#catfish morales

[pedge-page]

Cravings

Frankie 'Catfish' Morales x F!reader

Summary: Pussy eating king frankie, who gets his aforementioned nickname when you tried to come up with ways to prevent him from relapsing back to coke.

Warnings: soooo much oral —pussy eating, cum eating, grinding, dry humping, cumming in pants, kissing, Frankie's mouth is everywhere, alcohol, drunk sex, unprotected sex, little dub con since Frankie doesn't ask if he can cum inside, overstimulation, free use esc situations

Notes: This is NOT the Frankie free-use series I mentioned before; I'm a bit delayed with writing it, so here's something else i had started as a drabble but then... did not stay a drabble. Please like and reblog if you enjoy this fic!

18+ ONLY

- - - -

Rather than drowning himself in coke, Santi slyly suggest he drowns himself in pussy instead. The guys around the table laughed, but you kind of agreed and told him you'd help set him up on hookups. Frankie didn't want to go through the trouble of having to find a potentially different girl each night. Plus, his cravings were sporadic. He would need his fix in that moment whenever it came.

He remembered back when you had drunkenly admitted guys could hardly satisfy you because you had a high drive, usually cumming on your fingers at least 6 times a day before bed, often times more on lonely weekends. He was left speechless at the time, but now he couldn't get Santi's proposition mixed with that knowledge of you out of his head.

You tried to cook him meals instead or buy him hoards of candy, but the idea was stuck in his mind. You knew you'd be a convenient alternative, given you only lived less than 10 minutes away and was always around when he needed help. But you were afraid of crossing that line with one of your all time best friends.

Eventually, being around him so much—"on call" as the boys put it—left you susceptible to his sweet touches, ghosting lips against your ears, sporadic twitches and jittery hands, antsy fingers dancing along your hips. You considered the option heavily before finally caving: you were doing this to HELP him, as his friend. Just a little relief every so often when he absolutely needed it.

You came 9 times on his tongue the first time. It wasn't even that he was trying to make you cum, but the eagerness in the way he moved so fast, growling and moaning at the taste, his lips attached and never left your heat. His big nose just perfectly bumping your clit each time he pointed his tongue dove deep into your craving hole, curling up and hitting that soft spot inside you left you shaking and crying out his name, back arched and fingers clawing at his shoulders.

He was sated for almost 6 days (and you needed the ample recovery time because not even your fingers could make you cum so hard) before the craving hit again. Incessant knuckles pounded your doorstep. You had barely unlocked the door before he was shoving himself in and devouring your mouth with his. "I need another hit, carniño."

He didn't wait for a response, knocking you on your ass on the sofa and stripping your sweats and panties off before throwing one leg over his shoulder. Flattening his tongue, he licks a long strip along from your hole to your clit, obscenely guttural moans from the back of his throat filled your ears. He looked wild-eyed and crazy, as if starved for weeks and was finally given the sugar rush of the century.

You inevitably move in with him, claiming his spare bedroom, worried about how bad he gets when he goes anything longer than a few hours without you.

He makes you ride his face until you're suffocating him, and he still can't get enough. Your juices flood his mouth and nose and his eyes roll back as he loses air. You try to get off and apologies, but he's caged your thighs with his muscular arms, holding your pussy flat against his face as he devoured you more, ignoring your squirming pleas. He hums against your nub, the vibrations sending you into your own addictive high. You cum again, and again, and again, and soon you're tugging his hair, crying his name with fat tears down your cheek, leaning back and scratching at his chest to let off, but its useless. He's so lost in your cunt that you become light headed, barely holding on to the headboard as your lower body continues to spasm.

He only pulls off for a minute, squeezing his nostrils to force out your juices. He's so dazed, pupils blown wide, beard and mustache drenched in your slick, so pussy-drunk and in love that he wants to do it again. "Sweetest fucking cunt, I swear. Just wanna curl up and live inside here, querida."

You offer to suck him off but he gestures embarrassingly down, where you turn to see a dark splotch on the belt-line of his pants where the tip of his spent cock peaks out, dribbling little white drops onto his lower belly, having cum untouched just from eating you out.

