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whatsnewalycat · 2 years

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Designated Person | Chapter 2

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 2: Shopping List

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k+

Content / Warnings: Frankie POV, alcoholism / alcohol dependence, parole/pre-trial release, infant / toddler, past romantic & sexual relationship implied, smut, AA meeting, flashbacks, our boy is a liar liar pants on fire, awkward conversations

Notes: So, about how long this is... WOOFTA. I couldn't cut anything, though, so whatever. Let me know what ya think! Thank you for reading!!

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It was an unseasonably hot and miserable day. The morning air was already acting like adhesive on Frankie’s legs, sticking them to the varnished dining room chair. He raised a spoon to his mouth, admiring the perfect ratio of sugar-sweetened milk and Froot Loops he was able to collect. When he engulfed the spoon and squee-geed its contents into his mouth, he swung his short, skinny legs back and forth with glee. The menagerie of artificial fruit-like flavors melded with the creamy whole milk in a softened crunch.

It was his favorite breakfast.

His dad sat at the dining room table next to him, trying to lift the spoon to his lips. The utensil vibrated in his grip. Each time he tried to raise a bite out of the white ceramic bowl, the spoon started vibrating and thwarted his efforts. Frankie watched his father with curiosity.

“What’s wrong with your spoon?” Frankie asked through a mouthful of cereal.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” was the response that came. His dad then dropped the spoon onto the tabletop with a clatter, splashing droplets of red-tinted milk. He pushed his chair out hard and stood up. The loud scratching noise it made on their tiled kitchen floor buzzed inside Frankie’s head and made him wince.

He watched his dad’s broad shoulders as he loafed over to the refrigerator and retrieved a silver can from the door. It hissed and opened with a metallic crack.

Frankie returned his gaze to the offending spoon, squinting to see if there was some kind of kryptonian green glow to the object. There wasn’t. Like he often did, Frankie mentally reviewed the evidence he collected that supported his working theory.

The dark, loosely curled hair. Squared jaw. Broad shoulders atop his tall, muscular frame. Disappearing for hours at a time, only to return either jubilant or so exhausted he stumbled around the house until he fell asleep. Frankie always secretly knew it was because he was out trying to save the world.

Sure, his dad wasn’t white, or a journalist, but certainly the people at DC Comics had to conceal some parts of his father’s identity. They couldn’t name him Jose Rolando Morales outright. That would be dangerous.

The spoon had to be contaminated by kryptonite. And those shiny silver cans held the antidote. Frankie noted that his dad brought at least one anywhere he went. Between them in their beat-up car’s cup holder armrest, lining the refrigerator door like an aluminum forcefield, in a cooler by his feet at Frankie’s softball games.

Frankie determined that the world was lousy with kryptonite radiation, so his dad had to be vigilant.

Now, as Frankie swings his legs out of the queen-sized bed that’s temporarily his, he stares down at his own shaking hands. A burning in his chest urges him to take the antidote. To return the equilibrium within his body, consequences be damned.

The digital clock on the desk by the foot of his bed reads 6:30 AM. The house is completely silent, just like it was when he finally fell asleep only 3 hours ago. He balls his hands into tight fists and squeezes. The tremors ripple through the clenched muscles of his forearms.

Frustration twists through his veins as he stares down at them. He gets to his feet and takes two strides across the cramped room to the dresser, where he fishes out a clean pair of boxers. The floor tracks his footsteps with groans and squeaks as he makes his way to the bathroom.

He flips the shower on HOT and steps into the water. The pin-sized streams pelt him and roll down his body in sheets. His palms press against the wall and he leans over into the scalding onslaught. He savors the way it stings his skin, leaving him red and buzzing.

The water swirling down the drain entrances him. Drowns out the roar of his mind and body begging him for a drink. Temporarily stuns the overwhelming need that burns through him hotter than the steaming water.

A knock at the door snaps him out of the hypnosis. He shakes his head and picks up the bar of soap, “One sec.”

When he emerges, wearing only the clean pair of boxers he brought with him, a cloud of heat and condensation follows him into the hallway. You’re leaning against the wall, crossing your legs, wiggling in place to keep from pissing your pants.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing up at your face just in time to catch your eyes wandering down the length of his body. Your cheeks start to flush when your gaze catches his. You push past him and slam the door behind you.

It reminds him of the way you looked at him when you met. Then, too, your gaze lingered long enough for him to catch you. You introduced yourself, all tongue-tied and flustered, desire written across your face in bold type.

He had to remind himself to behave. To ignore the tingle of temptation settling at the base of his spine. That’s never really changed when it comes to you, though, has it?

A smirk tips up the corner of his mouth as he pads through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into his bedroom. He gets dressed and returns to the kitchen, where he finds you pouring coffee into two ceramic mugs. You take one and breeze past him into the living room. The one you leave behind is obviously for him. It’s black and you leave ample space for his jittery hands to slosh coffee around without spilling over the sides.

Although, he can’t prove that this is why you started leaving a large gap of space when you pour his coffee. You’ve never talked to each other about the shakes, you’ve never asked if it’s easier for him that way, or anything. One day he was struggling to perform this usually mindless task without spilling hot coffee all over himself, and the next you started leaving space in his mug.

It could just be a coincidence. But he doubts it.

Like you do every morning, you set the steaming mug down on your cheap, black coffee table and sink into your hand-me-down couch, all scrunched up in a ball with your ankles crossed and thighs close to your chest. You pull out a notebook and pen and start making lists. Your plans for the day. He settles at the opposite end of the couch and scrolls through the news on his phone.

