanks a lot ma.’

You turn to Benny, who has been silently watching you two spar. ‘What do you think, Miller?’

He dithers, eyes darting around in desperation until he spots Santi and his older brother coming back from the bar. ‘Look! Here are the guys, let’s ask them!’

‘Ask us what?’ asks Santi, giving you a kiss on the cheek and a glass of bubbly.

‘Do you think my son looks good with the grays?’

Your eyebrow twitches when Mrs. Morales carelessly ruffles his hair to emphasise her point. To your surprise, Frankie bats her away with an irritated ma!, before hastily rearranging it.

‘Your honest opinion, if you please,’ you add.

The boys hum and haw, sipping their beers and shooting uncertain looks between you and Mrs. Morales, clearly uncomfortable being caught in the middle. Upping the heat, you narrow your eyes at them, and Will folds first. 

‘Yeah, I mean - he looks good,’ he mumbles, avoiding the Morales matriarch's glare.

‘Pope?’ you prompt.

‘Cabrón rocking those grays,’ he nods supportively.

‘Ben?’

‘Uh huh,’ he replies vaguely, but at your menacing glare, clarifies, ‘Yes, I meant - yes, ma’am.’

Mrs. Morales scoffs. ‘They’re men, what do they know! I don’t see him catching any girls’ attention.’

Ah, that’s the easy part. You look around, scanning the crowds - and bingo, you see a brunette staring openly from across the dance floor. You hold up a finger for dramatic effect. ‘Excuse me for one second.’

Frankie looks ready for the earth to swallow him whole by the time you return with the said woman in tow. Pointing straight at him, you ask, ‘Lucy, this is Frankie. Do you think he’s hot with the grays?’

To her credit, she’s a good sport, and plays along with a cheeky wink. ‘Yeah, he is. You wanna dance, handsome?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does!’ you answer quickly before he can get a word in.

‘What the fuck, Shiv?’ Frankie seethes through clenched teeth, literally digging his heels in, but to his despair, his shoes skid uselessly on the tiled surface as you push him towards the dancefloor with this complete stranger. 

Leaning in close, you hiss in his ear, ‘You’re getting laid tonight if it kills me, Morales.’

‘Have fun, Fish!’ calls out Pope impishly, which earns him an emphatic middle finger. 

You beam at Mrs. Morales smugly. ‘And that’s how it’s done.’

‘You better keep it up, young lady,’ she says over her shoulder as she turns to leave.

You raise your drink. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs M. I promise you - he’ll be leaving with his future wife tonight!’

Santi is minding his own business, sipping on his beer as he stakes out the ladies, when a hand shoots out from nowhere and snatches the bottle from him.

‘What the fuck, man?!’ he bristles indignantly.

Frankie polishes off the drink in one mouthful, before slamming it onto the table and demanding, ‘Where’s Shiv? I’m done. I’m not fucking dancing with anyone else.’

Pope jerks his thumb to the other side of the room. ‘She’s arguing with your mother.’

Frankie flops into a chair, the dress shoes that he never wears are pinching his feet and he fights the urge to kick them off. He folds his arms across his chest petulantly, one palm over his mouth as his eyes wander across the hall to you, where you’re gesturing madly at his ma, embroiled in an impassioned discussion, probably still about his damn hair.

You’re all dressed up tonight, which is new to him - he’s only ever seen you in jeans when you go out drinking with them, and he’s certainly never seen so much of you. The ‘jumpsuit’ (he learns something new every day) is black and cut low both front and back, and fuck, all he sees is soft skin and the dip of your curves and red lipstick -

Pope must have nipped to the bar while he wasn’t looking, and a fresh bottle of beer appears under his nose. Glancing up at his best friend, Frankie mutters, ‘Thanks.’

‘You can’t marry her, Fish.’

He chokes violently at the casual non-sequitur, spraying beer everywhere. ‘What the fuck, Pope.’

Santi beams. ‘You got that look on your face, man. I’ve seen that look before.’

‘I don’t have a look on my face.’

He chuckles, mostly to himself. 'Damn, I really should've seen this coming.'

‘What are you even on about -’ Looking up, Frankie spots you making your way over and panics. ‘Shut the fuck up, pendejo.’

‘Why aren’t you dancing, my little debutante?’ you ask when you come within earshot.

Santi chortles and takes his leave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck, Fish.’

You sink into the empty seat next to him and he deliberately twists his body away from you, drinking deeply from his bottle to drown out Santi’s words ringing in his ears. 

‘So, I heard you have a bet going on with Benny. I want splitsies if you win.’

Frankie rolls his eyes, staring resolutely anywhere but at the swell of your cleavage. ‘No.’

‘40/60.’

‘Fuck off, Shiv.’

‘30/70?’ you counter-offer.

He sighs. ‘You’re impossible.’

Ignoring him, you jump up with a happy squeak when someone Frankie vaguely recognises as a girl who used to be in your class approaches with a shy smile. You pull her close by the crook of her arm and ask, ‘Morales, you remember Sadie?’

He tries not to scowl too openly as he too gets on his feet. ‘Sure, hi Sadie.’

Herding them towards the dancefloor, you grin, ‘Go dance, get reacquainted.’

As he passes by you, Frankie grits his teeth and curls his fingers into the meat of his palms to crush the urge to reach out and touch you. 

But it’s easier to fall into your well-rehearsed roles, to toe the line that has been drawn in the sand since you were teenagers. And easier is certainly the safer option when it comes to you.

So he throws you a deliberate glare over his shoulder, with a deadpanned, ‘I hate you.’

You blow him a kiss and grin wider.

Frankie can’t hold back a relieved sigh when the interminably long song finally ends, and the woman he’s dancing with - he won’t even pretend he remembers her name - tucks his phone back into the pocket of his jacket after tapping in her number. ‘Call me, gorgeous.’

He stopped counting after the eighth woman you shepherded his way. This is it. He’s not above hiding in the toilets if that’s what it takes to make this stop.

Except he’s not quick enough. He spots you out of the corner of his eye, marching straight towards him with a fresh glass of water and a look of purpose on your face.

He doesn’t exactly know what came over him. He could probably blame it on the one and a half beers that he downed, or being pushed to the end of his tether. Whatever it is, there’s something he has to say to you, and it can’t wait.

You push the glass into his grasp. ‘Here, hydrate.’

‘Shiv -’

You’ve already swivelled around, your focus somewhere else. ‘Where is she? She was literally just behind me -’

‘Shiv -’

‘Mind you, she’s a sweet girl, but clearly not the brightest tool in the -’

His patience snaps, and he barks, ‘Shiv!’

You spin around, brow furrowed in confusion, and snarl back, ‘What?’

Frankie pauses, and you blink as his warm eyes hold yours. On an exhale, he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

You’re vaguely aware that your jaw has gone slack, but only because his eyes follow the movement, dropping to your mouth. He considers you for a moment, head tipping just slightly to the side as he watches you. Then, satisfied that he has your attention, he brings the glass of water to his lips, throwing his head back as he drinks. 

Your breath catches in your throat when his Adam’s apple bobs with his swallow, before he leisurely swipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Except in your mind, it’s not water that he’s wiping from his mouth.

In a perfectly mirrored imitation of what transpired between you earlier in the evening, he takes two measured steps forward, prompting you to back up against the table behind you. The tinkle of glasses falling over hardly registers in the back of your mind. 

The fabric of his suit is cool on your skin, brushing your bare arm as he looms over you, so broad and warm. Though his front barely makes contact, your peripheral vision gives and all you can see is him.

‘What are you doing?’ you croak the same words back at him, hating the way your voice shakes.

Frankie smiles - really smiles at you, with no colour of the usual irony or sarcasm. Warmth settles into the creases in the corners of his eyes as he holds up the empty glass. ‘Just putting my glass away,’ he says coolly, an edge of cockiness at your tragically obvious reaction to him.

You feel your cheeks heat up as he does just that - the back of his hand bumping into your forearm as he moves, the breadth of him pinning you against the table. He doesn’t pull away, clearly basking in the way the tables have well and truly turned -

‘Hi! You must be Frankie, I’m Jan.’

Frankie squeezes his eyes shut in irritation at the voice behind him, nostrils flaring as he collects himself. A resigned smile tugs at his lips, and he tips forward, his words grazing your ear. ‘Catch you later, Shiv.’

You only let your knees buckle when he’s safely out of sight.

You’ve barely stepped back into the reception hall from a much needed bathroom break to clear your head when someone grabs you by the arm, tugging you onto the dancefloor.

‘Benny!’ You reprimand, stumbling over your feet. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Relax, Shiv. Frankie can survive on his own for a second.’

‘You’re just jealous that he’s hogging all the ladies’ attention.’

He scoffs, palms on your waist as he sways to the music. ‘He has an unfair advantage, ok? How do I compete with the bride’s ex?’

Clasping your hands around Benny’s neck, you catch Frankie’s eye over his shoulder. You wink at him casually, having somewhat recovered your bravado - it’s easier to pretend from a distance anyway. He rolls his eyes at you over Jan’s head, but he doesn’t look away, watching you with a hint of something you can’t quite make out.

Glancing up at Benny, you ask a tad bashfully, ‘I know we give Frankie a hard time about all this, but is he - ok?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

You hesitate. ‘Well, we’re not exactly that kind of friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, the kind who sit around having heart-to-hearts and painting their nails.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘What kind of friends are you, then?’ 

‘I don’t know, he probably doesn’t even count me as one,’ you admit. ‘He barely tolerates me on a good day.’

Benny shoots you a cryptic look, but before you can quiz him on it, he changes the subject abruptly. ‘Can I swing by the salon tomorrow morning? I have a promotional shoot at half past eleven.’

‘As long as you bring donuts and coffee.’

He twirls you around. ‘Deal.’

Frankie slinks out of the hotel, somehow managing to dodge both you and his mother on his way out, which he takes as a win.

It’s cold outside. He inhales deeply and feels it burn down his throat. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he watches his breath mist in front of his face, savouring the quiet.

‘Hey.’

His shoulders stiffen. He knows he should’ve been the bigger man. Should’ve sought her out first, to congratulate her.

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

When he turns around eventually, she smiles brightly at him, her engagement ring catching the lights.

Closing the space between them, he presses a kiss to her cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies. ‘I’m glad you came. Your mum too - it was a long way to travel.’

His gaze falls to his shoes. ‘Yeah, well. You know she loves you.’

‘How are you?’ she presses on, always one for polite conversation. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

Frankie shrugs but doesn’t answer.

‘Just because it didn’t work between us doesn’t mean I want you to be happy.’

He nods slowly. ‘I appreciate that.’

She points behind her. ‘Well, I should go back inside.’

‘Of course. I’m happy for you,’ he says. And he means it.

The hotel doors swing open, and Frankie looks up at the sharp clack of heels on the concrete. You pause at the sight of them by the curb.

‘Are you leaving, Shiv?’ the bride laments as you walk over to give her a hug.

‘I am, I’m afraid, gotta open up shop early tomorrow,’ you pull back. ‘Come by the salon any time, my treat.’

Once the bride is out of earshot, you turn to Frankie, hands on hips. ‘Alright, no more shirking, Morales. Get your ass back in there, your mother is on my case again.’

He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Oh no, I’m not going back in there without you.’

You sigh dramatically. ‘Am I the only one in this town who’s not scared of your mother?’

‘You should be,’ he snorts, then nods towards the parking lot. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

Taken aback by his offer, you hesitate. ‘Um - I thought you were the designated driver for the guys tonight.’

He brushes off your concerns with an easy shrug. ‘I’ll come back to get them after I drop you off.’ 

Typical Frankie - he walks off without even glancing back to see if you’re coming with him.

You smile to yourself and follow.

You must be drunker than you realised, because you’re staring. Again. For what must be the fifth time in the ten-minute drive.

It’s a lot of staring, even for you.

His jacket lies abandoned in the backseat, his tie jostled loose and the top two buttons of his shirt unfastened, sleeves bunched up to his elbows. You watch from the corner of your eye as his left hand grips the top of the steering wheel steady, fingers flexing every now and then on straight stretches of road.

As if you’re not already discreetly squeezing your thighs together, he’s also rubbing his right palm idly on his leg, the innocent rustle of fabric against skin getting you far too hot and bothered under the metaphorical collar. 

And then - your eyes trail higher - settling on the heavy bulge at the top of his spread thighs.

Fuck. You’re definitely drunk.

You mull silently to yourself that you actually prefer him in his beat-up jeans and threadbare t-shirts before catching yourself. You weren’t aware you had any preferences when it comes to Frankie Morales. And you have no business doing so.

Clearing your throat, you break the tense silence. Well, tense for you, anyway. He seems completely oblivious to your inner strife.

‘I’m sorry you didn’t win the bet.’

His lips quirk, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

‘I had another five girls lined up for you, you know.’

He scoffs. ‘No, thank you.’

You reach over to punch him on the arm playfully. ‘C’mon, you know you enjoyed the attention, Morales.’

‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he peers at you.

You make a face of disbelief. ‘If you hated it that much, why did you go along with it?’

Cruising into your street, his truck rolls to a smooth stop outside your salon. Frankie kills the ignition, then turns towards you. His answer is simple, and hits you right between the ribs. 

‘Because you wanted me to.’

You force a chuckle in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Since when did you care about what I wanted?’

He smooths his palm over the steering wheel and holds your gaze. ‘Sometime when I wasn’t looking.’

It would be simpler to pretend you didn’t understand what he means. To brush off this pull between you as a champagne-induced episode that you could sleep off. If you did, you could still show up at Tuesday nights drinks next week as if nothing has changed, and carry on.

It would be simpler. So you ask -

‘Do you want to come in for a nightcap?’

Frankie follows two steps behind you as you grapple with the keys on the doorstep. Once inside, the salon is quiet, and you strategically turn on the lights by the backwash, the semi-darkness making it more homey than it would have been if fully lit up. 

‘I would invite you upstairs -’ you pause and add hastily, ‘I don’t mean upstairs like, upstairs in that way - it’s just that my apartment is tiny, and the backwash is the closest thing I have to a couch. Are you okay with beer?’

‘Beer’s good, thanks,’ he answers. ‘Need a hand?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Oh god, please no - it’s a disaster upstairs. I’ll be right back.’

The rickety stairs creak loudly under your heels, and once you let yourself into your studio, you fall back heavily on the door, taking a second to catch your breath.

You invited him inside. 

He said yes.

You leap into action, shoving all your dirty laundry into the already full hamper. You try not to think too hard about why you’re cleaning up, you just hope you’re not making too much of a ruckus while you’re at it - because you have a boy waiting for you downstairs. 

Francisco Morales, of all people.

Despite having been in each other’s lives since high school, you’re pretty sure you’ve never been alone with him. Not even once. There’s always a buffer with Pope on his side, Benny on yours, and Will in the middle. And while some find Frankie hard to read, you’ve always known exactly how to act around him. You have an unwritten playbook - you bait him with cheap jokes, more often than not joining forces with Benny to gang up on him. He rolls his eyes and snaps at you to shut up. It’s the longest running show in town.

But this? Alone, after his ex’s wedding, in your salon? You’re going off-script and off-piste. Dangerous enough on a good day; outright stupid after a night of drinking.

Frankie is quick to help when you reappear, armed with beer and a bag of ice, using the backwash sink as a makeshift cooler. Your shoes clatter onto the floor as you settle in the chair next to his. Hugging your knees, you hold out your bottle, which he clinks with his.

‘Did you have fun tonight?’ you ask, rather mundanely.

‘As much fun as one is expected to have at an ex’s wedding,’ he answers with a sardonic smile. Taking a sip of beer, he adds, ‘Gotta admit, you winding up my ma pretty much made up for it.’

‘That never gets old,’ you smirk. ‘Although, I promised your mother you’d leave with your future wife tonight - so that’s a bust.’

You startle when Frankie chokes on his beer, his eyes visibly watering as he thumps a fist on his chest. When you ask if he’s ok, he won’t meet your gaze, downing more of his beer.

Not thinking anything of it, you move on. ‘You know, she sent a bunch of customers my way when I first opened up the salon.’

His voice is still a bit tight from his coughing fit. ‘And I’m sure she’ll deny it till the day she dies.’

‘I can’t figure her out,’ you admit. ‘I can’t decide if she hates me or not.’

‘She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t understand you.’

You hum, unconvinced.

He nudges your knee with his. ‘She was really proud of you when you opened the salon, you know.’

You toss him a sidelong glance. ‘You talk to your mum about me?’

He’s ambiguous in his answer. ‘She asks after you sometimes.’

‘And how would you have anything to say to her? We’re not exactly bosom buddies.’

Frankie concedes with a wry smile, ‘Benny talks.’

‘Ha!’ you laugh, echoing his words from a few days ago back at him. ‘Benjamin fucking Miller.’

He goes quiet for a second, looking around your salon as if taking stock. ‘It’s pretty amazing that you’ve built all this.’

The unexpected compliment catches you blindsided. You reply diplomatically, ‘Ashton helps me loads.’

Frankie’s eyes widen in feigned surprise. ‘Are you going humble on me now? What have you done to Shiv?’

‘Shut up,’ you grumble good-naturedly, adding, ‘Ben tells me you’re doing really well yourself.’

‘Yeah. I got promoted at work last month, and I’m saving up for a house,’ he replies, a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Things are looking up.’

‘You’re actually acknowledging your achievements?’ you gasp in mock outrage. ‘What have you done to Francisco Morales?’

With a shrug, he leans forward to put his empty beer bottle in the sink, but he doesn’t sit back. Instead, he sways even closer, one palm landing on the leather of your seat next to your knee, eyes darting to your lips. His voice is deep as he rasps, ‘Can I kiss you?’

It would be so easy to say yes, but when have you ever made things easy for yourself? 

Instead, you blurt out, ‘Why?’

Frankie looks amused, like he expected this from you. Slowly, not wanting to spook you, he gently plucks the beer that you’ve barely drunk from your grasp.

‘Because all fucking night, while you were throwing woman after woman at me, I just wanted to have a drink with you.’

He leans in close. 

You stop breathing.

‘Because since Wednesday, every time I wash my hair, I get hard thinking of you touching me.’

Closer still.

Your lungs ache.

‘And because when you told me to go harder, deeper - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

He’s hovering over you now, and you can almost taste the bitter sweetness of the beer on his breath. He smirks at you, but there’s only warmth and mischief in it when he teases, ‘Speechless for once?’

‘Shut up, Morales,’ you breathe and grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And then you’re kissing him. You’re kissing Frankie, and he’s kissing you back.

It’s messy, and disorientating, and you clumsily fumble over each other until he’s sitting up in one of the chairs, with your thighs on either side of his narrow hips as you straddle him. He’s licking up into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip, his hands gripping your sides almost painfully hard.

‘Is this really happening?’ you garble into his lips, ripping off his tie and undoing his shirt buttons as fast as your shaking fingers allow you to.

‘If you want it,’ he mumbles back, loath to pull back from you even for a second to shuck off his shirt. ‘If you want me.’

He kisses you wet and insistent, but he doesn’t push you, waiting for you to make up your mind. Reaching behind you, you tug on the tie that holds your jumpsuit together with a decisive pull, letting the fabric ripple down your bare front and pool around your waist.

Frankie bites his bottom lip so hard it goes white. ‘Fuck,’ he cusses, his grip on your hips twitching as he stares at your tits. ‘Can I, please -?’

‘Touch me, Francisco.’

Your poor second-hand Ikea bed that Benny helped set up when you moved in was not made for this.

This being the way Frankie effortlessly tosses you onto the mattress, his arms flexing with an easy strength that goes straight to your head, as you stare giddily up at him.

His hair - your handiwork - has been well and truly undone, errant strands falling over his eyes as he watches you, his broad frame looming over the foot of the bed. He pulls at his belt, which falls open with a careless clink, and he makes quick work of his now crumpled trousers, kicking them off impatiently.

Your head is swimming, yet somehow, you muster the strength to shuffle towards the edge of the bed, rearranging yourself to sit on your haunches, knees folded neatly beneath you. Boldly, you reach out to slide his dark boxers down his hips, and they fall around his knees and onto the floor. His cock springs free, half-hard and heavy, and Frankie swallows thickly as you tilt your face towards him.

‘I want to suck your cock.’

His eyes close as if he’s in pain, nostrils flaring at your words. Taking advantage of his distraction, you wrap one careful hand around his length, and he jerks violently at the first velvety slide of your palm against him. 

‘Fuck, Shiv -’ he chokes, eyes flying open at the contact, pupils completely blown. He protests weakly, ‘No, stop, need to get you off first -’

You shoot him a lopsided smile, pumping him slowly, your pulse racing at the way you feel him swell in your grasp. ‘Can we not argue this one time?’

You lean forward and, holding his gaze, flatten your tongue and lick your way up the underside of his cock. His breath stutters, one big hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his eyes wide and almost frantic as you press open-mouthed kisses on his sensitive flesh.

With an insolent grin, you tease, ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Morales?’

He whimpers, and you know you have him.

His size is obvious by sight, but you really feel it in the pressure bearing down on the hinge of your jaw as you sink down on his cock, fighting to squeeze the girth of him into your mouth. The guttural groan from Frankie makes your pussy clench, and he tastes like he looks - clean, and all man. 

There’s no way you can take all of him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t try. He’s hot under your touch, muscles pulled taut with tension that you can feel thrumming under his skin as you take your time with him. Focusing on your breathing and relaxing your throat, you bob patiently up and down on him, slicking up his length with your spit, working him slightly deeper with every stroke - until you’re so full of him that you gag, hard.

Frankie is slack-jawed when you release him with an obscenely wet pop, spit trailing from your lips to the swollen tip of his cock, eyes wild as swipes his thumb across your puffy bottom lip. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ he declares, almost solemnly.

Slinking down his front, one hand securely around the base of his cock, you take him between your lips again, moaning at the salty taste of his precum, which makes him quake above you. As you swallow his length and pump your fist in tandem, your spit wetting your fingers, you peer up at him through your lashes - nothing could’ve prepared you for the utter wreckage that you find on his face. 

His lips are pulled back, baring his tidy teeth into a snarl as he very clearly struggles to hold himself back from fucking your mouth. You feel every bump and vein in his cock with each descent, the wet squelches filling in the gaps of his low grunts and moans. His grip in your hair stings as he starts panting in earnest above you, and somehow he gets even harder on your tongue, making it harder to breathe - 

‘Stop, stop,’ he wheezes suddenly, pulling back in a hasty retreat that has you whining at the sudden loss of him. ‘C’mere.’

He practically hauls you up against him, kissing you deeply, delving into your mouth to taste the bitterness of himself on your tongue. The world tilts on its axis when he tips you back onto the bed, and holding himself above you, he peels the jumpsuit off, leaving you in just your panties.

‘Gonna eat you out, baby,’ he drawls by your ear, trailing one palm up your body, which stops at your tits and squeezes. ‘Get you good and ready to take my big cock. How does that sound?’

‘Fuck, yes, Frankie, please,’ you beg.

There’s no shyness when he pushes your legs up and apart, and instead of taking your panties off, he hooks a finger under the thin fabric and pulls it to the side, his eyes darkening as he stares down at you.

‘So pretty,’ he praises you lowly. Holding your breath as he sinks onto his front, you breathe heavily in anticipation as his shoulders slot neatly underneath your legs. ‘Look at how wet you are for me. All this from sucking my cock?’

You nod frantically. ‘Frankie -’

Straight to the point as always, he ducks his dark head and drags the broad of his tongue over your clit - and you’re gone.

Admittedly, you have not had the best experiences with your exes. There was always too much gratuitous moaning and too little finesse, and afterwards, they always act like they deserve a medal for failing to get you off. But even if your past lovers had been more adequate in the field, you’re sure it still wouldn’t have prepared you for this. 

Frankie goes about it with a quiet focus that veers on reverential, the intensity in his dark eyes watching you makes your knees weak. He’s obviously picking up signs and reactions from you and adjusting his game plan accordingly, the pilot in him clearly in the driver’s seat. 

Not that he’s silent - far from it, you feel the reverberation in your core with every satisfied  hum deep in his chest, and the occasional, muttered fuck, so wet, want more in between licks and groans. But there’s nothing performative or showy about it, just a forthright competency that has you hurtling towards a toe-curling orgasm.

‘Frankie,’ you whine when you feel it about to hit. ‘Frankie Frankie Frankie -’

‘Eyes on me,’ he slurs against your sopping folds, and you listen - for once - watching him watch you fall apart on his tongue, thrashing in his hold as he grips you harder to keep you in place while he laps you up, until the burn of his patchy beard on your inner thighs makes you arch away from him from overstimulation.

Your pussy is still fluttering when he sinks two thick fingers into you, and he hisses at the way it clenches around him as he fucks you, leaving his digits slicked and slippery.

‘So tight, baby,’ he declares through gritted teeth, working you open for him. ‘Gonna feel so fucking good on my cock.’

You point towards the nightstand. ‘First drawer,’ you pant.

Needing no further prompting, Frankie yanks your panties off and flings the soaked scrap of fabric over his shoulder, then lunges at the cupboard where the condoms are. You scrape your nails over his thighs as he kneels over you, his usually steady hands visibly trembling as he tears into the wrapper and rolls the rubber over his heavy cock. He watches you with hooded eyes and settles between your legs, kissing you desperately as the swollen tip of him nudges at your entrance.

‘Ready?’ he asks, nose skimming yours sweetly.

You wind your arms around his neck, holding him close. ‘Fuck me, Frankie.’

The first push is a tight squeeze, and you can’t help the wince at the slight pinch as he sinks into you slowly. With a grunt of effort, he buries face into the slope of your neck and breathes, ‘Fuuuuck. You ok?’

‘Give me a second,’ you gasp, feeling your walls throb tightly around his length. ‘You’re so big, Frankie.’

He tangles his tongue with yours lazily in a deep kiss, before brushing his way down your throat and sucking on one nipple, making you cry out. He murmurs against your skin, ‘I know, but you’re doing so well for me, baby.’

Shifting your hips, Frankie groans when you slide him in deeper, the friction making you quiver beneath him. ‘Move, Frankie, please.’

He starts carefully, his strokes measured and deliberate, making sure you feel every inch of him as he draws back then sinks back in, exhaling shakily. ‘You feel so fucking good.’

‘Harder,’ you demand when you feel your pussy relax around him. ‘Fuck me harder.’

‘Shit,’ he growls and snaps his hips, drawing a squeal from you as he hits somewhere deep inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, bracing yourself as he drives into you again and again and again, the bedframe hitting the wall with each thrust.

‘So good, Frankie,’ you plead in between hard pants. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop -’

Looking up at him, you admire the way his hair falls over his eyes, swaying with his movement. Absent-mindedly, your fingers wander into his curls and his reaction is instant - he cries out, arching into your touch, his hips faltering as he seems to lose his rhythm. ‘Oh fuck, baby, been thinking about those hands all fucking week, just wanted to feel you touch me again -’

As wrecked as you are on his cock, you smile at his confession and slide your hands languidly in his locks, dragging your nails on his scalp, your chest swelling with pride when you watch his face - dazed and completely wrecked - fucking you so hard that you’re sure the bed is about to break.

When he finds his voice again, it’s your real name that slips past his lips. ‘Gonna cum so hard, oh fuck - I’m gonna -’

Frankie’s thrusting frantically into you, eyes screwed shut until his hips stutter and then - after one perfect moment of stillness suspended in time - shudder after shudder thunder through his body, your name a broken record as he spills into the condom, his scratchy baritone moaning into your neck as the frenzied energy bleeds out of him.

His weight pins you to the bed as he catches his breath, and you play with his curls gently, basking in the rumbling purr in his chest as you run the strands between your fingers. Eventually, gathering himself, he rolls off you to let you breathe, tying the condom neatly and tossing it into the trash can.

For a second, Frankie lies on his side, watching you quietly. You watch him back, casting your gaze over the curls stuck to his sweaty forehead and his broad outline backlit by your nightstand light. Before self-consciousness can settle into the small distance between you, he cracks a smile and quips, ‘You did say I’d get laid even if it killed you.’

You laugh, which makes him grin. One strong arm reaches out to tuck you into his side, securely beneath the duvet. You hum at the tickle of his beard on the back of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you.

Right on the cusp of sleep, you sass, ‘Guess you’ll have to split the winnings with me after all.’

Any other day, you would’ve woken up if you heard someone on the stairwell. Hell, you’d hear if they were knocking on the salon door downstairs.

When you’re rudely shaken awake by frantic knocking on the studio door, you realise it’s because your hearing has been impaired by the side of a very warm body smooshed into your ear.

‘Shiv! Open up! I need to leave in fifteen minutes for my photoshoot!’

‘Shit,’ you croak, throat dry, limbs flailing as you try to sit up. ‘I forgot about Benny.’

‘Fuck him’, grouses Frankie, pulling you back into his arms, eyes still closed.

‘I can’t, I promised to help him with his hair. Fuck, do we need to hide you, or -’

‘The door’s thin, Shiv, I can hear him. And we put two and two together when you guys disappeared last night. We're pretty, but we ain't dumb!’

Frankie lets you go with a grumbled Benjamin fucking Miller under his breath, but he visibly perks up when you stumble out of bed naked.

You half-jokingly shield your boobs from his view. ‘Are you perving on me, Morales?’

He smirks, leaning back into the pillows with his hands folded behind his head while he eyes you appreciatively. It’s not fair how his triceps flex deliciously with the movement. ‘Why bother covering up? I’ve seen everything already.’

Trying - and failing - to shoot him a stern scowl, you pull on a robe and yank the door open, nearly careening backwards at the sight of Benny’s grinning face right in the doorway. 

‘Since when did you bang paying customers?’ he demands in lieu of a good morning.

You roll your eyes and usher him downstairs. ‘He’s not a paying customer. He’s on Pope’s tab.’

Benny flops into his usual chair, making it squeak, one eyebrow up as he does the air quotes. ‘Well, I guess we now know what kind of friends you guys are.’

‘Shut up, Miller,’ you gripe, but your mouth twists into a grin, giving you away as you set up.

‘Damn, that good, huh?’ he laughs. ‘I mean, Fish does have a rep, but I've never had insider confirmation.’

You point your styling scissors at him menacingly. ‘Shut up, or I won’t be held responsible if my hands slip by accident.’

Benny feeds you a sugar donut while you work quickly, trimming the ends before styling it, going for a tousled bed head look. You hear the water pipes run upstairs and the carpeted floors creak when Frankie gets up. Trying to play it cool, you only briefly glance up, catching a glimpse of him in the mirror as he makes his way down the stairs in his rumpled shirt and trousers, zipping up the fly when he reaches the bottom.

‘Morning, stud,’ sing-songs Benny, which earns him a slap on the head. ‘Ow! What the fuck, Shiv!’

Frankie loiters behind you for a second, scratching the back of his neck, before pulling you to one side. Not that it affords you much privacy anyway, with Benny wriggling his eyebrows impertinently at the two of you in the mirror.

‘I - uh -,’ he starts haltingly, one hand rubbing at the silver patch in his beard sheepishly. ‘I had a really good time last night.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ you smile.

His voice dipping lower, he asks, ‘Can I take you out to dinner sometime?’

Benny, being the shithead that he is, interjects loudly. ‘Hey lovebirds, I’m kind of on the clock here, if you don’t mind -’

‘She’ll get to you when she gets to you, Benjamin,’ snaps Frankie, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a stern finger at him.

Something about him being so assertive sends heat running up and down your spine. Stepping into his space - beaming when he doesn’t back away - you smooth a palm over the front of his shirt, unintentionally catching the rabbiting of his heart underneath.

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug nonchalantly. ‘Do you intend to come back as a cash-paying customer?’

His eyes flash with want, one hand closing around your hip and he leans down to let his heated words brush by your ear. ‘Not if I can keep paying in other ways.’

Reaching up, you run a hand through his curls, preening at the way he closes his eyes at your touch. ‘Alright then, take me to dinner, Francisco.’

Peering around you, Frankie barks, ‘Miller, I’m cashing in on our bet.’

‘Fuck’s sake. I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,’ he gripes, digging into his wallet reluctantly.

Swiping the bill from Benny, Frankie winks at you before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth - chaste, but charged with meaning. ‘Looks like you paid for your own dinner, Shiv.’

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head and playfully push him towards the door. ‘Get outta here before I change my mind!’

‘Yeah right - as if you would now that you know what you’ll be missing.’

You’re not sure which makes your jaw drop - his cocksure declaration or the roguish confidence with which he walks out the door. In either case, Benny howls with laughter as you struggle to stay on your feet, your kneecaps having been rendered completely useless.

Just as Frankie climbs into his truck, Ashton whistles to a stop outside the salon on his wheels. Jaw dropping at the sight of the disheveled pilot nodding at him through the windscreen, he abandons his bike right on the curb and dashes into the salon, the door banging against the wall as he rushes in.

‘Excuse me - what the fuck did I just miss?’ he demands frantically.

You roll your eyes. ‘Calm down, Ashton, it’s not what it looks like -’

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ interrupts Benny as he starts singing. ‘Shiv and Frankie sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-’

He breaks off with a yelp when you stuff a donut into his mouth to shut him up, sugar flying everywhere as Ashton picks you up and spins you around, squealing like a banshee the entire time.

‘You guys are the fucking worst,’ you laugh, out of breath by the time Ashton lets you go.

Glancing outside, where Frankie is still parked watching the whole embarrassing episode, he gives you one last wink and an amused grin before he pulls away from the curb.

In an almost exact repeat of the scene from a few days ago, Ashton joins you at the window, and the two of you watch, shoulder to shoulder, as Frankie smoothly steers his truck out of your street.

‘He even drives sexy,’ sighs Ashton dreamily. Nudging you in the side, he adds slyly, ‘You’re in so much trouble, Shiv.’

You grin. You know you are - and luckily, it’s not a spot of bother that you’ll be in a hurry getting out of anytime soon.

Notes: I'm so excited to have finally completed this little two-shot. The two of them have been hanging out in my head all these months, it feels amazing to finally yeet this part into the world! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you had as much fun as I did with these two 🥰 Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ❤️

Now that I've got you here, if you want more of Shiv, I wrote some silly little drabbles of her hair appointments with our handsome Pedro boys for a recent milestone celebration. There are also some fun thoughts that came out of an impromptu Grays sleepover we had last week 🤍

I'm sure we'll see more of Shiv and Frankie somewhere down the line. For now, thank you again, I love you all so much ❤️

[wayfaringhoax]

Riddles

Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Female Reader

Click here for part two

Word count: 12k+

Summary: You and Frankie become ‘friends with benefits’ until you evolve into something more. But when you can’t seem to communicate your needs, you find yourselves in uncharted territory.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact

Explicit sexual content (p in v, female receiving oral, dirty talk, semi-public sex, sexting, sending nude photos), references to sex scattered throughout, swearing, unhealthy relationships, making each other jealous, communication issues, discussions of low self-esteem, conflicted emotions, angst, possessive! Frankie, reader wears Frankie’s t-shirt, consumption of alcohol, references to religion and drugs (purely for metaphorical purposes), public discussions of sex, reader is described as having a vagina and breasts. 

This is a reader insert fic, but there are a few plot details that lean towards an OFC. Reader's mentioned as having two parents, letting their hair 'down' after work, and one of their friends is given a name. If any of these details make you uncomfortable, please refrain from reading.

New to the community, so this hasn’t been beta’d.

Been working on this for a few weeks, please let me know if you enjoy it!

Get coffee, meeting, reply to emails, meeting, lunch, marketing proposal, planning period, meeting.