It gets to the point where you lock yourself in the bathroom when you take a shower just to have 10 minutes of peace. Your pussy is so puffy, clit so swollen from his constant assault day and night that you have to calm down and remind yourself what good its doing for him. He hasn't touched the white powder in weeks.

He's wondered where you've gone when he sees the bathroom light illuminate under the door. He knocks a few times, then raps harsher with his fists, calling out your name. You tell him you just need a minute. The makeshift locks on the bathroom door of Frankie's apartment isn't designed to keep an ex militant out, and he just pushes it forward with enough force that it gives way and he let's himself in. You go to cover yourself when he pulls the shower curtains away, but the same needy expression on his face as he narrows in to the slit between your legs has you aching once again. It's Pavlovian, the way he stares, practically drooling, hands twitching by his side, sending signals to your cunt to start dripping for his appetite. He spins you around so your cheek is smothered against tile, ass out towards him, not caring about the water drenching his baseball cap, grey shirt and pants as he kneels on the shower floor and puts his face between your legs. He moans when his lips start sucking on your nub, tongue thrusting in and out of your hole. He keeps you in your spread position with his arms holding your waist, making their way to spread your ass for him to dive further in, knees between your heels. You reach one arm back, knocking his cap off as you card your fingers through his damp hair, gripping it when you cum and grind yourself back on his scruffy face.

He's otherwise so gentle, so soft spoken, but when he gets between your legs, something primal takes over and you can hardly recognize him.

Sometime in the evening while you were watching a movie, you see his knee bouncing next to you. You has snapped at him earlier and refused his hunger when he peppered kisses all over your neck, down your back, then tried to yank your pants down while you were cooking dinner for the two of you, nearly burning your arm on the stove from such force.

You hated that you had outright refused him for the first time, but the truthfully the swollenness between your legs needed rest before he wrecked you again. He's biting his lip so hard, stealing glances at you before rubbing his hair and shifting his cap back on.

You instead take your top off, having gotten comfortable enough to go without a bra when it was just the two of you. Frankie is a bit shocked, only used to seeing you strip your pants first before anything else.

You crawl over to him before sitting in his lap, thighs spread over his. He swallows the lump in his throat, unable to take his eyes off of your tits right in front of him. His legs are still bouncing in agitation, the movement making your breasts jiggle right in front of him. He groans, licking his lips, breathing heavily.

"She needs a break, Fish," you said quietly, your soft and small hands seeking his big and callous ones, pulling them up over your waist before letting them settle on your cups.

He doesn't hesitate or ask further, head leaning forward and lips immediately latching on to your nipple. He moans, eyes closed as he sucks around the areola, tongue swirling your pebble as he kneads them in his hands.

You're trying so hard not to grind down on his cock, instead sitting upright on your knees so you're not fully resting your damp panty-covered crotch against the tent in his pants. The position is more head level with your tits, but he doesn't like that. He grips your hips to bring you flush against him, gasping out when you instinctually start rocking your hips steadily against his clothed length.

He noticed how heavily your chest is flexing, glaring up at you to see your brows furrowed, face tilted towards the ceiling trying not to cum on him. He cups his hands against your cheeks and brings you in for a sweet kiss, his lips slotting perfectly against yours as his hands return to palming your breasts. He presses his forehead against yours so your eyes meet, goosebumps wracking your whole body at the lust behind his eyes, and something more you couldn't place. "So good to me, querida. Perfect lips"—he gently pecks your lips—"perfect tits"—then a generous kiss to each of your breasts—"my perfect girl." You could smell the scent of your pussy on his lips, as if they'd be stained there now. Kissing your lips, your throat, collarbone, down the valley of your breasts, and erect nipples, and all the way back up again, was enough to keep his mouth busy and his craving subsided. And it worked almost as well, the two of you cumming sticky and wet against one another in your underwear with heavy sighs and sated eyes; you had calmed him down enough to get him to remove his clothes and put on a fresh pair of boxers before tucking him to his own bed with your favorite blanket.

As you tip toed into the bathroom to prep for a bath, you stared at your naked reflection: how swollen, and red your breasts were, covered in raised bite marks the shape of Frankie's jaws. Among your new scars are the faded scratches and bruises of Frankie's fingertips on your waist, stomach and lower back from how incessantly he devours you while his face is buried in your sopping pussy, like he had to sink his claws into you so you wouldn't slip away as he feasted. You look like you were attacked by a passionate lion.