Neither of you say anything until you finish your second cup of coffee. This is usually when it’s safe to start speaking.

“What’s in the books for today?” he asks.

“Well,” you start, tapping your pen against the notebook, “It’s the, um, family dinner tonight. So I was thinking of getting stuff to make lasagna.”

A smile stretches across his face. He raises his eyebrows, “Lasagna? You know it’s just the two of us, right?”

You tilt your head and glare at him, “So?”

“That’s an insane thing to make for two people,” Frankie snorts.

“Ok, well,” you roll your eyes, but he sees the beginnings of a grin on your lips, “I happen to know that you love lasagna,” your eyes flick to his for an electric jolt of a moment, and your face deepens a shade. You drop your gaze to the notebook with a shrug, “And we’ll have hella leftovers.”

A warmth radiates across his chest. It spreads to his face in a smile as he nods, “Need help with anything?”

“No, that’s ok,” you assure him, shaking your head.

“You sure? I have nothing else to do today,” he offers.

Your eyebrow quirks and you tilt your head to the side, “No other options, might as well hang out with me?”

Frankie frowns, “Whadda you mean?”

You just chuckle and shake your head, glancing away, “Nothing, it was a joke.”

His eyes follow you as you stand up and tiptoe through the kitchen to refill your coffee mug. When you return, you fold your legs up in front of your chest and balance your steaming coffee cup on your knee. Something about your “joke” feels like a rock in his shoe.

“Is that a yes or a no?” he asks directly, tapping his fingers to the tops of his thighs.

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he states. This leaves no room for speculation or insinuations on your part.

“Alright,” you shrug. A satisfied smirk plays on your lips, “Lemme finish this cup of coffee then we can go to the store.”

Frankie trails behind you, leaning onto the shiny plastic handles of the shopping cart in aisle 5. Its wheels squeak across the low rise carpet defiantly. Holding your grocery list scrawled on a frayed notebook paper in one hand, studying a can of tomatoes in the other, you don’t notice his eyes drifting up and down your body with admiration.

It’s been difficult to resist this temptation. Old habits die hard and all that. He finds his gaze lingering on you frequently, unable to stop his mind from getting swept up in a tidal wave of memories. It doesn’t help that the two of you have walked these same grocery store aisles dozens of times.

The first time feels like a lifetime ago. You were poking around the kitchen, going from the fridge to the cupboards, then from the cupboards to the fridge, sighing quietly to yourself. He watched you out of the corner of his eye as he fed Sarah a bottle, amused at how you hovered around the doorway between your respective rooms, seemingly trying to decide whether or not to approach him.

When Sarah slurped down the last of her formula, he stood up to burp her over his shoulder, giving her soft, encouraging pats on the back. You were still standing in the middle of the kitchen, scrunching your face up at the recipe on your phone like it was a puzzle.

“Need help finding anything?” Frankie stepped onto the fake oak wood linoleum of the kitchen.

Your eyes flicked to his, face flushed hot like he pantsed you instead of asked you a question. He couldn’t help but notice the way your gaze dropped to his mouth, or how your tongue darted out to wet your lips before you responded, “Um, yeah, sorry. The recipe calls for milk, I used the last of it earlier today. I was looking for a substitute, but, um, I don’t think there’s anything else I can use.”

“Ok,” he nodded, “Did you want to make something else?”

Your teeth caught your bottom lip and worried away at it. You pressed your eyebrows together, inquiring, “Would Mrs. Morales be upset if I made something different?”

Frankie frowned as he thought about this, considering how fickle his wife can be. Case in point, she insisted that you stay and make dinner while Frankie watched Sarah instead of delegating both tasks to him. This resulted in them paying you to be there for two hours longer than he thought was necessary every day.

“Or we could go to the store? ” he proposed.

“Oh, you don’t have to pack Sarah up, I can just go-”

“Let’s all go,” he suggested, switching Sarah to his other shoulder, “I have to get some formula and a few other things anyway.”

“I could, um, stay here with her, too,” you covered your mouth as a nervous chuckle escaped it, “You don’t have to-”

Sarah released a loud belch and spit up onto Frankie’s shoulder. He groaned, then grimaced at the sour scent that wafted into his nose.

You burst out laughing. The sound was melodic and bright, and he’s pretty sure you snorted a little. A genuine smile broke out on his face as he handed his daughter off to you and went to change his shirt.

By the time he returned, you were crouched in front of the car seat, buckling the five-point harness over Sarah’s small body, cooing and babbling back and forth with her. From his vantage point, he could see the white lace of your underwear peeking out over the top of your jeans.

He let his eyes linger on them, imagining how you would look wearing that pair of panties alone. He wondered what they smelled like. What they tasted like.

All the blood in his body rushed to his dick. You leaned over further to tighten the straps, exposing more of the white lace. His tongue ran along the seam of his lips.

How damp could he make them before peeling them off your body? Judging by how starry-eyed you got around him, it wouldn’t take much for you to saturate the delicate fabric.

“Ready?” you stood up and swung Sarah’s diaper bag over your shoulder.

He shook the filthy thoughts from his head and rubbed his hands together, “Rock ‘n’ roll.”

You picked at your fingernail polish the entire drive. Avoided looking anywhere but out the passenger’s side window. He snuck glances at you, despite the sirens going off in his head, warning him to keep his distance.

When he parked the car and went to get Sarah’s car seat out of its base, you came around to the door and pulled a tangle of thick navy blue fabric out of the diaper bag.

“I can wear her so we don’t have to lug around her car seat,” you mumbled.

He furrowed his brow, “Wear her…? What is that?”

“It’s a babybjörn! You haven’t used this yet?”