As you opened your planner that morning, you were greeted by your responsibilities for the day. However, each damn meeting brought you one step closer to the end of the work day, and subsequently one step closer to leaving your office and heading to Benny’s Fight Night.

Due to your busy schedule, you hadn’t been able to make it to one of his fights for a while so you often resorted to wishing him luck via a text message. Having the chance to actually be there and support him in person was therefore a big deal for you. Plus, you’d also have the chance to grill the eldest Miller brother, having set him up on a date with your friend a few weeks ago, only to have her tell you it didn’t work out. You knew Will would be prepared for you to press him, and being as stoic as he was, you anticipated that he wouldn’t reveal much.

How many times had they reprimanded you for attempting to play matchmaker?

You couldn’t help it. It was only natural for you to want the best for them, you’d shared so much of your life with them, and they’d been by your side when it counted.

Of course, you were only a kid when you first met the Miller brothers. When your parents had befriended theirs, you were quick to latch on to them, glad to have two little friends to annoy. You often spent holidays chasing them around their home, and they enjoyed bringing their LEGO to yours, much to the dismay of your poor mother, who wasn’t prepared for how much mess they’d bring.

Sure, shit got real when you got older.

After you graduated from college, you threw yourself into work. You successfully climbed up the ranks, securing enough money to live comfortably. Though you admit, you had to sacrifice a lot in the process, regularly denying yourself the chance to be happy - to be loved - in the name of prioritising your career. 

Every time you wake up in the middle of the night, yearning for the comfort of another body, you’re reminded of the loneliness that sometimes plagues you.

Benny and Will weren’t strangers to the feeling either. You’d been around to see the darkness that followed them home from deployment. The darkness that tarnished some of their ability to accept love. The same darkness that made them hold on to you that little bit tighter, now very much acquainted with the feeling of loss.

You would never be able to understand what it was like for them. Never be able to fully comprehend the extent of their trauma. Some part of you knew that for Benny and Will, relationships weren’t as simple as they used to be.

But that didn’t stop you from trying to set them up. You appreciated that your attempts were futile, they were just gestures of good faith, really. They communicated that you cared. That you wanted them to be happy - and they saw that for what it was: their friend looking out for them.

On the other hand, Benny and Will rarely tried to set you up on dates, understanding that the guys they knew wouldn’t be the right fit for you.

Despite this, they made sure to constantly remind you that you weren’t getting laid.

An issue you were sure they’d raise again, at some point this evening.

It wasn’t as though you weren’t looking. 

Respectfully, you’d found most of the boys’ friends attractive, and perhaps, there was one man from their Delta Force squad, in particular, who’d caught your eye.

A man with a serious attachment to his baseball cap.

A man who seems burdened by his affliction, shouldering the weight of it all by himself. 

A man who was just so gorgeous, yet often chose to play it safe, hanging back when in the presence of the other boys.

Yes, Francisco Morales. Or Frankie, as the boys called him. 

You had looked at Frankie. Many times. He’d definitely caused you to lose your train of thought more than once, having been mesmerised by his features; strong yet with a particular softness. 

Whilst you acknowledged your attraction to this man, you got the sense that he wasn’t available. 

Benny had never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend when he spoke about Frankie, but you still felt as though there was some kind of invisible wall up, preventing you from getting any closer. 

Besides, you were going to support Benny tonight, not ogle his friend. You could keep it under control. 

Or at least you tried, yet the way Frankie let out a soft chuckle as Benny teased you about becoming a crazy cat lady, was testing your patience.

Now, you were avoiding his gaze, afraid of having to confront your attraction to the man across the locker room. This was proving to be quite easy, as Benny’s enquiry into your (lack of a) sex life had you staring up at the ceiling in embarrassment, hoping the ground would swallow you whole. 

“C’mon, I’m only looking out for you here. You gotta break the dry spell soon, else it’ll become even harder to get back out there.”

Benny continues his onslaught, deciding to raise the point that if he didn’t fight for a while, he’d simply have no skill when he got back in the ring.

Frustrated, you roll your eyes at his comparison before telling him, “That’s unfair, Benny.”

Santiago chooses this moment to weigh in, reassuring you, “Bonita, you could have any guy you wanted, huh? What’s stopping you?”, and before you have the chance to speak, Benny jumps in on your behalf.

“That’s what I keep telling her, but she keeps making up all these issues. Worrying too much.”

“Well these issues are real concerns for me. I don’t want a relationship right now, but one-night stands aren’t for me either. There’s too many unknowns with hookups. Do you know how many married guys take their rings off just so they can take girls home for a night?”, you tell Benny incredulously, trying to communicate the extent of your concern.

Benny senses your ire, beginning to back off slightly, yet not before proposing, “Why don’t you just get a fuck buddy? Then you can get laid all you want. Problem solved.”

Sure, the prospect was very appealing to you. Someone you could count on to give you orgasms and not have to worry about the strings attached? 

You’d sign yourself up right now. 

The problem was, where would you find such a man? You shuddered at the thought of returning to the dating apps, having had enough interesting encounters on there to put you off using them again.

Turns out Benny had his own solution to that problem, choosing this moment to turn his attention to his friend who was currently leaning against the lockers, arms folded against his chest. It was almost as though Frankie could sense what was coming next, as he retreated further back into himself, looking down at the floor in a futile attempt to avoid being targeted by his younger friend.

“Hey, Fish is right there. He’s been hard up for god knows how long now. Why don’t you scratch each other’s backs, huh?”

Right now, he was cursing himself for having one too many beers that night at Santi's house, when he’d opened up to the guys about his sexual frustration.

“Jesus Christ”, groans Frankie, his eyes looking at Benny disapprovingly.

Turns out you two did have something in common, as you both looked as though you could kill Benny with your stares. The younger Miller, however, was sporting a grin that would rival the Cheshire Cat’s, thoroughly pleased with himself.

With the attention span of an excitable puppy, Benny was quick to move on. You guess it had something to do with the way Will was looking at him, the subtle tilt of his head gesturing to Benny that he needed to get his head back in the game.

But that didn’t stop you from wanting to die of embarrassment. 

Sure, Benny had a fight to focus on, but you had to survive a couple more hours in Frankie’s presence. 

You pushed the strap of your bag further up your shoulder, hoping that having something to hold on to would quell the anxiety bubbling in your stomach. Straightening your posture, you hazard a glance over at where Frankie’s stood, only to realise he’s not there.

Pushing open the double doors, you exit the locker room and spot Frankie, way ahead of you, and his steps are somewhat urgent as he catches up to Santi.

Shrugging it off, you find your seat and wait for the fight to commence.

****

He’s struggling.

Frankie’s still reeling from Benny’s comment. He knows the only reason Benny said that was to rile you up, and he knows he shouldn’t still be thinking about it now. But he just can’t get the way you looked tonight out of his head.

He grabs himself a beer and settles onto his couch, before allowing images of you to flood his head; the late-night news report swiftly forgotten.

He imagines your hair, slightly tousled after a long day at work. It was extremely sexy, to him; the image of you letting your hair down as you leave the office. It signified you letting loose, and he could only imagine what it would be like to have you lose control around him. God, he’d give anything to run his hands through it as you looked up at him with those eyes. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous. 

Frankie’s got it bad for you. Has done for quite some time now. Ever since he was introduced to you at Benny’s birthday party last year, you had taken over all of his fantasies. Being around you consumed all of his energy, as he often fought hard enough to play it cool whenever you spoke to him; always worrying he’d scare you off with his dark wit. 

And for Benny to joke that he had a chance with you? Well, that was cruel. 

He managed to make an escape from the locker room before you noticed, latching onto Pope in an attempt to recompose himself.

You were far too good for him.

He had baggage; struggles he was still working through. 

You, on the other hand, were stable. With a successful career, a solid group of friends and a pretty house at the end of the block, you intimidated him. 

Frankie often wondered how you had spent so much of your adult life around the Millers, seen the damage that had been done to them, and yet you still had a certain innocence about you. It was like you had seen first-hand just how unforgiving the universe could be, but you still saw purpose beyond the pain.

Yep, he needed to stay away from you.

Deciding to push his demons aside for the moment, Frankie casts his mind back to the times he’d tried, and clearly failed, to put the moves on you.

There had been the brush of his hand on your waist as you walked by him in Will’s kitchen to get another beer. And the time you fell asleep on Benny’s sofa, he had shuffled closer, allowing your head to rest ever so slightly in his lap. Frankie also recalls each time he’d driven you home from the bar, only driving away when he saw you head inside. As you sat in his passenger seat, Frankie came to the conclusion that your presence was downright intoxicating. Therefore, he always volunteered to be the designated driver in the hopes he could drink up more of you.

It was getting late. Late enough that he could put all this down to being some kind of a fever dream.

Frankie’s about to head up to bed, when his phone lights up with a text message.

A text message from you.

Yeah, this was definitely feeling like a surreal experience.

He decides to bite the bullet and glances down at your message.

Hey, Frankie. Just wanna say sorry about before. We all know Benny loves to tease, but I hope he didn’t make you uncomfortable. Hopefully see you soon! x

Frankie’s not quite sure what you have to apologise for, and frankly, his attention was elsewhere; on the last four words of your text. God, he hoped to see you again.

He sends his reply swiftly.

Hey, you don’t need to be sorry. I’ve definitely had worse thrown at me by the boys. Don’t worry about it. Hope you enjoyed the fight?

Frankie knows he’s pushing his luck, but he adds that little question mark hoping you’d take the bait to talk to him for a little longer.

You reply almost instantaneously, much to Frankie’s delight.

Yeah, it was great! Once I stopped wanting to kill Benny. Until then I was kinda rooting for the other guy. Promise you won’t tell him? 

Can’t promise anything, Cariño, came Frankie’s response. 

Your humour almost seemed like flirting, and Frankie would be a fool not to try, so after hitting send, he relaxes back into the couch whilst awaiting your response.

Huh. Knew I couldn’t trust a man with the name Francisco.

Fuck. Frankie was immediately consumed by visions of you - saying his name. 

Imagining how his name would sound coming from those perfect lips of yours caused something to stir deep down in his gut. 

Get it together, Frankie. Get it together. 

He found it a little harder to type his next words.

Not many men you can trust these days. But you deserve to be with one who takes good care of you.

He hadn’t intended to get so deep so quickly, but the thought of you being hurt in the past caused an unpleasant feeling to grow in his chest. You were so beautiful, so good. You had your whole life ahead of you. Whichever asshole had broken your trust in the past didn’t deserve to be breathing right now, Frankie was certain.

You take a little longer to reply, causing Frankie to doubt himself for a moment before his phone lights up again.

Thanks, Frankie. I feel like I really needed to hear that. You deserve to be loved, too. 

The sincerity of your words almost knocked the wind right out of him. Pleasantly surprised at the turn his evening took, Frankie longed to draw more of those confessions from you. 

Pope’s right, you know. You could have any guy you wanted, Bonita. 

The Frankie who hadn’t gotten anywhere with you before was not expecting the response you gave.

Any guy, huh?

And before he has time to process your insinuation, you send another text.

Even you? 

Oh, he wasn’t prepared for you to say that. So understandably, his response is delayed.

Shit, he needs to tread carefully here, he thinks, as he eventually composes his next few words.

Cariño, you need to be careful what you say to me. I don’t do well with riddles. 

On edge, Frankie’s composure is wavering. He’s definitely not prepared when he spots an incoming call from you yet he doesn’t hesitate to pick up.

“Hi…I, uh…I don’t even know what I’m doing Frankie.”, your words are soon followed by a soft, yet nervous, laugh.

“Do you wanna come over?”

Frankie swears he hears the breath leave his lungs, before all but moaning out, “Yeah.”

“Be there in 15.”

****

Of all the things you thought you’d be doing at 2 am on a Friday night, giving Frankie directions to your house wouldn’t have been your first guess. 

What were you thinking? You became a woman possessed. The dark timbre of his voice had caused a warm, fuzzy feeling to grow in your tummy, and before you knew it, you had invited him over for a late-night booty call.

You keep your hands busy, clearing up some of the mess in your bedroom when the realisation hits you. You were going to have sex with Frankie. 

Is this really happening?

The doorbell rings and you soon realise that - yes - this does seem to be happening, and it’s happening right now.

Like the cat about to get its cream, you slink to the door to let him in. You’re hoping your face doesn’t betray your eagerness as you greet Frankie with a smile. 

He takes a moment to assess your features, apprehensive that you may have changed your mind whilst he was driving over. Finding only a hint of shyness in your otherwise confident persona, he knows he’s made the right call. Frankie needs to see you move first. He’s not going to enter your apartment until he knows you want him in there. 

Luckily for him, you turn your body to the side slightly, allowing him to see further into your apartment. You take a step back; it’s an invitation that needs no words - it simply says, chase me. See what you’ll find. 

And he does. But not before looking away from you and rolling his eyes ever so slightly. You don’t know if he’s amused or frustrated, but you know you’ve got him right where you need him when he crosses your welcome mat.

His eyes return to you, then, and he gives you an assured nod. It’s Frankie’s way of asking you what your next move is. After all, he’s on your turf right now. 

Desperate to break the silence, you tell him, “Thanks for coming, I know it’s late.”. Choosing that moment to head to your bedroom, you lead the way. Hoping. Wanting. Praying he’ll follow you.

Frankie follows. He follows you blindly - like a disciple on a mission - trusting that wherever he’ll end up, it will be worth it. 

When he reaches your doorway, he’s greeted by a sight so divine, he’s forced to rethink his stance as an agnostic. 

You’re kneeling on the bed, stretching over to switch on the light, when he admires the way your back is arched like a feline wanting to play. He sees your mischief. And, as your shoulders dip low, he becomes hung up on the view of your ass in this position. He definitely wants to play, too.

The tension gets thicker and thicker as Frankie advances forward. He wants to test the waters; see what you do next. But he also wants to dive in headfirst and lap up your sweetness like a man starved. Frankie is a man starved, and he’s losing resolve with every passing second in your presence.

Of course, he’s delighted when you turn to face him again. You kneel on the bed, right in front of him this time, sitting back on your legs with your hands behind your back. You push your chest forward and sit up tall in a way that almost short-circuits Frankie’s brain. You look so submissive; preening and proud to put your body on display for him. So eager to learn, to please him. 

He knows you’re toying with him. You look so innocent sitting like that, but Frankie also knows you’re playing naughty. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way, though. Your moxie had his cock aching in his pants. 

Cautiously, Frankie rakes his eyes over your body, trying to figure out your next move. The soft glow of light in the room gives you an advantage, however, and you manage to catch him off guard. 

He’s too focused on the way you bite your bottom lip to notice your hands on his belt buckle.

Frankie thinks you’ll unbuckle it, yet you surprise him again as you use it to pull his body flush to yours. You’re on the bed and he’s stood up, and you adore the way he’s making you feel so small and pliant right now.

Sporting a mischievous grin of his own now, Frankie moves his lips to your neck.

“Don’t thank me yet, baby. Not until you’re cumming all over my tongue.” 

How’s a girl supposed to respond to that?

By some miracle, you manage to stay upright on the bed, and you decide you need to regain control of the situation before Franke dirty-talks you to death. 

“Francisco…”, you purr devilishly, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Frankie lets out a sinful groan; with just enough impatience to let you know he’s yours. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be right now than hanging on to every word you say. He can tell you’re being bratty. He loves it. Loves the way you’re taunting him, waiting for the moment he snaps and fucks you how you need to be fucked.

You repeat Frankie’s earlier words to you. “So…I could have any guy I wanted, huh? You really think so?”

Frankie thinks your smile looks a little bashful, for a second, before he notices the way you’re running your tongue across your bottom lip as you toy with the neck of his t-shirt. There’s a glint of something in your eyes. Your smile. That tells him he’s clueless as to the game you’re playing tonight, yet you’re definitely playing him. 

And, well, Frankie’s down for the ride. At this point, he’d promise you the world just to get a taste of the heaven between your thighs. 

Refocusing, he decides that’s what he needs to do.

“Cariño… so needy. You got my attention. All of it. No need to play up.”, says Frankie in a heady whisper.

You realise, then, that you may have underestimated the man in front of you.

But you definitely aren’t prepared for what he says next.

“On your back, baby. Panties off. Let’s see if you’re still an impatient little brat after you get your pussy eaten.”

Unable to form words, you get to the task at hand, dragging your lacy panties down your legs. You swear you can feel your skin throbbing as your hands skim your thighs. There’s nothing he could ask of you right now that would be too much, you decide, as you settle onto your back. 

He’s still fully clothed, and it’s almost like he senses your concern as he suddenly begins to undress. Starting with his t-shirt, he moves with urgency; afraid he’ll miss something if he takes his eye off you for a second. His hands reach for his belt, and you’re trying your best not to drool at the way he looks right now. Hair ruffled from your touch, chest heaving in anticipation of the pleasure you’re teasing of, and eyes glossy and wide. You’re simply mesmerised by the way this man looks when he’s affected. You’ve only ever seen him composed, playing it cool. You’ve never witnessed Frankie lose it, but you’re hoping that’s subject to change. Soon.

“Frankie…”, you beg. “Don’t keep me waiting, baby.”

Despite the way your impatience amuses Frankie, he decides he can’t wait any longer and dives down, using his hands to pry your legs open.

He nips the inside of your thigh, just far enough from where you need him to have you arching your back already; like a creature in heat.

You’re dying to express that you disapprove of his teasing, but you figure you should probably be a good girl considering he’s about to take care of you.

However, Frankie’s not done. His kisses trail higher, and as he reaches your knee, he places kisses there too, as he huffs out a demand. 

“You’re gonna be a good girl and give me all those pretty moans of yours. Take what I give you. Be grateful.” The way he emphasises those final two words tells you he’s not messing around, and you’re ashamed of the way you moan at the authority in his voice.

“Yes, baby. I’ll try to be good…. for you.”, you say. 

“Try, huh?”, is his response, as he reaches for a pillow, tapping your hip as a signal for you to lift them up. He places the pillow underneath your hips, and you’re ready to melt as he uses his thumb to rub firm circles into the spot just beneath your right breast. He applies a good amount of pressure, and all you can think about is how completely at his mercy you are right now; squirming underneath him in desperation. 

Frankie finally uses that tongue of his. But it’s not where you need it…yet. 

He draws your nipple into his mouth, sporting a smug grin as he does so. You want to scream. You can feel just how puffy and swollen your pussy is from the lack of attention it's receiving. As you feel it clench around nothing, you buck up against him whilst he continues to tease you. He’s sucking the peak into his mouth, drawing his tongue around in torturously slow circles, before releasing it with an audible pop. Frankie moves to continue his ministrations with your other breast, and in your petulance, you make the mistake of fighting him.

You hook your left leg around the back of his, trying to position your aching centre against the rough denim of his jeans; desperate for some friction.

But Frankie had been expecting you to challenge him. He’s seen your spark when you’d both been out with the other guys, it was one of the things that drew him to you in the first place. He recalls how you’d light up when you became competitive, you’d find ways to provoke your opponent yet you were able to mask it well. You’d get all giggly and cute, playing it off like you just got a bit over excited, and Santi, or whatever poor schmuck had gone up against you, would give in to you. Often letting you win. 

Well, Frankie wasn’t giving in that easily.

His hand shoots out to hold your left thigh open, whilst he uses his leg to pin down the other one; keeping you splayed out just how he wanted. You’re taken aback by his strength and you can’t deny it makes your pussy even needier. You need him, and your frustration has made you bold enough to tell him.

“Frankie, baby.”, you whine. “Need your mouth on it. On my pussy.”

He lets out a dark chuckle at that. And he decides to punish your brattiness with silence. You’re easy to read, to him, and he knows you’re liking the way he’s running his mouth whilst in your bed. But you’re reaching for too much, and he’s got to show some resistance for both of your sakes. 

Of course, Frankie would give you anything, but he’s not sure what your intentions were for inviting him into your bed. He assumes you’re after a no-strings-attached arrangement, and he’s gonna need to keep you wanting more if he’s to keep you. 

Pushing the thought aside for now, he focuses on his next move: giving you what you need. 

After what feels like a century, Frankie finally dips his head down to where you’re dripping for him. He’s sure he’s never seen a pussy so sweet and so responsive. He’s not even touched you there and he can see you clenching around nothing. 

His thick fingers part your folds and the way his breath ghosts over you has you crying out to him. 

“Ngghhh…fuck. Need it.”, you draw out in a frustrated giggle, and at this moment, Frankie thinks - no he knows - that you’ve ruined all other women for him. You sound so sexy, like a little vixen, but at the same time, there’s a sweetness about you that’s humbling.

Frankie decides he needs to reassure you. “Shhhh, Cariño. I’ve got you. You’ll get what you need.”

And you do get what you need, as Frankie forces your legs open even wider before licking a thick stripe all the way from your fluttering hole to your throbbing clit with his tongue - and the noise you make is untamed. 

He takes his time, opening you up on his tongue. He knows you need his fingers inside but he’s not sure you deserve it just yet. 

Frankie admires the way your pretty pussy is shy at first - like you - as he uses soft kitten licks to loosen you up. Your juices taste heavenly, and he laps up every ounce that flows from the core of you. Eventually, you relax into his mouth and your moans become more desperate. You need more and you communicate this by pulling Frankie in even deeper, your hands tight in his hair. 

“Jesus Christ”, he groans. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“Fingers, Frankie. I need your fingers.”, you plead, hoping he’ll take pity on you. 

And he does, by some miracle, pressing two inside you and immediately curling them up. You’re soon ready for another, and he adds a third, causing you to pout at him as your orgasm grows closer. The way you’re trying your best to ride his fingers, yet also sink further back into the bed like a pillow princess, is endearing to Frankie, as he can’t help but watch how you take him. Fuck, you’re beautiful like this. Underneath him. He needs you to come on his fingers and his tongue and he decides he can’t wait much longer.

“There you go, pretty girl. You’ve got something to clench down on. Something to cum on.”, says Frankie, and his words have your eyes rolling back. He’s got a dirty mouth and it’s doing all the right things to you.

He moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking it into his mouth. Applying the perfect amount of pressure, he’s got you whining out his name as you stretch your arms above your head, gripping the pillow you find there to anchor you - otherwise, you’re sure you’ll float away. 

It doesn’t take Frankie much longer to push you to the edge, and he gets a little rougher, much to your delight. You’re suddenly thankful for the pillow you’re grabbing onto, as his hands grip both of your ass cheeks, pulling your cunt up to his mouth and there’s nowhere for you to run. His grip is unrelenting; all you can do is lie there and take it as his tongue lashes against your clit. The absence of his fingers leaves you feeling empty, though you’re not complaining, as the way he’s clutching your hips allows him to really wreck you with his mouth. And what a mouth that man has. 

You’re writhing on the bed, your orgasm so close that your body’s going crazy; arching and stretching as it tries to hit that spot to send you over the edge. It comes as no surprise, however, that Frankie’s words finish you off.

“That’s it, baby. Know you need to cum. Need it so bad you’re whimpering for it.”

“Come on now, give it to me. I know you can. Cum and I’ll give you my fingers to ride it out on.”, he says, and you cum. Hard. 

“Frankie. Oh my god, Frankie”, you moan out like a madwoman and Frankie plunges his fingers back into your pussy as you cum all over his face. 

You can’t help but chase every wave of your high, and you push your cunt down on his fingers like you can’t get enough of what he’s giving you. Somehow, you’re able to remember what Frankie told you before, and you begin to chant “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” as you ride out your orgasm. 

There’s a cheeky smile playing on your lips and Frankie lets out his own throaty chuckle at your sass. And that’s when it hits him. 

One time isn’t enough. 

He can’t give you up just yet. 

****

The two of you soon get into a rhythm. 

You alternate between your place and his, spending most nights together each week. It’s after a few weeks of this routine that you realise: you’ve got yourself a ‘fuck buddy’ after all.

But you wouldn’t dream of telling Benny. Or Will. Or Santi. You weren’t ready to burst the bubble and face reality yet. You were perfectly happy indulging in each other’s bodies, sheltered from the pressures of the outside world. 

The sex is incredible. You know it, and Frankie most definitely knows it too.

You’ve come to know Frankie’s body so intimately, it sends a shiver down your spine just from thinking about it. You know what makes him tick. What makes him abandon his resolve and cum for you. You know how to draw particular sounds from him; his moans, his whimpers, his shouts, even. You had become a Frankie connoisseur in what seemed like no time.

Actually, it had only been a few weeks, yet things seemed to be moving at pace.

Having been friends before all this began, neither of you was inclined to kick the other person out after you were done rolling around in the sheets. So, naturally, then came the lingering. 

You both had taken to lingering a little while longer after the post-coital high faded. 

One time, you had hopped in the shower, and when you were done, you found Frankie on the phone to your local pizzeria. You hadn’t even questioned how he knew your order, putting it down to the fact you were friends before this. Still, it caused an unfamiliar feeling to stir in your chest, and some small part of you didn’t hate the gesture. 

You start showering together, too.

The first time it happened, you were still giggling over something Frankie had said. You’d riled him up and he’d taken you on, finding it way too easy to laugh with you. You’d been poking fun at him after he’d shared quite an embarrassing story from his days in service and he had decided to take a shower to escape your teasing. However, you didn’t want to let the moment go, just yet - so you followed him into the bathroom. 

He had just stepped under the spray of water when he heard your girlish giggle getting louder. Frankie tried his hardest to steel himself, but your happiness was infectious and he couldn’t help but be affected, dropping his head forward with a content smile as you wrapped your arms around him from behind. And since then, this became a frequent part of your routine. 

On several occasions, you slept over at Frankie’s place and he drove you to work the next day. 

You struggled with this. You weren’t going to lie. The thought of one of your colleagues spotting you, and the gossip that would ensue, concerned you. But you brushed it off each time.

After all, it meant that Frankie would take you home as well - and that came with its own benefits.

You’d gotten into the habit of getting him all worked up on those days he was due to pick you up, deciding it was fun to have him show up wrecked and so hard for you. Sometimes he drove a little faster, gripped your thigh a little tighter, and braked a little harder as he rushed to get the two of you to someplace private. Whilst other times he’d take to finding a discreet place to park his car. 

Yeah, those were the days you’d texted him something filthy.

You figured out quite early that you were both into dirty talk, but you weren’t expecting it to escalate in the way it did. 

An incident occurred at the Millers’ BBQ, where everyone in the neighbourhood appeared to be out in full force. Despite you and Frankie pledging to behave yourselves, you couldn’t help but sneak off upstairs when the moment presented itself. You had to remind yourself that Benny had probably done the same, if not much worse, in your own bathroom as you let Frankie sit you up on the counter; his broad frame crowding you against the mirror and your heels digging into his back. He had come to love when you’d communicate how much you needed him by sinking your stilettos into him like a vice. It was a kind of foreplay and he was very much here for it. 

It was at that moment when he said it, as he had you spread out on the counter in your friend’s bathroom, fucking you good. 

You could’ve blamed it on the slight buzz of alcohol running through his veins. Or the fact you had been fucking each other a lot. The latter was more rational, you realised, yet you didn’t want to dwell on how you two got to this point. The anxiety and regret would creep back in, and you were having way too much to let yourself ruin it by overthinking.

“Fuck…Cariño. Feels so good. You like that, huh?”, he said.

You’d mewled out a “Yeah”, knowing Frankie needed to hear the praise, needed you to use your words.

What followed then, was a veiled threat to your dynamic. “Yeah…”, he groaned out. “You like it, huh? Letting me fuck you like this tight little pussy is mine.”

Frankie loved the way you whined at that, and he was perfectly content to watch you go wild as you took his cock like a champion, but you were getting too loud, so he covered your mouth with his; swallowing your cries of pleasure.

You should’ve noticed then that things were changing between the two of you, but you were too far gone at the time to pay it the attention it needed.

However, Frankie had been paying close attention to you. Specifically, you in his t-shirts, wearing only your panties and pottering around his place like you belonged there. 

You were blissfully unaware of how much this particular sight drove him crazy, but each time you wore one, Frankie died a little inside. He was overcome with the need to possess you. To make you his girl, have everyone know you warmed his bed. 

This feeling also reared its head whenever you called him baby. 

He’d never been one to jump to conclusions and he was definitely not one to overestimate a woman’s feelings towards him. But, against all odds, and because this was you, Frankie found himself desperately clinging to the pet name. He latched onto the idea that, maybe, he was your man and there was nobody else. Of course, Frankie knew what he signed up for. But he could still imagine what it would be like if things were different. 

But, afraid it would scare you off, Frankie subdued these urges every time. He’d often shut down when it all got to be too much for him to contemplate, rushing to another room where he’d make himself look busy. Unfortunately, you interpreted his struggle as him being distant. Closed-off. Emotionally unavailable. And in your eyes, this was the reason why you couldn’t let yourself fall for this man.

Despite the doubts you harboured, neither of you was prepared to stop.

The pace at which things were evolving terrified you, if you were being honest. It was as though you were heading towards a cliff edge, but you had taken the scenic route. 

The views were breathtaking, so you went along for the ride; paying no mind to where you were going.

You hated being unable to control the situation and part of you wanted to turn it around and go back to when you were just friends. Back then, you didn’t owe him anything. You could control the version of yourself you presented to him. But in this arrangement, Frankie was able to catch you off guard, sometimes. When he looked at you like you hung the moon, you felt as though you could fall into him with no parachute - give him more. And that scared you.

Frankie was scared, too.

In fact, he’s worried.

You’re currently enjoying a night out with your girlfriends whilst he’s home alone with his anxiety. 

He knows you can handle yourself, but he’s itching to hear from you. You’re having fun and you don’t need him, but he can’t help but keep glancing at his phone, thinking of texting you. Truthfully, Frankie’s afraid he’ll fade into your background. Every second you spend without him - untethered - is a chance for you to find something better and leave him behind.

He wants to be missed. Needs you to miss him.

However, Frankie’s not prepared to get this deep in a text message to you, so he settles for something a bit lighter. 

Releasing a strained sigh, he decides to bite the bullet and so begins to type out a message.

Meanwhile, in the club, you’re nursing your third margarita of the evening when the text comes through. 

Luckily, you’d agreed to watch the booth whilst your friends went to the bar for more drinks, meaning you were able to take a quick peek at your phone, away from prying eyes. 

You hated the way you doted on his every word, yet still, you ran your eyes over the text a few more times than necessary.

Hope you’re having fun. You know there’s a space in my bed if you want to crash here later.

Slightly buzzed from the cocktails you’d had so far, you aren’t sure whether this new sensation you’re feeling is down to the alcohol, or something else entirely. 

Being your usual flirtatious self, your instinct is to tease Frankie a little.

Your bed? Benny usually lets me crash with him after a girls night. Why should it be your bed, Francisco? X

It’s true. Benny did always offer you a place to stay at the end of the night, but it wasn’t like that. Yet Frankie doesn’t need to know that Benny always takes the couch, letting you sleep like a baby in privacy. Besides, you think it’s fun to rile him up. After all, you’re not sure how far he’ll go, to earn your company tonight. 

He doesn’t respond for a while, and you’re tapping your nails against the back of your phone, thankful that the bar service is slow tonight, delaying your friends’ return.

Fuck…is what comes to mind when Frankie reads your message. He’s driven wild by the thought of you in another man’s bed, even if it’s his friend who he knows has only ever been platonic with you. He’s not proud of his jealousy, as he knows what he signed up for. But he can’t help himself - he needs to give you a reason to end the night in his bed. He needs something that will reassure him: he’s not losing you. Thinking on his feet, despite having spent a solid ten minutes figuring out what to say, he replies.

Come on, baby. You know I can give you what you need tonight. Not sure Benny’s going to cut it. 

Kicking himself as he reads over his words, he knows he needs to give you more, so he sends another.

You think I can’t see through your games, Cariño. When you wake up needy in the middle of the night, it’s my cock you’ll be coming on. 

Oh. He’s playing dirty, you realise. You grab your drink and take a generous taste, needing something to cool you down desperately. 

Is he jealous? Your mind is racing with the possibilities of what this could mean for your relationship. 

Panic swirls in your stomach, letting you know that you may be heading into uncharted territory here. And to make matters worse, a glance to your left alerts you to the fact your friends are on their way back to the table.

You intended to reply with something equally as dirty as what he’d been sending you, yet as you spot your friends getting closer, you freak out and lock your phone, hoping they’re tipsy enough to gloss over the way you’re breathing a little harsher, right now.

You couldn’t deny it, Frankie’s way with words had you feeling hot. Heat pools between your thighs as you dwell on the delicious implications of ending the night in his bed, but you remind yourself that you need to appear unaffected or else you’ll be subject to interrogation.

It didn’t work, judging by Cami’s expression, and you take a moment to prepare yourself for the questions. Yet, there’s a look of real understanding on your friend’s face, like she senses your inner turmoil and feels for you. She assumes you’re tearing yourself apart over something, or someone, and she’s not sure that a crowded club is the right place to bring it up. Deciding to buy you some time, Cami suggests you accompany her to the bathroom.

Shooting her a look of gratitude, you let her lead you into a cubicle, before she turns to face you whilst leaning back against the door. 

You stare up at her from where you’re perched on the toilet, and you know she’s waiting for you to fill her in.

After a few seconds, you succumb. 

“I think I’m in too deep. Shit, Cami. Things are changing, and I don’t know if I like it.”

She doesn’t need you to elaborate. She knows you’re referring to a guy, and from the sounds of it, she can assume it’s casual. Well, supposed to be casual. The way you’re frantically chewing on your lip suggests otherwise.

Always in your corner, yet still firm enough to call you out when it’s needed, Cami’s been by your side long enough to tell when a man’s made a serious impression on you. Deciding it’s time to be firm, she weighs in on the situation.

“Being comfortable has never been enough for you. Change can be good. I know you know that, babe.”, she tells you.

“Who is he?”

You figure there’s no point in delaying the inevitable, so you reveal that it’s “A friend of Benny and Will. Uh…Frankie, the pilot.”

It’s hard to miss the proud smirk that Cami gives you. “Well-played.”, she says, chuckling slightly. “And that’s who you were sexting whilst we were at the bar, right?”

You nod, feeling less overwhelmed after opening up to her.

“Are you planning on showing me, then? I can’t help you blow his mind if you don’t let me see the texts.”, she adds smugly. Instantly putting you at ease.

You don’t need to ask her how she knew you were sexting Frankie, you’re just grateful that she’s a girls’ girl through and through, and you welcome her expertise in the matter. 

Cami’s about to suggest that you send him a flirty picture, with an even flirtier caption, until you scroll further down the conversation and you notice two new messages from the man in question.

It turns out that whilst you were stewing over your lover’s salacious messages, Frankie had gone through the motions, ten times over. He thought he’d pushed you too far. Pushed you away with his jealousy. 

He let himself simmer in his frustration before concluding that your lack of a response signified rejection. Frankie knew he’d shown his hand too soon. He’d fallen at your feet like all the other men, acting like a golden retriever in the way he fought for your attention. 

But still, your rejection hurt. It hurt enough for him to become defensive, trying to regain some of the control he’d forfeited to you. He shouldn’t have said what he said, but he let his emotions get the better of him.

You can’t quite believe what you’re reading, and even Cami appears to be shocked at the words staring back at you.

I get it. You don’t owe me anything, huh?  

And after he hadn’t heard from you for fifteen minutes, he sent another text.

You should stay at Benny’s tonight. Wherever you choose to go, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of options. 

All you see is red. All you feel is the unmistakable tinge of betrayal. You hadn’t expected Frankie to jump to conclusions, and you definitely hadn’t expected your Frankie - who was always so sweet and respectful - to degrade you like this. 