His sweet nothings every time he stared into your eyes was what really turned you on. You tell yourself that it was just the withdrawal symptoms talking. That he was basically just high on a new drug.

-

To you, it must have looked like Frankie's craving were only getting worse with how increasingly frequent his lips found themselves attached to your body. In truth, his desire for coke steadily grew less, and it wasn't the replacement of the powder that he was seeking from you but rather the insaitability of finally having you that grew stronger.

The rest of boys noticed the effects you're having on Frankie too. They see it when he meets them for a drink every other Saturday, the way he anxiously taps his foot under the table, glancing around like he's unsure what to do, where to go, because he can't sit still. It's the signs of his cravings kicking back in, and they're all worried at first. But it's not until you up show later and slide into the booth next to him that they notice: Frankie casually drapes his arm around your shoulders like he always did—that part was normal. But what was new is how they could visibly see Frankie's heart rate slow, the way he slumped against the bench and completely calmed down from just your presence.

They also couldn't help but notice the way his eyes raked you with a mix of lust, love, and obsession, his dark gaze never once leaving the sight of you the entire night. All the while you laughed and chatted with them about your week, oblivious to the change in demeanor of your friend from just a few months ago.

You assured the boys that you two weren't fucking—and it was true, you hadn't slept with him once. albeit a few blow jobs, it was exclusively just Frankie eating you out or kissing. You were very hopeful that his cravings were going to go away soon since its the longest he's been off coke. You were even talking to your old landlord to see if your old apartment a few blocks away still had openings since you'd be moving out of Frankie's place soon. Santi couldn't help but see Frankie's dejection, his arm sliding away from you as he excused himself to get more beer.

By the end of the night, Frankie was drunk out of his mind. Will suggested he slow down so he wouldn't pass out before he could walk home. It sounded like a good plan, until Francisco glanced over to the bar and saw you sitting there and smiling at a guy who was flirting with you. Fish took a giant gulp of his beer, downing the entire jug before slamming it on the table and striding out of the booth towards you. He overheard the guy asking if you had a ride home tonight.

"She comes home with me. Every. Night," he slurred, his sweaty palm skimming possessively over your jean-clad thigh and snaking between your legs, face coming so close to you that your noses slide against each other. Frankie's eyes bore into yours with so much desire, it bordered on range. You knew those were his craving eyes. The pungent smell of alcohol on his breath made you flinch as he tried to pull you in for a kiss. You quickly tell the confused guy that he's your roommate and you need to get him home immediately. You could barely finish excusing yourself from the stranger before Frankie was dragging you out of the bar. You managed to wave to the others, making a drinking gesture and pointing to Frankie before being yanked into the street.

He was stumbling all over the place, breath uneven as you hoisted him up to lean against you, eventually making it through his apartment entrance and turning the key to unlock his unit.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Frankie slammed the door close behind him and pinned you up against it, his hands roaming your body as his mouth desperately sought yours. "Craving," he mumbled against your open lips. "Need"—tongue forcing its way into your mouth, he nipped at your lower lip, sucking on it before releasing with a pop— "need you," he panted.

"I know, I know—Jesus Fish. I'm—gonna help—gonna take care of you—" you breathed, ashamed of how quickly you could feel your panties dampen. It never bothered him though, and only encouraged his sweet tooth more. You weren't nearly as drunk as him, but your few margaritas made you extremely susceptible, even welcoming, to his touch.

You hummed into his shoulder when his hard bulge rubbed purposefully against your covered core. He bit your earlobe as he fisted your low-neck shirt before pulling it down roughly, the fabric tearing away. You gasped, ready to scold him but he pressed his mouth on you again, teeth clashing, his hands slotting down your body to pinch, grope, scratch at any bit of skin he could get.

"So—so good t'me. Always taking—such good care of me, cariño."

His fingers dip into your ass and hoist you up so he's carrying you, your arms and legs wrapped securely around him as he boldered through his apartment, kicking his door open before tossing you on the bed, watching you bounce. You never break eye contact as you unbutton your jeans at the same time Frankie pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside to unfasten his belt and zipper.