“I have no idea what that means,” he chuckled, shaking his head from side to side.

“It’s, um… it’s like a kangaroo pouch,” you held the strappy contraption up for him to see, “You wear it and then put her in it and you can carry her around hands free. She loves it.”

He nodded, “Oh. That’s pretty neat.”

“Do you wanna try?”

You held it out to him, and he accepted it, only to inspect it at arm’s length like the foreign object it was.

“Here,” you laughed and took it back, rearranging it until there were two definable holes to slide his arms through, which he did.

“Um, ok, turn around.”

He spun and faced the opposite direction, letting you fasten the device from behind.

“How the fuck do you do this alone?” Frankie muttered, holding his arms out to the side as he turned around and inspected the completed product.

You didn’t answer him, just retrieved Sarah from her car seat and helped get her situated in the baby carrier. Once she was nestled into it, and he was tummy-to-tummy with her, she looked up at Frankie with her big, dark eyes and smiled wide, showing off a single pearly white tooth.

“See? Look at how happy this sweet lil baby is,” you cooed, booping Sarah’s nose with your index finger. Inadvertently, you laid your head against his arm when you did this. Frankie felt his lungs expand and his skin tingle. Those sirens started going off again.

Sarah blew a raspberry in response and squealed in delight.

He pushed around a shopping cart behind you, tossing things in as he went along. Sarah cooed happily and watched the world around her with amazement.

Every once and a while, his eyes caught yours and held your gaze just long enough to make his heart skip a beat. Each time, you got flustered and looked away. He always thought you were attractive and found it cute how obvious your crush on him was. It was flattering.

But that trip to the store was the first time he knew he fucking wanted you.

Is that why you insisted on coming to this store today? Going out of your way just to plague him with the reminders of how things were? To show him how your relationship has weaved into so many fucked up directions, neither of you know where you are on the map?

“Daddy!”

The sound of Sarah’s voice yanks him from his thoughts. His gaze flicks to you just in time to see your eyes widen in panic at what’s behind him. You step towards the cart and toss in the can of tomatoes.

Frankie turns around and sees Angelica, shoulders squared and expression steel as she approaches. His face breaks out into a wide smile as his eyes land on Sarah, who has no idea what “dynamics” or “tension” mean or how they could possibly make a difference between her and her daddy. Her dimpled smile when he makes eye contact with her is quite possibly the only thing that has given him hope in the past week.

“Mi princesa!” he exclaims, abandoning the shopping cart, gravitating towards his family. Sarah claps her hands together and extends her arms to Frankie. He plucks her from the cart and holds her on his hip.

“What’re you doing here?” Angie spits. His eyes flick to hers and he shivers at how cold the glare is. It always amazes him how she can make her golden brown eyes somehow seem icy.

“Just getting some groceries,” he shrugs, then looks at Sarah, “How are you, sweetheart? I miss you.”

“Frankie, put her back,” Angie demands.

Her voice is low and serious, but when he meets his daughter’s ecstatic gaze, he shakes his head. He tears his eyes away to level them at his wife, “I’ve been trying to set something up so I can see you two. Have you seen my texts?”

“Yep,” Angie responds.

Frankie stares at her expectantly.

She stares back, unflinching as she states, “I don’t want Sarah to be around her .”

“She doesn’t-“ he takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes, “I can go wherever you want. She doesn’t have to go there.”

Angie purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything.

Frankie clenches his jaw, then sighs, “We’re not seeing each other, Ang. I swear. She’s my roommate. That’s all. Things have been over with us for a year. I’m still in this with you.”

She scoffs and folds her arms across her chest, “Who says that I’m in this with you? ”

“N-nobody,” he stammers, “I just- I don’t know, is that what you really want? To just throw this all away?”

She’s silent as she contemplates this. Her stance and features soften.

“I love you, Ang. I love our life together. And,” he presses his eyebrows together and takes a step towards her, “Listen, I- I know I fucked up. But this living situation is a means to an end. Honest. I still wanna be with you.”

She studies her husband and their child, then sighs, arms going slack at her sides, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

He turns this question over in his mind a few times. Yes, he does. The first of Ralph’s prescribed “family dinner” with you. The phrase feels like a betrayal to his wife and daughter. Isn’t it just as important, if not more important, that he try to put his life back together with his family?

“I have a Sunday night meeting,” is what he tells her, glancing behind his shoulder instinctively to see if you’re within earshot. The aisle is vacant, so he turns back to Angie and shrugs, “But I can see if I’m able to skip it.”

“Ok,” Angie allows one corner of her lips to flick up into a smile, “Come over for dinner.”

“Yeah?” he grins, looking over to Sarah, “Want me to come and have dinner with you, Princess?”

She just giggles in response, her deep brown eyes meeting his with glee.

“What time?” he asks Angie.

“5:00,” she smirks, “Does that work?”

“It’s a date,” Frankie beams in response.

“So, just to be clear,” you itch your eyebrow and sigh, “You’re blatantly disobeying Ralph’s request for us to have family dinner-“

“But for dinner with my actual family,” Frankie interrupts as he leans the passenger’s seat back a bit, crossing his ankle over his knee. He presses his fingers to his lips and looks out the window.

“So I just got all this shit for nothing?”

“I don’t want to fuck this up with her,” he tells you, casting a hopeful glance your way.

It meets your eyes, but you look back to the road and shake your head slightly.

“What?” he asks defensively.

You scoff and shake your head harder now, then roll your eyes, “I just…”

He waits for you to continue, but your teeth catch your bottom lip and your face softens into a sadness that feels like a punch in his gut.