Some part of your brain is able to register Cami’s words and you hear her cursing Frankie with some very colourful language. You’re left feeling blindsided, unable to process his sudden resentment towards you, but nonetheless, you can’t allow yourself to get hung up on it, not when you were surrounded by such remarkable friends. 

You switch your phone off, determined to salvage the rest of your night, before letting Cami drag you to the dancefloor for some much needed release.

It’s no surprise, then, when Frankie’s 3 am apology text fails to come through.

****

Frankie becomes an expert at jumping to conclusions when it comes to you.

After you didn’t reply to his apology, and subsequently screened all of his calls, Frankie didn’t know what else he could do. 

He couldn’t reach you and you hadn’t made an effort to contact him. Hell, he knew he’d fucked up; he shouldn’t have spoken to you in the way he did, but he’d tried to make amends and yet you didn’t seem willing to hear him out.

Frankie doesn’t see you for a while. Eight days, to be exact. 

He knows you’re alright, thank god, as he hears from Will that you’d been offered a promotion at work and that he’d taken you out to dinner to celebrate.

And yet, it doesn’t get easier, he comes to accept, and he finds himself wanting to call you on multiple occasions, and he almost does, but something always stops him in his tracks.

Unable to stop replaying your words over in his head, Frankie’s overthought and overanalysed until the point of exhaustion. You were both to blame, considering neither of you had been willing to speak about your relationship. Expectations, boundaries and outcomes had all been forgotten. You’d gotten swept up in the pleasure and failed to address these crucial concerns, and now you were both reaping what you had sewed. 

It was supposed to be casual. It was supposed to be just sex. 

That’s what Frankie told himself when Benny revealed that he had set him up on a blind date with a mutual friend. 

Neither of you had told Benny, or Will and Santi for that matter, about the two of you and Frankie couldn’t have declined the invitation without arousing suspicion from the youngest of the group. He didn’t know where he stood with you, but he wasn’t going to drop you in it with the boys. He was way too protective of you to let that happen.

So, begrudgingly, Frankie agreed to the date.

The first you heard of the date was through Instagram, and Frankie and Imelda were well into their second drink of the evening by the time you’d found out. 

Turns out, Benny had crashed it around forty-five minutes in, having gotten a text from his friend revealing he wasn’t ‘feeling it’. Taking his wingman duties seriously, Benny wasn’t prepared to let Frankie give in just yet, so had shown up in an attempt to encourage him, and to salvage what was left of the night. Benny had brought a girl friend - whom you both had met whilst at college - hoping the double date vibes would put Frankie at ease, and as she had taken to posting on her story, you were able to poke your nose in.

It wasn’t spying, and you weren’t jealous. But when Stacey posted a picture of the group, you couldn’t help but fixate on the way Frankie had his arm around his date, leaning into her ear, and it looked as though she’d caught them during an intimate moment.

Due to the angle at which the photo had been taken, you couldn’t tell whether Frankie’s lips were just hovering over her ear, or whether they were pressed tight against her skin. His baseball cap cleverly hid the majority of his face from view, but you couldn’t deny what was plain to see. And it drove you mad. Though, you knew your anger wasn’t justified.

Preparing for the worst, you conclude that Frankie’s ready to move on from you. 

You wish you could put your phone aside and let it be. You wish you didn’t care. You wish that the thought of Frankie touching another woman didn’t make you want to die, and you wish you could stop yourself from doing what you were planning to do next.

There’s a fire in your eyes and you realise that, perhaps, you are jealous, though you don’t waste time dwelling on it. If you were going to keep Frankie’s interest, you needed to do something that would throw him off balance and you needed to do it soon. And you knew just what would do the trick. 

You practically run to the bedroom, pulling out one of Frankie’s old army t-shirts that you’d snagged from his place. Getting comfy on your bed, you slip the shirt up your skin until it exposes enough skin to drive your man wild. There was no doubt about it. Frankie adored your breasts, and he also adored the way you loved to tease. You are hoping that this sexy little underboob shot would make him forget all about his date. No disrespect to her, as any woman would be crazy to turn down a date with Francisco Morales, and you feel bad - honestly, you really do. But the anxiety in your chest is pulling you towards the action. Your body’s screaming at you to do something, like it senses that it’s about to lose Frankie’s touch, for good.

You angle your phone just right, so the camera focuses on the way your breasts peek out from under his t-shirt. Whilst you make sure to get your face in the shot, too, as you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and widen your eyes; looking all cute and innocent as you look up at the camera positioned above you. You know you’re anything but innocent right now, but you’re anticipating that Frankie will play right into your trap. As you have it on good authority that the man loves how you play coy, only to whine pathetically when he finally stretches you out with his cock. And by good authority, you’re referring to the way he grips your hips like your body gives him oxygen, or the way his big hands cup the back of your neck, fingers skimming over the side of your throat in a way that says, you’re staying right where I’ve got you. 

Throwing caution to the wind, you press send on the photo and you make sure to add a fitting caption. 

Your girl’s feeling a little lonely. Lucky she’s got your shirt to play in. Would be a shame for you to miss out, tonight. x

And you’ve got him. 

Hook, line and sinker; Frankie’s ready to come crawling back to you like a dog.

When he sees your name light up on his phone, notifying him that you’d sent him a photo, he needs to get somewhere private. And fast. 

He gives Imelda, as well as the other couple, some lame excuse about needing to get his jacket from the truck - just in case they decide to go somewhere with outdoor seating later on - and before he even reaches for his keys, he’s got his phone out ready. Somehow, he manages to hold off on opening your message, wanting to give you his full attention from the comfort of his driver’s seat. And he’s glad he did, as he pulls up the text and is greeted with what could only be described as a treat. Your eyes. Those lips. Your tits in… wait. Is that his shirt? Fuck, he doesn’t know where to look. His eyes rapidly move from each focal point in a frenzy to soak up everything you’d given him. You’d bestowed upon him a gift, and he needed to treasure it. Besides, he hadn’t heard from you in a while and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to touch you, or even look at you, in this way again. 

And then, he casts his eyes down to the text that follows.

Your girl’s feeling a little lonely. Lucky she’s got your shirt to play in. Would be a shame for you to miss out, tonight. x

He takes a minute to process your words, but he’s unable to move past your girl and your shirt. Did you want him dead? Surely, that was your goal in pushing those exact buttons of his. You’d seen his possessiveness, and until now, Frankie was certain it had pushed you away; overwhelmed you. Were you now encouraging it?

Not wanting to miss his chance, Frankie recomposes himself, just enough for him to be able to send a semi-coherent reply. He also texted Benny, asking him to apologise to Imelda on his behalf and tell her he had to head home, as he wasn’t feeling well. Home wasn’t on the cards tonight, however, as he geared up to head to your place. 

Don’t play too hard without me, baby. On my way over now.

Somewhere on the drive over to yours, Frankie finds himself able to reflect on your relationship. 

Relationship. That word felt foreign on his tongue, but he didn’t hate it, he realised, as he allowed himself to fantasise about a version of you two where you dated, held hands, and openly expressed your affection in front of your friends. 

You’d never given him any indication that you wanted more. Until tonight. 

Frankie’s aware that you’ve given him a crumb, and he’s already dreaming about the whole damn thing, but he can’t help himself from pushing forward.

His attraction, and his appreciation for you had grown, and he often found himself doting on the way you held your coffee in the morning like it was precious cargo, just as much as he doted on the way you went all cock-dumb in his bed after he’d worn you out for hours and hours. He’d begun to notice the little things that made you, you. And he knew he could fall in love with you. It would be so easy. 

Frankie considers how he’s probably ruined it for himself, already. He spoke to you in a derogatory way, that night you were out with the girls, and you’d somehow found out he’d been on a date with another woman. He knows that, on paper, the date isn’t something he should feel guilty for, as you two weren’t exclusive. But you were still involved and he has to admit he hasn't handled things in the best way. 

As he turns onto your street, he concludes that he wants you.

Frankie wants to be with you, and he’s willing to have you in whatever capacity you’re prepared to offer him. If you’re not ready. If you can’t give him what he needs, like the self-sabotaging martyr, he’s willing to take whatever he can get if it means he doesn’t have to give this feeling up. 

Then he’s at your door, trying his hardest to stop the tapping of his foot, which would surely give him away.

You appear from behind it, and he’s a fool not to notice the tears staining your cheeks as he makes his way past you. 

He bounds on you, the force of his kisses backing you up against the kitchen counter. And there are so many words on the tip of your tongue, but you haven’t seen this man in over a week and it’s so easy to fall back in again. 

After he’s somewhat satisfied that you’re real, and you’re here in his arms, he pulls back to address you with a needy tone of voice. One that was unfamiliar to both of you. 

“What was that, huh?” he demands. Looking anywhere but at your face, it’s no surprise that he misses the anguish that clouds your usual playful expression.

After a beat of silence, he pushes again.

“You couldn’t let me try to get over you.”, says Frankie, and this time, you notice the pain in his voice.

It’s like you’re frozen. Paralysed by the weight of everything that’s gone unsaid between you. 

Silence follows. It’s the kind of quiet before a storm, and neither of you knows what to do to protect yourselves. 

He’s holding onto your hips like they’re his altar, and he’s staring down at your body like it will lead him to enlightenment; give him the answers he needs. 

When he moves his gaze back to your face, that’s when he sees the absence of light in your eyes. You look troubled. Uncertain. And Frankie’s kicking himself for not noticing the tears that are streaking your soft skin earlier. What had happened between sending him the photo and now?

Cupping your face with a tenderness unlike the way he had just kissed you so roughly, Frankie’s at a loss for what to do. He just knows he wants to soothe the pain; your pain and his, and make it all better. 

Your silence feels like another dose of rejection, so Frankie takes a step back from you.

He’s amazed at his own courage, as he finds himself needing to communicate what he needs, right now. 

“You know what I want.”, he says.

The look in your eyes tells him you were expecting this conversation. And it crushes him, because he needs you to fight for him. But you won’t. He can see that much from your pained expression and the way your body is curling in on itself. You’re retreating.

And you are retreating. You want so badly to run to him; to hold him in your arms and promise that you’ll try, you’ll give him what he needs. 

You know you could love him right. Some mature part of you wants you to acknowledge that you are falling for him, and have been since the first night. But you’re confused, driven by heightened, raw emotion and you haven’t taken the time to process what you’re feeling for him.

His rejection still stings you, and you struggle to bounce back when you’ve been hurt. You know the adult thing to do is to talk about it - patch things up and move past it. But you’re a creature of habit and what you actually did was stew in your irrational anger, before closing yourself off to him. He’d tried to reach out and you’d crawled deeper into your pit of self-sabotage. Yeah, it wasn’t healthy and perhaps Frankie was better off without the hurt you’d most likely cause him if you gave this thing a chance to grow into something more.

A lot of self-work needed to happen before you’d be ready to let him in; let him sink deeper underneath your skin. 

So you stayed put, whilst your words failed you. 

Frankie’s eyes are raking over you so intensely, awaiting your next move, and all you can do is look anywhere but at him. 

The tension in your body has been stretched too far, and so it snaps. And you’re sure that both of you can hear the way the energy in the room shifts just like that. 

“Francisco… I -”, is all that you manage.

And Frankie feels as though he can read your mind. 

What you meant to say, he thinks, was I can’t give you what you want. 

And he gives you a moment to finish your admission. But nothing comes.

Wanting to be anywhere but here - facing your rejection, again, Frankie pivots towards the front door, ready to leave. 

“I shouldn’t have come here.”, he says.

Then as he darts towards the exit, you call out his name, and his movements still completely.

You continue. “I - … “, before releasing a sigh. 

“Frankie”, you whine, though it’s not like he’s used to hearing. It’s a broken whine, telling him all he needs to know.

You’re not ready.

“Tell me to stay. Tell me you want me.”, he pleads. 

And you think it’s kinder to let him go now. As it’s only a matter of time before you break his heart anyway. 

This arrangement was supposed to be casual. It wasn’t supposed to evolve this way, but you had both fallen in a little too deep, with too little communication. 

Fuck, he’s a good guy. Why won’t you let yourself have this? Have him? 

By now, your delicate tears have given way to distressed sobs, and you need him to walk away from you, so you can let it all out. 

After what feels like an age, Frankie leaves. He realises that he’s powerless. He’d handed over all of his control, to you, and you now held the advantage. 

As you watch the door close behind him, you release the hand that’s covering your mouth and unleash your heartache. 

****

It’s not a secret that you miss him.

Your body feels the loss, as you regress into the shell of your hurt. 

You can’t eat or sleep for the first few days, and when your appetite returns, you’re too anxious to make a run for some groceries. You’d called in sick to work, and that should’ve been a sign that Frankie meant more to you than a ‘fuck buddy’. 

You were grieving him. And as cliché as it sounds, you didn’t know what you had until it was gone. Or more so, you didn’t know that you wanted more until you had nothing.

The days that followed that fateful night in your kitchen were filled with longing. You yearned for the comfort of his body: the softness of his hair underneath your fingers, the sound of his voice over the phone, the way he held you like his favourite memory. You couldn’t bring yourself to wash his clothes that appeared in your laundry; you weren’t ready to erase his scent. It was somehow calm and untamed at the same time. Like Frankie.

You also missed the way he made you feel so needed when he’d beg for your touch.

But physical touch aside, you missed his mind, too.

You found yourself wanting to bask in his dark humour; the way he was often quiet and observant in social situations, only to cut in with something downright philosophical when it counted. Truthfully, you thought a lot about the way he’d listen, hands on his hips and mouth slightly ajar, looking like he was sizing you up, though you knew he held nothing but empathy and respect for those he cared about. 

It was down to you now. You needed to be the one to show up, for him. You needed to reach out to him, tell him what he means to you, but you were worried you’d missed your chance. That night in your kitchen couldn’t have been more poetic; he’d come running to you and it would’ve been perfect had you crashed into him with open arms and an open mind. But you didn’t. And that left you playing out scenarios in your head, thinking of all the ways you could confess the depth of your affection to your lover. 

What would he say? 

Would he take you in his arms and vow to forget the past? 

Would he be forgiving? Or would he be guarded, detached?

You imagined the latter was more likely, though you had come to accept that you were the one responsible for the limbo you were both existing in.

And of all the ways you’d imagined seeing Frankie again, you never expected it to be in the grocery store; dressed for comfort and definitely not to impress. 

He’s got a six-pack of beers in his hand as you let your eyes soak him up. He looks good, but also exhausted, and although your heart aches at the thought of him struggling, the needy part of you latches onto it as evidence of him missing you.

Frankie had once revealed that he loved sharing a bottle of wine with a woman, as he enjoyed getting comfortable enough with a partner to share the pleasant buzz it gave. And that was something you had delighted in, too, before taking it for granted. Though as you glanced back down at the beers he was holding, you were so thankful for his choice of beverage, as it signified there wasn’t someone waiting on him tonight.  

You found yourself wanting to be the one waiting on him. Being the one he came home to every night, and the thought sent a gentle thrill through your body.

So you held on tighter to your tub of ice-cream, channeling your trepidation into the object in question as it gave your hands something to do and slightly quelled the urge to reach out and touch Frankie. 

As you pluck up just enough courage to walk over to him, he reaches for a bag of chips, and you believe he's blissfully unaware of the baggage you’re bringing him. 

The distance between you is not enough, as you know you’re only a few steps away from having to confront this thing. Tail between your legs, you slowly move closer to him. 

Of course, as an ex-veteran, Frankie had clocked you before you even considered approaching him. He’s grateful for this, though, as it gave him a sliver of time to compose himself before you had eyes on his weary form. However, he can’t help but think the way you’re slinking towards him, in an attempt to appear discreet, is cute. Despite how much he wishes he could refrain from becoming even more infatuated with you.

Arguably, the anxiety in his stomach tells Frankie he’s not ready to face you. Though he doubts he could ever feel completely ready. So, at the moment when you become too close to ignore, he lifts his head, knowing his time’s up.

Words aren’t exchanged for a while. Rather, you’re preoccupied with assessing each other; devouring with your eyes what you’ve been deprived of for over a week. 

Frankie knows he can’t be the one to break the silence. It has to be you, and if he gives you this, he’ll never know whether you mean to fight for him. He needs to see you step outside your comfort zone and give him the words you’ve held hostage.

And you do, after a poignant pause. 

“Hi, uh - … you look…good, Frankie.” is all you manage to say. You find a little more confidence as you go on, and the way you breathe out his name with poise gives Frankie hope for what’s to come. 

He doesn’t think it’s the right time for him to speak, though, and he doesn’t want to spook you should you be preparing to speak candidly. So, he doesn’t say anything.

You gesture towards the beers and chips in his basket, “Oh, are you seeing the boys tonight?”

Frankie puts the basket down, then, and folds his arms over his chest. He gives you a quick shake of the head, before telling you “No.” 

He’s trying to appear unbothered, but the way his laboured breaths are visible through his chest tells you otherwise.

You’re fighting the instinct to run but you somehow manage to continue.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.”, you admit, and then you tell him, “I’ve been thinking about everything. About you. A lot.”

Frankie can’t help himself, and he jumps in, craving your honest disclosure. 

“What do you want. Really?”, he says, and he looks so tired - exhausted by your indecision, and it makes you loathe how avoidant you’ve been with him.

Oh, you think. We’re getting to this now.

“I- I’m not used to… used to letting someone in. Y-You-” and Frankie cuts you off.

“Cariño.”, he says sternly. “I need an answer.”, and he’s begging you.

“Francisco!”, you whine petulantly. And if he couldn’t see the pained expression on your face, he’d be offended. You’re conflicted, and he wants to believe that you’re trying. 

“You want me to tell you how I feel, then listen.”, you assert, before adding a softer “Please”, as you look at him like he could break your heart with any sudden moves.

“Frankie… y-you saw me, like actually took the time to learn it all. I couldn’t hide. I thought you’d find something that would make you leave me alone, and I wasn’t prepared to l-lose it.”

He leans closer, ever so slightly and it’s the encouragement you need to continue.

“Didn’t want to lose you, Frankie. You’re a good man. A man I could love, and… and I was happy but I was afraid it couldn’t last. S-so I kept going back and forth, daring you to stay. Seeing if you’d give up.”, you say, and the last five words come out sounding more uncertain than the rest.

Meanwhile, Frankie’s processing. He inhales every word out of your mouth like he’s gasping for breath. He’s needed to hear this - hear you - and it feels long overdue.

Your strength doesn’t fade, as you continue.

“I don’t know if I deserve you.”, you confess softly, before revealing, “You could be better off with someone else.”, and you can’t look him in the eye as you share such a deep-rooted insecurity with the man you’d come to adore.

It’s genuine, everything you’re saying, and Frankie sees that you’re trying, for him. He’s finding it hard not to say fuck mature communication and comfort you, knowing you could do with some physical touch to ground you. He wants to kiss you until all your worries dissipate, hating the thought that you could ever underestimate yourself in this way. If only you saw what Frankie saw when he looked at you, you’d be walking on air.

But he knows he needs to tread carefully. You’re giving him an inch, and he wants a mile, but he knows you. Knows the vulnerability you’re slowly welcoming is a lot for you, right now, and he’s appreciative regardless.

Then, you go and throw him a curveball. 

Taking a risk, you move in even closer, until your feet are practically covering his, and you’re looking up at him with an innocence and vulnerability in your eyes that you reserve for him, only.

And your voice wobbles as you say, “Shit, Frankie. I need you.”

He looks down at you and you appear so small and fragile beneath his gaze. There’s no trace of your usual playfulness or moxie on your expression. And in your voice, there’s no trace of the pretence you sometimes hide behind when forced to confront your emotions. And Frankie registers that you must really mean it this time.

He needs to believe that you mean it. That you really need him, as the alternative is something he’s not prepared to brave.

Arguably, you’ve put yourself out there this time, and Frankie would be lying if he said he wasn’t concerned about you reverting back to reticence, should he give you another chance. Who’s to say you’ll maintain this level of communication with him? He can’t go through this again if you aren’t truly invested in moving forward.

“Fuck, I never thought we’d be stood in a grocery store having this conversation.”, you add to ease the tension, and the way Frankie lets out a breathy chuckle tells you he’s just as grateful for the relief from the heaviness.

After a moment of intense deliberation, Frankie arrives at his choice.

He understands that acknowledgement is only the start, and he needs to see that you’re willing to commit to something more, whatever that may be.

But right there on the confectionery aisle, as the artificial lighting of the store illuminates every emotion on your face - and he sees the fear, the concern, and the tenderness that gives you away, Frankie decides that he needs you. 

And, like an addict, he swears to have you in whatever capacity he can get.

You can’t read him, and you’re on edge awaiting his response.

Then with a newfound sense of ease, Frankie picks up the six-pack from the basket beside you, as you watch his every move; afraid you’ll miss something. 

He gestures to the beers, before the slightest hint of a smirk greets you from beneath his baseball cap.

“How about we swap these for some of that wine you like? Then we can head back to my place. Talk some more.” he says.

And he knows those last three words could scare you off. 

Yet as you take his hand, pulling him over to the aisle you need, Frankie feels hopeful. 

It’s a kind of hope that simultaneously scares and excites him, and right now, he’s okay with that.

Thank you for reading! Please consider commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed it. <3

[pimosworld]

Company

Pairing -triple frontier boys x f!reader

Content warnings-18+,MDNI,NSFW, piv sex,oral sex, public sex,mentions of ptsd,light angst,fluff,smut. Explicit, this is an established poly relationship

Summary- sexually frustrated reader gets lost in thoughts about her boys.

wc-3.8k

Notes- this is my first fic ever so please feel free to comment with suggestions. I’ve been putting off writing for so long and I’m nervous to post but so excited. I hope you enjoy!

You’re not sure why the drive home is so quiet, Benny had won his fight after all. Even though it was off a technicality, he still won fair and square. Usually he’s buzzing with excitement after a win but right now, as you’re sandwiched between him and Santi in the backseat of the Jeep, you can tell he’s fuming. The heat radiating off his body should have long dissipated it’s been nearly an hour since he’d won.

Earlier in the locker room

“I know it’s not the way you wanted to win but we’re all still proud of you babe.”

It’s just him and you leaning against the wall inside the locker rooms. The rest of the boys are out grabbing beers, and are likely having the same conversation you’re having right now. He’s got a far away stare in his eyes that you’ve seen before, but not since your days in delta. That was years ago, and now you just want to kiss his face and tell him everything is okay. You won’t though because even though he won and he knows you always take care of him after a win, the only thing he’s said to you since you joined him in the locker room was that he didn’t want any company tonight.

It stings a little even though it shouldn’t. He’s entitled to want some space, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you are being a little selfish brat at the moment. It’s not entirely your fault when after a win he’s usually got you pressed against the lockers with your skirt bunched up around your torso, your legs wrapped around his waist and your hands on his bare shoulders. His strength after a fight is always surprising. Normally at this point, he’s holding you up with ease as he roughly fucks you against the lockers with your muffled cries of pleasure getting lost into the crook of his neck. His cock would be slammings into you over and over until you both reach your peak together. Jesus Christ you need to get a grip because you're having flashbacks about the man that is right next to you, and clearly upset.

Is your brain seriously letting you be this ridiculous? You live with 3 other men who are fully capable of keeping you company tonight. There’s just something about Benny after a fight that you can’t shake the feeling, the craving you have for him. That hungry look in his eyes when he has you laid out on the bench with his head between your thighs. He kisses your thighs and runs his tongue slowly up to your aching center,as if he’s forgotten he’s in a locker room and you most definitely can’t take your time. But he always does with you, he slowly licks your folds, his tongue feels hot compared to the cold bench on your back. The duael sensations are driving you mad. He nips at your clit and you look down at him almost in protest but those piercing blue eyes look back at you and he has this shit eating grin on his face. It’s the one you love and know when he’s being playful, he just wants to make sure you’re still here with him. He continues circling your clit with his tongue and you know you’re dripping down onto the bench beneath you. You’re desperately trying to be quiet but he adds a finger into you and you lose all train of thought as he fucks into you at a rapid pace, his tongue flicks your clit and a chill runs down your spine as you lose all sense of where you are. Your quiet whimpers have now turned into louder moans of his name.

Jesus fucking Christ you’re doing it again, get a grip. You can survive one night without Benny.

You will just have to torture one of the others with your frustrations, and how fun might that be?

As your thoughts drift back to the present, you’re in the car and you can see that Will has fallen asleep in the front seat. He’s been training Ben all week and is likely exhausted and a bit frustrated as well with the results. Will hates technicality wins because it messes with his overall record. Ben has been fighting for so long now it’s mostly knockouts across the board. Will is calculated and calm, he always has been. He’s the perfect trainer to juxtapose Benny’s fired up demeanor.

He was very calculated just two mornings ago when he fucked you in the kitchen. You both had a restless night sleep so you found yourselves bright and early in the kitchen enjoying your coffee together like a domestic couple in the suburbs. Except you weren’t a domestic couple by any means were you? No, both of you are in a full on relationship with 3 other people, both e your black coffee in your shared home at 5 am because you both had nightmares ( you all have nightmares) from your time in delta, and from your various other illegal activities after leaving the service.

You hate the restless nights but you love mornings like this, where the two of you, and sometimes all five of you,can enjoy your black coffee in silence, like the silent trained killers that you are (were?). That doesn’t matter, that’s just a joke between you and Santiago anyway.

“Are you done with your coffee?” Will asks with that sultry drawl of his voice still lazy with the lack of sleep.

You don’t answer but you slowly set your cup down on the granite countertop. He tilts his head and levels you with those blue eyes you’ve grown to love over the years. He’s let his hair grow out since leaving the service and his beard comes in nicely just slightly darker than his blonde hair that you love to pull when things get intimate. He stalks towards you in his gray sweatpants and crisp white, and too tight, t-shirt. You still haven’t answered him as he cages you against the cold counter top. You can feel the hard press of his cock against your abdomen in your thin oversized army T shirt. Is it yours? You’re not even sure anymore, it’s probably Frankie’s shirt but Will doesn’t care. He obviously doesn’t mind sharing.

He slowly grabs the hem of the shirt, his fingers dancing against your thighs. He raises his eyebrow at you asking for permission because of course it’s Will. You take his hands away from your shirt and quickly toss it over your head as it lands somewhere to your left to be found later. He stills in front of you taking in your naked form.

“ No panties or bra?” He asks you another question as if you’ve answered the first question.

What was the first question? He wastes no time lifting you onto the cold counter top. He kisses your neck and slowly drags his tongue down the line until he reaches your nipple, taking his time sucking and using his hand to grab the other breast and squeeze, brushing his thumb across your nipple. Your whole body is alight with goosebumps now, and pretty much anytime, Will ever touches you.

Before you can finish recanting your thoughts of the other morning you’re rudely interrupted by Santi poking you in the rib.

“Ouch what the fuck!”

“Calm down Honey I barely poked you!”

Even in the darkness of the car you can see his piercing gaze and his shit eating grin.

“Yeah, I’m trying to figure out why you poked me?” You say sassier than you wanted and return the grin in favor with slightly more of a smile than you wanted .

Frankie chimes in from the drive’rs seat

He asked you a question? When? You can’t even remember with your thoughts so caught up in fantasizing about the men you lived with.

“Hermosaaaaa, are you still with us?” Frankie’s eyes are somehow on you in the rear view mirror and paying attention to the road at the same time.

“We’ll I’ve got your attention now so I’ll ask again” Pope says in a bit of high pitched annoyance. “Which one of us is your favorite?”

You scoff at the idea that you would even answer let alone think that this stupid question is what pulled you from your thoughts of you and Will the other morning.

“ Do you actually think she would answer that?” Ben chimes in from beside you and you notice some of the heat and annoyance has dissipated from his demeanor.

He now seems more relaxed, shoulders less tense. You relax a little at the sight of your Benny returning to you. Still, you will give him his space tonight because he asked and you will always respect their space. That’s the only way this all works…respect.

“ You know I’m not answering that, and besides you all annoy me with equal vigor so I couldn’t possibly have a favorite.””.

Without turning to face Santi, you dart out your right hand to poke him in the ribs but he catches your wrist and stops you full force. You wouldn’t dare turn your head to see the fucking Cheshire Cat smiling back at you in the darkness of the car. You already know he’s proud of himself because his chuckling is reverberating through your hand that he still has clasped in his grip.

He leans in real close to your ear ( not helping your predicament) you can smell the musky cologne and the faint smell of beer.

“Ah ah ah, gotta be quicker than that,” he says playfully, still sensing your annoyance.

You rip your wrist out of his grasp and huff in frustration, as you glance back at the front seat and see Will still sound asleep. It warms your heart because sleep is hard to come by sometimes, and Will could certainly use some shut-eye.

So you’re obviously checking Will off your list of who will be your victim tonight. Between his long week and the way Frankie drives, anyone was bound to fall asleep.

Your thoughts perk up thinking of Frankie, as you watch him drive with such ease and control. The broadness of his shoulders as he lazily turns the wheel onto a familiar street. He always has such control when it comes to anything besides you. He would gladly lose control for you. Just the thought of the first time you saw him fly a helicopter can make you cum. That’s what attracted you to him in the first place. Although you couldn’t believe how you had managed to be placed in delta force with the four hottest men in the world. it wasn’t really fair. You supposed that Tom kept things equal, statistically speaking, being the least attractive of them all.

Frankie could definitely ease your frustrations tonight. He could never say no to you, it seemed there wasn’t a time when he didn’t want you. Once again you find your thoughts drifting off to the other day. It was a hot humid day in Florida. The kind you hated because everything stuck to you in all the wrong places. The sweat seems never ending on days like this and the bugs won’t leave you alone. Benny and Will were busy training at the gym and Santi was holed up in his office. You didn’t bother him on those days because you knew his mind would often take him to dark places. It had rained quite a bit the night before, and you knew the rain always brought thoughts of Columbia. He always took it the hardest and so you would leave him be for now.

That left you and Frankie to make what you could of this day and you knew he would do anything for you, and with you. The day had started off innocently enough, the two of you deciding to go to the beach.

Once you’ve arrived at the beach you quickly realize your mistake…everyone else in Florida had the same idea, and you and Frankie audibly groan at the sight of what feels likea thousand cars and a million people. Neither of you are in the mood for large crowds .

“What do you think Honey?”

You glance at Frankie in the driver’s seat and can’t help but smile. He tries so hard for you, you can see his smile lines have deepened over the years and his cap that perfectly frames his curls has faded slightly. You place your hand gently on his arm that’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tight and notice the blue shirt he’s wearing hugging his bicep.

“Let’s go home “ you try to say with conviction so that he thinks you’re not upset in the slightest.

“I feel bad we came all this way,” “ he says as he pulls onto the road and you notice his frown. You just want to pull him into a kiss so that he never makes that face again.

“ I really am enjoying watching you drive so it’s not a total waste.””. You throw a wink his way and see that smile return that you love so much. You decide to just enjoy the drive and the only breeze you’ll get all day with the windows down.

He keeps glancing over at you but you’re not sure he knows you can tell. You did wear his favorite sundress. It’s red with little blue flowers on it, t. Thin straps and a very low neckline that perfectly frames your breasts. The hem hits just above the knee, but with the way you’rer seated in the front, it’s slightly higher. He chances one more glance at you and you can’t help but tease a little.

“See something you like Morales?”

He doesn’t answer you but places his warm palm on your upper thigh. You’re both facing forward because you don’t dare look at him now, and of course he’s focused on the road. He inches his hand higher until his fingers dance across your aching center. Your breath hitches in your throat when he starts to rub circles on your clit with his calloused fingers.

“You’re so wet for me hermosa, just watching me drive get you like this?”

You don’t answer him but you slowly spread your thighs wider to give him room. He groans at the gesture and moves your panties to the side to drag a finger slowly up and down, your slick now coating his hand. He stills his movement at your slight whimper and chances a glance in your direction. Your breathing has become ragged and he watches your chest rise quickly trying to calm yourself. Reluctantly he pulls his hand away but you watch as he slowly brings his hand to his mouth and liocks his finger.

He looks back at the road and says in the most sultry tone you’ve ever heard grace his lips.

“If I don’t pull over I’m going to crash this fucking car.”

You smile to yourself, you don’t have much of an ego but it’s erotic to know how much you turn him on by just wearing a dress. They all can be very simple that way, and sometimes you find yourself drunk on the power that knowledge holds.

He drives for a while and you think maybe he was just talking but you start to not recognize your surroundings. The beach long in your rear view has now turned into long leaf pine trees, the smell is intoxicating. He’s definitely taking the long way home and you don’t mind at all. Before you can get caught up in scenery you notice he’s pulled off the main road, he nestled the Jeep between some trees. Just enough cover you think for what he has planned.

Between the nearly illegal tint on the Jeep and the trees you have plenty of privacy, although at the moment you don’t really care with how keyed up you are just from his fingers. Something about them being a vet lets them evade the tickets they would normally get for the darker than limo tint on the windows.

He carefully takes the keys out of the ignition, still not looking at you and carefully sets them in the cup holder. He slides his seat back to give you room (you assume). A comfortable silence falls between the two of you. Something you’re grateful for amongst all of them. They always make you feel comforted without speaking. Yyou can be yourself and just sit in the silence. Their presence is a blanket of protection that washes over you each and every day.

“Come here” he says in his low, husky tone. ,iIt’s not a question, but more of a command.

In less time than it takes you to blink you’re in his lap, your thighs on either side of his. You make quick work of his belt and he lifts you with him to slide his pants down. Each time you see his impressive length it takes your breath away. Frankie usually takes his time working you up but you’re already so wet you don’t want to waste anymore time, or risk getting caught. He gasps at the touch of your soft hand as you line yourself up to slide down his cock. The stretch has you both panting like you’ve run for miles. You rest your head against his broad chest, while he grips your waist as tight as he was holding the steering wheel just moments ago.

“Pleas-“ you both pant in unison. Which causes a chuckle from both of you. Neither of you know what you’re asking of the other. Is he asking you to move? Are you asking him to move?

Suddenly a sharp pain in your ribs has ripped you from your thoughts of Frankie and harshly thrust you back into reality, ( which you think you’re starting to lose your grip on).

“Earth to honey” Santi says in a sing-song tone.

You don’t normally mind that they call you by your call sign, it’s always sweet and endearing. Right now though, with the way Santi has interrupted your lewd thoughts not once but twice you want to break the finger that keeps poking you in the ribs.

Just as you’re about to give him a piece of your mind, you hear a loud groan from the driver’s seat.

“You good Fish?” Santi asks with concern for his best friend, the person he would do anything in the world for.

“Ya hermano it’s fine, it’s just my back is killing me and I’m ready to get home and lay out.”

You internally groan…well shit Frankie is off the list of victims. You would never disturb him on a night where he’s in pain. You all have been through the ringer between the service and your post service activities, and it’s definitely taken a toll on your bodies…some more than others.

You turn to look at Santi and resume your conversation about what his problem is with your ribs when suddenly it dawns on you.

He should’ve been your chosen victim from the start, he’s always so smug and you rarely get the chance to return the favor of him edging you for what can seem like hours. It usually doesn’t take much temptation from you to get him going.

You slowly start to slide your hand up his thigh, running your fingers along the seam of his tight jeans that always show off his great ass. You’re inching higher and without looking at you, you can tell he’s letting you as he slowly spreads his leg. You palm at his half hard cock through his jeans and you hear a low groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

You just want to tease him until you get home and then you can do with him what you want for as long as you deem necessary.

He adjusts his feet to give you more room and suddenly you hear a hiss come from him. You withdraw your hand immediately, fearing that you hurt him somehow.