Clambering over you to reseal your lips, you breath in his scent, hands exploring his tone arms, down his chest and muscle middle all the way to the little pooch of tummy hanging. His hands gripped your jeans and pulled them along with you down the length of the bed, bringing you to the edge, his grip pushing up on the back of your thighs so your knees are digging against your rib cage, pulsing pussy exposed at his mercy. "I fuckin' love this pussy, querida," he growled before burying his face between you folds for the thounsandth time. "So fuckin' wet for me," he mumbled against your thigh, nipping at the skin.

He ate you out with precision, eyes hungry watching you, determined to make you fall apart quickly. He wasn't doing it for his own taste, but the sheer satisfaction of watching you writhe for him, knowing your body inside out as the only one who could get you like this. He's languidly thrusting two fingers in and out. You didn't even need to be stretched: he'd practically been prepping you for months now. You're crying out into the air as you cum, hips bucking against his nose with your heels digging into his shoulder blades. Frankie pulls away, kissing your stomach and up your tits before making you taste yourself on his lips.

The feeling of his cock nudging your entrance make your once dazed eyes go wide and alert. He pauses, suddenly worried. He can't read your expression, time dragging out too long and it scares the fuck out of him that he's taking it too far, that you didn't agree to this.

He had wanted to tell you everything right then: how he dreams of you riding him, or when he fists his cock in the shower when you're at work to the thought of what your tight walls would feel like wrapped around him when first violates you, how he automatically gets aroused now when he just sees you or smells your laundry, or admitting how many times he's actually cum in his pants without you noticing when he is buried between your legs, dying to have you cum around his cock instead of his tongue.

It's not until you sense his hesitation that you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him close, sharing the same breath of air, nodding as your calves hook over his ass and squeeze his hips, the tip of his flush cock slipping in to your wet heat.

You both sigh heavily into each other's mouth when he takes charge again and thrusts fully inside you. He scrunches his eyes closed, forehead dipping down to your breast bone to revel in the overwhelming feeling of the tight space inside you.

You warmly caress his hair to bring him back up to you, kissing him and whispering, lips trembling, "Don't—don't think about it. Just... just use me."

His heart sank: You probably just thought this was another hit for him.

He didn't want to think about the fact that you were everything he'd needed in that moment, the image of perfection beneath him beautifully laid out for his eyes, his touch, but not for his soul. He gritted his teeth, pulling out then slamming back in, jolting your whole body up the mattress. It was fast, rough, and not at all how he wanted your first time to be with him, but he couldn't control his urges. He was gasping loudly as he fucked you, your cunt gushing around his member, the obscene sound of slick and skin slapping skin echoing in his otherwise empty apartment.

He brought his thumb to rub messy circles on your clit, sending you into a spasm of praises and expletives, but the most satisfying sound was his name repeated over and over again.

He barely manages to pull out before jerking his cock only twice and creaming all over your folds and clit. Groaning in post orgasmic bliss, he watches you heaving and shaking, filthy pussy covered in his seed. Half of his mind is only working now as he slides back down to lap you clean with his mouth, his own saltiness filling his throat, fingers scissoring inside to get your juices flowing, obsessed with the sight in front of him: your back arched off the bed, heels digging into his lower back as his hands pinning your hips down flat so he can work his mouth over you. And then you're cumming again, so angelic on his tongue, your sweet moans going right to his dick, hardening once again as he ruts into the mattress. He nips your clit and sucks, reluctant to pull away as he lines up and splits you open. You scream out, and if it weren't for the way your barely-recovered battered walls kept sucking him back in, he'd be worried you're in pain. His hands hook under your lower back, lifting you off the bed as he plows into your squelching cunt over and over again.

Youre both covered in a thin layer of sweat, the pillows and comforter of his bed strewn haphazardly around the floor as he dominates you. The headboard slammed recklessly agains the wall, and neither of you cared about your neighbors trying to sleep at 1 in the morning. He ignores the oversensitivity of his cock and your clit, forcing you both into an unexpected climb of another orgasm like it was a primal need.

It was happening without warning; he should be asking for permission, but he knew you took the pill, and he's been dying to release inside you from the moment you first let him put his lips on you. You're cumming on his cock again, hips bucking and grinding against him without your clit being touched, and he was done for.