“Nevermind,” you mumble under your breath.

The rest of the drive home is quiet and awkward. After you pull into the garage, you kill the engine and practically sprint into the house. He grabs all the flimsy plastic bags from the trunk of your car and brings them inside the house, dropping them in front of the fridge before knocking on your closed bedroom door.

“What?”

Your voice wavers, regardless of how abrasive you try to make it sound.

“Can I come in?” he requests. His hand rests on the doorknob, waiting for your permission.

From behind the door, he hears you sniffling, but you don’t answer him. Stomach acid starts to bubble up inside his throat. When he knocks on the door again, and you spit, “Oh my god, what? ”

“Do you want me to see if Ang will do dinner a different day?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do, Francisco.”

His eyebrows raise and he blinks at the door, knowing damn well that phrase means exactly the opposite of what you’re asserting. With a small sigh, he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Angie, explaining that his PSO told him the meeting was mandatory, then asks to reschedule.

“Ok, well,” he hollers towards your door from the kitchen, as he unpacks the groceries you just bought, “I’m gonna start making this, then.”

You don’t respond, so he eggs you on further, “Do I defrost some hamburger for the sauce?”

Silence. He grabs a 1-pound chub of ground beef from the freezer and sets it down on the stovetop with a clunk .

“Oh, and for the sauce, do I just add Italian seasoning to the tomatoes and cook it?”

He casts a glance to your closed door. Nothing.

“You put the noodles in uncooked, right? I don’t need to boil them?”

A moment later, the door swings open and you come into the kitchen shaking your head, “I swear to god, Frankie-“

His face breaks out into a satisfied grin and you meet his eyes. Yours are swollen and wet. You fold your arms across your chest.

“I rescheduled with Ang,” he explains, “We’re gonna get together on a different day.”

You nod solemnly, then avert your gaze to the stove and sigh, “You can’t just set frozen meat on there to defrost, it’s gonna bleed all over the place.”

He frowns and shrugs.

“And I got Italian sausage, it’s way better than hamburger in lasagna,” you smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, unfolding your arms to put the frozen chunk of meat back inside the freezer, “Get the saucepan, I’ll show you how to make it.”

“Saucepan?” his forehead wrinkles in confusion.

You snort and shake your head, “Absolutely hopeless.”

“Holy shit,” Frankie groans. The dining room chair squeaks as he stretches out, “That was so good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you flash him a close-lipped smile and push the remaining lasagna around your plate.

Both of you have avoided the open and honest communication Ralph had assigned for as long as possible. Now it’s the only thing left on the agenda. Frankie’s chest tightens as he tries to think of what to say to you. The scrape of your fork against the dinner plate is sandpaper on his spine. It makes his ears itch.

You clear your throat and set your fork down, then turn to him. Your eyes are dull and overcast, lips all puffy and full of color as a result of your anxious biting. He resists the urge to brush his thumb against your cheek and feel your warmth.

A deep breath expands your lungs, then you croak, “I hate that I’m always your backup plan.”

The words hang in the air as they seep into the folds of his brain.

Frankie shifts in his chair. Its squeak breaks the uncomfortable silence in a way that somehow only makes it more unbearable. He was expecting your anger. Bracing for it, really. But this? This vulnerability you volleyed into his court?

It makes his heart pound heavy in his chest. Wriggles between every vertebrae down his spine. Settles in his stomach like lead.

He shakes his head in protest, unable to stop the lie from crossing his lips, “You are not always my backup plan.”

The statement coats his mouth with a slimy residue.

Your shoulders slump as you deflate, eyes glazing over with disappointment. You drop your gaze to study the plate in front of you, chewing on your bottom lip. Then you take another deep breath and push your chair out behind you. You stomp off to your bedroom and slam the door.

He sits for a while in silence, waiting for you to return. When it’s obvious you’re committing to your bedroom isolation, he clears the table and washes the dishes.

While drying his hands on the dish rag over his shoulder, he walks back to your bedroom and holds his ear to the closed door. Sniffling and sobbing cuts through the quiet periodically. His jaw gnashes back and forth as he stands with one knuckle cocked against the door, contemplating whether or not to knock on the door and apologize.

“My name is Frankie and I’m an alcoholic,” Frankie drones. The metal folding chair squeaks as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The chant echos around the church basement from the circle of his fellow miserable fucks: Hi, Frankie.

“I’m, uh, I’m not sure what to-” he presses his mouth into a flat line and looks to the ringleader, David, for assistance.

Frankie surmises that David could be a middle school principal if he isn’t already. He looks like he once had a full head of short brown hair, but his hairline is now receding and peppered with grays. He’s clean shaven, wearing a white long-sleeved dress shirt, yellow tie, and khaki slacks. His cadence is diplomatic and metered with a southern coastal drawl.

David frowns and crosses his long legs while responding, “You can talk about how long it’s been since you drank, what brings you today, where you’re at in recovery. Whatever you want to get off your chest.”

Frankie raises an eyebrow and rubs a hand over his face, then brings his palms to his thighs where his fingertips thrum nervously, “Ok. Um, well, I haven’t drank in a week and a half. But I want to. It’s all I wanna do, if I’m being honest. Everything is such a shit show right now. I don’t even know where to start. My wife threw me out last week after I was arrested,” he pauses and thinks about that assessment, then tilts his head to the side, “Well, I guess, it’s not really the arrest. The person that I’m staying with, we have a history, and, my wife-” he clamps his mouth shut in frustration. Why can’t he explain this?