“Did I hurt you?” You whisper into his ear so that the others can’t hear you.

“No carinño, it’s just my knees are killing me after last night,” he says apologetically.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you say out loud accidentally instead of in your head, like you meant to.

The look of shock and horror is etched onto Santi’s face and you just want the car to swallow you whole. You glance at Frankie in the rear view mirror and he has a look of concern and shock as well. You look to your right at Benny and the look of amusement is spread wide across his face. At least something good has come out of your outburst . It seems that the Benny you know and love is back and is loving the predicament you’ve most certainly got yourself into.

He crosses his arms and levels you with a grin and he just knows somehow where your thoughts have been this entire trip home.

“Care to share your thoughts with the class hermosa?” Frankie says slightly less concerned, now that he can see the embarrassment written across your face.

“No,no it’s fine….I’m fine, I’ll be okay “ you’re trying to convince yourself. “I just need a really cold shower.””. You say as you let your head drop onto Benny’s shoulder.

“Well we’re almost home, do you think you can survive until then? He asks now completely amused with this whole situation that he’s clearly missed because he’s been safely trying to get you all home.

Probably not, you think to yourself this time instead of saying it out loud.

Who could survive being surrounded by these four men who on any occasion you could have your way with yet tonight, as if it’s some horrible joke, you can’t have any of them. You start to think that you’re being a bit of a brat again, but you’re too far gone to care.

You feel like a fairytale gone horribly wrong, instead of Snow White and the seven dwarves it’s Honey and the four mercenaries. Mopey, Sleepy, Achey, and Breaky.

You’re now audibly laughing and concern washes over the car again.

“What did I miss, what’s so funny?” Will chimes in from the front seat, now wide awake.

“Nothing, I just think we broke her.” Santi states from beside you, careful to watch your movements for any sudden jabs to the rib. He thinks your laughter is a distraction to sneak attack him but you’ve long forgotten all about him interrupting your thoughts.

As Frankie turns the last corner onto your street, you silently resign to yourself.

You’ll just have to keep your own company tonight.

@melodygatesauthor Thank you so much for proofreading and adding your lovely comments. It means so much to me 🥰

[romanarose]

Partner in Crime

Frankie Morales x fem!reader

Join my tag list!

Summary: You can't always orgasm, and pressure to cum makes things worse. Frankie is willing to experiment, after accidentally hurting your feelings.

Warnings: struggles to orgasm, pressure to orgasm, a lil angst, piv sex, safe PIV sex (wrap it up!), use of sex toys. I think that's it?

Frankie and Marc are neck and neck for the WIP poll so i just went with frankie!

First time writing a one shot for Frankie! I have a series with him and a OC, a FishBen fic, and Frankie in the Triple Frontier orgy series but no Frankie x reader centered.

********************

“F-Francisco, ffuuuuuccckk” You cry out for your husband, holding his sweaty, broad, hot shoulders as he fucks into you.

“Tan bonita, hermosa, linda.” Frankie presses wet kisses into your neck, passionate and fucking loud. Frankie liked it sloppy, and that reflected in the way he kissed. “Want you to cum, baby” He pleaded with you. “Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

You could feel him in your stomach, penetrating through every inch of you, and you could feel the warmth in your tummy. He never failed to make you feel good, so, so good. Feeling good wasn’t the problem.“Frankie, I don’t know if it’s gonna happen tonight, baby.”

“You can do it” He encouraged you.  He continues thrusting at a pace he knows you enjoy, playing with your swollen and over-stimulated clit, mouthing and kissing over every part of you, desperate to bring you to completion. “I know you can, beautiful girl, you can be a good girl for me, can’t you?”

Just like that, your stomach sinks, and all chances of you orgasming tonight went out the window. That hurt. “Frankie, just cum, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if you don’t get off, hermosa.” There was the slightest bit of bite in his voice, irritation you knew wasn’t at you, but at himself more than anything. It was his pride, no matter how many times you try to explain that your struggles to orgasm had nothing to do with his ability to pleasure you.

“Frankie, stop.” You slap at his arm, wanting him off and away from you.

Frankie stopped immediately, getting off of you and sputtering out half-sentences about how he was sorry and asking if you were okay. You were fine, physically and mentally. Nothing hurt and he didn’t trigger anything… but he hurt your feelings.

Furious, you scramble off the bed, tears pricking at your eyes as you grab your robe and Frankie tries to follow after you, keeping a respectful distance.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I just wanted to-”

“Go away!” You go to the bathroom, ready to shower the whole scene off of your body and fume under the hot water for a while. Eventually, you and him would have to talk about it. You always talked about things, that’s how after 5 years and a baby and a disastrous week in Colombia you were still happily married… So you showered off as much anger as you could, working through your thoughts as your fingers worked through your hair. 

As far back as you could remember, ever since your first experimentations with your own fingers, you couldn’t reach orgasm for years, men going down on you just giving up. Hell, you didn’t even cum for the first time until your 20’s, and it wasn’t until the wonderful man that was Francisco Morales came into your life that you actually climaxed from a man. You had faked a lot in the early years of your relationship, embarrassed with yourself, but Frankie caught on the more he got to know you, and eventually called you out on it. After that day, you promised not to fake it. 

He knew not to bother you in the shower, unless invited. This was your place to relax, to exist alone, to just be you. When you and Frankie argue, which admittedly is pretty rare, if the issue isn’t going anywhere you often find yourself showering, and when you are done, you’re usually ready to have a better conversation. Frankie is too, taking on a few different coping mechanisms he learned in rehab to calm himself as you do so in the shower.

When you get out, however, your daughter is up from her nap, and Frankie is busy getting dinner ready while she babbles about her friends in preschool. As you walk in the kitchen, scooping up your baby, Frankie smiles at you and nods. ‘We’ll talk tonight.’

Frankie put her down for bed that night after a long and happy evening together as a family. Another reason you two are so strong together, you don’t let issues get in the way of family time.

When Frankie walked into your bedroom, he gave you a soft smile, his large, puppy dog eyes crinkling at the corners, showing his age, an age he never thought he’d get to in a happy life he never thought he’d have. “Would you like to start first, hermosa?” Frankie offers you the chance to explain how you feel first.

You nod. “I don’t like when you put pressure on me to cum like that, Frankie. Telling me I’d only be your good girl if I cum.” Your vision started to blur as your eyes began to fill with tears. It frustrated you, being unable to have a normal conversation without crying, but Frankie knew better than to swoop in and hold you at the first sign of emotions, he knew you wanted to be able to have a conversation.

“I didn’t mean it like that, baby”

“But it felt like you did!” Your voice raised only a bit, and you made a mental note to tone that down. “You know how much that gets me, you know how much I w-wanna b-b-b-be your g-good girl…” 

Frankie knew better than to swoop in at the first sign of emotions, but when you cried, your little lip quivering, he couldn’t help it. “Oh bebita…” He took you into his strong arms, firm and steadfast, the fat of his stomach pressing against yours in the way that always comforted you. “I’m so sorry I made you feel like that, but I promise you, you are always my good girl, and I swear I’ll never make that contingent on whether or not you cum.”

“It really hurt my feelings, I can’t control it!” You cry into him, not so much because you are sad or hurt, but pent up sexual frustration. “Please don’t put pressure on me to orgasm, baby, it doesn’t help.”

Rubbing your back, Frankie soothed you, the simple smell of him enough to calm your senses. “I know, I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry beautiful.”

You knew he was. “I forgive you, Frankie.” Pulling back, you hold his handsome face in your hands. “Thank you for apologizing. Baby, I need you to know I love making love to you, even if I don’t cum, and I don’t want you to not orgasm just because I don’t that time. It makes me feel close to you, it makes me feel good physically and mentally, and there are benefits to it even without finishing. And it has nothing to do with your abilities. It’s just something with my body or my mind that makes it hard, it doesn’t mean either of us are wrong.”

With a gentle kiss on your lips, Frankie nods. “I understand, I’ll do better, I promise. As long as you are happy, I’m happy.”

Things were great after that. You find you cum more with less pressure, and the more Frankie was able to let go of the idea his manhood rested on making you cum, the more you reached climax. Still, you knew Frankie wanted more for you. Not for him, but for you. 

It was a few months in when Frankie was once again fucking into you deeply and he slowed his movements, asking if he could try something he bought. You said sure, always down for an adventure, but your heart sank a little when you saw the wand vibrator. 

“Frankie, I thought we moved past-”

“You don’t have to cum” He was quick to reassure. “I just thought… well, we never tried toys before. If they help you orgasm, that’s great. If not…” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then maybe it’ll increase your pleasure anyway?” Frankie smiled down at you, soft and gentle as he always was, and you returned it right back. 

You felt relieved, but mostly excited. You’d tried vibrators before but honestly, they were intimidating and you weren’t sure if you were using them right. “You don’t feel… weird about using a vibrator? Some guys-” 

He cuts you off with a kiss. “Some guys are fucking pussy’s, hermosa. A plastic toy isn’t my competition, it’s…” He looked at the purple wand, examining it as he thought. “It’s a little friend!” Frankie joked.

Giggling, you feel more relaxed with every second. “Frank, sweetie, if you wanted a friend here, I’m sure Santi would be happy to hop into our bed.” You tease him, and another man would be put off by the comment, but Frankie wasn’t deterred.

“Santi would hop into any bed he was invited to, let’s not get a big head here.” With a wink, he began to trail kisses up your body before encapsulating your mouth with his, tongue and spit and thrusts up into you, Frankie was all that existed right now. Well, that and your sleeping daughter in the next room, but that’s why Frankie kept his mouth over yours when he switched on the vibrator and placed it over your clit, right where he spread your pussy lips open.

“MMMPH!!” You whine into his mouth, hips bucking up at the extra sensation. 

Removing the device, Frankie checks in. “Too much?”

“Just right, don’t fucking stop.”

“Yes ma’am”

And he didn’t. Frankie fucked you with all he had, his thrusts reaching the very depth of you, and you swore if he wasn’t wearing a condom, if he spilled into you his cum would shoot right into your woom, knocking you up with another child. The force of the vibrations was strong on the first setting, but it had several, all of which Frankie tried until you patted his hand

“First setting, baby, first one.”

He clicked it back to the first, and watched as the pleasure rolled up your body and into the very core of you, throwing your head back with the force of it.

“Oh, oh fuck Frankie, GOD, I- I think I’m- shit!”

Frankie kissed your temple, keeping a steady pace and rolling the vibrator up and down your clit. “Just focus on the feel baby, nothing else matters, just you and me. I love you so much, hermosa, nothing else matters. Let go and enjoy it.”

And you did, god damn you let go and fuck did you enjoy it, the orgasm rolling off you in pleasureful waves in a way it hadden in fucking weeks. With Frankie’s nails digging into your arms, you are vaguely aware that Frankie was cumming with you, spilling into the condom as your cunt pulsed around him.

For a while, you both just lay there, wet with sweat and cum and spit, your pussy still twitching from the force of it, and you weren’t even sure when Frankie removed the vibe from your body, but now it was just you and him together. As the air settled on you both, your sweat cooled on your skin and your body shivered, goose bumped prickling at you. Frankie noticed, of course, he always did, and even though his broad body was practically a blanket in and of itself, he pulled a real one over you. “Better?”

“Better. I should probably pee though.”

“Yeah, but let’s stay like this for a little bit…”

So you laid there, still speared of Frankie’s softening cock as you both languidly kissed each other, slow and comforting before he removed himself from you and took care of the condom in the bathroom. Oh-so careful, like he always is after sex, Frankie carries you to the toilet, kisses your head and leaves you in private to take care of business. 

When you return, Frankie is laying on the bed with open arms and an open blanket which to quickly jump into, kissing him gratefully.

“Seems like we found a cure, huh?” You joke, referencing the apparent fix to your orgasming troubles.

With a smooch to your cheek, he gently reminds you that one orgasm does not a fix make.

“First of all, I don’t like you calling it a cure, because you’re not broken.” His eyes are soft and loving; adoring, even. “Second, you aren’t a robot. It’s not about just pressing the right buttons in the right order to make you cum. This may not work next time. However…” A shit eating grin spread across his face. “It did seem to help… a lot.” Frankie wiggled his eyebrows and you playfully smacked him.

“I love you, you know…” The post-sex daze is real right now, making you feel so warm and in love, so attached to the man whose arms were around you. 

Frankie toyed with the ring on your finger. “Yeah, I had an idea.” Always one for a quip, Frankie never missed an opportunity to express his affection. “I adore you, hermosa. So fucking much.”

********************************

@fandxmslxt69 @whatthefishh @campingwiththecharmings @ahookedheroespureheart @runa-falls @littlenosoul @mikaelak @ahookedheroespureheart @poeedameronn @stevenandmarcslove @scarletthefierce

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, romance, minors dni

word count: 1.6k

summary: you have trouble sleeping after your favorite character's death. luckily frankie is there to help.

warnings: established relationship, grief, brief sleepy makeout, sexual situations but none explicit, mention of a past altercation between a sleaze bag and you at a bar

a/n: yes, I am so lonely that when my fave fictional character dies I need to write something with another fictional character comforting me ✌️

Also, the character or the book won't be mentioned so as not to spoil anyone who might read the book and I feel like it makes it more inclusive not to mention it either. But if you're curious about which book just send me an ask 💜

You’re way too sensitive, you conclude staring at the dark ceiling. There’s no reason you should be tossing and turning like a mad person over a fictional character’s death—scratch that, your favorite character’s death. The “favorite” part is most likely the main reason as to why whenever you close your eyes you repeat the scene in your head over and over, like a sick lullaby that did the opposite of lulling you into sleep. 

A soft summer breeze gently drifts through the open window, rustling the curtains with a tender touch. The sheer fabric sways lazily, as if in a dreamlike dance, while the cool moonlight peeks through the gaps, casting gentle shadows on the floor. For a moment, you see the muted blue of the sky, and, for a moment, you want to get up and just stare at the stars. 

But you don’t. Instead, you turn for the hundredth time tonight and stare at Frankie’s back. He’s sleeping peacefully. Unaware of your sleeplessness driven by an irrational feeling. You count the freckles on his back. One. . . two. . . five. . . you want to press your lips between his shoulder blades. 

With another sigh, you turn towards the window again. You’re restless. So tired, yet sleep, the cruel mistress that she is, only taunts you. You try closing your eyes, try to think of something—anything else but it’s no use. Opening your eyes, you stare at the curtains. You think about the characters in your book, about how they could’ve done something differently to prevent the death of your favorite. You also think about what the aftermath might be since you haven’t read that far yet. 

You sigh, again. 

And Frankie stirs. 

He mumbles something in spanish, voice nothing but gravel. You make a sound, or maybe you voiced out a one-syllable question, you don’t remember but whatever you’ve done, he understands and rolls around. His arm slides to your waist, fingers softly drawing various shapes over your stomach. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you answer in a sharp whisper, guilt already gnawing at the soft flesh of your stomach. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t wake me, I was peeing in my dream and got worried it might be happening for real,” your sudden laughter is loud, the type that shakes your chest. His lips touch your nape and you feel him smiling as he playfully squeezes your stomach. “Now tell me what’s wrong, querida. I want to know.” 

“You’re going to laugh. . .” 

“I won’t,” he says in one exhale. “Promise.” 

His hand slides up under your shirt, resting on the underside of your breasts. With a hum, you press closer to him, wanting to feel his warmth enveloping your own. He kisses the sensitive skin under your ear. A shudder rolls through you. “Fine,” you say. “My favorite character died in the book I’m reading.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” you hear it in his voice, the smile, the amusement. You huff half-heartedly, gently nudging him with your elbow. 

“I knew you were going to laugh.” 

“I’m not laughing!” he interjects, then nuzzles your neck. “I just think it’s cute how you care so much.” 

“Now I just feel silly,” you mutter. It does feel a bit stupid that you’re saying it out loud now. Though, it’s not like you didn’t know it was a dumb thing to begin with. Only now it’s downing on you exactly who you’re admitting this grief to; A veteran. Someone who has actually stared death in the eyes and lived through it. If you had known your brain would behave like this you wouldn’t have read your book before bed, Frankie was already fast asleep by then. 

He softly croons, “Why were they your favorite?” 

Frankie is completely unaware of the weight that lingers in your head, screaming at you to just tell him to forget about it. You fight against it. He’s not mocking you, he’s asking you questions about it, he’s interested. Frankie Morales might be one of the most understanding people you know. You inhale a slow breath, your shoulders relaxing on the exhale. 

“I’m not actually sure,” you answer with a soft chuckle. “They were kind of the one holding everything together, at least that’s what I felt. They were kind, nice, extroverted.” 

“Did you see yourself in them?” 

“Not exactly,” you chew your bottom lip. “I guess it was more like they were someone I wanted to be like. And I have an affinity for kind people. They were just about to get their happy ending too, and it could’ve been avoided, if they were only more selfish.” 

“Reminds me of someone I know,” he smiles. 

“I’m not that nice, Frankie.” you can’t help but smile alongside him.

He clicks his tongue, “Don’t you remember the time a guy was hitting on some girl and you intervened when I was in the toilet? When I came back he had you by the neck, the fucking asshole.” 

You do remember that night. You and Frankie had just started going out, it was either your third or fourth date. He’d gone to the bathroom and as you were waiting at the bar some creep made a move on a woman who was sitting a couple of seats away from you. The man started getting handsy which prompted you to step in, you didn’t think he would get so violent. Briefly, you thought he was going to throw you over the bar. Luckily before the worst could happen Frankie stepped in, bending the man’s arm and shoving him down to the dirty floors. Frankie was a regular at the bar, there were no questions asked. 

However, he was quite angry with you, much to your surprise. In the end, the night had ended with him between your legs, edging you until you cried for him, apologized between sobs. It was a different kind of release, one that you had enjoyed. 

You can still hear the anger in his voice though, the irritation. Without a word you turn, cupping his cheeks as you attempt to wipe away the crease between his brows. “What else was I supposed to do? He was being a jerk.” 

“You could’ve come and get me. You could’ve gone and gotten Benny and Will, you knew they were there.” 

“Baby. . .” 

He heaves a resigned sigh, lips finding the heel of your palm, the hairs tickling your skin, “Fine, sorry.” 

You inch closer, pressing your mouths gently together. He groans into your mouth, large hands grasping your waist. You lick yourself deeper into his mouth. The rock of his hips eager to meet yours, parting away, you grin at how disheveled he looks; hooded eyes, parted swollen lips, a soft red tint to his cheeks. You kiss him again, quickly this time before parting away. 

“You know,” you say. “When my favorite character died in books I would kiss my fingers,” you demonstrate by kissing two fingers gently. “Then I would press them over the character's name,” and you press your fingers against his lips, a smile forming on your face. “I’d say ‘You’re not dead, you’re alive’ and I would just continue reading. Once I told this to my friend and she said it was unhealthy because I wasn’t processing death properly.” 

He remains silent, his lips gently meeting the touch of your fingers.

“I don’t know why but her saying that bothered me,” your voice falls into a whisper, your gaze dropping to where his mouth and your fingers meet. “It made me feel broken. Wrong. I don’t know why I’m still thinking about it, after all this time. But I guess my relationship with death has always been crooked. I don’t think I react normally. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset now. I keep thinking of it. Maybe I’m just trying to make up for the silence I showed in the past.” 

“Define normal,” he challenges, pulling your hand away. You spread your fingers across the expanse of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "I don't want to play the veteran card, but I've witnessed numerous people grieving, and each instance was vastly different. Some remained silent for weeks, while others screamed and lashed out. And some. . . looked for alternative means to help them forget." He presses your foreheads together, his nose brushing against yours. He still has trouble admitting that side of himself to you. "You're not broken for dealing with it in your own way."

Your breath catches in your throat, tears building in your eyes. You’re not sure why though. Some part of you has been dying to hear those words, to hear that you’re normal, that you’re not some emotionally constipated—or overly emotional—person. Finally, finally, someone is there to hold you without you having to ask them to. Frankie’s there, deep brown eyes boring into yours as he pulls you impossibly close. You feel your bottom lip starting to quiver. A sudden, odd, choked-out sound reverberates in your throat and he smiles. He captures your bottom lip between his teeth and kisses you. 

“Mi amor, my sweet girl,” he whispers, the words warming your skin. “You can let it out, I’ll catch you. No matter what. I don’t care if it’s over a fictional death or not, I’m here. Okay?” 

“Okay,” your answer comes out in a whimper, you nuzzle his chest, hands becoming tight fists as hot tears slide down your cheeks. You’re not sure why you’re crying. Are the tears for the unfortunate character in your book? Or is it for finally being understood, to have someone there for you, promising to stay? 

You don’t know. But it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Frankie will be there. 

[pedroscurls]

chance encounters | pt. 3

character(s): Frankie "Catfish" Morales, fem!Reader, and brief cameo of the rest of our Triple Frontier boys at the end summary: It's your best friend's birthday - the first one without him. For the first time since losing him, you reach out for help.   word count: 4.7k a/n: This was honestly a really tough chapter to write... Hope you all enjoy. warnings: grief, mentions of death and alcohol abuse, subtle mutual pining between Frankie and Reader, mentions of a toxic relationship series masterlist | ultimate masterlist

You haven’t slept. Your mind won’t shut off. Tomorrow’s your best friend’s birthday and the first one without him. You can’t stop crying, can’t stop thinking of the possibilities of what you could have done differently in the weeks leading up to your best friend’s death. You had sent Benny a text saying that you wouldn’t be able to come in for tomorrow’s training and then turned your phone off, tossing it to the side as you lay on your bed. 

You can’t handle the texts or calls you’re sure you’re going to get tomorrow. 

You can’t bring yourself to even speak with your best friend’s parents, not wanting to reminisce about how good of a man he was, about how he was taken too soon, about how he should still be here because you think about this daily. Every second of every day, you think about him. Losing him has left a gaping hole in your heart that you’re sure won’t ever be filled. 

Fighting has temporarily distracted you, but when you’re not at Benny’s gym or competing, you’re stuck. The grief and loss comes at you full force when you’re alone. Your best friend had plans for his birthday; in fact, you were both going to take a trip out West to visit California and now, you’re sitting alone in your apartment. Without him. 

You’re still so angry at the world. How could life go on for everyone else when you’ve lost your best friend? All you can think about is the phone call you received from your best friend’s mom to tell you the news. It was early in the morning and you had plans to see him later that day. But you remember the sound of her voice, the tremble and shakiness, followed by constant sniffles. 

You knew it was bad news. 

“He got into a car accident last night and didn’t make it.” 

Even now, six months later, that dreadful feeling in the pit of your stomach lingers. Every time your phone rings, you’re expecting bad news and you’re always so quick to answer it. 

You should have reached out to your best friend that night. You should have put aside your dislike for the woman he was seeing to at least check in on him, should have should have should have.

You’re not only frustrated, but you’re filled with so much regret. So many things you wished you could have said, but now will never get the chance to. 

The woman he had been seeing leading up to the night of his death had been such a bad influence on him. You would be lying if you said that you and your best friend were on good terms when he died. In fact, you had gotten into an argument with him just a few weeks before the car accident, trying to talk some sense into him that the woman wasn’t good for him. You knew it. His family knew it.

But he was blind to it. 

He always did fall hard, oblivious to the most obvious of things. 

The regret you feel in the pit of your stomach continues to linger, a reminder of the fact that you didn’t even get to have a proper goodbye, that you didn’t even get to say you were sorry. 

When you’re alone, it’s all you can think about. If your best friend was happy with the woman he was seeing, wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t him being in love enough? 

No. 

The woman was – She wasn’t a good person, getting him to skip work just so that he can take her out, which almost always ended up with the both of them drunk and blacked out. Since meeting this woman, your best friend stopped training, stopped fighting. He wanted to do anything to make her happy, even if that cost him everything. 

—

The next day, you’re seated on your couch with relentless thoughts swarming your mind. Today doesn’t feel the same without your best friend. On his birthday, you’d usually show up on his doorstep with a box of donuts and spend the morning together before you both go to work. But this birthday, without him, is hard. After six months without him, today feels much more lonely and you feel more empty than you have since you found out the news. 

When you turn your phone on, you see the endless amount of missed calls and text messages from both your best friend’s parents and also from Benny and the rest of the guys. You see Frankie’s name and without thinking, you dial his number. 

By the time it’s on the second ring, you begin to think that calling him is a mistake for plenty of reasons. One being that it’s way too early that the sun hasn’t yet even come up and second being–

“Hello?” Frankie’s voice sounds deeper over the phone and you realize in that moment that he’s provided the comfort that you didn’t know you needed, didn’t know that someone could ever provide for you after losing your best friend. “Everything okay?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call so early.” You say quietly, taking a deep and shaky breath. “That offer still stand? If I need you–”

“I’m here,” he interrupts all too quickly. “I mean, we’re here. The guys and I. Benny told us what today is and we wanted to give you your space.”

“Would it be okay if it’s just you?” you ask softly. “If that’s too much, then–”

“Send me your address. I can bring coffee and donuts. That okay?” 

Tears already sting your eyes, threatening to spill over as you feel your voice catch in your throat. “Y–Yeah, that’s fine. Are you sure it’s okay?” 

“I’m positive. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll see you in a bit, hermosa.” 

You’re dressed in shorts and an oversized hoodie by the time you hear the knock on the door. Your eyes are red, tears dry on your cheeks, but when you open your door and you see Frankie standing on the other side of it with a box of donuts and a holder with two cups of coffee, you feel… Relief.

“Hey,” he says so softly. 

You open the door even further for him to step inside and he crosses the threshold, turning back to watch you shut the door. You gently take the cup holder from him to set the two cups of coffee down onto your coffee table. Frankie’s quiet, careful not to push too much, but he had noticed the look on your face when he opened the door. He knew that look all too well and he removed his shoes before setting the box of donuts on the coffee table. 

As he turns around to face you, he lets out a quiet breath when he feels your arms wrap around him so tight that it actually makes him feel warm inside. Your face is buried into his chest and Frankie carefully wraps his arms around you, feeling your body begin to tremble. After a few seconds, he feels his shirt stain with your tears and he holds you tighter, using both hands to run along your back. 

“Let it out,” he whispers. “Let it out.”

There’s something about Frankie that makes you feel like you can be completely vulnerable, that you can finally let go of everything that you’ve been holding onto. His strong arms around your trembling frame grounds you, ensuring that if you were to physically fall, he’d be there to pick you up. You feel one of his hands move to the back of your head, gently stroking your hair back as you continue to cry into his chest. 

A few minutes pass before you slowly begin to pull away from him, just enough to wipe the tears from your face. Frankie releases his hold on you, but lets his hands rest gently on your hips, ready at a moment’s notice to pull you back into his arms if needed. 

When you finally look up at him, eyes red and brimmed with unshed tears, Frankie feels his heart break. He always enjoyed seeing the rare instances when you would let out a quiet laugh or allow yourself to smile, but now… Now, you look completely broken and he realizes how much you had kept from him, from the rest of the guys. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quietly. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just–” you sigh, taking a step back and watching his hands drop back to his sides. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop,” Frankie says quietly. “Stop apologizing, hermosa. It’s okay.” Then, he gently takes your hand and leads you to your couch. He sits down next to you and reaches over the coffee table to grab the cup of coffee to hand it to you. He sees the distance in your eyes and it’s a stark contrast from the woman he had gotten so used to seeing, always training so hard and always so focused. 

“Want type of donut would you like?” You hear Frankie ask, looking over at him as you allow the cup of coffee to warm your hands. “I didn’t know what you liked so I got a bit of everything.” 

“Glazed,” you whisper. “I like glazed.” 

“Simple,” Frankie smiles. “I like it.” 

He grabs a napkin and then places a glazed donut on top of it, setting it in front of you. The silence fills your living room and Frankie isn’t sure what he should say to make you feel better; he isn’t even sure that there is anything to say to make you see that things will get better. He’s dealt with his own demons, with his own grief, especially in an unhealthy manner, so he wasn’t the person to tell you how to deal with yours. All he could do is just be here for you. 

“Do you–” Frankie begins and then shuts his mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” 

You bite your lower lip. “Can you stop saying sorry?” you ask genuinely. “I– I’m tired of hearing it. It’s all I hear since losing my best friend.” 

Frankie nods and takes a sip of his coffee before setting it back onto the table. “Okay, hermosa. Tell me,” he sighs. “Tell me what I can do to help then.” 

You shrug, setting your cup onto the table and taking a small bite of your glazed donut. “I don’t know, Frankie.” 

Frankie bites his lower lip. He knows you’re hurting, knows that your mind is anywhere else but here with him, but he can’t help the way his heart flutters at the sound of his name leaving your lips. “Well, do you wanna talk about it? About him?” 

“He died in a car accident,” you begin. You know you need to talk about it because keeping it bottled in is becoming more and more difficult. “I– I failed him. He had always been there for me when I needed him, but when he needed me, I wasn’t there.” Tears begin to well up in your eyes again as you think about the last few months before your best friend’s death. All you could think about was the last conversation you had with him, asking why he was calling and if everything was okay and you knew, you knew that things weren’t and yet, you still decided to keep your distance. He had become a different person since he had gotten with the woman he was seeing and you didn’t want to be around her, around him, around them when you noticed the effect she had on him. 

“I should have stayed by his side. I should have–” you feel your breath catch in your throat as you keep your eyes focused on your lap. “I didn’t even get the chance to say that I’m sorry… didn’t even get to say goodbye. One minute he’s here and the next, he’s just gone.”

Frankie listens intently. He wants to tell you that he understands exactly how you’re feeling, that he and the other guys would be able to relate to you more than you think. During his time in the military, Frankie and the rest of the guys had lost plenty of men and with each loss, there was always a sense of guilt, regret, and failure that came with it. Guilt because they should have been more careful. Regret because maybe they shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Failure because they had lost men when they promised that it would be okay, that they would be safe. 

But instead, he remains quiet. He moves to rest his arm on the back of your couch, only lightly brushing his thumb across the back of your shoulder. He hopes that it’s enough of a reminder for you to know that you aren’t alone, that he’s still here. 

“How can life go on for everyone else?” you whisper quietly, voice trembling as you bring the sleeves of your hoodie to wipe away fallen tears. “I hated the fact that the day after he died, life just went on… How can that be? How can the world just continue? How can things just keep going when I’m here, stuck and without him?” You finally allow yourself to voice the thoughts that haunted you whenever you were alone. Saying it out loud made it seem so insignificant, so trivial. Of course life was going to go on. The loss only happened to you. Not everyone else. 

Frankie lets out a sigh and it’s enough for you to finally look up at him. His deep brown eyes are staring at you, soft and almost glossed over from unshed tears. You remember Frankie telling you that he and the rest of the guys were prior military and how they had lost a close friend a couple of years ago. Part of you wants to allow yourself to ask him, ask them how they can just continue their life after losing a friend, but another part of you doesn’t want to know. Because even after they lost a friend, they seem… Happy. 

And you don’t even think you’d ever get to feel that way ever again. 

“He died…” you say quietly, eyes staring into Frankie’s. “He died alone. He died without knowing how grateful I was for him, for our friendship. He died without knowing how much I cared for him, how much I would have done anything for him. He died without knowing how sorry I was that I… that I abandoned him.” Tears continuously stroll down your cheeks, eyes now red and lower lip quivering. You bunch your hands into fists, your nails digging into your skin as you feel the anger and frustration run through your veins. “It should have been me. He had so much left to live for, so many people that cared for him, and I–”

“And you do too,” Frankie finally interrupts. He reaches out to take your hands into his own. He can see the anger racking through your body, can see the white in your knuckles from how tight you were clenching your fists. He gently runs his thumbs across your knuckles, silently begging you to unclench your fists because he’s sure if you continued, you’d probably draw blood. “It’s hard to carry that guilt and regret around…” he continues. “It’s debilitating, wishing that you could just change things but knowing that you can’t.”

You nod in agreement. Every waking moment, you try to think of things that you could have done differently, things you should have said, and you’re always left to wonder if it would have made a difference. 

If you hadn’t created your distance and set your boundaries, would he still be alive? 

If he had just listened to your advice and broken up with that girl, would he still be alive? 

Would he still be alive? Would he still be alive? Would he still be alive? 

Thoughts swarm your mind and you pull away from Frankie to look down at the box of donuts, biting your lower lip. “I’m never going to get over this,” you whisper. “I’m never going to forgive myself. I’m never going to forgive her.” 

“Her?” Frankie asks. 

“His girlfriend. She–” He sees your hands bunch into fists again. “She’s the reason why we stopped talking, the reason why I distanced myself from him, why I couldn’t just be around him or them. After so many years of friendship, he chose her and it fucking hurt, Frankie. He couldn’t even see how toxic she was…”

“I’m sor–” Frankie stops himself, remembering what you had told him earlier. “Have you… Have you talked to her?”

“No.” You say with gritted teeth. “She was the reason why he got into that car that night. They were drinking and she–” You stand up, beginning to pace in your living room, fists at your side. You wanted to hit something. You wanted to scream. You just wanted your best friend back. “If I ever see her again, I’m going to beat the living shit out of her and–”

Frankie interrupts you and gently places his hands on your shoulders to stop you from pacing. You’re fuming and he can see, clear as day, that your grief from losing your best friend is not only stemmed from your guilt and regret, but also your hatred for this woman. It was a bad combination and he’s seen plenty of times what that can do to someone. 

“Did he love her?” Frankie asks.

“That’s not the point.”

He sighs and repeats, “Did he love her?” 

“He said did.”

“Was he happy?” 

“He said he was.” You bite your lower lip and stare up at Frankie. “My best friend… When he falls, he falls hard. He would have done anything for her and she– She just couldn’t stop drinking and eventually, he decided it was better to be with her than to lose her. So… He started drinking, just to keep up with her. How could that be love? How could he have been happy? He sacrificed everything just to be with her!” 

“Love makes you do stupid things,” he shrugs. 

“Yeah, well, look where love fucking got him,” you spit out. “He’s dead. He’s dead because of her. He’s supposed to be here, we’re supposed to be celebrating his birthday today and instead… I’m here without him.” 

Frankie pulls you into his arms again and almost instantly, he feels you lean against him as your body begins to shake. You’re crying again and this time, it won’t stop. Your sobs filter the entire living room, echoing down the hallway and into your bedroom. You don’t remember the last time you cried - maybe when you first found out your best friend died. You wish you could say that this was cathartic, that it felt like a relief to be able to let it all out, but it does the opposite. It’s not a relief. It’s not cathartic. All you can think about is your life without your best friend. For so long, it had always been just the two of you against the world. 

And now, you’re all alone. 

“Well, how about,” Frankie whispers, rubbing your back. “How about we go and do something he would have done today?”

“We– We were supposed to go to California, take a trip out there,” you whisper. “He wanted to see the west coast sunsets. Every week, we’d go to the beach, bring some food, and just watch the sunset.”

Frankie nods and pulls back enough to bring his hands up to wipe your tears away. His hands linger, cupping your cheeks before he lets them drop to his side. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.” 

—

You and Frankie were watching a movie when you fell asleep against him. It was the first time in a very long time that you felt like you could rest without the nagging thoughts. Talking about your feelings and your grief with Frankie did help, but it helped just enough to allow yourself to sleep. 

He looks down at you and sees you sleeping, lips parted slightly and he thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen you so… peaceful, like you’re not being weighed down by your thoughts. He remembers what you had told him earlier.

We’d go to the beach, bring some food, and just watch the sunset.