With a harsh cry, he climaxes again, his length flooding your womb with ribbons of white. His arm shoots in front of him, flat on the bed next to your ear to hold himself up so he didn't crash down on you as his hips jerked, pushing his seed deeper in to you.

He rested most of his weight on top of you, labored breaths combined into one. He kisses the top of your nose, whispering "thank you," unsticking your sweaty bodies as he rolls you two over to have you lying on top, your head next to his. He pats your hair over your ear, pebbling your forehead and eyelids in kisses. His cock twitched in your spent heat, cum leaking out and dripping down to his balls and on the bed.

"Glad I—could...help..." you mumbled, eyes already closed as you drifted into sleep.

His softening dick slipped from your pussy, warm hands wiping you with his shirt before settling you gently on a pillow. He watched the gentle rise and fall of your breaths, naked and fast alseep on his bed. He pulled his sheets higher to your shoulder, his heart beating faster at the way you snuggled further into his pillow.

Frankie stared at the ceiling for hours, hand on his forehead in anguish, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to tell you it wasn't cocaine he was craving last night.

- - - -

Part 2: Crash

Series masterlist

[hellishjoel]

new year’s day

3.7k / pairing: francisco “frankie” “catfish” morales x f!reader

12 Days of Pedro Masterlist | hellishjoel masterlist | notifications blog

summary: You’ve found fulfillment in every aspect of life alongside your husband, Frankie. In the early hours of New Year’s Day, you and Frankie discuss your aspirations for the coming year. Among these, the possibility of embarking on the journey to parenthood, starting a family, and conceiving a child may be at the forefront.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), established marriage, discussion of alcohol consumption, cursing, discussions about starting a family/being pregnant/having a baby, a few pov switches, mommy issues go brrr, use of pet names (princess, momma (x3)), frankie’s hot dad bod, mix of sub!frankie and dom!frankie, pinch of daddy kink, unprotected PiV, breeding kink go hard, dirty talk, overstimulation, hickies, titty play, creampie

A/N: thank you for celebrating 12 Days of Pedro! come back to the masterlist every day from Dec. 11 - Dec. 22 to open a new present from the most amazing authors! special thanks to the breeding kink queen herself @thetriumphantpanda for beta reading this work! banners, per usual, from @saradika-graphics. enjoy!

There’s glitter on the floor after the party. Not to mention streamers, spare party hats, and dribbles of wine on the hardwood floor. Spare polaroids with goofy grins and blurry kisses at midnight. You hold one of you and Frankie to your chest, your heart swarming with a warm buzz caused by too much liquor and a lot of love. 

Your eyes lift to Frankie, his lopsided party hat holding on for dear life as he tosses empty beer bottles into a large black trash bag. 

Everyone’s left now, catching cabs or a ride home from their sober counterparts.  An annual Morales tradition; countdown to the New Year with your closest friends, the ones you’d consider family. 

You hope to remember these memories forever and that the memories hold on to you. The good and the bad. The friends you made, the friends you lost, remembering that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. 

Cheers, kisses, and giggles at midnight. 

“You ready, my lady?” Frankie asks as he hands you your journal, his own leatherbound one in his hand as he settles down beside you on the floor, your backs against the front of the couch. 

Another Morales tradition; New Year’s Goals. It all started a few years ago, your and Frankie’s first New Year’s together. Both drunk and rolling around on the floor, you decided to write your goals for the New Year. You thought they had a lot of power, and it was good to have motivations, even if they didn’t last all year. 

The fire crackled as Frankie nudged a log with the poker, his face illuminated in a brilliant orange light. He was so handsome. You were so in love. You couldn’t think of anything else you needed, everything you wanted was right here in front of you. Well, almost everything. 

Frankie lifted a Pabst beer bottle to his lips, tilting his head back to finish it off. A wet smack leaves his lips. You smirk as you feel his eyes on your list, curiously leaning his head to the side to sneak a peek at what your pen was etching into blank paper. 

“Do you mind?” You tease, nudging your elbow playfully into his ribs. “You know we’re not supposed to share until we’re both done.” You whisper as you pen in another thought. You both agreed to list three to five goals every year, things you wanted to make happen, things you want to change. Whatever it took to better yourself and the small life you’ve created with your husband. 