“It’s… complicated. Anyway, Two weeks ago, everything was fine, now it’s like my whole world is flipped upside down. I’m out on bail, can’t drink, facing a felony, living with my ex, and my wife is probably filing for divorce. I fucking-” he stops and looks at David, “Sorry, can- can I swear?”

David shrugs, “Go ahead, bud.”

“I fucking hate it. And I have to go to these meetings three times a week, call my PSO every day, always talking about what’s going on in my life and what I’m feeling. Everyone always asking what I’m fucking feeling . And I have no goddamn idea how to answer. I’ve never had to fucking do this before. I fucking hate it, it’s bullshit,” he finishes, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his mouth before one more, “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Thank you for sharing,” David nods with a calming smile that surprises Frankie, then looks around the circle, “Who else would like to share?”

While waiting at a bus stop, Frankie stares at the bar across the street. He tries to calculate the odds of him getting drug tested within the next few days.Fuck, it would be good to get lost in a whiskey haze. A small vacation from his mind.

Maybe just one.

The bus roars down the street, right on time, pulling him from the temptation of those neon lights. He stands up off the bench to meet it.

After scanning his bus pass, he searches for a place to plant his ass, settling on a window seat he doesn’t have to share with another person. A lanky, pale twenty-something man sitting in front of him starts digging through a crinkly McDonald’s bag. The deep fat fried scent of french fries wafts back into his face and his stomach growls in protest.

While the city of Kissimmee passes by his window, Frankie wonders what you made for dinner. Whatever it is is probably better than McDonald’s french fries. Even if it’s just leftovers from last night. The past week has reminded him of what a good cook you are.

And, god, he misses his daughter. His house. His truck. His bed. His wife. But to be spending time with you again, shooting the shit while you occupied your hands preparing dinner… It was good. Reminded him of those first few months, after you came out of your shell around him, before he kissed you for the first time.

You hadn’t yet found out that he’s a fuckup. He would talk you into having a beer with him while you cooked. The timid exterior would melt away into the smartass he came to know and love.

Maybe he should have just left you alone. Let you do your job. You would’ve never set up a prepaid calling account so you could accept collect calls from county. He would have never broken your heart.

His stop comes up, so Frankie pulls the cord and gets to his feet. Before he hops off and starts towards your place, he thanks the bus driver. The evening air is soupy hot and he regrets not asking you to just pick him up from the meeting. Although, he never gathered the courage to console you last night, so you probably don’t want to do him any favors.

He walks a few blocks, until the little tangerine orange house comes into view. The weight in his chest settles down further with each step. He wants a drink. He wants to go home. Not this one, though, the real one.

This is fucking bullshit.

Frankie opens the front door to find you curled against the couch, swiping through tinder on your phone as Friends plays idly on the TV. A nonsensical pang of jealousy stabs through his guts when you swipe right on Rory, 32, who’s posing shirtless next to a surfboard. What the fuck kind of a name is Rory, anyway?

“Hey,” he calls to you as he kicks his heavy work boots off onto the shoe tray.

“Hey,” you glance at him through your tortoiseshell glasses, then up at the TV, clicking the phone screen off as you tuck it away under your leg. You’re wearing a pair of floral cotton pajama shorts that have to have just a 1-inch inseam. The swell of your ass peaks out the bottom. Your hard nipples are outlined against your tight gray tank top.

He remembers how soft and warm your skin was against his. The quiet little moans you made when he kissed your neck. The things you would whimper against his mouth you were alone behind locked doors.

“I heated up some lasagna for dinner,” you inform him without looking up.

Frankie glances from the kitchen, to you. He thinks about the way the two of you left off last night, then plops down on the couch, “Listen, um, I wanted to tell you...”

You slide your eyes from the TV to his face, then tilt your head in question.

“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me,” he looks down at his hands as they wring together, “And everything that you’ve done for me in the past. You’ve always been just… fuck, so great,” he taps his fingers to his lips and shrugs, “I don’t deserve you.”

The corners of your mouth upturn into a peace treaty, “I appreciate you pulling glass out of my foot.”

“Anytime,” he thrums his fingers against the top of his legs, then turns to you, “I’m getting you LED bulbs, though. Can’t believe you’re still using incandescent. That was your first mistake.”

“Wow, that is the most dad thing you could possibly bitch at me about,” you deadpan, then snort as you turn your attention back to the TV.

“How is it healing up?” he asks, ignoring your comment as he tilts his head at your feet.

“Fine,” you assure him, lifting your foot to show proof.

“Let me see” he hums, wrapping his hand around your foot and pulling it closer for inspection. The gasp of air you intake when he touches you is almost undetectable, but he notes it. Arousal pricks his skin when he realizes he should stop. Those old, familiar sirens start going off in his head again, warning him to proceed with caution.

But you’re sitting there looking absolutely fucking irresistible. It’s killing him. The subtle rumblings of lust in his belly, and in your quiet little gasp, stick to his insides and prod him on further.

“Oh yeah,” he mumbles, running his thumb over the elevated patch of skin that’s now sealed, “Looks way better.”

You start to giggle and pull your foot back. His eyebrows raise and he seizes it, a wide smile transforming his eyes to crescents, “Oh, are you ticklish?”

The pads of his fingers trail up the sole of your foot and you start laughing this fucking champagne laugh, all sparkling and effervescent. You writhe and scoot closer. Your hands fly to his wrist as you whine through your rosy-cheeked laughter, “You know that I am, Frankie!”