Slowly, Frankie stands from the couch and watches you lie on your side on the couch. He grabs the blanket from the back of the loveseat to drape over you before he grabs his phone and walks out to your patio. He had gotten to your apartment so early in the morning that he didn’t even realize he missed breakfast with the rest of the guys. So, when he finally looks down at his phone, he sees the missed calls and text messages from Will, Benny, and Santiago. 

Where are you, Fish? 

Getting a little bit worried here, hermano. 

Call us when you get the chance. 

Frankie knows that while he has been sober for over two years now, there will always be the concern and worry in the back of their minds that maybe he would relapse. He couldn’t even blame them; he had put them through so much in the last ten years. 

Dialing Santiago’s number, it rings only once before Frankie hears the other man on the other end.

“You missed breakfast. What happened?” 

“Do you remember what Benny told us today was?” 

There’s a long silence, followed by a quiet “shit” from Santiago. 

“She called me super early this morning and asked if I could come over and keep her company. I’ve been here ever since. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, it’s just– I couldn’t find the best time.” Frankie says with a sigh. 

“Is she doing okay?” Santiago asks, concern laced in his voice.

“No,” Frankie answers immediately. “Not at all.” 

“Shit,” Santiago repeats. “Well, I’m glad she called someone and I’m glad she called you. Are you doing okay too?” 

Frankie shrugs to himself. “I don’t know, if I’m being honest, Santi. Bringing back a lot of memories, but I– It’s hard to see her like this.”

“Do you want us to come over? Do you think she’d want us there?” 

“Maybe not at her place, but I have an idea. Can you and the rest of the guys meet me at the beach this afternoon? Buy a couple of pizzas. No alcohol. Get some blankets set up for all of us?” 

“Of course, Fish. I’ll call Benny and Will right now. Anything else?” 

“Flowers. Any kind. I’ll leave that up to you guys.” 

“You like her, don’t you?” Santiago says softly. “Haven’t seen you like this in– Well, you know, I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen you like this.” 

Frankie chuckles and turns around. He can still see you sleeping from the patio and there’s a warmth that he feels settle in the pit of his stomach. “Too early to tell, Pope.”

“Always been a bad liar, Fish.” Santiago chuckles. “But okay, we won’t push it. We’ll see you both later.” 

Frankie hangs up the phone and walks back inside. He sees you stir and bring your legs to your chest, leaving space open at the end of the couch for him to sit. When he does, you stretch your legs back out and rest it against his lap. Frankie bites his lower lip and gently rests his hands on your ankles as he turns his attention back to the television, not even paying attention to the movie that was playing. 

He knows Santiago was right, though. Frankie does like you and he feels like maybe - one day - you will feel the same way. He wishes he could take away your pain, could just hold you and tell you that things will be okay, but he can’t. All he can do is be there for you, in any way that you’ll have him. 

—

“You ready?” Frankie asks, seeing you walk down your hallway to meet him back in the living room. You had spent the rest of the day sleeping on the couch, only getting up to go to the bathroom or curl against Frankie. He can see how much you needed this, how much you needed the rest. 

“Where are we going?” You ask, grabbing your bag and draping it over your shoulder. You had changed into a pair of jeans, but keeping the oversized hoodie on. 

“You’ll see. You hungry?” 

“I can eat,” you reply, following him out of your apartment. You lock the door behind you and reach out for Frankie’s hand, finding that you like having him close, like feeling his touch. “Sorry.” You’re about to release his hand until Frankie tightens his grip around yours, pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t be. Come on.” 

You’re seated in the passenger seat of Frankie’s truck, staring out the window as you feel the wind blow in your hair. The sun is about to set in just over an hour and the temperature dropped drastically. You can feel Frankie’s eyes on you every time he stops at a red light, but with you keeping a hold on his hand the entire ride, it eases his mind. 

When Frankie pulls into the parking lot of the beach, you bite your lower lip and notice Benny’s truck when he parks right next to it. Slowly, you climb out of the car and turn to look up at him once he shuts the car off and climbs out as well, tears already beginning to well in your eyes. 

“You said you and your best friend would watch the sunset and eat some food, right?”

You nod. 

“I figured this is the closest you can get to feeling like he’s still here with you,” he says softly. “But if it’s too much–”

You interrupt him with your arms wrapping around him once more. You’re crying quietly into his chest, but this time, you feel a sense of happiness wash over you. Since losing your best friend, you had avoided going to the beach, avoided watching the sunset because you didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t realize that this was what you needed. 

“And the guys are over there, waiting for us,” Frankie whispers into your ear. “We got pizza, got some blankets set up, and we can all watch the sunset together.” 

You nod and pull away from him, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. Frankie takes your hand and laces your fingers together slowly, leading you onto the sand and walking towards the rest of the guys. You feel a warmth wash over you, like maybe things could get better, like maybe you could get through this. 

Santiago, Benny, and Will all wave in your direction and once you’re within reach, you release Frankie’s hand to hug each of them so tight. 

“Thank you,” you whisper after pulling away from each of them. “Today was just–” Tears slowly trickle down your cheeks and you bring the back of your hand to wipe them away. “Just thank you.”

“All Frankie’s idea,” Benny smiles and hands you the bouquet of flowers. “We’re here for you, always.” 

You take the flowers in your hand and clutch it to your chest, staring at the four men who have made a home in your life and you feel the gaping hole in your heart slowly begin to mend with the help of Benny, Will, Santiago, and especially Frankie. 

“You’re our girl,” Santiago says. “You won’t ever have to be alone.” 

Will nods in agreement. “And we’re always here to listen. This is something you don’t have to deal with alone.” 

You bite your lower lip and pull the four of them into a group hug. With their strong arms holding you so tight, you feel so much hope that you could get through this, that maybe you could move on with your life, that maybe this was your best friend’s doing… Sending these four guys into your life after he passed. 

“Can we eat now?” Benny chuckles, pulling away and plopping down on a blanket and opening the box of pizza. 

Santiago and Will join him as you take a seat on another blanket, bringing your legs to your chest. Frankie rests a hand next to you and he feels you lean slightly against him, head resting on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Frankie,” you whisper. “I didn’t realize that I needed this.”

“Like Santi said, hermosa,” he says quietly, looking down at you and into your eyes. “You’re our girl.”

[avastrasposts]

The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 22

I never know what to say when introducing a new chapter because I don't want to spoil anything! So just read and I hope you like it 😊😊

Series master list

Chapter 23

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings have their own post (and contain spoilers)

For once you wake up before the shrill of the alarm, the old wind-up clock still ticking away on Frankie’s bedside table. Twelve minutes until it goes off with a ring that reaches your neighbors. Since your neighbor is Pope you’re well aware of this, his loud banging on the wall almost drowning out the alarm when he’s in that mood. 

You roll over and stretch out, your movements disturbing the bed enough to pull a low growl from Frankie. His arm is warm across your waist and when you roll over to face him he tugs you closer, tucking your head under his chin. 

“Don’t wake up yet, cariño,” he mutters, his voice rough from sleep. 

“The sun woke me up,” you mumble against his neck, “it’s almost time anyway.” Frankie’s hand smooths over your body, his fingers dragging softly over your back, as always they pause over the scars on your waist, just below your ribs. The gunshot wound healed over now, only rough patches of skin on either side of your body betraying what a close call it had been that day five years ago. 

“Five years to the day, Frankie,” you say, as his fingers circle the top scar. 

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbles, his fingers leaving the scar and slipping down to cup your ass instead, “five fucking years in a QZ, almost six years of this infection bullshit, and no end in sight.” He pulls you tighter, tugging the blanket over your heads, cocooning you under his warm skin and dim light. 

Almost six years had passed, none of them easier than the next but at least you were both still alive, still together. Still in Arlington and still living in the same building as Pope, Benny and Hannah. But the effects of society coming to a grinding halt became  more and more pronounced with every year that passed. Electricity came and went, blackouts were common. Hot water was rare now and often ran out before everyone had a chance to take a shower. But those were the things you got used to eventually, like patching every item of clothing until it fell apart, duct taping shoes until the holes were too big to fix. Greasy hair, broken fingernails, always wearing clothes slightly too big because you couldn't be picky about sizes when you needed a new pair of jeans after your old ones were so threadbare you couldn’t even use them for rags. But you did anyway because the end of the world unfortunately didn’t mean the end of your period. 

Rations getting smaller and smaller was harder to deal with, going hungry most days was rough. There was some food production up and running in some parts of the country, and there were less people to feed, a lot less people. But transporting food, or anything, between QZ:s was still a very dangerous business. In the no man’s land between QZ:s, raiders and infected roamed, each lethal in their own way. Only the most hard core smugglers had the skills and the guts to leave the QZ and scavenge for supplies or trade with other smugglers. 

Unfortunately for you, that was exactly what Frankie and Pope were now doing to make the ration cards last longer. Pope had lasted less than six months with FEDRA before he got fed up with the C.O. Feigning PTSD, he got himself discharged, telling you he preferred that to risking FEDRA lock up for punching the commanding officer. Together he and Frankie signed up for menial labor jobs inside the QZ, but it didn’t take Pope long to find new smuggling partners and new routes, going back to the job he’d done in Franklin. 

At first he didn't involve Frankie, his friend working through withdrawals and treatment for his very real PTSD. Benny had tracked down a FEDRA officer who used to serve in the marines and had worked with veterans after his retirement. The elderly man, Herb, seemed to be exactly what Frankie needed. His cut the bullshit, Morales, attitude had Frankie mentally sitting up straighter after their first meeting. It took time, but little by little, he was able to use the tools Herb taught him to stop his mind from spiraling out of control. The nightmares were still there, but less frequent and less frightening, and waking up from them got easier. As they lost their power over his mind, sleep without drugs became less intimidating. Quitting them cold turkey turned out to be too difficult, but with Herb’s advice, you took control over them, giving Frankie one tablet at night to help him sleep. Gradually you gave him smaller pieces, until eventually Frankie decided he’d sleep without them. He’d still wake up in a cold sweat most nights, but now he could bring his mind under control and go back to sleep. It didn’t always work, but you made Frankie promise he’d wake you up if he couldn’t fall back to sleep after a nightmare. It made the nights less frightening when he knew he could bury his face in the crook of your neck, breathe in your sleep warm skin as you wrapped your arms around him. Sometimes that was all he needed, to pull you tight against him, feel your hands stroke his hair, down his back. Other nights he needed to talk about the nightmare, or something else, distract his mind enough so that he’d feel sleepy again. Whatever he needed, you made sure he had it, challenging him whenever his old habit of doubting his worth crept to the surface. 

You needed him as much as he needed you, he gave your life meaning in the grim reality you now lived in. If Frankie was by your side, with all the love he gave you, there was still a reason to get up every morning and face the QZ. And you made sure he knew that, that his very presence made you feel calm and safe, and above all, loved. And you made sure he always knew how much you loved him, how if you had to choose between life before the outbreak without him, and life after the outbreak with him, you’d always choose life with him, despite the cordyceps virus and the heartbreak it had brought. Frankie was the center of your universe and you didn’t let him forget that for a single moment. 

After about a year of Frankie doing menial work and meeting Herb at a makeshift office in his apartment twice a week, Pope asked Frankie if he wanted in on the smuggling. FEDRA had once again cut the number of rations they would pay and smuggling would help with that. You had to give Frankie credit, he didn’t say yes to Pope straight away, he came back that night and sat down, telling you what Pope had suggested. It scared you, the idea of Frankie, and Pope, going outside the QZ. If something happened, chances were you’d never know, they’d just never come back and you’d be left worrying and wondering. But their smuggling made sure there was enough food on the table for the three of you, and supplies that sometimes made the difference between life and death; medicines, especially antibiotics, were hard to come by and there were several people in the QZ who owed their life to Frankie and Pope being able to get their hands on certain medication. So, reluctantly, you told Frankie to work with Pope. And honestly, you’d rather they work together than with someone else. Years of serving together had made the two of them in sync, perfectly suited to handling the dangers of smuggling in and our of the QZ.

One of the dangers was being caught by FEDRA. They’d banned smuggling as soon as the QZ’s were up. Or not so much the smuggling as leaving the QZ, strict quarantine rules were in effect and anyone caught breaking them was punished. At first it had been only quarantine, fines and maybe time in a lock up. But by the time Pope asked Frankie to join him, the official punishment was public execution, although that had never been enforced yet. 

Other QZ:s had fallen when people, both smugglers and others, had snuck in after being exposed to infected. Franklin was one of them, a small group of survivors had turned up a few days after the Franklin radio tower had gone silent. They said the breakout had occurred at the main market for trading, two people had suddenly turned and those bit as the market erupted into panic had been too afraid to face FEDRA, preferring to pretend nothing had happened. In those early days, many people still chose to live in denial of the infection. 

The survivors from Franklin had been put in quarantine, half of them had turned within the day, and Arlington FEDRA had deemed it too risky to let the rest in. They’d all been executed. Pope had left FEDRA shortly afterwards, he’d been assigned to the firing squad, his eyes black when he told you the story.   

By now Frankie and Pope had been smuggling for four years, establishing routes and connections both inside and outside the QZ. Today the plan was to go on a short run outside the QZ to meet up with smugglers from a nearby, smaller QZ. They were going to a location they’d been to many times, the route cleared from infected long ago and usually very safe, at least as safe as it could be outside the QZ. But they’re meeting with a new group to set up a new trade. The group had been recommended by smugglers Pope had been working with since the beginning, so he trusted them. But meeting new people and establishing a new trade was always risky. Pope had a long scar on his right forearm as a reminder from a new trade gone wrong, only Frankie’s quick trigger finger had saved him that time. 

“I need to get up, Frankie,” you mumbled into his chest, he still had his arm around you and judging by his breathing, he’d almost fallen back to sleep.

“No,” came the drowsy reply, his arm tightening around you. “You stay here with me today, fuck everything.” 

“Lovely as that sounds, if I’m late you know they’ll dock my pay, they’ve been worse than ever lately.” You wriggle out from under his heavy arm as Frankie grumbles in protest, but he lets you go. He has to push himself out of bed too and as you head to the shower to see if there’s any hot water this morning, he sits on the bed rubbing his eyes. He’d only woken up once in the night but it had been one of his worst nightmares. It was a recurring one replaying Lucía’s last moments, the loud gunshot echoing in his mind always woke him up, and when he opened his eyes he’d see her face floating in the darkness above him. Shoving the image away, he pushes himself off the bed with a groan and heads to the bathroom. 

Frankie follows you to the shopping mall that still houses the kitchen, although the FEDRA HQ has left and moved into a warehouse area that had been unharmed in the bombing. The warehouses had been converted into barracks, storage units, and holding cells. The latter more frequently in use than ever as FEDRA cracked down with increasing force on any civil unrest in the wake of ration cuts and stifling control over the population of the QZ. 

Outside the entrance to the mall you wrap your arms around Frankie’s neck and pull him close, leaning your forehead against his. 

“Be careful and come home to me,” you whisper, the same thing you always say to him before he leaves. He nods and kisses you before pulling away. 

“I love you, stay safe, hermosa.” 

“I love you too, stay safe, Frankie.” 

When you step into the mall there’s more people than usual around, and most of them seem to be gathered at the FEDRA notice board on one side of the large area. 

“What’s going on?” you ask Kim, one of your co-workers who’s standing on the edge of the crowd. 

“They’ve cut the number of ration cards they’re paying again, and coffee is no longer available with cards, neither is powdered milk. And they’ve cut the cooking oil ration in half,” she shakes her head and adds in a low voice. “People are gonna get pissed, especially about the coffee, everyone knows coffee is still served at FEDRA HQ every day.”

Another one of your co-workers, a young man called Peter, pushes through the crowd and joins you. “C’mon, let's get to the kitchen,” he says and grabs Kim by the arm, pulling her along and jerking his head for you to follow.  “What’s going on, Pete?” you ask but he doesn’t reply, until the door into the kitchen’s changing room has closed behind you. 

“They’re banning congregating, no groups larger than two people are to meet anywhere except if you’re in a family, starting tomorrow,” he says, shrugging off his coat. 

“How are they even going to enforce that? There’s six of us in the kitchen alone, everyone works in groups larger than two. Are they going to have guards everywhere?” you ask incredulously. 

“I don’t know, but the notice said anyone reporting on illegal congregation or ‘disruptive conversations’ will be rewarded with extra ration cards.” 

“So they’re trying to make people tell on each other,” Kim says, her voice grim, “they really are fucking facists.” 

“That’s not the worst of it,” Peter adds, “from tomorrow, the curfew five pm unless you have a special pass from FEDRA, if you’re on a late shift. And being caught outside after curfew puts you in lock up for a month, and then you’re assigned to the FEDRA work detail.” 

The FEDRA work detail was made to do all the jobs no one else wanted, disposing of bodies, sewage sweeps and cleaning, or assigned to the most dangerous jobs, like clearing the area around the QZ of infected on a regular basis. If you volunteered for them it paid well, if you were assigned to it as a convict, it paid nothing. Those people lived at the FEDRA lock-up and lived off basic rations for the term of their incarceration. There was no court system so the length of the stay was arbitrary, most didn’t survive long enough to see the end of their term. 

“They’re going to have riots on their hands soon,” you said, putting away your jacket and bag in a locker. “Between ration cuts and the ban on trading clothes and shoes, not even being able to meet with friends is going to push things over the edge.” 

Peter and Kim nod as the three of you make your way into the kitchen for your shift. 

You run into Benny as you get back to the apartment block that evening. He’s still with FEDRA, sharing an apartment with Hannah two floors above Frankie and you. Today’s the first time you’ve seen him in a few days, he’s been away on assignment and it’s good to see him back and safe. It looks as if he’s had time to shower and he’s just returning with a bag of groceries, holding up the door for you after you give him a hug. It’s almost funny, before the outbreak, you wouldn’t necessarily have hugged Benny or Pope every time you saw them. But now, with the ever present risk of each goodbye being the very last, you always hug them when you see them again. It’s also why you always tell Frankie you love him and to come home to you, when he leaves. You’re well aware that he might not come home, you push that thought to the back of your mind as often as you can, but you don’t want your last words to him be something mundane like ‘see you later, babe.” 

“Do you and Frankie wanna come up for dinner tonight,” Benny asks as you make your way up the stairs with him. “Hannah won’t be back until late but I need to talk to Pope and Frankie.” 

“They’re working on the far side of the QZ today, I’m not sure when they’ll be back,” you tell him, “but if they’re back in time for dinner we’d love to come up.” You’re pretty sure Benny knows exactly what Pope and Frankie does, how they supplement the ration cards they make doing odd jobs for FEDRA, but it’s never been acknowledged so you keep it vague. 

Benny nods and pauses on your landing, “Come up when you can, they can join us when they’re back,” he says, “I was given a nice bottle of whiskey by a guy today, I saved his ass a couple of days ago, guess he was feeling grateful.” 

“Sure, let me just shower and change and I’ll be right up,” you reply, giving Benny a wave. 

A short, and cold, shower later you’ve changed and left a note for Frankie that you’re at Benny’s place. He lets you in when you knock on the door two floors up. You’ve brought some leftover arepas from last night, corn flour is one of the crops not affected by the cordyceps fungus and is now a staple in the QZ. . 

“I miss bread so much,” you grumble as you hand the arepas to Benny, and he nods. 

“I’d kill for a grilled cheese,” he nods and your mouth waters at the thought of it. 

“And pizza,” you drool and Benny groans. 

“Don’t, don't make me think of pizza. That I really would kill for!” 

There were attempts at growing wheat crops that weren’t susceptible to the cordyceps fungus, but so far the batches produced were too small. And tending the fields was dangerous work when they weren’t fenced off. And you needed a lot of fence to fence off whole fields. But FEDRA often informed the public of encouraging news like these to keep morale up, and it was needed. Almost six years into the outbreak, morale was at an all time low and falling. There were still reports of vaccine research but so far there wasn’t even a way to slow down the infection once someone was bit and you remained skeptical to all reports of a vaccine. 

Benny pours you a generous measure of the whiskey and you laugh as you see the four fingers in your glass. 

“Trying to get me drunk, Benny?” 

“Na, if I remember correctly, tequila is your poison,” Benny chuckles and pours himself an equally large glass.

“I’m never drinking tequila again, even if you do find a bottle,” you grin. “Did Frankie tell you that’s how I blurted out that I love him the first time? Way too drunk for that kind of honesty.” 

“No, he never told me about that,” Benny turns down the heat on the stew simmering on the stove and sinks down onto the couch, you curl up in the opposite corner with your drink.

“It was that time I accidentally asked you if you were any good in bed,” you laugh and Benny grins. 

“I vaguely remember, I was pretty drunk myself that night,” he chuckles and sips the whiskey.

“Did you ever manage to hook up with that blonde you were trying to make me help you with?” 

“No, but I went home with her friend instead,” Benny gives you a wicked grin and raises his glass to you in a toast across the sofa.

“Of course you did,” you snort, toasting him back. 

“So you told Fish you love him while drunk on tequila?” Benny asks when he puts his glass down. “I always thought he was the first to crack and declared his undying devotion to you on your second date.” He’s grinning and you lean across and slap his arm.

“Be nice, Benjamin,” you chuckle before leaning back, “I think we were both pretty nervous about saying it, Frankie has so much baggage and I had a pretty shitty relationship behind me too. So while drunk on tequila I told him, while we were still at that bar, he took it well though, thank god.” 

“He was crazy about you from the first night,” Benny smiles at you, “I’ve never seen him so relaxed around someone he was dating as he did that time you guys ran into me and Will at breakfast, remember?” 

“Vividly,” you laugh, “Frankie might’ve been relaxed around me, but he was not happy you guys were there.”

“Was that a breakfast date or had you just…?” Benny shoots you another wicked grin and you have to lean over and slap his arm again. “I’m just asking,” he laughs, swatting your hand away, “Frankie did look very pleased, if you know what I mean.” 

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help but laugh, Benny was right on the money of course, that was the morning Frankie had proved he could make you come four times in short succession, turning your legs to jelly in the process. 

“What do you think, Benjamin?” you snigger and he tilts his head back and laughs out loud. 

“I fucking knew it!” 

“It was almost seven years ago, Ben, why do you even care?” you giggle, Benny has an infectious laugh and it’s impossible to be offended by his question. 

“Because I like being right, even if I had to wait seven years to confirm it,” he raises his almost empty glass to you in another toast. “To Catfish, and his enormous dick.”

You’ve raised your glass but almost drop it as you gasp with laughter, doubling over on the couch. “You are the fucking worst, Ben!” 

“Hey, I’ve been in enough changing rooms with Fish to know he’s packing some serious business, I’m just happy you get to enjoy it.” Benny’s laughing almost as hard as you are and neither of you hear the knock on the door. 

“Look at you two, getting drunk on a Tuesday evening,” Pope snorts as he looks in on the two of you on the couch from Benny’s front door. Frankie’s standing behind him, smiling at you. 

“Hey guys!” Benny calls, “We’re just reminiscing about some serious business,” he waves his drink in your direction with a grin, “C’mon in and join us, we’re sharing aaaaaall the stories.” You start giggling again, the whiskey has gone straight to your head and you feel all fuzzy around the edges, and even more relaxed now that Frankie is home safe. He pulls off his boots and sinks down behind you on the couch, kissing your cheek from behind as he pulls you into his chest. 

“Hermosa, did you let Benny get you drunk?” he smiles, the cool tip of his nose skating across your skin as you lean back into him. 

“Only a little, just a little bit tipsy,” you say, “I have no tolerance for alcohol these days.” Frankie feels warm and solid behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist and you drop your head back onto his shoulder, turning your head so that you can breathe him in as you press your lips to his warm skin. 

“Oh, she’s so drunk,” you hear Pope chuckle from across the room. 

“She’s not drunk, she only had a glass of whiskey,” Benny says, getting up to heat up the stew for dinner.

“Did you pour the drink, cariño? Or did you let Benny serve you? Because I’ve seen the size of his servings.”

“It was a pretty big drink,” you admit, “but I didn’t finish it,” you wave your hand at the table where your glass still sits. 

“That glass is empty,” Pope says and you pull yourself up from Frankie and look down at the very empty glass.

“Oh, I guess I did drink it all,” you say, and drop your head back on Frankie’s shoulder while he chuckles, you can feel his chest vibrating under you. “Benny distracted me, we were talking about you and that time we had breakfast with him and Will.” 

“You guys had totally just done it,” you hear Benny giggle from the kitchen and Pope snorts, he’s heating up the arepas, the smell of toasted corn starting to spread through the apartment. 

“Benjamin,” Frankie sighs from behind you, “don’t make me smack you.” 

“I’d like to see you try, Morales,” Benny challenges with a grin, raising his fists like a boxing champ, “Actually, I’d use your girl as a stand in, she’s lethal these days.” Benny adds and you smile at him. Praise from Benny on your fighting skills was rare and didn’t come easy. He was a tough teacher but he’d been drilling you every week since your gunshot wound had healed, taking his assignment from Frankie seriously. These days you felt fairly certain there were few people in the QZ who’d be able to take you in a fight, with the exception of Benny, and maybe Frankie and Pope. Benny didn’t even pull his punches with you any more, and he was finding it harder and harder to actually get a hit in without going into full combat mode. 

“Alright, dinner’s ready, c’mon on over,” Ben says, turning off the stove, and Frankie pulls you to your feet. 

“Let’s get some dinner into you, ‘not drunk girl’,” he smiles as you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes and bumping your nose to his. 

“I didn’t tell him how you made me come four times that morning,” you whisper and to your delight, Frankie’s ears turn pink as a blush creeps up his throat. He quickly checks behind him to make sure Pope and Ben didn’t hear but they’re busy, before he turns back to you. 

“And I’ve beaten that record several times since,” he smirks, an unusually smug look on his face, as he drops a peck on your nose.

Benny’s stew is mostly beans and root vegetables, a few bits of rabbit to add some flavor. There’s a small rabbit farm in the QZ, set up in one of the parks, and despite the rabbit population being small, there was sometimes rabbit meat available with ration cards, especially if you were high up in FEDRA as Benny was.

Almost six years in FEDRA had seen Benny climb almost to the top, but still one rung under the final top layer. The man in charge of FEDRA was still the C.O. who had taken over shortly after you’d arrived in Arlington, an obnoxious scumbag named Cox. And for whatever reason, he detested Benny. Personally you thought it was because Benny was respected and liked by those who served under him, something Cox was not. And Benny wasn’t one to suck up to the higher ups just to get a promotion, you had to earn his respect. Cox was a weak leader, surrounding himself with ‘yes men’ by giving them special privileges and collecting favors. Benny refused to play his game so he was stuck as patrol leader with few advantages despite being one of the longest serving soldiers in FEDRA. 

As it turned out, this was the reason Benny wanted to talk to Pope and Frankie tonight. You felt yourself sobering up, helped by the food and the water Frankie had poured for you and at the end of the meal, you all returned to Benny’s couch, the men with whiskies in their hands, you with a coffee. 

“How did the smuggling run go today?” Ben asks, looking at Pope, who all but sputters into his drink. He throws a quick glance at Frankie who looks equally flustered before he looks back at Ben. 

“Ben, dude, I don’t know….”

“Cut the bullshit, Pope, I’m not blind.” Ben leans back on the couch and puts his feet up on the low table. “I know you and Frankie have been smuggling for years. And I want in.” 

You could’ve knocked Frankie and Pope over with a couple of feathers, they exchange another glance and Pope slowly puts his glass down on the table, “What do you want in on, Ben?” 

“Listen, Cox is being worse than ever. The lack of supplies means he’s got less to pay his inner circle of cronies, who keep him in charge. So to compensate, he’s cutting the rations for everyone, FEDRA soldiers too.” 

“Why is Arlington so low on supplies?” you ask. “From what we hear, other QZ’s are doing alright, no ration cuts and none of this bullshit about stopping people from meeting and hanging out.” 

“Because Cox knows he needs his supporters happy if he’s to stay in power,” Benny says, “and he’s having to give them more and more supplies.” 

The inner circle around Cox, the ‘yes men’, are all intimidating, grim looking men, quick to anger and quick to use violence to get their way. The inhabitants of the QZ fear them and the arbitrary punishment they deal out. That fear keeps Cox in power, no one challenges him, not even the soldiers. You’d asked Benny about it a couple of times and he was certain Cox would order him on a suicide mission the second he sensed that Benny was challenging his power. And with Hannah to look after, he wasn’t prepared to risk it, so he kept his head down and was passed over for promotion. But now he was prepared to risk getting involved in smuggling, things must be bad, you thought. 

“I can supply you guys with information,” Ben says, looking at Pope and then Frankie when neither of them say anything. “I know the patrol routes, the times, and I see all the reports of supplies that are found. With my intel you could even hit some of the supply caches outside the QZ.” 

Frankie, always the quiet one, who thinks before he speaks, looks over at Pope with raised eyebrows, questioning him. He shrugs his shoulders and looks over at Ben, “I’m not gonna pretend your help wouldn’t be very useful, man.” Pope leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking up at Ben under his eyebrows, “But if you get caught, or Cox catches wind of you helping smugglers, you’ll be out of FEDRA and he’ll probably put you on FEDRA work detail if he can, proof or no proof.” 

“I’d like to see him try,” Benny growls, leaning forward to match Pope’s position. “This situation with Cox is going to blow up, sooner or later. And I don’t mean that I’ll lose my temper and punch him. The QZ is going to blow up, people were already unhappy, and with these new regulations…” Benny’s voice trails off as he mimics a bomb going off. 

“People at the kitchen were not happy about the new rules,” you say, “with FEDRA trying to get people to snitch on each other, it really feels like it’s turning into a police state.” 

Benny nods, “Things are brewing, and Cox is petrified, hence the new rules, but he just made things worse. And if things do blow up, I wanna be on the right side, and that side won’t be FEDRA.” 

“Ok,” Pope says, “if you want in, Benny, I’m fine with that, of course,” Frankie nods in agreement as Pope continues. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re risking.” 

“I know, don’t worry about it.” Benny replies, “And I’ll get you as much info as possible but eventually I have to leave FEDRA, and then I wanna join you outside the wall too.” 

You’ve been listening to the exchange with growing unease, it had always felt like Benny being in FEDRA gave both you and the guys an extra layer of protection, if something went wrong. But with Benny talking about how the QZ might erupt into violence and him leaving FEDRA made you nervous. Life was hard enough without having to worry about FEDRA’s unjust rules and on top of it all, with Pope, Frankie and now Benny, involved in smuggling, you feel like you were the only one not helping out. Just continuing to work for FEDRA in feeding the soldiers and bringing in less and less ration cards. 

“Maybe there’s something I can help with too,” you say, “like be a look out for when you guys come and go.” Frankie is sitting next to you and even before you’ve finished the sentence you can see him shaking his head but you ignore him and look at Pope, “Santi, you’ve said a couple of times you’ve had close calls because you had no early warning of patrols, maybe I could help with that?” Pope opens his mouth to answer but Frankie cuts him off, “No, I’m not letting you get involved with smuggling, cariño,” his hand is around your wrist and he’s squeezing it gently to get your attention, his eyes suddenly anxious. “I wouldn’t be able to focus on what we’re doing if I know you’re out there too, I need to know you’re safe so that I can concentrate.” 

“She’d be safe, Fish,” Pope interjects, “She’d be in one of our look outs inside the wall, just keeping an eye out fo-.” Frankie gives Pope such a dark look, it cuts him off and Frankie turns back to you. 

“I know you want to help, but I can’t let you, please, cariño, you’ve got to understand that.” 

You put your hand over Frankie’s and nod, “Ok, I understand Frankie, I won’t push it.” You see his eyes soften as he puts his hand on your cheek. 

“Thank you, hermosa.” 

The front door opens and Hannah walks in, looking tired and annoyed, just returning from her evening shift at the kitchen. You often worked the same shifts but recently they hadn’t been overlapping. 

You all greet her as she slumps down into the couch next to Santi and he gives her a hug, her head dropping onto his shoulder with a big yawn. 

“Let me get you some dinner,” Benny says and gets up, “Do you want a whiskey too? I got some good stuff today.” 

“A tiny, tiny one, thanks Ben,” she says, and twists her back around, stretching out her sore muscles. 

“Come here, hermana, let me help,” Santi says and makes her shift so that he’s behind her and can dig his thumbs into her shoulders, rubbing over the knots. Hannah sighs and drops her head forward as his thumbs work their way across her back. 

“Thanks, that feels amazing.” 

“Tough shift, you’re back kinda late?” you ask, used to how exhausting the evening shifts can be in the kitchen. 

“Yeah, but I wasn’t late because of the shift,” she replies. “You guys heard about the new curfew?” 

“Yeah, but that’s not in effect until tomorrow,” Ben says, coming back in and putting a bowl of stew on the table alongside a fairly large whiskey. 

“Tell that to Cox’s guys,” she scoffs. “They stopped a bunch of us coming back from the kitchen and demanded to see our permits and then threatened to throw us in lock up when none of us had any. I told them that’s only from tomorrow!” You see her eyes flash with anger and Santi taps her shoulders to make her relax again. “One guy, Peter, you know him,” Hannah looks over at you and you nod, you’d talked to him only this morning, “he told them they had no right stopping us now, that they were out of line and they grabbed him and started beating him up!” 

“What?” Benny spits out, “I’m gonna fucking throw them in lock up!” 

“Is he ok, Hannah?” you ask and she shakes her head. “I don’t know, they took him in  for ‘disturbing the peace’, he was bleeding but not too badly. But the fucking nerve on them!”

“I’ll check on him tomorrow,” Ben growls, “make sure he’s ok and get him out of there.” 

“And they let the rest of you go?” Santi asks, his hand still rubbing her shoulders. 

“Yeah, I guess they got the action they wanted, beating some poor guy up,” Hannah sighs, rubbing her hand over her face before picking up the bowl of stew. 

Later that night, as Frankie crawls into bed next to you, he has a worried look on his face again. 

“I don’t like the sound of what’s happening in the QZ, with Cox and his guys,” he says, pulling the covers up over you both and propping himself up on his elbow so that he can look at you. “Please be careful, and maybe come straight back home after your shifts, unless you absolutely have to go somewhere else.” 

“I’ll be fine, Frankie, you know me. I always keep my head down and stay out of their way,” you cup his cheek, running your fingers over his scruffy beard and he gives you a crooked smile. 

“I know, but you know me too, I always worry about you.” 

He lets you pull him closer and you easily find his lips with yours, making him part them for your tongue as he sinks down next to you. You give him a soft peck before you tuck yourself into the crook of his neck, his arms finding their places around your waist and under your head. 

“Love you, Frankie,” you mumble, sleep pulling you under. 

“Love you to, hermosa,” he whispers close to your ear, pulling you a little bit tighter against himself. 

Of course it was Hannah that became the spark. Hannah, the high school teacher, who Will had fallen in love with and married because her heart was so firmly in the right place, who kept his head steady with her unwavering instinct to protect the weak and always sided with the troubled teens at her school. For as long as Will and the guys had known her, she’d taken in every stray she came across, cats, dogs, hedgehogs, birds, kids. If there was a small creature, lost or injured, Hannah would take it in and nurse it back to health. The running joke was of course that Will was one of her strays, lost after years in the military, finding a woman who saw past his hard core military persona and let him find peace with her. 

While you kept your head down and avoided the FEDRA soldiers, especially the ones you knew were close to Cox, Hannah couldn’t keep silent when she saw someone being treated badly. 

And that got her into trouble and ignited the QZ.