Frankie radiates warmth beside you, he’s always been like that. Even in just a dark pair of jeans and a black Carhartt t-shirt, he was as warm as the fireplace wavers heat in front of you. You lay your head gently on his broad shoulder, humming softly as you close your eyes, the exhaustion of prepping and then celebrating your New Year’s party finally taking its toll. But you couldn’t help but be so full of joy, considering yourself lucky to be surrounded by so much love. 

Your eyes open just as you feel Frankie smack a period at the end of one of his goals making his arm lurch before he tips his head down to you. “M’ready. You wanna go first?” Frankie asks, reaching his hand up to pull the small party hat off his head, watching as he sits it down beside him very delicately. So precious. Your heart swells thinking about your list, slowly nodding and sitting up straight as you re-open your journal to review your goals list. 

“Okay, I only have three,” 

“Me too,” Frankie interjects. 

“Perfect, okay, so number one, I want to dedicate more time to be creative. Whether it’s writing, or painting, or… I don’t know, picking up crocheting, I want to set aside more time for that sort of stuff instead of brainlessly watching shows.” 

Frankie’s smile tilts, slowly nodding in understanding. “I’d love to hang up more of your paintings around the house. The walls could use a little color.” 

Your sweet boy. He was always so supportive. You sweetly cupped the underside of his chin and pecked his lips. Frankie playfully cleared his throat and states his first goal. 

“Number one. I want to eat out less.” He pauses as he assesses your pouting face. “Don’t look at me like that. We’ll still go out sometimes, I just feel like we should cook at home more.” 

You couldn’t blame him. All the takeaway Chinese and pizza deliveries were really tugging at the precious strings that was your joint bank account. 

“Fine. But I won’t be happy about it. And this sort of ruins my second goal, which is to try more restaurants.” 

You and Frankie both take a moment to throw back your heads in laughter, rolling closer to one another as he shakes his head at you slowly. “We’ll figure it out, we always do. And that’s my second goal, more communication whenever I feel like I’m stuck. I know I’m not always…” he pauses and fiddles with his hands, nervous ticks causing him to pop his knuckles, “M’not always the best with talking things out. So I wanna work on that.” 

Heat catches along your neck and chest, the way he looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, as if you put the moon and stars in the sky. Your sweet boy. He’s not perfect, you both had worked so hard to get where you were, but it took a lot of time and trust. You built a solid foundation for your relationship, and now it felt like there wasn’t anything you couldn’t tackle together. 

“What’s your last goal for the new year?” 

Frankie watches as you purse your lips, eye contact straying as you stare down at your handwriting. Something hung in the air. Uncertainty? He reaches out and gently clasps your free hand in his, deep brown eyes searching your beautiful orbs in reassurance. There was that feeling again, of promise and future. More birthdays, more holidays, more anniversaries, and more New Year’s Days. 

After a moment, Frankie’s lips part as you set aside your journal, taking a deep breath. God what was it? 

“A baby,” you say in less than a whisper. 

A surprised little smile slowly crosses Frankie’s face, a glint of fondness and curiosity in his eyes. 

This wasn’t your first conversation about starting a family. 

It began in small places, like seeing children in line at the grocery store. All chubby-cheeked with big toothy grins, tugging on their parent's sleeve and asking them for a sweet from the checkout. 

Then, your mutual friends had their first baby. You were able to see them at the hospital. New momma laid back in bed. New dad sitting in the chair beside her. Tiredness in their eyes but their excitement overshadowed any doubt. You held their daughter, Elise, in your arms. So beautiful. And sleepy. 

But what really pulled at your heartstrings, and perhaps your womb, was when Frankie held his baby nephew for the first time. You both were in the hospital waiting room for hours, nervous but excited, hoping the delivery went well for his sister and for the new baby. 

“Come here, Frankie, hold him. Just don’t drop him.” She teased. 

Frankie took a step forward, then a step back. He had never held something so small, so precious, untouched by the outside world. What if he held him wrong? What if he cried and fussed? 

The warmth of your hand touched his shoulder, your small smile and nod encouraging him to be brave, to love the new addition to their family. With your vote of confidence, Frankie remembered to carefully support the baby’s head as his sister handed him over. Because, of course, she could trust Frankie. Uncle Frankie, now. 