And your body is wiggling closer still, and you’re smiling and laughing, squealing breathlessly, “Stop- please stop-”

It’s almost the same cadence as the breathy moans you’ve huffed against his lips countless times, “don’t- don’t stop- ”

You go on the offensive, releasing his wrist so your fingertips can graze against his rib cage. God damn you, the tickle creeps across his ribcage, making him giggle, quickly escalating to a howling laughter when you continue. He lets go of your foot and grabs your hands, pulling them away from his sides, but the onslaught continues when you swing your leg over his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips when you wriggle one hand away and go back for more.

Fingertips in his armpit, sending shockwaves of laughter through his body until he throws his head back and his hat falls off. He opens his eyes and you’re straddling him and smiling and laughing, and your gaze catches on his.

Chests heaving, tears of laughter streaming down your cheeks, hips pressed together so close that there’s no way you don’t feel how fucking hard he is right now. The urge lingers for just one second before he acts, pressing his lips to yours.

Your sweet, soft lips respond, kissing back with urgency. He abandons his attempts to pull your hands away from his body. Instead, his grasp drops to your waist, pulling you closer. You bring your fingertips to his scalp and rake them through his hair. A shudder rolls down his spine. His hips jerk against yours.

His lips part and your tongue rolls against his, hands cradling his head, pulling his hair into your fists. The power in your kiss tugs at the edges of him. He bites back a moan and tightens his grip on your waist. His hands slide up the shirt clinging to your chest, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling soft across the hard buds. You gasp in response, but don’t stop kissing him, even when your breath becomes labored and sweet little whimpers bubble from your lips onto his.

You start to grind against him, a sliding scale of pressure along the length of his cock, sending his heart racing and body tingling. You part the kiss to throw your head back and face the ceiling, panting and whining as you rub yourself against the zipper of his jeans. The loss of your lips sends him reeling. He wants to taste you, and brings his mouth to your nipple to fulfill the need.

You moan when his tongue draws wet circles on the hardened bud, and look down to meet his eyes with a smoldering gaze, lips puckered, dragging your fingernails through his hair, nodding down at him enthusiastically, never ceasing the steady rhythm of dry humping. He switches sides to tease the neglected breast, and he can feel your body shudder at the stimulation. Your hand tugs on his, guiding it to your mouth. Soft, humming lips wrap around two thick digits. You rut them in and out of your mouth, dragging moisture out with each thrust, soaking his fingers with your saliva.

He throws his head back against the couch, groaning through gritted teeth as the desire stoked in his abdomen becomes unbearably tedious, “I wanna fuck you, baby, please.”

You take fingers from your mouth, then bring those puffy, swollen lips to his ear and purr, “Then fuck me, Francisco.”

His breath hitches as the command slithers around inside him, sticking to the most primal of instincts and dragging them out to play. He buries his hand in your hair and grabs a fistful, pulling your head back to expose the column of your neck. He drags his tongue up your neck, relishing the salty bite of your sweat, then husks, “Take off your clothes, sweetheart.”

You stand on shaky legs. Both of you pull your clothes off, piling them on the living room floor. Then you climb back onto his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips.

He drinks in your form, eyes drifting up your skin until he meets your gaze. Your lips press against his for a languid kiss as you lower yourself down, tip of his cock dipping into your hot, tight cunt. His head rolls back against the couch, sensitive nerve endings along his length firing on all cylinders you work yourself open, engulfing him inch by inch, breathy moans falling from your lips.

His hands find the soft skin of your hips and he spurs you on, guiding you to roll your hips on his, setting a steady, luscious pace, filling his center with ecstasy with each gentle thrust. He groans, “You’re so fucking tight , holy fuck- Look so fucking good riding me, baby.”

Your eyebrows draw together and you moan at the praise, bpm of your hips increasing just enough to stoke the fire inside and break him out in a sweat. You lean forward to take his lips in a kiss, running your tongue against his, passing whimpers back and forth between your mouths, reveling in the blissful ache of your bodies sliding together.

He runs a hand down between your pumping thighs and starts drawing easy, slick circles around your swollen clit. You respond with a guttural moan, arching your back towards him, hands pressing against his thighs for support as you rut up and down his slippery cock.

“That’s right, sweetheart- Jesus Christ - you feel so fucking good,” Frankie babbles.

Your eyebrows crease together and you look down at him, nodding with your lips pouting into an O as you whimper breathlessly, “So fucking big, you stretch me- can’t take it all- ”

He nods with a moan and undulates his fingers faster now, “You can take it baby, I know you can. You can do it.”

You bite your lip and bury him to the hilt, pulling a choked sob from both of your throats. Ecstasy fills his vision with stars as you find a rhythm sliding your cunt down his shaft until he disappears inside you. He grits his teeth, “Fuck yes- take that cock, baby, just like that-“

Your body starts to quiver and your moans grow more frantic. You fold over and press your lips to his, sloppy and dazed, whimpering, “Fuck me, Frankie, please- give it to me-“

“You want me to give it to you, hmm?” he pants and brings his hands to your hips, digging into the soft skin so hard his knuckles tinge white.

You nod, grabbing onto his shoulders with the same ferocity, then growl, “Fucking give it to me.”

Holding your hips down, thrusting into you deep and hungry, ripping a moan from the back of your throat, he grunts, “Is that what you need, baby?”

An airy whine escapes you and your face contorts with pleasure, “Yes- yes, fuck yes-”

“Sweet girl wants to get fucked hard, is that what you need?” His words surface from the most depraved part of his brain as he sets a brutal pace.

Your beautiful face gets hot and flushed, breath coming in frantic gasps against his mouth, “Fuck yes- fucked hard- you fuck me so good-”

“Are you gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Hmm?” he pants, then groans into a kiss on your lips, wet and heavy, vibrating against him as your body bounces in time with his thrusts.