Chapter 23

Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko  @javicstories @nunya7394 @welcometothepedroverse @harriedandharassed @meveispunk @hiroikegawa

[gracie7209]

Amaryllis Epilogue

Pairing: Frankie x f!Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Warnings: Fluff, fluff, fluffy-fluff, reflection- (of more than one sort? I’m on one today. Don’t mind me lol), happiness, loved ones, we get to meet Reader’s momma! (Her English isn’t great so we will see her and Reader speaking Spanish) tiny sliver of angst? Lemme know if I forgot anything!

Summary: Just before your lives are set to change yet again, you and Frankie each get a moment alone to reflect on how life has brought you to where you are now. Santi saves the day yet again!

A/N: Guys…… This is it! We have officially officially reached the end of this story and I’m a whole mess of emotions. The has been such a labor of love and learning for me. It’s my very first fic and also the very first piece of writing I have ever shared with anyone. As previously mentioned, I have several new WIPs and I cannot WAIT to get to work on them! For everyone who has commented, liked, reblogged, asked questions or shown even the tiniest bit of love for my little story, I just want to thank you with everything I have. I have wanted to write since I was little, but could never put pen to paper until I forced myself to write a little 100 word Drabble, which literally turned into this series. The Pedro fandom alone has literally changed my life in so many ways and I will forever be grateful. So anyways....... Thank you all so much!!!!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

When he sees himself in the mirror, Frankie is all nerves.

Checking and rechecking his hair, making sure his tie isn’t crooked… worrying the little patch in his scruffy beard that refuses to fill in.

His palms are sweating and his stomach is doing flips, but he’s unbelievably HAPPY.

He never thought he would be here. Never thought he would ever want to be doing this, but you had changed his way of thinking in more ways than one.

It had always terrified him to feel as though he were tied to something. Or so he thought…

In reality, he never felt he was worth enough for someone to ever want to be tied to him. The things he had done, the horrors he’d seen? The nightmares he still endured would run off anyone who might be even the slightest bit interested. Damaged…

Valid.

He was damaged. There was no way to come out from that other side and not be. But to those who weren’t there? Ones who could never understand what he’d been through? They would only pity him and he didn’t want that.

He just wanted understanding. Wanted someone to accept him as he was, without trying to fix him.

And then there was you. You never looked at him like he was damaged. You knew about things and yet you never held anything against him. You knew the atrocities he’d seen and those he had committed, yet you never backed away from him or looked down on him.

From the beginning, Frankie felt a connection to you. He didn’t know what you’d been through at the time, but there was an understanding there - “We’re not defined by our experiences Frankie,” you’d tell him.

“We simply learn from our mistakes, grow into better people, and if we are genuine, that’s all that really matters. —You yourself told me something similar at one time, remember?”

Frankie smirks at the memory. Shaking his head, as he gets back to the task at hand.

...

He doesn’t think he can tie it any better, so he takes one final look, takes a deep breath and smiles at himself in the oversized mirror. Just a small half smile, knowing that what he was about to do was going to change his life forever….

And he was ready.

—

It doesn’t start to sink in until about ten minutes beforehand that you are actually going to marry Frankie today. You’re in the small guest room, waiting for your mother to stop fussing over you already and to let you look in the mirror. “Mija, todo tiene que ser perfecta!” (Everything has to be perfect)

“Mamà, está bien... ¿puedo mirar ahora? Ya casi es hora de irse..." (It’s ok….. can I look now? It’s almost time to go…)” There’s no malice in your tone as your mouth turns up into a silly smile that you just can’t seem to hold back.

“Ah, si mi hermosa luz, creo que estes lista. Ven agora, and a y mira.”(Ah yes my beautiful light, I believe you are ready. Come now, go ahead and look.)

You stand up and slowly walk over to the full length mirror. The look on your face doesn’t at all match the sheer joy you feel in your chest. The initial shock wears off, but the weight of the moment hits you then; You’re marrying Frankie today. This incredible man who barreled his way into your life and decided he wanted to stay.

To see yourself in your mother’s wedding gown and jewelry, knowing that Frankie was waiting for you had your eyes welling up with tears. You silently prayed they stayed put as your mother had fussed with your makeup for a small eternity and Lord help you if you messed it up. So, you forced the tears back, albeit they were happy, joyous, singing to the choir tears that would surely fall once everything was said and done. You were more certain now in this choice, in Frankie, than at any other time in your life..

You gave yourself one final look in the mirror before turning back to your mother. Grabbing her small hands in yours and kissing her forehead, you silently thanked her for everything she had done for you; today and everyday.

“Ok Mija?”

“Si Mamà, Estoy lista.” (Yes, I’m ready.)

—

The ceremony was modest, with only close family and friends in attendance, but you were blessed beyond reason.

Those in attendance included your mother, who had brought along your Aunt and your two little cousins all the way from Cuba. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and this was the first time you’d gotten the chance to meet the little ones.

Frankie’s Mom and Step-Dad had flown in from Texas along with his older sister, which had been a surprise to the both of you, having never gotten to meet them prior. They welcomed you with nothing but warmth and love. Your previous apprehension at making a good impression, falling away the moment his mother wrapped you in her arms as she introduced herself.

She also took little to no time in latching onto your and soon-to-be Frankie’s son, her Grandson. Who she happily spoiled rotten from the get go and volunteered to be in charge of during the ceremony, giving your own mother a well deserved break as she had been deemed (by herself) as the primary babysitter.

And of course, Santi, Will and Benny were front and center. They would’ve all been groomsmen if you and Frankie had decided to have a wedding party. Instead you both opted for just a simple service. Santi would still supply the rings, but aside from the preacher, it would only be you and Frankie standing at the altar.

—

It was time.

You took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly as you turned the small corner to make your way to Frankie.

As you slowly made your way down the aisle, you didn’t expect to become breathless at the sight before you.

The expectation was that, the Bride-to-be would walk in and a hush would wash itself throughout the room. All eyes on her as she made her way to alter to join her fiancé.

You were sure your anxiety would rear its ugly head at being the center of attention, and had tried to give yourself a pep talk before walking inside. However, the moment you laid eyes on Frankie, you nearly stopped in your tracks.

You realized at that moment that you had never seen Frankie wear anything remotely resembling dress attire, let alone a suit and tie.

It was always jeans and a t-shirt, jacket when necessary and work boots… always work boots. He looked good on any given day and there had never been an occasion up until that point for him to “dress up.” But, you couldn’t take your eyes off of him…

His hair was still a disheveled mess of curls that you loved to run your fingers through. Not too long, but long enough that the ends would curl behind his ears. He just wouldn’t be Frankie without them, so you were grateful he didn’t try to tame them back. He was also wearing his glasses, which he had been trying to wear more and more these days as he couldn’t stand to wear his contacts after having gone without them for so long.

His tux was your normal coat and pants, but completely white, with a black bowtie and shoes with a shine that could blind a person if they got too close. You don’t think you have ever seen someone so beautiful in your life and he was yours.

You had managed to keep your pace steady all the way to the alter, even though you had half a mind to just run and get yourself there that much faster. Your mother was waiting up front to take your bouquet and give you over to the man you truly wanted to spend your life with. She kissed your cheek before turning to Frankie and offering him your hand. As he took it she wrapped both yours and Frankie’s hands in hers, saying she loved you both and giving a firm squeeze before letting you go and sitting back down at her seat in the front.

Frankie took both of your hands and whispered from under his messy bangs, “Are you ready?”

You couldn’t speak so you just nodded, trying not to cry before the preacher even had a chance to talk.

You tried to concentrate on the words being said, the prayer being read to the audience, but you could only focus on Frankie’s smile and his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles into your hands. You didn’t know why you were so nervous, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. Frankie was sure as stone and after you both repeated your vows and placed the rings on each others’ fingers, Frankie lifted your veil, seeing your lips quirk up into a smile and he kissed you. In front of all of the people who mattered to you the most in this world.

His kiss was equal parts strong and soft with his hand coming to your cheek while the other wrapped around your waist. You didn’t dip, but he held almost all of your weight as he put his entire life into that kiss. Letting you and everyone else know that you were it for him.

—

When you both came up for air, there was nothing but big smiles and happy tears from everyone around. Benny was hooping and hollering, and even Will had his hand to his mouth letting out a piercing whistle that echoed throughout the church. Santi was clapping along with the others, with an almost forlorn expression that seamlessly slipped back into a playful smile once Benny clapped him on the shoulder, joining in with everyone else in raining congratulations on the happy couple. Frankie took your hand and raised them both entwined up toward the sky as you walked back down the aisle, side by side, as husband and wife. The both of you more than ready to begin this new chapter in your lives.

Together.

—

—

Two hours earlier -

“Rings, rings…. Uh, shit!” Santi is looking around frantically, shuffling papers and patting down his pockets, seemingly having misplaced the rings he was in charge of.

“Haha, very funny pendejo…. Now’s really not the time to be fuckin’ around…” Frankie’s voice is playful, but when he looks over at Santi, he sees the panic starting to set in.

“Fuck man, seriously? You had one job… !” Frankie is pacing now alongside Santi as they both desperately search for the missing rings.

“Wait!! Wait, oh! Shit haha, we’re good, we’re good, man. We're fine, everything's fine... I just left them on the kitchen table after I grabbed the mail this morning. I only live like ten minutes away from here, I’ll be right back!”

“Jesus Pope! I about lost my goddamn ass over here man… Shit, just go grab them and come straight back, ok?”

“Alright, alright…. You need anything else while I’m out?”

“For fucks sake Pope! Just go!”

“Yep, yep on it!” At that, Santi runs out the door, leaving Frankie to his thoughts for the moment.

He sits down on the little couch in the sitting area and puts his head in his hands. He’s nervous and he wants this day to go perfectly, but he actually starts to laugh when he thinks about the circumstances.

All of this fuss over rings, when in reality, they were just a symbol. A token to show the world that you were his person, and he was yours. And even if Pope had lost them, it honestly wouldn’t change a thing. He was marrying you today, with or without a ring, and he could hardly wait.

—

It only takes Santi about eight minutes to get to his place. Possibly breaking a few speed limits to do so, but he did not want to be the cause of something ruining this day for either of you.

He goes inside and sees the ring boxes sitting right there on the table next to the untouched pile of mail. He lets out a deep breath, muttering under his breath, "Thank you, God!" Checking inside each box, making absolutely sure he had everything before putting them safely in his jacket pocket. Picking up the stack of mail, he quickly skims through it out of habit. Finding an envelope in the mix with only his name and address handwritten on the front with no return address.

He carefully opens it, revealing a small slip of folded paper. On the inside is a jumbled set of numbers and symbols…

Ones that he recognizes instantly—

—

—

Coordinates.

Coordinates to the money stolen out of the walls of Lorea’s house before it was burned to the ground. Money that was dumped in a ravine to get rid of extra weight that made flying too dangerous. Coordinates that only he, Will, and Benny knew about. Aside from one other person.

Tom.

Tom had found the money.

—

—

Taglist: @boliv-jenta @just-here-for-the-moment @quica-quica-quica @heythere-mel @sunnysidekit @dashavau @queridopascal @queridopascal-main @hnt-escape @rhoorl @readingiskeepingmegoing @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @bitchwitch1981 @jb2856 @mymo-n @littlemisspascal @tanzthompson @luciferiorbxtch @spookyxsam @imaswellkid @harriedandharassed @autumnleaves1991-blog @wildemaven @pastelnap @pimosworld @alwaysdjarin

A/N: Whoops!

*But seriously, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all for reading. It absolutely means the world to me 🥹

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me

Series, ongoing

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

Week after week, under the crushing weight of his body, you learn to find yourself. Week after week, under the reverence of your touch, he allows himself to heal. Why can’t this last forever, when you’re so good to each other?

Set a few months after the TF events. 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC fem!Reader Written in reader format but Reader is an OFC. There are sparse but still present physical descriptions, she has a thorough background, and a name.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: THERE WILL BE NO TRIGGER WARNINGS ON INDIVIDUAL CHAPTERS. So please tread carefully because there will be (blood) (kidding, just mine) mentions of: PTSD, death, infidelity, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, stomach bug & hospitalization, light bondage, rough sex, size kink taken to the next level, lots of bodily fluids (come spit and sweat, sweat come and spit, the usual suspects), questionable (very bad) decisions, unprotected sex like woa, intense darker Frankie, where’s my feminism at, this man, this man, this man. You know the drill.

A/N: alright orange besties, here we go again, I once more locked up Frankie in a bedroom with a girl... More or less an alternate exploration of my favourite tropes: love at first sight, soulmates, forever love, pleasure and pain, hard sex/sweet love, flourishing through a lover's care and attention, Frankie being a B I G boy... Are you in? 🥺 Also, I’ve never set a foot in Florida, bear with me, I'm trying my best. This is going to be a little rougher kind of Frankie, but still our Pilot™️. I hope you enjoy the flight 🧡 

A very special and heartfelt orange THANK YOU to my love @deadmantis for the moodboards & inspos that went straight into the header for this series 🧡 Deadmantis, I love you in every colour.

Chapters

Prologue - In The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Dirt

Chapter 2 - Closer

Chapter 3 - The Man At The Frontier

Chapter 4 - Frankie

Chapter 5 - Never let me go

Chapter 6 - ...

Epilogue - ...

Playlist

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Summer House

Coming sometime in 2024

Explicit 🔞 NO minors allowed

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Series tags: is it even going to be a series? Who knows 🤷🏻‍♀️ | childhood friends to enemies(ish) to lovers | virgin!Reader | college AU | infidelity | summer romance angst | probably will be a very open ending, you've been warned | no physical descriptions of Reader

I tried to fight it, I really did. I was convinced that I didn't have the time or the headspace to start a fic, and I still am not entirely convinced otherwise, but this idea just won't leave me alone.

It's literally been a year since I teased this fic (I've already written a soulmates AU of it before the fic was even written lmao), and it has pivoted, so it's not exactly the same idea as it was when I first conceived it. It's 'edgier' than my other fics, we're going full in messy with this one besties (inspired by none other than my love @imaswellkid).

I can't promise when this will be written, and I don't know what form it will take or how long it will be, but I've scribbled down dialogue and scenes and they're just playing and replaying behind my eyelids when I try to go to sleep. I'm itching to get it down on metaphorical paper.

For now, a roughly edited sneak peek:

You should know better. You know you shouldn’t. Not when it’s your first time, not when his girlfriend is asleep in his bed two floors above, not to mention the rest of the guys - what they would say, what they would do if they ever find out -

But it’s Frankie. Your Frankie. Not that it matters he’s not actually yours. Not when he’s staring down at you the way he is right now, teeth catching his full bottom lip, sleep-tousled curls brushing those eyes you’d know anywhere.

[wayfaringhoax]

Enigma

A Sequel to Riddles

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x Female Reader

Word Count: 11.5k+

Rating: Explicit. 18+ MDNI

Summary: No longer just friends with benefits, your relationship with Frankie is moving to the next level. Now that you’re an established couple, how will the two of you cope when your insecurities grow stronger?

This is the sequel to this fic. Please consider reading part one first, for the best possible reading experience.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (dirty talk, slight dom/sub dynamics, oral sex, unprotected sex, edging, one use of a safeword, (1) time aftercare is forgotten, roleplay). Swearing, lots of angst, discussion of insecurities, unhealthy family/friend relationships, consumption of alcohol, references to drugs and addiction. 

Author’s Note: This baby is finally finished. Thank you to everyone who’s left feedback on Riddles, I appreciate you so much. The idea for this fic initially felt super ambitious, but I’m so happy I stuck with it, as I’m really proud of this. I hope you enjoy it!

To you, Francisco Morales was an enigma.

Whenever you thought you had this man figured out, he’d do something that would surprise you and make you realise that, perhaps, there was so much more beneath the surface left for you to uncover. 

Like right now, for instance, you were learning just how much he loved verbal praise. 

You’re dressed in a cute lavender lace set, having bought the lingerie just for him, and you’re spread out beneath him like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Your eyes are daring him to take control, and you want him to know that you dolled yourself up for his pleasure. Though, the darkness clouding his irises suggests he knows just what you did, and that it’s all for him. 

But he needs to hear it. And you’re more than willing to lather it on thick for his enjoyment.

“Pretty.”, he huffs out as his fingers toy with the miniature satin bow on your panties. It’s situated right on top of your hip, teasing him, as he knows it’s the only thing holding the fabric together. It would be so easy. All it needs is a gentle tug and he’d have you bare, exposed and at his mercy. 

And Frankie knows exactly what awaits him underneath the lace: your soaked centre, leaking in anticipation. He also knows your little clit will be so swollen, peeking out from between your lips as it aches for stimulation. 

Frankie casts his scrutinising gaze to the tops of your inner thighs, and what he sees there confirms his suspicions. You’d made a mess of yourself. The way your juices are smeared over the most tender part of your thighs has his mouth feeling dry. But he wants to delay his gratification and tease you further.

Frankie pulls up on the bow, causing your panties to ride up and you let out a pitiful mewl at the way the fabric snags between your lips. The pressure is firm yet teasing, and you conclude that you’ll jump through all of this man’s hoops tonight; prepared to do whatever he asks of you. 

“Bonita…” he drawls. “What’s all this?

He’s referring to the lace adorning your body, and so you tell him with a naughty smile. “It’s my “fuck me all night long” outfit. Do you like it?”

“Hah.”, he chuckles dryly.

“Nice try, baby. I’m asking the questions right now.”

His no-nonsense tone has you soaking the expensive fabric between your legs, again, and you know he’s not going to ease up any time soon.

After he’s sure you’ve processed his words, he continues with another question.

“And who’s it for?”

“You, Frankie. It’s all for you, baby.”, you tell him, and the pitch of your voice assures him that you’re worked up enough to keep playing along.

He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, and you think he’s about to push his thumb past it, so you open up. But as your tongue peeks out, he pulls away. And you’re left feeling so untouched.

Then, he moves his wide hands down your body to splay across your thighs. Frankie squeezes and caresses the muscles there, allowing your juices to soak his fingers in the worst kind of way. 

The sound of your own whine brings you back down to earth, as Frankie pinches your skin, only millimeters away from your centre. You were drifting and he needed your full attention.

His eyes are hungry, but you also notice a hint of vulnerability in them too, and you realise that Frankie’s need for praise might run deeper than just a kink. 

“What’s all for me?”, says Frankie with a hint of mockery. “Tell me, baby. Tell me exactly what you did before I came over.”

You’re writhing, hands fisting the sheets as you concede. “I-I got all pretty for you. I did my hair. My nails. M-my make up just how you like. And I picked out this lace set, too.”

Your lover gives you a moment, knowing you have more to offer him.

“Frankie”, you purr. “I just wanted to look good for you. Make you feel good. Make you feel needed.”, and Frankie’s touched by the softness of your words. 

You move your right hand to cover his over your thigh, wanting to feel closer during such an intimate moment. You’d both gotten a lot better at communicating your needs, mostly when it came to sex, but you were still taking baby steps in the right direction, and that deserved commendation.

Pulling his hand up to lay across your stomach, you tell him with complete earnestness. “It’s all for you, baby.”

And something inside of Frankie shifts. He’s got a good momentum going, and he’d be a fool to let this moment go.

So, he pulls a little harder on the bow, causing it to unravel. Yet, he holds it in place before the fabric can slip from your skin. 

“Bonita.” he voices with assertion. “These don’t go anywhere until you tell me what you were thinking about, earlier. When you sent those messages.” And his next words are somewhere between a groan and a lighthearted laugh. “Such a minx.”

Even in the heat of the moment, when Frankie let his dominant side out to play, he couldn’t help but slip out of it sometimes. It’s just, you never failed to impress him. Especially with how playful you were. 

Frankie was glad he didn’t need to maintain an image around you. Even during sex, when you looked to him to take control of your body, he didn’t feel the pressure to play a part. He knew you just wanted him. And you didn’t expect him to sustain when something felt unnatural. 

You loved those little moments, when you were both so worked up, but a slight fumble would give way to the depth of your attachment.

Your voice is infected with a sweet giggle too, as you share. “I was thinking about your hands. In my hair. W-when you…”, and you’re unable to finish your thought as the sensation of being completely on display slows you slightly, and you suddenly feel quite shy. 

Frankie sees that, though, and he gives you some gentle encouragement.

“That’s good, baby. When what? You can tell me.”, he coaxes. And the pure amazement in his eyes reassures you that you’re not being judged; Frankie is safe.

So, you continue. “When you give me your cock.” 

And then at almost a whisper, you add. “In my mouth.”

“Good girl, cariño. That’s it.”, he says, before letting your panties fall from your body. 

And Frankie takes them out from under you like he’s won a prize.

Next, he turns to your bra. And you think you know what’s coming, having figured out the rules of the game you’re playing.

Much to his delight, Frankie finds another little satin bow at the centre of your bra. And, if this is anything like the one on your hip, it’s going to uncover another delectable treat when he tugs at it. 

“And what else? What else did you think about, baby?” he husks, as his wide palms smooth up and down your side, reminding you that there’s nowhere to run. 

And despite how that would’ve scared you in the past, you’re grateful for the way Frankie pushes you to be better. He needs you to be vocal, and he needs you to communicate. Wow, your therapist would be so proud of you right now.

“I-I thought about the wedding. Going to my cousin’s wedding, on your arm. I’d be dressed up, again, and I like… like the thought of everyone knowing it’s you who takes me home. Every night.”

“It’s-It’s your cock that sends me all dumb and d-desperate. I want everyone to know I’d do anything you ask of me.”

“Anything”, you tell him, emphasising the last word. Your pitch rises in reflection of how thirsty you are right now.

“Fuuucck.” groans Frankie. 

It was his fault, really. He’d egged you on, so he should’ve been prepared for you to say something purely sinful.

Regardless, he stays true to his word and swiftly removes your bra.

Diving head first into your chest, Frankie’s soft laughs send a comforting thrum through your body. “Shit, baby. I never know what’s next with you.” he says.

“You love it.”, comes your reply. “It keeps you on your toes.”

“Yeah, I do.” says Frankie with a fondness that warms your body and soul.

Then Frankie turns his attention to your neck whilst his hands push and pull at your breasts in a way that works you over just right. His grip is strong, but the way his lips skim the soft expanse of skin you’re offering up to him is anything but. You had to admit, Frankie’s touch was the perfect balance of rough and tender, and you loved it.

Nipping at the skin above your collarbone, he sighs. 

“This is the part where I ask for another dirty fantasy and then I remove your stockings. But they look so good on you … and I don’t know if I want to, really.” 

Putty in your hands, you think. And you seize the opportunity to fight back a little, as of course, Frankie still loved your moxie.

Right as he nibbles across your jaw, alternating between nips and soft kisses to inflict further torment, you let out a moan as you suggest. “Maybe you need to see them from a different angle. Then you can properly assess whether they’re necessary.”

And before you can admire his dry smirk, you’re on your tummy and he’s angling your hips up so that he can have the best possible view of those lilac stockings, made even sexier by the satin trim that connects each piece to your garter belt. 

And, well, he’s got you in this position purely for scientific purposes.

At least that’s what he tells himself, as one hand caresses the delicate mesh whilst the other rubs firm circles into the swell of your ass cheek.

Frankie knows you need to cum, but you’d told him earlier not to give in to you so soon, no matter how much you pleaded with him. 

“Well?”, you press. And Frankie shushes you, before moving his hand on your ass to dip between your slick folds, successfully quieting you down.

His thumbs draw teasing circles on your clit, first, then he pushes a finger into your pussy, and you can’t help but clench around it pathetically. 

Meanwhile, he’s sizing you up - under the pretense of assessing your thigh-highs - and you purr lavishly as he adds another finger, curling them in the way that you need it. 

“Huh.” he breathes out in faux nonchalance. And then he covers your body with his own fully clothed form, resting his head just below your ear.

“They can stay. Wanna see how they look on you whilst you ride me. These pretty legs spread out as your little pussy takes me. Feel the stretch as you sink down, and you’re gonna look so gorgeous; mouth open, cute little stockings. Shit- ” And he punctuates the last word by pushing his fingers even deeper into your cunt whilst letting out a taunting chuckle in your ear. 

He’s mocking you, respectfully, for how easy you get for him. 

But you love it. Love playing these games; decoding what you need to do or say to get what you need from him. 

“Frankie”, you whine. “Q-quit it with the teasing. Need you to fuck me.”

“Bonita…you need to cu-”, and you cut him off. 

“No!”, you assert, before realising that petulance rarely gets you what you want. “Wanna come on your cock. Please, honey. That’s what I need. Promise.”, you sigh out softly. 

And Frankie can’t deny you when you get like this. 

So, without further ado, he begins to undress, as you take it upon yourself to fluff your hair and swipe underneath your eyes to catch any smudged mascara. 

You know your man thinks you’re beautiful no matter what, but it’s more of a habit, really, and Frankie has to admit that he finds it endearing. It’s like you’ve just realised you went a little wild, and you’re trying to regain your poise. He guesses it’s a habit you’ve picked up from working in the corporate sector, where everyone’s expected to be nothing short of immaculate at all times. 

However, Frankie considers himself lucky, as he gets to see beyond the persona you give everyone else. Everyone, except for him. 

Finally wearing nothing but a look of pure need, Frankie pulls on your hips and you take the hint to straddle him. Fuck, he’s gorgeous like this, you think as you get comfortable, but suddenly you remember that you’re missing something.

“Shit…almost forgot.”, you confess whilst reaching over to grab a condom from your drawer. 

You can sense your lover’s unease, however, which causes you to pause and scan his expression, and you’re at the point in your relationship now where you’re usually able to tell what’s bothering him.

And part of you does know what it is, even before he opens his mouth. His hands squeeze your hips - more for his benefit, than yours - as his eyes try their best to avoid you. 

“Babe”, you speak with soft conviction. Your finger underneath his chin, you coax his gaze to meet your own. “You don’t want to use one. Is that it?”

Despite the sudden tension that’s made itself at home in your bed, Frankie can’t help it. His admiration for you grows, as he notices that whilst you are quite worked up, you’re still able to snap out of it when something isn’t working. 

You’d never let him take advantage of you, and although he’d never dream of doing such a thing, he’s glad he’s got such a headstrong girl; a girl who stands for her boundaries and doesn’t budge.

He feels weak, for admitting it. But you’d been honest with him lately, so he owed it to you to do the same.

Looking up at you, he’s guarding something behind those brown eyes. “Shit… I will, if that’s what you want. Can’t help but think about it, though. What it’d be like.”

You’re met with a pause before he continues.

“I think about it all the time.”

You’re about to respond, but he’s not finished yet.

“Give it here”, he gestures to the foil packet currently in your grip. “We can talk about this another time. You can tell me what you think?, he says, and you melt at his concern for you.

Giving him a pointed look, you set him straight.

“You’re clean? Haven’t been with anyone else since we…?” and your voice trails off, unsure of the appropriate way to define your relationship. 

“I’m clean. And you should know there’s no one else. Have I not made that obvious?”, he asks, and you think, his expression is the equivalent of him folding his arms over his chest. 

What is he thinking? 

“Good” you affirm. “I’m clean too. And… there’s been no one else, for me. Just you.” The hint of a smile lights up your eyes, and Frankie feels a little calmer when he notices. 

But you like to tease. “Well, Francisco…” you purr.

“Sex without a condom is a boyfriend privilege. And… as of right now. I don’t seem to have a boyfriend.”

In any other context, your words would embed an ugly shard of insecurity in Frankie’s chest, but your teasing grin and wide eyes reassure him that it’s not like that now.

“What about the guy in your bed?”, he says as he joins in on the teasing. 

“Has he got what it takes to make the cut?”, his lazy grin causing the butterflies in your tummy to come out to play.

“I think so.” you reply.

Your words, coupled with the way you toss the package aside confidently, has Frankie pulling you down to his lips. And you can feel the smile that’s creeping in through his kiss. 

Not wanting to stop kissing you, Frankie lets each word slip into your mouth, and oh, it tastes divine. “Boyfriend privileges? What else does that include, baby?”

You choose this moment to finally sink down onto his cock. “Fuuucck…Frankie!” you cry out.

“D-don’t talk about that now. You want me to be able to think straight? And you straighten your back in a challenge to your boyfriend. 

“You sure you’re fucking me rig-”

But before you can finish the question, Frankie shoots up. 

You immediately find yourself on his lap, and you’re grasping at his broad shoulders for balance whilst he fucks up into your pussy with a force you haven’t quite seen before. Have you unlocked a new level of his possessive streak? 

And after you’re both sated and significantly less dazed, you each mull over your new titles. 

Girlfriend.

Boyfriend.

For some reason, those two words manage to curb some of the anxiety that lives rent-free in Frankie’s body. 

And for you, they give you a much-needed push to open yourself up further to this man. 

The titles give you both a sense of security and as he looks down at your cheek smushed against his chest; the soft sounds of your exhaustion reverberating through his whole body, Frankie’s hoping it will stop him from feeling like he’ll never catch up to you.

***

“So … you actually did fuck each other? After I suggested it … As a joke?”

The look on Benny’s face right now is priceless. He’s shocked, of course, and really, he didn’t think you had it in you. But, as he sets his pensive gaze on the two of you, he begins to recognise a new emotion on your faces. One he hopes won’t lead to heartbreak.

An amber glow emanates from the firepit you’re all gathered around, yet it does little to resist the darkness of the evening as it seeps in, offering you shelter from the prying eyes and minds that surround you. 

Will, Benny and Santi have eyes on you, but they’re not close enough to scrutinise your facial expression, or Frankie’s, for that matter. 

To them, it’s all fragmented. Secret smiles, your arms brushing up against each other, feet intertwined on the patio…

They see pieces. They’ll never appreciate the complete picture. For you two make an intricate puzzle and you wouldn’t quite know how to justify your relationship to those outside of it. It’s like they’re missing a vital piece; a piece that only you two possess. They’ll never get anywhere if they try to understand you, and you know that. You don’t care, to be honest.

All you need from the three men sitting opposite from you is acceptance, trust and respect. 

And judging by the mix of satisfied grins and approving nods that greets you, you’re 99% sure that you’ve at least got their acknowledgement. 

Frankie coughs. A slightly embarrassed, yet proud cough, in response to Benny’s question.

“And…”, implores Benny. “You’ve been doing it…ever since?

You nod on behalf of the both of you, before cutting in.

“Benny. Does it really matter how it happened? I’m sure you don’t wanna hear it, really?

“I-” and you have to correct yourself. ‘We just wanted to tell you. We’re not going to shove it down your throats. Hopefully things won’t change drastically. I mean, we’ve been keeping to ourselves this whole time.”

A tremor of apprehension makes its way through Frankie’s body as you settle back into your seat. He can’t help but feel uneasy, as you were so quick to trivialise your relationship. And Frankie’s hit with the realisation that, unfortunately, he’ll never be able to read your mind.

But then you say the magic word.

“Frankie’s my boyfriend. Hopefully that’ll seem more natural as time passes.”

And he’s back to feeling like a golden retriever fawning for your attention. Except now, that nine letter word sets him apart. It means he’s special. He’s the one you chose to take home with you; chose to keep. 

Then Will turns to Frankie. “Fish?” he says.

Frankie sighs out a “Yeah”, and you notice how everyone appears to be waiting for him to elaborate.

“Shit.” he says, running his wide palm over his jaw. “I’m happy…yeah. It’s a good thing…for us.” 

Frankie didn’t need to go into too much detail. No, he didn’t want to. Because he feared that if he opened himself - yourselves - up to others, too much, he would manifest trouble in your future. Truthfully, Frankie was concerned that every new person who knew about it, threatened to unravel all the groundwork he’d laid with you. 

They threatened to unravel the way you’d loosely tied the ribbons of your heart around his. 

And you’d both come a long way to get where you are now. 

“Well, I’m happy for you both.”, says Santi. 

You turn to your pseudo brothers, Benny and Will. 

Will, however, is the one you’re aching to hear from, as you know he’s the toughest crowd. But it’s Benny who speaks first.

“Yeah, well… I’d be an idiot to shit on something I encouraged. He lets out a weak laugh before he continues. “Good for you. And I mean that.” he says.

Frankie looks to you, as to say, this is going well. But you know Will. And he’s not that easily convinced.

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having you plead for his approval, so you play with your perfectly manicured nails to seem cool and unbothered, yet you know he’ll see right through it.

After a humbling silence, Will speaks on the matter. “Sure.” he huffs out. 

“Whatever makes you happy.” 

And as he says those words, he’s looking right at you. Not Frankie. “If that’s Fish… well it is what it is.”

Will knows that to anyone else, it would seem as though he approves of you and Frankie. But he also knows he’ll need to do more to placate you. 

So, he leans forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees whilst he joins his hands underneath his chin, and he says. “I trust you. Both of you.”, softening his gaze just enough to remind you of the way this man loves you like you’re of the same blood. 

And it’s enough for you. 

For now.

Sure, Frankie’s a good friend of Will’s. He had to have been, considering everything they’ve endured together. But Frankie knows that this interaction between you and Will was significantly more important than any conversation he could’ve had with the eldest Miller. The stakes were higher, and he was content to let you handle it the way you saw fit.

And handle it, you did. Well, according to Frankie, anyway.

However, you had your doubts. And despite the fact that you were learning to welcome love, success and happiness, rather than run from them, your self-sabotaging tendencies weren’t completely dormant. 

A part of you wanted to throw Frankie to the wolves. If you remove yourself from the environment, what would the others say? 

Would they turn him against you? Scare him off?

Would they see right through you? See you as a burden. A stain on the goodness of their friend’s soul?

Irrational as your thoughts were, you can’t help yourself from fanning the flames. So you stand up and address the others.

“I’m gonna head home.” you tell them, giving each man a reassuring smile before continuing. 

“I’ll see you boys soon-”, you begin, yet Benny interrupts.

“Hold on. I’ll join you. Alright if I catch a lift?” he says.

You accept, and before you leave, you shoot Frankie a look that says it’s down to you now. 

Frankie’s now alone with the remaining two men, and judging by Will's demeanour, he’s got the feeling that the pleasantries left with you out the door.

Santi figures he should give them a moment alone, so he heads inside to clear up some of the mess.

And then there were two.

Frankie’s the first to break the ice, whilst Will surveys him with imposing precision. 

“Look…I know this complicates things. But you don’t need to worry about-”

“Bullshit.” Will cuts in. Unable to restrain his disquietude for a second more.

Frankie darts his eyes away from his friend and waits. He knows Will isn’t finished. He knows the best thing he can do is just sit tight and get it over with. The sooner Will gets it out of his system, the sooner he can be back in your arms. 

“I’m not mad. I’m concerned. About both of you.”  Will softens his tone for his last sentence. 

He resumes. “I love that woman. Benny does too, she’s family…I know you of all people know what that’s like.”

Frankie gives him a curt nod.

“But that also means I know her. And I know what she’s like. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, all because you couldn’t get a read on her. Some kind of miscommunication. Sound familiar?, he asks.

But Will’s style of articulation isn’t quite doing it for Frankie, so he tells his friend, “I’d appreciate it if you cut the shit. Just say what you have to say”.

The quiet that follows is loaded with friction.

That is until Will speaks candidly. “You want to know what I really think, huh?” and Frankie can’t say for sure that he does want to hear it.

“I think she’ll chew you up and spit you out. Just like she did to the others before you.”

A pause lingers before Will continues. “Is that what you want?” 

Frankie’s too exhausted, and too wired to give him an answer. Instead he just stares blankly ahead at his companion. 

But Will knows you. Better than he knows you, and so Frankie would be a fool not to probe further for more of an insight into your mystery.

Frankie grunts. “Go on…” 

And Will decides he needs to choose his next words carefully. 