His warm amber eyes glistened as he stared lovingly down at the bundle in his arms. He was beautiful, with dashing dark hair just like his sister had. A tiny little nose and sweet pouted lips. Frankie couldn’t understand why his eyes welled up with tears. He was just so proud to be an uncle, to see his younger sister now in charge of a tiny little newborn. He just couldn’t believe that such a beautiful life was born out of the love his sister and his brother-in-law shared. 

Then he looked at you. And he knew his heart was certain. He wanted this, and he wanted it with you. 

In all truthfulness, you weren’t as sure as Frankie was. You excused his excitement for baby fever. It was your job to remind him that you were still saving up for a new home, that your financials were a bit of a wreck, and that babies weren’t always soundly sleeping. There would be sleepless nights, messy food on their faces, and very full diapers. A big responsibility. 

You also didn’t come from a wonderful family like Frankie was raised in. You often wondered if you were to start a family, could you be different from your parents? Or would you fall into the same habits as they did? 

How would you be as a mother? 

You tried to remember that it was your mother’s first time on this Earth, too. And that she had it worse when she was little. But you were little too. What if you inherited your mother’s fleshy crimson anger? Or her blue-warped vision of sadness? 

What if something ever happened to Frankie, and you were left alone to care for your baby?  Could you do it alone? Could you even do it together? What ifs after what ifs. 

You cried out your insecurities to Frankie that night. Shaking and sobbing in his arms as he tried to calm your breathing. You had bared your soul to him, remarking about the childhood you wished you could have had. He kissed the top of your head and held you tight like a boa constrictor, promising that you didn’t have to figure it all out tonight. That he would drop the topic of family until you were truly ready. 

That was over two years ago now. Frankie still had that gleaming light in his eyes when he saw his nephew over holidays, birthdays, or little occasions of visiting with his sister. Soon, you started to have that gleam too. Because you realized it wasn’t only Frankie’s dream to have a family, but was yours too. Because Frankie would be the father of your children. And a brilliant one at that. 

The nerves had faded away with your husband’s endless love. And you were ready this New Year’s Day. 

“Say something,” you urged anxiously, but Frankie was just staring at you with so much love and hope. 

Finally, it hit him. 

He cups your cheeks, thumbing his way up your cheekbone and gently cupping your jawline. “You mean it? You’re ready? Don’t- please don’t do this for me, I could wait a lifetime for you, you hear me?”

You let out a wet little laugh and nod eagerly, holding your hands around his wrists as he came to rest his forehead against yours. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Frankie. I’m ready. We’re ready.” You assured, watching a large smile crash on his face. 

There’s an eagerness when he leans in to kiss you, lips crashing and his hold on you tightening as if you were going to slip out of his embrace. 

“Oh,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling him glide his tongue across your lower lip before he fully envelopes you. It’s needy, it’s desperate, and damn, is it overdue. 

Your fingers wind up into his messy curls, tugging him on top of you as you fell back onto the floor. The heat of the fireplace tickled warmth on your temple, and a certain heat in your belly set in. 

“Can we start now?” He muttered against your mouth, his strong hands palming at your hips as his center matched with your own. 

“Fuck, yes,” you gasp before pulling him in once more, your needy hands grappling at the hem of his shirt and tugging it upwards. 

Unable to help but glance in awe as Frankie sits up on his knees and tosses off his shirt. Holy mother of god, you didn’t realize how much of a perfect dad bod he already possessed. Jesus. 

“I-I don’t even know if I’m ovulating,” you stutter out as your hands messily reach forward, tugging his belt loose and popping the button on his jeans. 

“Don’t care,” Frankie mutters, voice drenched in deep lust as his hungry mouth found yours again. You couldn’t help but melt into his touch and his dirty mouth. 

The man was feral. It was like he was possessed. 

Something in Frankie had flipped. You had just confessed you wanted to start a family and allow him the opportunity to be a father to your children. You’d be their beautiful mother, kind, thoughtful, sweet, and smart. Fuck, he wanted to put this baby in you right now. 

He felt like he was burning for you, worshiping at the altar between your thighs. Saying you were ready with full confidence was something indescribable. And he was ready to show you he was taking this opportunity seriously. 