You nod frantically and your fingers dig into his shoulders deeper. His muscles start to tense as your sounds and movements seem to disappear, just a shattered inhale with your face all twisted up with pleasure. Then your body seizes, quivering and shaking as you release a strangled moan, convulsing around him.

“That’s it, baby, cum for me,” he rasps, not letting up in his tempo as he works you through the orgasm. The tingling spreads at his core, overtaking his body, pushing him over the edge. His hips snap up into you, painting your walls with his cum.

You climb off of him and lay back on the couch, ragged breath and limp noodle body. His head rolls back and his body sinks into the couch as the feel-good chemicals make their way through his system. His heaving chest settles, madness draining from his psyche, replaced by a calmness. When he looks over at you, you meet his dazed smile with pained eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his smile falling into a frown.

You sit up and grab your shorts, shoving your trembling legs in, one after the other, muttering to yourself, “Exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t fucking do.”

“Hey- it’s ok-” he sits up and places a hand on your forearm, which you rip away immediately.

“Don’t- ok? It’s not ok,” you snap, pulling your shirt on. You sniffle and hide your face behind your hair as you frantically search for your phone.

“I won’t tell Ralph-”

“It’s not about that and you fucking know it,” you grind out, then growl, “Where is my fucking phone?!”

He shakes his head as he slides his boxers back on, standing to pull them over his hips, “It’s really not a big deal, sweetheart.”

You throw your hands up in frustration, then stand on your toes, pointing an accusing finger at his face as you yell, “It’s not a big deal to you! That’s exactly what the fucking problem is! You-” your face crumbles and tears well in your eyes. Your shoulders slump and your bottom lip quivers, but you meet his eyes and sob, “You know how I fucking feel, Frankie. And you’ve made it clear that you don’t feel the same way. And I just keep- fuck ,” you lower your face to your hands, drawing shattered breathes.

His chest aches like it’s raw. When he swallows, the muscles in his throat feel swollen and thick. He wants to wrap his arms around you and kiss your tears away. He wants to take back all the times he told you no.

No, I can’t be with you. Not like that. No, I won’t leave her. No, I don’t love you. Not like that.

But he’s not going to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. What he told you was the truth. He can’t do anything about that now.

“Just, forget it. It won’t happen again,” you exhale a shaky sigh and run your hands through your hair, then finally spot your phone under his pants crumpled on the floor.

He says nothing as you snatch it up and walk back to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

“How did your first meeting go?” Ralph asks.

Through the phone line, Frankie can hear him clicking his black pen, and imagines he’s sitting in his tiny white-washed office within the Osceola County Corrections Department, hovering over a notebook with the corded phone cradled between his shoulder and ear.

“I don’t know,” Frankie answers truthfully, “I don’t think I’m like those guys. I really don’t think I have a problem.”

Ralph’s sigh crackles in his ear. The pen clicks again. Frankie thinks then that it’s not a notebook that Ralph is hovering over. It’s a worksheet. A pre-printed worksheet he keeps for every call with his parolees, with little blank spaces typed at the top for Ralph to fill in the name and date. He’ll file this one away in the folder titled Francisco Morales, saving it as proof for how much progress he has or has not made when his court date comes.

“Mr. Morales, do you know what I’m looking at right now?”

Frankie leans back in his office chair and crosses his ankle over his knee, then thrums his fingers against the armrest, “A worksheet?”

Ralph laughs heartily at this, “I do have a worksheet. What else?”

Oh, for fucks sake, what is this?

Frankie’s turn to sigh now, “I don’t know, what?”

“Let me give you a hint: 2015, public intoxication. 2018, felony drug possession and trafficking. 2019, DUI. 2020, public intoxication and assault. 2021, public intoxication and assault-”

Frankie gnashes his jaws together and sits up, then cuts Ralph off, “My record, I get it.”

“How many times a week would you say you use alcohol to alleviate your PTSD symptoms?”

“None, now,” Frank grumbles, tapping his index finger on the desktop.

“Before your arrest, smartass,” Ralph retorts.

“I don’t know, I had a few beers when I got home from work-“

The pen clicks.

“How many beers? Be honest with me.”

“Six or seven, maybe more.”

“And on the weekend?”

“I’d go to the bar and have a few drinks.”

“How-“

“I don’t know, Ralph, enough to have a good time. Eight, maybe? It depends.”

“Would you drive home?”

“Not every time. A friend or my wife would bring me home sometimes. Sometimes I’d walk.”

“Uh huh. And your friend, would that happen to be the woman you’re currently living with?”

“Not… always,” Frankie lied. He remembers all the times he texted you when Angie wouldn’t pick up, when he knew the streets were ripe with police and he couldn’t risk driving home.

“How are things going with her? Did you talk to her about how things left off on Sunday?”

Frankie is silent as he tries to compile the right answer to this question.

“Honestly,” Ralph tacks on to his question.

“I think if I’m honest with you, you’re going to put a stop to all this and send me back to jail,” Frankie admits.

“Are you drinking or using drugs?”

“No.”

“Any other crimes?”

“No.”

“Then try me.”

Frankie gulps and stands up, moving to the corner of the small, empty office he shares with two other aircraft maintenance technicians. He speaks in a hushed tone, “We had sex last night. She said it was… a mistake. And it won't happen again.”

“Uh huh,” Ralph clicks his pen, “And what do you think about it?”

Frankie exhales all the air from his lungs, deflating his shoulders as he shrugs weakly, “I think it was impulsive. I had such a fucking bad day. I wanted to feel good.”

“And did you achieve that by having sex with her?”