“It’s just- the way she interprets certain actions. The way she responds to them. It’s not always clear what she’s feeling. Sometimes it’s like she’s got it all together. Knows what she wants. What she’s doing. But other times she doesn’t know, she runs away with things until she’s somehow convinced herself she’s the problem. Or she doesn’t deserve to be happy. And that can be tough. For her… and for you. Are you prepared for that?”

Honestly, Frankie doesn’t know what to say to that. Though apparently, he doesn’t need to say anything as Will’s not finished yet.

“Slightly orange-looking flags will always appear red, to her. And even the green flags have spooked her before. She’ll say something about it being too good to be true, before she dips. I’ve never known anyone to overthink so much when in a relationship.” he tells him.

And Frankie thinks, well you’ve never known me, in that way. As he’s done his fair share of overthinking since you two of you got involved.

After Frankie absorbs his friend’s words, he speaks out.

“I won’t hurt her, if that’s what you’re worried about. And if she hurts me, then that’s on me. I’ll accept that.”

“I’m not blind.” Frankie adds. “I’ve seen more than you probably imagined. But I’m not running from her.”

Will drops his shoulders in frustration. 

“Seriously…” says Frankie. “Why are you telling me this shit? Or do you do this with every boyfriend?” and the hint of venom in Frankie’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed by the other man. 

And Will’s next words hit differently. “Hey man, I didn’t want to bring up your history. But you’re the one who asked. She’s a lot. She’s fucking incredible. But maybe you oughta slow down. Too much can be dangerous. You know that more than anyone.”

In that moment, Frankie swears he can feel his heart clawing its way out of his chest. 

His temperament seeps through his voice, as Frankie speaks louder this time. “I do, huh?” he chuckles sardonically. “Because I’m a junkie, right?” 

All is quiet as the two men come to terms with what’s been said.

Then, when the air feels breathable again, Frankie sees himself out. 

And as he drives home, a new worry finds a home in his head. Like a migraine, it demands all of his attention - at once - causing his grip on the wheel to falter as it consumes every ounce of his energy. 

Is he moving too fast? 

Should he slow down? 

In reality, his car’s moving at a sensible speed, but he can’t shake the thought that he’s heading for a crash.

That’s always the outcome when it’s too much, too soon. Right?

***

It was two days later when Frankie’s insecurities came to fruition.

Yes. Two days are all he manages before he crashes.

The two of you were having fun. Lots of fun, to be exact, as you indulged in a little stress relief. You on all fours, arching up into his rough love. Frankie, drowning in your allure as he fights to reach as deep as physically possible. Never satisfied when it comes to you. There will always be more to uncover.

It was an accident. He swears, he’s only trying to amplify your pleasure - wind you up that bit tighter to heighten your eventual release. But he misjudges the situation, and he lets his need for validation overcome him. 

His words take on a life of their own, spinning out of his control before he can rein them back in.

“Tell me, cariño…tell me how much you love this cock.”

“Tell me…fuck. Tell me that you don’t ever want anyone else.”

“Tell me that this is all you need.”

“Need you to tell me that you won’t run from it. Tell me you’ll stay right here. In my bed. Wrapped around me…always.”

“Say you won’t ever leave this. Not when it makes you feel this fucking good.” 

The last one is what does it, setting off the alarm bells in your head, and your body feels it too. 

You lift your head from the fluffy pillow and force the words out. “Baby…yellow.” 

And you say it much softer this time. “Yellow. Slow down.”

Frankie pulls out of you immediately. But unlike the other times you invoked the traffic light system, he makes no move to comfort you.

There are no coos. No scooping you up in his arms. No fucking communication at all from his end. What’s gotten into him?

Frankie draws back from you, and when you manage to pull yourself up, he’s got his back to you. Avoidant. Defensive. And you saw how this ended, last time. When he quietly seethed in a turmoil you couldn’t fully understand.

“Frankie…” you call out to him. 

For a moment, you think he’s about to move closer, until he begins to dress himself. Bowing his head the whole time, sulking like a child who’s been sent to bed early. 

He’s soon dressed in a pair of loose shorts and a light grey sweatshirt. And of course, he doesn’t forget his cap. God forbid he should fight you without it; it’s part of his armour. 

You can’t help but raise your voice. “Francisco. Look at me!” you demand.

You need him to let you in, otherwise, this feeling of rejection runs the risk of breaking you apart in the worst way possible.

And he does look at you. And you hope this is progress. That is until you repeat those dreaded two words.

“Frankie… what is it, baby? All I asked was that we slow down?”

There it is. 

Except it wasn’t Will who said it this time. It was you. 

And Frankie can’t look away. His chest lurches with the need to challenge you. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. His words. His actions. They’re crawling out from this feeling that he’s seduced himself with a version of you that doesn’t exist yet.

One look at your face tells him all he needs to know. He’s hurt you. And he can’t even offer you an explanation as to why. 

Still, those words run through Frankie’s head. He feels dizzy; like he’s losing his footing.

Slow down.

Meanwhile, you’re torn between wanting to throttle him and wanting to wrap him up in your embrace , where he can’t hurt himself - or you - anymore.

Somehow, you stand your ground. 

“Baby…” you coo gently, afraid to push him even further towards his edge. “Talk to me. Please?” 

You’re pleading with your eyes, hoping he’ll come back to you, and you can support him with whatever he’s battling right now.

Frankie remains silent, so you push a little more. “Did you not want to slow down? Was that it? We can ta-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, however, as Frankie interrupts. 

“Fuck! Stop saying that. Stop fucking repeating it! I heard you loud and clear.”

It takes you a minute to adjust to the aggression in his tone. The way he practically snarled out those last few words. You’re baffled. What’s wrong with him?

Why is he speaking to you like that?

And your introspection soon turns to anger.

How dare he speak to you like that?

But fortunately, you’re able to push that particular emotion aside, for now. You understand that he’s hurting, and all you want to do is make it better.

You both take advantage of the silence that follows to cool off.

Frankie’s the first to make a move, as he walks out of the bedroom. Your calls of his name go straight over his head, though you’re not prepared to give up that easy.

So you hastily pull on your robe and follow him into his kitchen, where he’s already making a grab for his shoes.

“Frankie! Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We need to talk about this.” you beg, desperation creeping through each syllable. 

“Out. I need a minute.” he tells you.

“We can take as long as you need, baby. I can make some tea? We-”

He cuts you off, again. 

“A minute alone.”

You find yourself giving up, then, and as you sit up on the counter, you admit defeat. 

The last thing Frankie sees before he leaves is the casualty of his insecurities. You. Slumped back against the cabinets, chewing on your nails, all your efforts exhausted.

***

You didn’t hang around. You didn’t bother calling him. 

You figured he needed some time to cool off before he came to grovel.

And, yes. You expect him to do some serious groveling after what happened. 

You’re getting it all out of your system whilst in the company of your good friends. Cami’s topping up your glass of rosé, quite generously, as you reach forward to nab the tub of Ben & Jerry’s from Hannah. 

Realising you need a spoon, you look to the youngest of the two, hoping she’ll take pity on you. 

Pouting at her seems to work, however, as Hannah heads to the kitchen to grab you one. The volume of her voice fluctuates, and you imagine she’s probably moving around the room whilst she speaks to you.

“So you’re gonna make him sweat, right?” she calls out to you.

That’s not exactly a symptom of a healthy relationship, you think. But a little girly sleepover gossip never hurt anyone. Besides, healthy is a work in progress, and you’re doing pretty well so far. Baby steps are good.

“I don’t even know what happened,” you tell them. “It was like I said something unforgivable. He just backed off, immediately, and shut down. He wouldn’t even try to explain! How was I supposed to know what he was thinking?” 

“And all you said was slow down?” Cami says, seeking confirmation.

“Yep” you reply, popping the p for extra emphasis.

She looks back at you, and you can see that she’s thinking hard about it. Cami’s about to say something when Hannah returns with your spoon.

She gives you a second to scoop a healthy amount of ice-cream into your mouth, knowing you need it, before continuing. 

“Here’s what he’s gonna do.” says Cami, and the way she waves her hands around reflects how she means business right now.

“And you’re not gonna accept anything less. First and foremost…an apology. It’s gotta be sincere, and he’s gotta look you in the eyes. Then, an explanation as to why he left without talking to you first. Oh… and flowers and chocolates are non negotiable. I swear to God. If he shows up empty handed the next time you see him, I’m kicking his ass.”

You laugh at that, glad to feel an emotion other than despair.

“I feel for him, I really do.” says Hannah. 

You cast your gaze over to her.

“Clearly, he cares about you… a lot. I don’t think he knows how to handle it yet.”

Softening your stare, you allow yourself to consider the implications of her words.

“Have you two said I love you yet?” she asks. You shake your head.

“And who made the move to make it official?” 

“I did.”

“But you said he’d been pushing for more before that, right?”

Again, you nod. Feeling as though it would be pointless to speak. Clearly, you were about to be schooled on how to handle your emotions. 

“Huh…” she lets out, eyes looking up to the ceiling in some serious contemplation. “Well… what I think is that he’s waiting on you to make all the major moves. And he’s driving himself crazy in the meantime, wondering what you’re thinking.”

“Well I shouldn’t have to spend all my time validating him, I don’t always know what I want right away, unlike some peopl-” you defend, before Hannah jumps in.

“Baaabe.” she groans. “I know that, he’s a grown ass man. But… maybe he needs a little more from you. You need to validate your partner to encourage them to trust you, and it seems like you two could work on that.” 

She’s got you. And you hate it.

“Look… I’m not making any excuses for his behaviour. The man needs to grovel, we all know that. But perhaps you could try to meet him halfway? Reassure him more often? Then maybe it’ll stop him from freaking out when things trigger his concerns?”

All you can do is nod your head in appreciation. Wow. You knew there was a reason these girls were your best friends.

“Yeah” you sigh. “I guess I can try that.”

Cami claps her hands together, snapping you out of your Frankie-fuelled daze.

“C’mon,” she tells you, picking up the TV remote. “It can wait until tomorrow. Keanu Reeves is waiting on us.”

***

Staying true to your typical style of fighting, you wait for Frankie to text you first. 

And he didn’t keep you waiting long, making his first contact approximately thirteen hours after he stormed out of his own apartment.

Can we talk? I shouldn’t have left like that.

Truthfully, you weren’t expecting an apology over text. That wasn’t your style, and it wasn’t Frankie’s either. 

He knew it needed to come when he was with you. When he’d be unable to hide how he’s really feeling.

He used to hate the way his face and body would betray him, but now he’s grateful, as it gives you the chance to see him unguarded. The two of you have been doing a lot of work to improve your communication, and part of it consisted of allowing the other person to see you at your most vulnerable. 

As terrifying as it sounded, Frankie knew it was a necessary step. 

And of course, you have come a long way already. He’d noticed that you’d been making an effort to vocalise your concerns, your needs and your hopes to him. So, it was only fair that Frankie took the leap too. 

Fuck, he thinks, remembering how he’d done the exact opposite the night before. Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line, right?

You’d given it four hours or so before you replied to his message.

I’d like that. Meet me at Lazy Joe’s after work? 6pm? Leave the hat at home, this time. x

And Frankie had smiled at that, before letting you know he’d be there.

Now, as you watch him make his way to where you’re sat - a corner booth that afforded the perfect level of privacy, intimate but not intimate enough to make you forget you’re in public, you take a good look at the man you now call boyfriend. 

He looks like home, is all you can think. Plaid flannel framing his broad shoulders as it rests on top of his signature jersey t-shirt, hair slightly curlier than usual. He must’ve washed it. 

You have to keep from drooling at the thought of having it back under the palms of your hands. 

He’s got his sleeves rolled up slightly, and if that wasn’t enough to send you, you see he’s also chewing gum…leisurely. The movement of his jaw accentuating every strong contour of his visage.

Shit…

Why couldn’t he have tamed his sex appeal for your benefit? It’s going to be even harder to stick to your guns at this rate.

He’s in front of you now, and he places something on the table before leaning down to land a kiss on your cheek, and it’s just below your eye. He knows what he’s doing.

It appears he’s left the hat at home, as per your request, winning him brownie points, already.

It’s not that you don’t like when he wears it. You do, honestly. You love the way it looks on him. But that’s not all it does. 

You’re well aware that Frankie’s uses the hat as some kind of comfort blanket. And frankly, it’s not getting you anywhere. What you don’t need is Frankie retreating back into his seat, tipping his hat forward to conceal his expression, every time you have a serious conversation about your emotions. 

If you were going to confront your feelings like a mature adult, then the hat had to stay home.

Hazarding a glance at the items on the table, you notice he has indeed brought you flowers. And are those … pistachio profiteroles…from your favourite Italian deli? The one that’s over an hour’s drive from your place?

Definitely better than a box of store-bought chocolate.

Somehow, Frankie manages to catch the way your shoulders loosen up ever so slightly at the sight. And he figures, that’s his way in.

He gestures towards his gifts - dessert and snow-white roses - as he speaks.

“I know I’ve been an asshole. So I won’t try to steal one, this time.”

You want to smile, but in true ice-queen fashion, you steel your poker face. 

Not wanting to endure any awkward bar small talk, you’d bought him a drink just before it hit 6pm. You slide the bottle of beer over to him, and he’s quick to take a swig before you see him visibly relax. 

That’s better.

“Comfortable, are we?” you ask him, and you can’t help the sarcasm that slips out.

“Don’t do that.” he tells you sternly. “Don’t downplay our relationship. You’re acting like you’ve got somewhere better to be.” 

He’s not playing around, it seems. His brown orbs have you feeling somewhat targeted. 

But it feels healthy. He’s called you out on your bullshit before you could slip into your old ways. 

He’s looking out for you.

You figure it’s your time to apologise. “Sorry, Frankie. I shouldn’t be acting like that. Thank you for the gifts…that was sweet of you.” you say, and you almost look bashful. 

“Fuck, baby…” he groans. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m the one who should be apologising, here.”

There’s a look of timid hope on your face, in response to his admission. 

You give him an encouraging smile, before letting him know, “Okay, I’m listening.” 

Frankie’s eyes meet yours. There’s nowhere for him to run.

Eye contact, dessert, flowers…Cami would approve of everything so far.

He lets out a rough cough, before he begins. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you like that. I should’ve stayed and we could’ve talked about it. Never should’ve left you after …” 

He’s afraid to finish that sentence. Ashamed, even. 

But you finish it for him. “After I used a safe-word?” 

Frankie bites his lip aggressively, before repeating, “After you used a safe-word.”

Dragging his hand down his face in a show of self-loathing, he tells you. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” 

You sense there’s much more to it, so you wait patiently. 

And more does come…

“I wanted to explain myself but you wouldn’t understand-”

“How could you possibly know that, Frankie? Try me. If I can’t understand, I’ll still respect you. Your thoughts and feelings. All of it.” you counter.

Frankie’s breath catches in his throat, and he looks to you like you hold the missing piece of the puzzle. Frankie has never wanted anything so bad in his life, as much as he wants to give you everything in this very moment. 

But he needs to give you words. Tangible, honest, and raw words that you can digest.

It’s healthy.

“Will said some shit.” he tells you. And you feel yourself getting worked up, but for Frankie’s sake, you contain the urge. Of course Will said something. 

But what did you expect? Leaving him there alone for the first time, as your boyfriend?

“Said I should slow down” he elaborates. “And I felt insecure, again. When you told me to-”

“To slow down?” you question. 

Frankie shakes his head apologetically. “You couldn’t have known. I shouldn’t have let it get to me like that.” 

Were you ever going to learn? Clearly, you’re both suckers for a pattern, and that pattern is miscommunication. 

The two of you had become experts in it. Jealousy. Perceiving rejection. Allowing other people’s words to influence you. Assumptions. Failure to discuss the future. All these things had resulted in conflict. If only you had gotten there first and communicated with your partner…would things have played out differently? 

You needed to break the cycle, as all this fighting and crying was incredibly exhausting. 

“Baby…if you had told me about Will. I could’ve told you he does this every time, with every guy. It’s some kind of overprotective bullshit that he spins so he can feel like a hero again. Trust me, I’ve seen - and heard - it all before.” you say.

And you’re greeted with Frankie’s dry laughter, as he realises that perhaps, talking to you before he let Will’s words consume him would’ve been a better idea.

Even you can’t help but laugh, too, as you process the irony of the situation.

Frankie looks up at you in submission. He knows you’re right.

Hopeful, you decide to press him further. “I’d like it if you told me how you feel.” you say, and he can’t hide the look of apprehension that weathers his face.

“You don’t have to be afraid…you don’t need to hide from me. I’m not gonna judge you for any of it.” you reassure.

When Frankie sees you reach for him, he extends his arm to you, and you caress his forearm in an attempt to coax him out of his cage.

His free hand covers yours over his tanned skin. “How I feel about…?” he questions.

“Me.” you assert with gentle conviction. 

Here we go. 

“Bonita…I can’t stay away from you. But also… “ his voice trails off. “I don’t always like who I am when I’m around you.”

Your heart sinks. Although part of you was expecting him to say something like that, it didn’t sting any less.

“Frankie?” 

“Fuck, baby. You said you wanted honesty.” he says.

“I did.” you reaffirm softly, taking it in your stride. This is what you wanted, after all.

“What is it? When you’re with me?” you question.

Frankie takes a breath before speaking. “I feel out of control. Can never get a read on you…what you’re thinking. Feels like I’m trying to solve an impossible puzzle.”

Your voice is strained. “Puzzle? … What do you mean?” 

“What you want. What you feel. It’s all a puzzle, to me.” he tells you.

“Frankie” you sigh. “I-”

“And…when I feel like you’re slipping away. I get-” he pauses. 

“Reckless… I say stupid shit and fuck everything up.” 

You’re well and truly stunned. You weren’t expecting Frankie to open up to this extent. But you’re welcoming it like summer rain after weeks of oppressive heat. 

But you’re not innocent in all of this. 

“Frankie, It’s not all on you. I should’ve told you how I was feeling. I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark like that, and for that, I’m sorry.” you concede. 

Frankie accepts your apology with a squeeze of your hand.

“Honey, I-” you begin. “You can’t wait for me to make the first move every time. You should be able to express how you feel without worrying whether I’m at the same point as you. It’s too much pressure for you, and for me.” 

“Even if I’m not there with you. I’d never judge the way you’re feeling.” you tell him. 

“I hope you know that.”

Of course he doesn’t know that. You never gave him reason to believe it. But like your therapist always tells you, you gotta keep moving forward. The past can seem like a void of unresolved emotion, and if you linger there too long, you’ll leave parts of yourself behind. 

And, perhaps, it’s not as daunting as it seems, Frankie thinks. Going at his own pace. 

“I don’t know about the timing…” he says. 

“I think you already know it, but I, uh…” 

“Know what?” you question.

“You must know that I love you.” he confesses. 

There are no fireworks. No kiss in the rain, or a song playing outside a bedroom window. Rather, he’s given you what you wanted: raw words that you can digest. And they were spoken on his terms. Result.

“Frankie.” you breathe out.

He jumps in, though his body language shows no urgency. Frankie’s surprisingly content to simmer in this feeling for a while. 

“Cariño, you don’t need to say anything. This is on my terms, alright? You say it when you’re ready.” 

“Yes.” you reply. Confident that it will come soon, though you don’t plan on rushing anything. It’s not your style. 

In that moment, you notice that the air feels lighter, and the hand grasping Frankie’s forearm isn’t so tense anymore. 

“Yes?” he teases. “What are you saying yes to, baby?” 

“You.” is your reply. 

And shit, that’s all the reassurance he needs right now. 

“How about I take you out on Saturday?” he asks, and the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip reminds you that you could never resist him, especially when he looks like that. 

“Sure,” you tell him, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“But you better not fuck this up, Francisco. When we’re in public, you’re gonna have to work even harder to earn my kisses.” 

Frankie grins at that. And it’s a real smile, the kind that reaches the eyes, letting everyone know that it’s true. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Those three little words will surface when they’re ready, you reminded yourself; lost in thought as you stared at the open webpage on your MacBook. 

You had wanted to do something special for Frankie, so you had been thinking about ways to bring one of his many fantasies to life.

I’ve got just the idea, you thought, as you reflected on something he’d told you a few weeks prior. 

“Baby-” he’d said, unable to hide his amusement. “I wasn’t that kind of pilot. I never did the whole “good morning ladies and gentlemen”. It was the fucking military.”

“I know that!” you replied, smacking his shoulder as he mocked you. 

“But you’re telling me that you never had a dirty fantasy of an air hostess, or a co-pilot even, going down on you in the cockpit? Or sneaking into the bathroom to f-” 

Frankie covered your mouth with his hand, figuring you’d teased him enough at that point.

“Bonita…” he’d drawled. “I didn’t say that. Stop putting your filthy words in my mouth.”

You’d given him a pointed look. “So…?” 

Frankie’s lips found refuge in your hair, and he almost seemed shy as he spoke again. “Of course I thought about it. All we could fucking do during those days was think about sex. I- I had a lot of time to think.” 

You wanted to know more. Raising yourself up on his chest, you pushed him further. 

“Francisco… you can’t leave it like that. Tell me more. What about one time in particular that you really thought about it?” 

“I don’t know…” he huffed. 

“Bullshit.” you called. “You wouldn’t have been able to help yourself.” And Frankie was warmed by your fiery tone.

“Well, perhaps…when an op would go well, and we’d meet our targets. I thought about having someone reward me. Didn’t have to be an air hostess, but I liked the thought of it being a woman in heels. Stockings…Red lips…tight dress.“ he told you, cheeks flushing at the thoughts he’d kept private for so long.

Fuck that sounded hot. “And she’d steal your pilot’s hat? Wear it on her head as she put your cock in her-” 

Again, Frankie had smushed your words with his hand in a playful manner. “Bonita! What did I tell you, huh? It’s not the kind of hat you’re thinking of. Come on…” he chuckled.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that. Yes, you knew that, but a little artistic license was permitted if it made the fantasy even sexier.

Weeks later, as you thought back to Frankie’s words, you knew what you needed. Heels, stockings, red lips, tight dress, and a cheesy pilot’s hat for good measure. 

You listed off the items in your head as you began typing in the search bar with a determination that would rival a professional athlete’s. A few clicks of “add to basket” later, and you figured you had all the necessary weapons to knock this man off his feet. 

Now, as you look up at your Frankie, whilst dressed to the nines in your new purchases, you know you’ve made the right call.

A firm drag of his thumb across your bottom lip smears some of your lipstick across your cheek, and Frankie leans back to admire the mess he’s made of you already. You’d told him earlier that the colour was “ruby woo”, so he makes a mental note to file the name away for when you eventually run out of it. 

Your white, tennis-style, mini dress makes you look even cuter - if that was at all possible, yet your imperfectly painted lips, red kitten heels and black thigh-high stockings gave you a hint of naughtiness that has his cock straining in his jeans. And to make it even harder for him to breathe, you’d gone ahead and bought one of those silly little pilot’s hats - the kind that reminds him of those sexy nurse or maid Halloween costumes, and Frankie can’t help but think he had the wrong first impression. 

It’s the perfect finishing touch to your ensemble; allowing you to play the part of the minx who loves to push his buttons. 

And, you’re certainly pushing them now, as you paw at the buckle of his belt; biting your lip in a filthy invitation for him to make you beg for it.

Removing your hat, Frankie’s able to get a good look at your face. Well, he had hoped to, but you seem to be playing demure, looking down at his feet like you’d never seen a man in the flesh before. You are testing him; coaxing his dominant side out of its shell.

With two fingers curled underneath your chin, Frankie raises your head to meet his gaze, and he’s met with your stubborn eyes as they dare him to play rough. 

“Cariño, what is it that you want?, he asks you. 

You swing your hair back so it no longer obscures his view of your chest. “I just want to express my gratitude…Sir. You flew all those people to safety, and I- … I wanna say thank you.”, you purr with faux innocence.

Fuck, he thinks. You’re going all out with this fantasy of his.

Your hands undo his belt and pull down his zipper, and within a few torturous seconds, you’ve got the denim over his ass. He doesn’t want to stunt your momentum, so he lets the material pool at his feet. After all, if this fantasy was real, there wouldn’t be enough room in his cockpit to remove them fully. 

“I-I, uh…wanna give you a treat, Sir.” you say. 

He teases you back. “Is that so?” 

Shit, the way he’s taunting you has you writhing in your panties; rubbing your thighs together to feel some kind of friction.

“And why should it be you, baby?” he asks. “There were hundreds of people on that flight. What makes you think you’re special?” 

“They’re not- not like me…” you begin. “They’re not…”

You knew exactly what you wanted to say, or you had ideas at least, but this is part of the game you two play. You hint at wanting to be called something dirty, and you wait for Frankie to take the bait. There are a few names that often make the rounds, but you save certain ones for special occasions. And this right here, is a special occasion. 

He finishes your sentence for you. “That’s right. They’re not naughty little sluts like you, huh?”

God, you adored this man. You were a slut for him, and you wore it proudly, practically drooling at the sight of his hard cock aching in his boxers.

You dip your delicate hand into them, before pulling it out and sitting back on your calves with a hint of a flirty smile peeking through your eyes.

Frankie knows your game. Loves it, even. “What was that, huh, pretty girl?” he taunts. “Thought I heard something.”

Rolling your eyes playfully, you give in to his wants. “You’re right. They’re not like that, but I am. I’m a naughty little slut…who wants to suck your cock.”

“Holy fucking shit…” Frankie groans, as you finally pull the fabric down his thighs; enough to let his neglected cock spring out from its confines.

“Fuck, I love you.” he moans, and you never get tired of hearing it these days. It makes you want to work even harder to make this man cum for you. Knowing he’s utterly and irrevocably devoted to you makes you even hotter for him. You can say the same for Frankie, you know that now, but you’re still waiting for the right time to tell him. 

You give him an affectionate giggle in response, before reaching out to give his flushed tip the daintiest little kitten lick. The noise that comes out of him can only be described as pleading.

“Is this- Is this allowed, Sir?” you question devilishly. And Frankie swears he’s only seconds from his death. How could you even be real?

Your lover’s hands get lost in your hair, pulling you forward, but you manage to swerve him at the last moment. Fuck playing the good girl, you think, as you lick a thick stripe up the back of his cock. 

Somehow, the tip had gotten caught on the edge of your mouth as you moved your head, resulting in a wet smear of your lipstick being painted across the skin of your cheek.

You know Frankie’s getting impatient, so you’re hoping you don’t have to wait long until you get to feel the complete length of him warming the back of your throat. 

He’s close to it. Part of him wants to give into his needs, but the other part loves to fight with you. He tries again, reaching for the back of your neck this time, before he directs your pouty lips to where he’s throbbing for you. 

You sense him trying. He’ll snap soon, you acknowledge.

Frankie knows this isn’t the end of your teasing, but he also knows that you’re not entirely evil, and you’ll give him what he needs soon, because you care for him deeply. You may love him, too, if he’s really that lucky.

You don’t swerve him this time, but you do revert to a different tactic. Taking him in your mouth, just a little, you lap at his shaft a few times before pulling off, and a thick strand of your spit lingers between his cock and your lips, causing you to let out a loud moan at just how dirty this is. 

“Fuck…Frankie. It’s too big. I don’t think I can take it all.” you whine, and Frankie laughs darkly at your words. 

He knows this one, too. It’s a firm favourite in your playbook: you pretend it’s too big, and it is too big, but he knows you’re able to take it, and he makes you feel so damn helpless as he gives you no way of escaping it. You both love it, that’s for sure.

Frankie’s voice takes on a more sinister tone, then, as he almost sneers. “Well how about you actually try, baby? And you better do it fucking properly, too.”

Oh my god. This man, you think. You love him. You fucking love him.

And that’s not just your pussy talking either. Sure, she loves Frankie, but so do you. You really are sure of it, and you have been for a little while now.

You flash back to the moment you realised it was love that you felt for Francisco Morales. No matter how much you wanted to run from it, and no matter how unbearable the weight of the word felt on your trying heart, you had no choice but to accept it. You’d always been a realist, and well, this was real.

Your sister and her husband had invited you and Frankie over for dinner, and knowing that it was probably time to start incorporating family into your dynamic, you’d both accepted the invitation with open minds.

However, it appears you were too quick to give your brother-in-law the benefit of the doubt. And if Frankie thought Will was difficult to handle, he’d have his work cut out for him when it came to Nick.

Frankie soon came to realise that, as the two of you faced an onslaught of intrusive questions from the man your sister married. 

Reaching for another serving of pasta, you shot Frankie a look over your shoulder that said, I’m sorry that all the men in my life are problematic. Except you, baby. And if you weren’t in the presence of others, he would have kissed you in reassurance.

“So… Frankie.” Nick began. “You managing to keep up with this one? She’s a wild thing, huh?”

Ew. The audacity of this man never failed to amaze you. 

You looked at your sister and she gave you an apologetic smile, though you’d never blame her, this was all him, and if he didn’t pay the bills, she’d have him out on his ass before he could even open his sleazy mouth.

“Uh… yeah.” Frankie chuckled awkwardly. “She keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.”

You reached for his hand that rested beside his plate, and curled your fingers protectively around his. It was a silent thank you for preparing to weather this storm alongside you.

Nick continued. “I’m surprised you stuck around, son. A lot of guys don’t think she’s worth the hassle. Don’t know her like we do, of course.”

“Thank you Nick, for that compliment.” you bit out, and you could feel Frankie’s fingers flex beneath yours.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” he replied, your sarcasm not lost on him.

“Nick…” your sister tried softly. “We’re happy for them, aren’t we?”

“We sure are.”, came her husband’s reply. But he had never been one to let sleeping dogs lie, and he wasn’t about to start right then.

“I just gotta ask-” he pushed. You rolled your eyes. 

“How do you deal with the constant mood swings, huh? The permanent poker face…the indecisiveness.”, he said, and at that point, you didn’t know how far he’d go to tarnish your reputation in front of Frankie.

Frankie remained silent.

“You know what I mean, right?” he asked him, whilst chewing with his mouth open. As if his words weren’t repulsive enough…

“Surprised she’s not had you sign a contract or somethin’. Outlining all the terms and conditions, how often you fuck and all that.” he said crassly, chuckling the whole time, much to your sister’s displeasement.

“Honey-” she pleaded. “Enough of that kind of talk.” 

Yeah… enough of that. You couldn’t help but agree with her, even if you both had different reasons for wanting to shut this man up. 

Frankie. Your Frankie. The man you gave so much of your being to, wasn’t prepared to sit through any more of hearing someone talk about you like that. It was blasphemous.

He squared his shoulders, before lowering his voice to a chilling rasp. “Yeah, that’s enough.”

The two of them stared at Frankie in surprise, whereas your expression reflected only pride; you were proud of the way he was sticking up for you, and although you didn’t think you deserved it - as some of Nick’s comments mirrored your own insecurities - you were incredibly moved.

“How about you keep her name out of your mouth. She deserves to be spoken about with respect. Clearly, you’re not capable of that.” Frankie told him sternly.

“Sure,” said Nick. “Cause you know her best, right?”

“Alright man, you’ll be sorry when she breaks your heart, that’s all.” 

Frankie was seething. And if this man wasn’t your sister’s husband, and father of your beautiful nieces, he could’ve killed him with his bare hands. 

“Family, huh?” Frankie jested mirthlessly. “Well the woman I love is nothing like you claim she is. She’s too fucking good for you. For me too… for all of us even. Of course, assholes like you can’t handle anything complex. It scares you…”

Nick looked as though he wanted to pounce on the man sat opposite him, but he stayed put; daring Frankie to continue.

“And I get scared, too. She’s everything…and a lot of it’s unknown to me. I never know what she’ll do next. Don’t know if I ever will. But I’m fucking grateful as anything that I get to figure it out with her. I don’t know why she wastes her time on you. She’s far too good for that, and you can’t even see it.”, Frankie says with sincerity. 

Where did all that come from? You didn’t want to move; afraid to let the moment end, and this was a decisive moment for you.

After all, the man your sister married was responsible for a large chunk of the insecurities you still hold to this day, having been around you during your most formative years, when he had also poured his venomous judgement of your love affairs into your father’s ear. Though neither of them ever knew what they were actually talking about, it didn’t stop them from spreading their poison around your close-knit community. Part of you even thinks that’s where Will got it from, though you can say with absolute certainty that he loves you, and yet the same can’t be said for your brother-in-law.

And for Frankie to defend you like that? He’d never truly know just how much it meant to you. 

But you would know. 

The two of you were no longer welcome, it had seemed, as Nick spat out, “It’s late.”  So, you and Frankie took the liberty of seeing yourselves out. 

When you’d reached the safety of his car, you were overcome with pure, unadulterated need for him. You needed to show him how much you loved him. But as you channeled all your anxiety into your desperate kisses, you figured it wasn’t the time for more words. God knows you’d heard enough of them over the course of the evening.

So, as you take even more of him in your pretty little mouth, your eyes watering as you work to bring him to his peak, you’re hit with the urge to slow it down. Just for a moment. And so you lift your head up.

“Do you love me?” you ask. He nods and traces his knuckles over your cheekbone; a tender touch that tells you he’s here with you in this moment. You have his undivided attention.

It’s not quiet. 

It’s confident, passionate and distinct when you tell him, “I love you, Francisco.” 

Resting your cheek against his thigh as you peer up at him, you reaffirm. “I really mean it. I love you.”

Frankie’s floored. He didn’t think you’d reach this point for a while, but he’s overjoyed at your sudden confession. 

Already, he feels stronger. It’s like your words sealed his fate; they made him feel steady on his feet, ready to take another step forward, towards you. You’d given him another piece of you, and now, loving you didn’t seem as impossible as it did before. Somehow, the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to align. And he knew that the picture you were both creating would be so fucking beautiful.

After Frankie finally comes down from his high, he’s met with the sight of you studying him. His cum smeared exquisitely across your lips, you decide to tease him one last time. 

“So…how about it, Sir? Do you think I’m special now?” 

Special doesn’t cut it, he thinks. 

You’re an enigma.

The most thrilling kind of special.

Thank you for reading! Please consider commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed it. <3

Taglist for those who expressed interest in a sequel: @harriedandharassed @gracieispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @hiroikegawa

Thank you guys so much for motivating me to write a second part!

[pimosworld]

read it again part II

My continuation of some of my favorite fics and series to re-read.

As always please check the individual warnings on each one. I have a wide range of things I read and enjoy and it’s up to you to indulge or skip whatever you’d like.

Part I here

Frankie Morales

Taste like heaven- @magpie-to-the-morning

Fuck it I love you- @psychedelic-ink

Take care of you- @whiskeynwriting

The hunt- @absurdthirst

Santiago Garcia

Ride or Die series- @writefightandflightclub

Cold shower- @the-little-ewok

Santiago Baby- @reallyrallyauthor

Baby Please Series- @hoedamn-eron

Triple Frontier (all the boys)

Then and now- @softlyspector

Team Building Exercise- @mylifeliterally

A proposition- @dameronscopilot

Bloom- @charnelhouse

Steven Grant

But you can’t wait to sink in- @moonknightly

Batons and Unicorns series- @stormkobra-5

Panic- @peterman-spideyparker

Make it up to you- @preciousscarab

Marc Spector

Shibari- @bits-and-babs

Making trouble- @juneknight

Far too long- @fettuccin-e

Tag team- @babyboibucky

Jake Lockley

Getting to know you- @moonlight-presence

Let me help you- @screwtodd-stevesherdaddynow

Look at me- @luc-k-y

So cold- @loki-hargreeves

Moon Knight ( all the boys)

A long night- @myfictionaldreams

Limitless- @missdictatorme

More hearts than mine- @starryevermore

Torn, Show me- @blackleatherjacketz

The shape of you-niverse- @bit-dodgy-innit

Feel free to leave a comment with your favorite re-read or message me directly to include in future installments.