“No,” Frankie chuckles to himself, “No, I feel much worse now. I’m a piece of shit.”

“Do you wanna know what I think?”

Click.

Frankie groans, “I don’t know, do I?”

“Well, I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Ralph declares, clears this throat, then continues, “I think you’re in a hole. But you don’t wanna do anything about it. You don’t acknowledge it, try to get out, or nothing. You want everything to fix itself. Well, guess what, buckeroo? You gotta get out of the damn hole somehow!”

Frankie closes his eyes and his head falls back in exhaustion, “It’s such a fucking mess, though, Ralph.”

“You’re goddamn right it is. But, the good news is, you have help. You have the AA meetings three times a week. And I know you don’t think you have a problem, but just humor me and go along with it. Do the steps. Participate,” his pen clicks once, twice, “You have a friend that has been willing to post bail for you, house you, quit drinking with you, and support you in this journey-”

“And I fucked it up-”

“And you need to start treating her like a person , not a doormat you can stick your dick into. Make it right. You hear me?” Ralph orders.

“Yes, sir.”

Click.

“And, then of course, you get to talk to me every day. And we love our talks, don’t we, Mr. Morales?” Ralph laughs. Frankie grins, but doesn’t respond. Ralph continues, “Next item on the agenda: Wife and daughter- any luck with them?”

“Angie said I could come visit them on Saturday,” Frankie says with a tone of optimism.

“That’s good news! When you see her, see if you can work out a consistent schedule.”

He sighs in response, “I’ll try.”

“Hang in there, kid. It’ll get better. Trust the process.”

When Frankie gets home from work, you’re in the small galley kitchen, hovering above a scratched-up white plastic cutting board as you dice an onion. You hum along to the music playing over your headphones, bobbing your head from side-to-side in time with the rhythm. Blue flames lick the bottom of a stainless steel pan on the gas stovetop.

Swallowing hard, he approaches you and shoves his hands into his front pockets. You don’t see him. His teeth catch the smooth inside of his cheek and bite down. He casts a contemplative glance to the front door, then back to you, before his shoulders slump and he sighs.

Frankie clears his throat as he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, “Hey.”

“Jesus Christ -” your body jolts upright, hand darting from the onion to clutch at your heart. You pull the headphones down around your neck and gasp, “You scared the shit out of me!”

Your eyes only meet his for a moment before you blink and drop your gaze to the onion.

“Sorry,” he mutters, then straightens his spine. His eyes wander to the front door again, Adam’s apple bobbing thick in his throat.

You say nothing, just cut the white bulb down the middle, then start to dice the two halves. The sharp chopping sound pulls his attention back to you.

“What’re you making?” he asks, peering down at the saucepan that’s heating a shiny, slick pool of greenish-yellow olive oil.

“Spaghetti.”

He nods in acknowledgement and scratches the stubble on his neck. His mouth flattens into a straight line and he looks down to his feet, “Do… you need help?”

“Is there something you want from me, Frankie?” you snip, shooting a glare at him before you turn your attention back to the onion.

The words he wants to say sit at the end of his tongue but they won’t leave his mouth. His jaw clenches, as if he’s subconsciously holding them prisoner.

You lift the cutting board and hold it above the shiny hollow of the pan. The paring knife scrapes against the rough plastic and pushes the diced onion into the oil. Steam hisses from the pan up into your face. You turn around, take two steps towards the kitchen sink, then toss the cutting board and knife into the basin.

Its clatter ricochets off the walls and makes him wince.

You spin around to face him with your arms crossed, eyebrows arched in annoyance, “Fine. Get the hamburger out of the fridge.”

The onions sizzle and pop from inside the pan. Without hesitation, he nods and pushes himself off the counter, then retrieves the meat from the refrigerator, unrolling it from the butcher’s paper. He plops it in the middle of the saucepan, earning a loud hiss from the oil.

You return with a pot of salted water and start the burner beneath it. Your arm brushes up against his and you both recoil at the contact like as if touched by a livewire. You take a sideways step, increasing the proximity between your bodies.

Tension hangs in the air like a noxious gas. Frankie’s skin feels exposed and raw in its presence. He peaks over at you and mutters, “I’m sorry for last night.”

You don't respond. You don't move. For a brief moment, he thinks maybe you’re not even breathing.

Frankie shifts his weight to one leg and pushes the ground beef around the pan, then clears his throat and sighs, “We shouldn’t have, um… I mean, I shouldn’t have, y’know…”

You blink and cross your arms in front of your chest, “Are you done?”

A red, hot wave of frustration creeps up his spine and starts to boil in his chest. His jaw cocks to one side and his eyes flick to yours, “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Like you don’t care.”

“Maybe I don’t,” you shrug and avert your gaze to the linoleum tile.

“Yeah, ok,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

You huff and throw your hands in the air, “So I’m supposed to have feelings but you don’t have to?”

“I don’t not have feelings for you,” he states. His stomach flips as the admission comes out in the open.

Your brow furrows and you tilt your head, then look up at him, searching his face.

“But… I don’t know, I don’t think we can be… more than this. Roommates. At least not right now,” he admits. Your gaze drops to the floor again.

You’re silent for a moment, then nod, “I think you’re right.”

Bubbles start to rise to the surface of the salted water. Frankie stirs the ground beef around the pan, flipping it to reveal gray-brown crumbles.

The two of you sit there for a beat, both contemplating whether or not to explain your reasoning. Both of you wonder the reasoning behind the other’s conclusion.

“You want me to season this?” Frankie asks eventually.

You nod, “Yes, please.”

[ Next Chapter ]

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