Please comment and reblog the authors works that they pour their time, heart and soul into.

[wildemaven]

. . . The Rest

Paring: Frankie Morales x HairstylistF!Reader

WC: 2846

Warning: T; mentions of food, drinks, coffee, divorce, anxiety feelings.

A/N: This follow up is for the sweet @heythere-mel Because what happened after Frankie called?! I didn’t really have an intention of writing more but then Mel asked and my brain started spinning with more. And as I was writing this I was like, could this be the beginning of Weekends with Frankie and how they came to be (like if you squint just a little you can see it right??). Anyways, this isn’t beta’d and probably is a jumbled mess, my head feels like stuffed to the max, but thankfully on the mend. Enjoy.

Masterlist / Series Masterlist / Previous / Next

“It’s not— weird is it? It’s only been…”

His voice has a relaxed tone to it, shifting in his bed to catch the time on the bedside clock, its bright red numbers glowing against the darkness that is his bedroom— 12 am.

“Shit! We’ve been on the phone for 3 hours now!”

“Oh wow! Doesn’t really feel like it though. What were you saying about being weird?”

You immediately answered Frankie’s call on your drive home, picking up where you had left off at the sports bar. You both found you had an endless amount of things to talk about, never that awkward silence, each topic flowing from one to the next with ease.

“Oh yeah. You don’t find it weird wanting more time with someone you only just met? I don’t know what it is, but I just— I just feel so drawn to you in such a short amount of time.”

“Weird is someone not liking pineapple on their pizza.”

“That’s it— Sorry, it was nice knowing you…” You can’t help but laugh at his dramatics.

“Oh, shut up! I’ll eat your pineapple pieces Frankie!”

He’s right though, it feels like it should be a little weird how things are playing out, that you both hit it off so soon and can’t get enough of each other. And yet sometimes life has a way of making things work and it’s better to go with it than fight it.

“When can I see you again?”

A small yawn escapes before you can respond. “Hmm, when do you want to see me again?”

“Today.”

You laugh at that because it’s nearing 1 am and you can’t wrap your head around the fact that you went to work yesterday like any other day and now your talking on the phone like some giddy high schooler. It all just feels like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

“Anyone ever told you you’re cute?”

“Yeah actually, my hairdresser said the same thing just yesterday.” You can’t see it, but you know that damn dimple has caved in just the perfect amount, paired with that incredible smile of his.

“Oh my god, Frankie! Are you going to hold that over my head forever?!”

“Forever sounds nice.” He says just above a whisper and there’s a soft emotion behind the way he says it..

“Frankie…” You feel dizzy, intoxicated by the affect Frankie is starting to have on you.

He says your name and your heart flutters at the way it falls from his mouth, a feeling you want to know for as long as you can.

“What is this? This thing happening between us? I mean— I like whatever it is.”

“Hmm— I like… whatever this is too. Feels— right. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a long time.” You can’t help but smile at his confession, situating yourself further into your stack of pillows.

“So, you want to see me today?”

“Yeah, I’d really like too...” He tries to conceal his yawn. “Can I meet you for coffee? Say— 10:30?? I can text you the name of the place that has the best pastries in town.”

“That sounds perfect!”

“Alright, time for bed now beautiful.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Your teeth catch your bottom lip, you definitely feel like a giddy high schooler.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“What am I going to do with you Frankie?”

“Let me take you to coffee— then we can figure it out.”

“Okay. Goodnight Frankie.”

“Night.”

You tuck yourself in, thoughts of today still running through your mind, Frankie at the forefront of them. Your limbs heavy as you drift off into an array of vivid colors, movie like imagery tickling your eyes with each breath you take in slipping further into a suspended realm.

*

Frankie already waiting for you when you pull into the parking lot of the cute little coffee shop he’d text you first thing this morning. Leaning up against his truck, his relaxed posture makes him somehow look more attractive. A comfy green shirt hugs his broad shoulders, his flexed forearms crossed over his chest— one sleeve pushed up just enough to see the pull of the muscles and tendons on display.

“Good morning beautiful.” He greets you with a smile as he pushes himself forward towards you, welcoming your arrival.

“Hey there handsome.” You’d practically skipped the rest of the way to him. All giggles and smiles when you finally got to where he’s standing.

Your arms around his waist, securing yourself to him, his hands clasped around your jaw as he leans in for a kiss. His lips tender and patient as they mold against yours.

“Mmm, I’ve been looking forward to that— it’s kinda becoming my favorite thing.” You smile against his mouth.

“Yeah??” Pulling you back in for seconds, savoring how you completely melt against him.

“Hi.” He says as his thumb brushes against your jaw, taking in your features up close in the morning light.

“Hey.” Your fingers find their way into his hair instinctually, he decided to forego his hat today, his effort in styling not lost on you. “Your hair looks good, I like it like this.” Combing a few strands off his forehead.

“Thanks. I tried to recreate what you did— I’ll get the hang of it eventually. Just know though, the hat will be making an appearance from time to time.”

“Hat or no hat— I truly like both.”

Frankie isn’t use to the heavy dose of compliments you keep sending him, but he likes the way he feels when you say them and finds himself feeling a sort of way about you when you do— he tucks the sentiment away for the time being.

*

You situate yourself into a little table near a window, the sound music and coffee-goers competing against each other. The baristas busy filling orders behind the counter— running through the motions of pulling shots of espresso, frothing milks and dishing out bags and bags filled with what look like delicious pastries. Frankie is in line waiting for the order— he insisted on paying, so you let him. From where you’re sitting you can see him among the waiting customers. Hands in his pockets, his profile on display for your viewing pleasure. He must sense your staring, glancing over at you and throws a wink your way— collecting his little gestures over the last day has you feeling a certain emotion, it’s starting to consume you in the best way.

Placing the two coffees, an oatmilk latte for you and rich black for him, on the table along with the freshly baked croissants he wanted you to try.

Frankie settles in his chair, his long legs barely have enough room to fit comfortably, his knee slightly knocking into yours. He goes to shift away as he begins to apologize, but your hand rests on his thigh as you tell him it’s okay. The contact is brief, but long enough to feel an electric shock of bliss zip through his body.

“So what are your plans for the week?” He asks, trying to break through the bustling noise of the coffee shop.

His question catches you mid bite. The buttery soft croissant nearly melts in your mouth, the flaky bits soft and moist paired with the crunchy texture of the caramelized sugar topping— a perfect balance of sweet and savory.

“Mmmm! This is so good!” Trying to wipe away the crumbs from your mouth before you answer him. “Not much really going on. Tomorrow is my usual day to get my week ready— picking up needed supplies and cleaning house are how most Monday’s are for me. Then a busy week of clients. What about you?”

He takes a drink of his coffee and you catch the way his adam’s apple shifts a bit as he swallows, the prominent features on his neck drawing you in as he begins to speak.

“Have a few flights scheduled throughout the week, that will keep me busy with prepping and air time. Then helping Benny at the gym a few nights.”

“You help him train?”

“I try. I’m usually just a human punching bag. But whatever it takes to get him a win.” He’s says so nonchalantly with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m sure he really appreciates it though. Having a friend like you supporting him inside and outside of the ring.”

“Yeah— I guess so.” Finishing off the rest of his coffee. “You’ll have to come sometime— catch one of his fights. There’s a few local ones coming up.”

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For inviting me into your life with out a second thought. Feeling comfortable enough to bring me into your circle of friends. I mean I already know the other guys obviously, but I appreciate you asking me to be apart of that space with them.”

“Of course.” His hand grabbing for yours, pulling you closer so he can kiss your temple— tender and soft. “Plus, the more people in Benny’s corner, the better he does.”

“Good to know. I’ll make sure to invite Hannah, she’ll lose her mind over a caged up Benny, I’m sure.”

The rest of the date is spent divulging more into each other’s lives. Sharing embarrassing moments as kids. your favorite of his being when he locked his little sister in the bathroom with wet cat food and crackers telling her it was tuna— you hadn’t laughed that hard in awhile.

Another round of coffee brought more questions and more stories from yours and Frankie’s past. He touched on his recent divorce, and you learned that it wasn’t due to one particular issue, they just grew apart early on and knew splitting was the best thing. Frankie had shared his apprehension to dating, worried he would repeat the same cycle if he was to fall in love and marry again, but he was working through it in therapy and finding that his thoughts were his worst critic sometimes— you could relate to that. You could sit and listen to him talk about anything, the way Frankie shares with so much heart and sincerity could hold your attention for an endless amount of time.

Nothing seems to exist around you as time passes. His presence envelops you in a bubble, makes you feel like you and him are the only ones in this space.

After coffee, you exchange goodbyes and a less than chaste kiss, your back against your car door as Frankie’s expansive frame cages you in as you grip on to him fearing you might just float away entirely. You both make a plan to set up seeing each other sometime during the coming week. You’re already dreading the time in between until you see him again.

*

Before you knew it, Monday rolled into Tuesday and it was back servicing clients for the week.

The day was steady, leaving ample time in between appointments for short breaks and quick text exchanges to Frankie.

Frankie: miss you. Hope you’re having a great day.

-Miss you too handsome. Hope this morning’s flight was great.

Frankie: It was. The sunrise was almost as beautiful as you are 😉

-Quite the charmer you are Morales.

Frankie: I try.

Finishing up a color service, you take your color bowls and brushes to the back room to clean and sanitize. Checking the time, you have 30 minutes before the next client arrives— a cut and blow-out.

You hear the familiar sound of the front door opening alerting the arrival of someone, knowing Hannah’s at the front desk you don’t bother to check, allowing her to greet them.

*

“Welcome in, how can I help you sir.” Hannah always does her best to welcome everyone with her cheerful voice.

“Hi, I’m Frankie. I’m here…”

“Frankie?”

“Y-yes?”

“The Frankie? The Frankie that my girl has been texting me about for the last several days?”

“If we are talking about the same person, then guilty.”

“Hi, Frankie, I’m Hannah.” She introduces herself after her barrage of questioning.

“Hannah?? So you’re the cute receptionist Benny has been going on about. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Benny talks about me?!” If she wasn’t already sitting, she would have fallen to the floor at the mention of Benny Miller thinking of her.

“He does.” Frankie chuckles at Hannah’s flustered state.

“I’ll go get our girl. Be right back.”

*

“Hey! There’s a guy up front, says he knows you.” She’s got this look about her as she says it.

You look at he, brows furrowed in confusion, you weren’t expecting anyone and you still had plenty of time until your next client.

“He’s very attractive… Goes by the name Frankie. You know him??” Her melodramatic tone is too much as she fans at her face with her hands.

“You are the worst!”

“But you love me!” Fluttering her eyelashes as she tries to play innocent.

“Sometimes against my better judgment.”

*

As you walk to the front, you can’t help but be captivated by Frankie. The light shining through the front window was the perfect radiant backdrop to his beautiful silhouette. You can feel the excitement start to come to life the moment he turns and you see that charming smile of his.

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

“I got off early and was looking for an excuse to see you.”

“What’s that you got there?” Pointing to the two coffees and what you can only assume is a bag filled with those delicious croissants.

“My excuse to see you. Thought you could use a little pick me up. Also wanted to see if you’re free Saturday evening to watch Benny’s fight.” He says holding up the coffees and pastry bag.

“You alone are the perfect pick me up. And yes, I’d love to go— it’s a date.” Grabbing one of the coffees before stealing a kiss.

“Uh, I wasn’t sure what you liked Hannah— so I just got two of the same thing.” Placing the second latte on the front desk.

Your heart swelled at the gesture. Stopping by to bring you a treat, to see you— a drive that’s out of his way. And then to bring a coffee for Hannah. What is this man doing to you??

“He’s handsome and brings coffee??” Hannah grabs the cup and begins to leave, but not before saying over her shoulder, “Marry him, now!”

Frankie and you laugh at the remark- but you’re teetering on the edge of insecurity. It was a silly thing to say considering your brief dating— if you could call it that and the thought of it didn’t sound like the worse thing either. But your previous partners were never at a point in their lives where marriage or serious relationships were ever a priority, always making you feel ridiculous and that you were the problem in every equation. But you knew it was something you wanted eventually, when the time was right. You just hoped that you weren’t forcing something on to Frankie to think about so soon.

You’re brain starts doing that thing where it’s already preparing for the worst. You just know he is going to be annoyed with what just happened and decide that this isn’t what he truly wasn’t. He’ll tell you this was only supposed to be a casual thing, it would never become anything serious. You can feel your chest clenched at the thought of him calling it off right here in the middle of the salon. Old feelings and insecurities bubbling to the surface, but you try to pull yourself together, you’ll deal with this problem later.

“Sorry about her. Uh, She can be a bit much sometimes.” You can feel your face becoming hot, picking at your fingers like you tend to do when you’re nervous.

“No— no it’s fine. I can see why Benny likes her. She’s— quirky.”

He can’t help but take in the mix of emotions dancing across your face. Sensing the nervousness stirring with in you after Hannah’s comment, and he can’t help but think it has you feeling fearful and unsure. He wants you to know he isn’t feeling flighty because of it either.

“Hey, look at me.” Pulling your attention back to him fully. “It’s okay, what she said. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Sorry, got in my head for a second. My damn self-sabotage rearing it’s head again.”

Relief washes over you. Sure it doesn’t mean anything is happening right now, but you’re glad to know that the thought of being serious moving forward isn’t something Frankie would turn down.

“Come here.” His arms become a security blanket to your uncertainty. Strong enough to withstand any threat against your own enemies. He feels safe and you like that he wants to be a part of what ever this growing connection between you becomes.

You nuzzle right into the crook of his neck, his skin warm and inviting. You want to stay wrapped up like this for as long as you can.

“Umm— if you and your boyfriend could wrap it up. I’ve got work to do and I’d rather not be front row to whatever is happening up here.” Hannah and her innate ability to make herself known.

“Hmm— Boyfriend??” Frankie says, as if he’s asking you for your opinion on the title.

“Boyfriend?”

“I kinda like the way it sounds.”

“Me too.”

Next

[psychedelic-ink]

fuck it I love you.

pairing: frankie "catfish" morales x fem!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

word count: 4.3k

summary: pope's his best friend, he shouldn't get jealous when you talk to him– he really shouldn't. But how can he not when you've been turning a blind eye to all of his all the flirting he's been doing for the past month?

warnings: jealous!frankie, possessive!frankie, reader struggling with self worth, pov switch, cum eating/sharing, oral (receiving), piv, dirty talking, lots of praise, mutual pining, dumb misunderstandings, creampie, nicknames

a/n: this might be one of the filthiest things I've personally written, also this was requested by my beloved @inklore for the prompt "do you think you deserve this?" but since it ended up being longer then a drabble (I have no self control) decided to make it it's own post <3

requests open for pedro pascal characters, moon knight & peter parker 💌

masterlist | AO3

The music in the bar is pleasant, a nice cool breeze blowing from the small fans scattered all around the small, yet cozy, space. Frankie enjoyed coming here. He especially enjoyed it when the company was to his liking. The laughter, the conversations, all of it tickled the inside of his stomach in the most enjoyable way. 

Tonight, however, despite having the gang back together, plus you, he doesn’t feel that giddy. 

His back is snug against the leather of the booth, the rim of his comically large beer glass touching his bottom lip as he glares at you and Santi. Typically, Frankie isn’t the type to get jealous. He knew Pope was a flirt and that it meant absolutely nothing, being a chivalrous man was as natural to him as breathing. You, on the other hand, wasn’t the type to flirt just because. He isn’t even sure if you are flirting or not. The only thing he does know is that you’re laughing at his unfunny jokes and touching his arm whenever you can. It’s clear to him that you’re tipsy, in all his years of knowing you you had proven to be quite a light weight, but still the closeness the two share annoys him. 

It didn’t help that you were staying with them during your visit. Hotels were expensive so of course both him and Santi had offered you to stay. They did have an extra room after all, what’s the point of it if no one stays?

Frankie, unlike his flirtatious best friend, isn’t the best at sweeping someone off their feet but he isn’t the worst either. He’s somewhat aware that he’s easy on the eyes nonetheless he can’t just bat his eyelashes when he wants someone to approach him. 

He has… some moves– some of them which he had tried on you during your visit– the aforementioned “moves” consisted of compliments, some light touches here and there yet it was clear to him that you weren’t interested. You didn’t shy away from him but you didn’t exactly do anything either. He just gave up after a while, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. 

Santi, of course, soaked up all of the awkwardness, teasing Frankie whenever the opportunity arose. The asshole even offered to give him lessons in how to woo a woman. Fucking smug bastard. 

So yeah, he’s positive Santi’s not actually trying to romanticize you. Sadly, he didn’t share the same confidence when it comes to you. 

The crease between his brows deepens when you burst out laughing and drop your head on Santi’s shoulder, your arm thrown around Benny’s neck. Santi briefly glances at Frankie, his lips parting with a chuckle despite the worry written in his eyes. Frankie huffs and lowers his glass back to the table. He needs to leave. Either he leaves or he’s raising hell and that wouldn’t do anything other than make an ass out of himself. 

Just as he’s getting up he hears your voice. His ass is left awkwardly hanging an inch up from the booth when he turns his gaze to you. 

“Are you leaving?” 

Fuck, the soft whine in your tone shoots right to his cock. He licks his lips and nods, trying to ignore the stirring in his lower abdomen. 

“Yeah, I’m feeling a bit…tired,” 

While sounds of disapproval rise from the rest of the group, Santi only raises an eyebrow. You lift your head up from his shoulder and clumsily get up from your seat, almost knocking one of the glasses over but thankfully Benny moves it just in time. 

“I should head back too, I wanna go to the farmers market early in the morning–” 

“Pope can drive you back,” 

The harshness in his tone not only surprises you but also him. The air stills for a moment, an uncomfortable silence consuming the group. Frankie ignores the way Santi frowns and only focuses on the way your bottom lip quivers, guess his plan about not making an ass of himself failed. Lifting his cap, he cards his hair back and places it back on, he clears his throat. 

“I–I need make a couple of stops before heading home, that’s why I–” 

You cut him off, your voice dripping with venom. 

“It’s okay, I get it if you don’t want me around,” 

If what Frankie said didn’t make the atmosphere uncomfortable, what you just said certainly did. His eyebrows disappear under the loose strands of his hair, eyes wide as his lips part in hopes to say anything that might ease the tension rising. Frankie has no idea why you said the thing that you said and he’s not sure if he wants to find you. 

In a last ditch effort to salvage the situation, he turns his gaze to Santi, their eyes meet and the other man playfully nudges you in the shoulder. 

“Come on cariño, he didn’t mean it like that. You should go,” 

Frankie takes a mental note to treat Pope for lunch later. 

When he turns back to you, you’re already staring at him, your lips a thin line. After exchanging glances, you nod and side shimmy out of the booth. Frankie groans as you say nothing and head straight for the door. 

“Man, that was brutal,” Benny chimes, a soft whistle accompanying his words. “Why did you even say that?” 

“Because he’s an idiot,” Santi adds with the roll of his eyes. “That excuse was weak, hermano. Where are you even going to go at this hour?” 

“Fuck me if I know. She looked really pissed too– What did she even mean by that? Why wouldn’t I want her around?” 

“Maybe because you avoid her like the plague when we’re home?” Santi replies with an amused glance and intoxicating curve of his lips. “If I were you I would start by saying sorry,” 

Frankie glances towards the door, the trail you left feels cold, his heart sinks into your chest. 

“Yeah, probably. Anyway–” 

He places his hand on Santi’s shoulder right before heading towards the door. 

“Don’t be late.” 

“Pope can drive you back,” 

The words still echo in your mind. He was such a slap in the face, you knew something was wrong. You fucking knew it. Even when Santi continuously told you everything was fine, you knew Frankie was angry at you. He had to be by the way he was avoiding you. 

And you damn well know why he was acting like that. It’s no secret that you had a minor infatuation with Frankie. You like him, he’s nice, funny and always by your side whenever you felt like the world was burning. The problem is that he sees you only as a friend and nothing more. Which is what you expect, no one ever sees you more than a friend. That’s your role in life. The one no one loves, at least, not in a romantical sense. And when Frankie got a whiff of your emotions, he pulled himself back. Typical. Soon he would outright just stop talking to you. It happened a million times before and it’ll happen a million times after. 

Looking up to the dark sky you sigh, the cold begins to seep into your skin, hugging yourself to stay warm you blink rapidly. You want to cry. It’s foolish of you but deep down you had hoped that Frankie would be different, that he would see you for you and love you for you. But you guess that was just a hopeless dream. 

A sudden warmth engulfs you and you jump, before you can turn Frankie is walking ahead of you, his jacket draped across your shoulders. 

“Let’s go,” he says, voice gruff. 

You stay in place for about a second, lips parted as you stare at him. You urge your legs to move but they stay glued to the concrete, your fingers come up to the jacket’s collar and tugs at it. Frankie’s scent files your nostrils, mint with a hint of cinnamon. Your pulse quickens and you take another languid breath of him, a soft moan parts your lips when you drag your attention back to Frankie. 

When he notices your lack of presence he turns and tilts his head. 

“You coming?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

The drive back is awkward. You know it, he knows it. 

And just as you suspected, he didn’t have anywhere to go, he just wanted to avoid you. 

You don’t say a word as you move past him to go inside, you let your bag fall to the floor and kick off your shoes. When you hear the door closing behind you, you’re already made it halfway to your room. 

“Can we talk?” he calls out. “I know I pissed you off, at least let me explain,” 

With a broken sigh, you head back. He’s already removed his signature cap, which in return made you realize you still have his jacket across your shoulders. With a grown, you place it on the back of the couch and turn back to him. 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me,” you say a bit sharper than you initially intended. “I know why you’re trying to avoid me,” 

“Avoid you?” he blinks. “This again, I’m not trying to–” 

You snort, arms crossed in front of you. 

“Yeah right, I’ve done this dance a million times, Frank. Whenever anyone gets a whiff that I like them they decide they want nothing to do with me anymore. I get it. I’m used to it.” 

Silence follows and you’re somewhat pleased to cut your losses without completely destroying your heart in the process. 

“Is that really what you think?” 

You meet his gaze, heart nearly leaping out of your throat at his tone. Anger, you quickly identify. You’ve never heard him like this, voice trembling, a hint of a growl at the end of his sentence. 

“I’ve been trying to let you know how I feel since you’ve got here. All you did was ignore me and drool over Pope. I am not the villain. You do not get to make me out to be one when I’ve been trying all this time.” 

“I never flirted with him,” you whisper, averting your eyes. “Look, I get it. I do. Really. It’s not your fault, I’m not easy to love but you don’t have to lie about having feelings for me. All you had to do was talk to me. You could’ve told me to back off and I would, I thought we were friends,” 

Your vision is blurry when Frankie walks up to you, his hands squeezing your upper arms as a sign that you should look up to him. His gaze is softer now but it’s not enough to heal you. You’re suffocating. You can’t breathe, think, or feel. All you want to do is hide from the world and remove yourself from this situation. 

“Listen to me,” he grits his teeth. “I. Am. Not. Lying– Stop selling yourself short. You always do this. Just breathe and think for a moment, why would I lie?” 

Wet eyelashes kiss the underside of your eyes, a tear slipping from between them. The world spins, leaving only him and you in the middle of a hurricane. His one hand slides up to cup your cheek, he swipes the tear away with the inside of his thumb. Your chest heaves. Frankie’s leaning in closer and closer, you only realize what his intention is when you feel the firm press of his lips, tenderly moving against yours. 

Frankie breathes you in, tongue licking your lips as a silent plea for more. Heart fluttering, you open yourself for him, he mimics your movement, opening his mouth wide while pressing his tongue against yours. His other hand comes up to your other cheek, holding your face tenderly. Tears roll down your cheeks and he kisses them away, his lips wet when they travel back down to meet your own. 

“Frankie,” you whisper into his open mouth. “Frankie, I need more,” 

He mouths at the underside of your jaw, nipping your skin as he grins. His hands slide down to cup your breast, squeezing them, he coaxes a moan out of you. 

“After everything you put me through tonight– After flirting all night in front of me– do you think you deserve it?

“I–I–” 

His grin widens at your loss for words, lips still moving across your skin. 

“I’m just kidding, mi vida. Thought some humor would lighten the mood,” 

The tension you’ve been building up for the past couple of days melts when you feel his lips once more. His open palms smooth over your curves, tongue deep in your mouth as he tastes the silent moans slipping from your lips. You’re unaware he’s leading you somewhere, your feet move without the knowledge of where to go. But you don’t care. Not when his fingers are viciously pulling at your shirt and tugging it over your head, giving you only a moment to breathe before crashing his lips against yours once more. 

You’re falling, surroundings nothing but a blur as he sucks you down into the pit of intoxicating lust. You can almost feel the wind grazing against your burning skin–  

Wait, you’re actually falling. 

A gasp rips from your throat when you find yourself sprawled across the softness of a bed. Despite the blurriness of your eyes, you quickly identify the room not belonging to Frankie but to Santi. Unlike Frankie’s room that smells airy and fresh, Santi’s space smells of smoke and the overwhelming scent of bergamot that belongs to his perfume. 

“Fran–shit,” 

You’re interrupted by your own moan that suddenly slips from your lips. Frankie’s looking down at you, eyes a shade darker with lust and want. Eyes linger on the thick outline of his cock, his lips curl up, he palms the bulge, slowly and accompanied by the delicious roll of his hips. 

“Do you have any idea–” he rasps, hand continuing to stroke his clothed cock. “––how many times I’ve dreamed of this? How I imagined your wet pussy wrapped around my cock, your legs spread wide as I fuck you? Do you know how many times I helplessly humped some pillow just to have some semblance of your presence?” 

You moan at his words, the wetness between your legs grows. Just the thought of him moaning and whining while grinding against a pillow, thinking of you, it makes you ache for him even more. 

“Does that turn you on?” he muses, undoing the button of your pants and tugging the fabric down. “Me, coming into my fist an ungodly amount of times just thinking of you? Dirty girl,” 

His name parts from your lips in the form of a whine. 

“Don’t wear out my name just yet, you’ll be screaming it a lot tonight,”

Frankie’s fingers trace the seam of your underwear, he watches the way your thighs tremble for him. He presses his fingers between your clothed folds, feeling the moisture dampening the tips of his fingers. 

“Already so wet, I’ve done nothing else other then talk,” 

His eyes meet yours, your heart stills at the exchange. 

“Do you want me to fuck you on top of Santi’s bed?” 

Fuck, you don’t want to answer that, it’s too embarrassing. But despite forcing your lips to stay shut, your body doesn’t get the memo. Heat spurs between your legs, the dark patch on your underwear spreading. He chuckles, eyes never leaving yours as he starts to draw slow circles around your clit– It feels like electricity surging across your body. The pressure builds and you can’t help but raise your hips off of the mattress, meeting the caress of his hand. 

“I want to hear it from you baby, say it.” 

“I do,” you breathe out. “Please fuck me right here right now,” 

“Your wish is my command, princesa. Turn over,” 

All thoughts desert you while you shuffle on top of thick sheets. You raise your ass into the air, effectively burying your face into the sheets that smell exactly like Santi. For a split second it confuses you, especially when Frankie’s scent is nowhere similar to his friend. 

“You’re perfect,” he hums, hand going up and down your back, feeling the dip of your waist. “So obedient, so generous, so beautiful– Fuck, how could you even think I would want to avoid such a pretty thing,” 

The sudden feeling of his cock between your wet folds makes you jump, but he quickly eases you with the tender touch of his lips between your shoulder blades. 

“Did you enjoy riling me up all night?” he murmurs. “Well it doesn’t matter. You belong to me don’t you?” 

He continues to drag his cock, every time his length brushes the sensitive bundle of nerves you gasp, your body left shivering uncontrollably. His voice is dripping with sin, it’s like having the devil’s tongue licking your ear, you can’t fight it and you don’t want to. 

“You’re mine aren’t you?” 

“I am– I’m yours Frankie,” 

“Good,” 

You whine when the warmth of his lips disappear. He kneads the mounds of your ass, groaning at the way your drips across his cock, drenching it with your slick. Your breath is so stuttery that it’s basically just a string of short, sharp breaths. You want him. You need him. The illicit thrill of being fucked on top of Santi’s bed stirs you on, it makes you even more needy and desperate. All you can smell is the bergamot and the heavy scent of your slick. His nails rake across your back, the blunt tip of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“You’re shaking,” 

He leans in, mouth an inch away from your ear as soft whimpers fall from your lips. You’re on the verge of crying, you want him so bad that it physically hurts. 

“Tell me,” his breath ghosts over your damp skin, goosebumps erupting across your body. “Have you ever thought of me while fingering yourself? Did you imagine me fucking you just like this, right on top of my bestfriends bed– Or did you imagine me taking you in the kitchen, is that why you offer to cook everynight? To entice me with a good show of your behind?” 

Your defense is violently caught in your throat when he slams all of himself inside you without warning. The thickness of his cock walks the borderline of being painful and pleasurable, choked out breaths tears away from your lungs, the two feelings mixing into a mind numbing sensation. The way your pussy clutches tightly around him makes his hips stutter forward, pushing even deeper as he bites into your shoulder. 

“Fuck, baby– You’re gonna make me cum quick if you squeeze like that,” 

Mouth parting wide, you moan at his words, your insides fluttering around him. Spit dribbles out from the corner of your lips and wets the sheets underneath. Fuck, Santi was going to be pissed. 

“Mine,” he growls, straightening his back and holding your hips. “Mine, mine, mine–” 

Your eyes roll back when he starts to move his hips. Cock sliding nearly all the way out before he rocks back into you with full force. But despite all of that, he’s holding back. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch from where they dig into your hips. The sound of your guttural moans fills the air, a string of curses mixed with his name is screamed into the sheets. Your body is on fire. It turns into an object of desire, a tool for Frankie to use as a means for his own pleasure. 

You don’t mind, in fact you want him to take whatever he wants, you would be content with just this. Him, buried deep inside you, all the time. Not another thought lingering in your muddled mind. 

Frankie’s falling apart behind you, his own moans catching up to yours. He leans forward, clothed chest flushed against your naked back. You want to feel more of his skin but your pleas for it are nothing but incoherent whines. His arms coil tightly around you like a snake, pulling you even closer as he ruts into you like a wild animal. 

You can hear the silent whimpers of ‘mine’ being repeated to you again and again. 

Frankie’s about to explode. 

You’re squeezing him tight, a sheer coat of your slick forming a ring at the base of his cock. He’s somewhat aware you’re trying to ask for something, and if he wasn’t so far gone into his own pleasure he would tease you to speak up. But with the curve of your ass pressed against his pelvis, his cock coaxing all the sweet noises he wanted to hear since forever…he just can’t think anymore. 

He presses wet kisses into your skin. You’re making a mess out of Santi’s sheets, spit and slick dripping out of you like the most beautiful fountain he’s ever seen. In his mind, fucking you right here, on top of his best friend’s bed, solidifies the notion that you belong to him and only him. Fuck, he’s acting like a dog marking it’s territory. It was stupid but the way pleasure rings in his ears makes him think otherwise. 

“I’m about to cum,” he groans, the pace of his hips quickening. 

Frankie pulls you up with him, hand sprawled across your stomach while the other wraps around your throat. Another moan escapes him when you squeeze around him like some goddamn condiment. He’s surprised when you reach out and grab his wrist, the pressure is enough for him to slow down. 

“Frankie…I–I love you, you know that right?” 

His eyes widen, heart nearly beating out of his chest as he drags his lips across the column of your neck. He doesn’t want you to think anymore. He wants to fuck every thought out of your pretty head. 

Pulling back, Frankie slams his hips, he repeats it, again and again until you’re left a babbling mess. You tighten around him, moans and cries falling from your lips as his cock slides in and out. His lips are latched against your ear, his words practically a growl when he speaks. 

“Te amo, con todo, mi vida,” 

Your head falls over his shoulder, he mouths the underside of your jaw. He wants to ruin you, he wants to feel the way you convulse around him. His hand slides to your core, drawing quick, small circles around your aching clit. You cry out, panting as you gasp for air. 

“Con todo, todo,” 

Frankie nearly chokes when you come undone around him. Your tight pussy clenching and gushing while he continues to grind his cock deeper. He keens at the way you desperately throw your arms back and pull his head in a desperate attempt for a kiss. Finding it cute, he allows you to tug him close. He tastes the euphoria on your tongue, it makes his head spin. The pressure inside him builds with each stroke of your tongue, it builds and builds until he can’t take it anymore, every time he thrusts into you his eyes roll back– It takes him one more to follow in your footsteps and cum. 

His eyelids flutter as he moans into your open mouth, warmth builds around his cock, hips continuing to push forward while he fills you to the brim. He grits his teeth at the way your insides clamp around him, your moans filling the room. 

Frankie gently lays you down on your back. You're breathing heavily, chest heaving as you look up to him. He watches the way your legs part so he could nestle between them, but instead he eats up the sight of his cum dripping out of you. The sight makes his softening cock twitch with interest. A soft whimper falls from you when he presses his lips against the inside of your thigh, mouth leaving a wet trace of open mouthed kisses as it finds your wet core. 

Your eyes roll back when you feel the swipe of his tongue, he moans at his own taste, the vibrations making the dwindling rush of your orgasm spiking once again across your body. 

He looks up to you, observes the way your brows furrow with pleasure, lips parting in ecstasy as his tongue delves deeper. Gripping your thighs, he gently pushes them over his shoulder, pulling your pussy flush against his hungry lips. You writhe at the building pleasure, legs trembling while he licks you clean. 

Sucking more of himself into his mouth, Frankie slides up your body and crushes his lips against yours. When your lips part he pushes the cum into your mouth with his tongue, relishing in the way you moan for him, swallowing hungirly at what he has to offer. 

His cock is semi hard when you wrap your legs around his waist, he grins as he pulls back, a look of mischief glittering in his eyes. 

“Seems like someone’s eager for another round,” 

“It’s just,” you pant, rolling your hips against his cock. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, I can’t help it. Also–” you fist at his shirt. “I don’t want anything between us, Frankie,” 

Just as he leans in to capture your lips, there’s a loud, almost violent, knock at the door. 

“You two better get that shit cleaned!” Santi pipes from the other side of the door. “Until then I’ll take the guest bedroom– For fuck’s sake, after all the trouble I’ve been through to get you guys together. Un-fucking-believable,” 

“Whoops,” Frankie mutters against your lips, his grin wide. “So where were we?” 

“We should–” 

“We’ll apologize to him tomorrow,” he cuts you off, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You should focus on me, mocosa,”   

“Alright,” you whisper with a smile. “You’re all that matter to me, nothing else,” 

Frankie decorates your face with fleeting, soft kisses. His heart practically melts at the words– 

“Wait, did you just call me a brat?” 

[beskarandblasters]

Frankie Morales Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Header by @theywhowriteandknowthings

All fics are Frankie Morales x F!Reader unless stated otherwise.

Individual warnings are listed at the beginning of each fic! But each fic is labeled either with smut, fluff, and/or angst.

Drabbles (Less than 1k words):

Snowball Kiss - smut

Watch the World from the Sidelines - angst

One shots (1k+ words):

Group Therapy - Featuring Tommy Miller - smut

You Hired a Cleaning Lady, Mr. Morales? - smut

Bluffing Season - smut, fluff, angst

On One Knee, On Two Knees - smut, fluff