Frankie wastes no time in stripping you of your clothes, nearly tossing your top into the fireplace with how eager he is. He melts into your body, his half-hard cock sloppily bucking against your thigh in neediness. 

“Lemme put a baby in you, princess, wanna see you carry our child in your perfect body. Fuck,” he muttered as his hand slipped down between your thighs, watching your lips part and make an oh shape. 

Your slick coats his fingers, your thighs already shaking with desperation. 

“Frankie, don’t make me wait, want you to fill me up so fucking bad,” your wavering voice begs as you sit up on your elbows and begin to stoke over his cock. He easily swells in your grasp, growing heavier and heavier. His face clenches as his hips buck into your tight, squeezing hand once more. 

“Goddamit, you’re so fucking perfect,” he rasps as his own hand takes over pumping his cock, gathering it in your slick he had collected and letting out a heavenly moan at the feeling. Pre-cum leaks at his fleshy red tip, jaw tight as he holds his base, beginning to guide the head of his cock up and down your wet center. 

Frankie watches you flinch with a small smirk every time he flicks off your clit. He’s drunk off watching you be ready, watching you take this leap with him, putting your trust in him that he will be the best father to your children. And honestly, he can’t fucking wait any longer. 

Your sharp gasp fills the room, Frankie piercing your walls and filling you to the brim in one heavy thrust. Both of you swallow the other’s moans and groans, eyes tightly closed and mouths agape. 

“That’s it, momma, take me so well,” he hums, a new fantasy forming behind his eyes. 

He wants to see you dripping in his cum, just so he can gently push it all back in with his fingers. His eyes were gold with fire and greed, wanting you to be his in the best way imaginable. 

Ragged pants fill the distance between you both as he steadily rocks his hips into yours. Frankie watches as your hands scrabble for something to hold onto before you finally tug him down and wind your fingers into his dark chocolate curls. 

Sweet whimpers ring into his ear as his thrusts grow in power, caging you protectively in his arms. You weren’t going anywhere. 

“Fuck, Frankie, you’re filling me up,” you cry out, feeling Frankie hit the spot only he can reach, the one that tickles at your cervix and pushes you into another dimension of pleasure. The place where you’re breathless and cloudy, lost in how good he feels. 

Frankie digs his forehead into your temple, looking down at you as his hips repeatedly snap into you. He’s gone wild, a weak little smirk on his face as he thinks about you swollen with his babe inside you a few months down the road. 

“Keep sayin’ that,” Frankie mutters, feeling a rush course through his body like a new high he’s never encountered. He shifts his weight onto his forearm nestled beside your head, his opposite hand snaking delicately between your bodies and starting to create sweet circles around your throbbing clit. You’re soaking wet, feeling your slick splash against his balls every time you both fully connect. 

You’re unsure what he means at first, what to keep saying, your head in the stars as Frankie’s hips nail you to the floor with each heavy thrust. Plus, his finger on your clit is sending you to high heavens. Then it clicks. 

You gulp and refocus, needing to get him there because God, after years of waiting, you want to give him this so badly. 

“Frankie, baby,” you gather your breath and cradle his face, his desperate eyes meeting yours. “I want you t-to use me, fill me with your seed, I wanna feel it. Fuck, want you to be so deep inside me, your cum goes s-straight into my uterus,” you beg.  

Frankie’s thrusts snap methodically faster, a few loose bucks from his hips at first, but now he trying to control himself strategically. 

“Fuck, daddy,” you cry out, digging your head back into the floor as your chin tilts to the ceiling. “Use me as your little breeding whore, dump your cum inside me, want all of it, want all of it so fucking bad!” You whimper as Frankie’s sweet kisses on your jawline turn into nasty nips at your neck, the kind that will flush with dark pigments by tomorrow morning. 

Your hips ache, your body is trembling before him, but he looks so fucking sexy worked up like this. He’s promising with his body that he’s going to make you the mother of his children. 

“Want you so bad momma, m’gonna watch your tits get so fuckin’ big,” he murmurs before his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, slathering it with his spit and swirling around your nub with his perfect tongue. The oversensitivity is so much, you’re so full, he’s going to make you cum before he can even finish off his own load. 

“Fuck,” he moans lowly, a deep grunt releasing from the depths of his throat. “Gonna make such a perfect momma, gonna knock you up so hard, baby,” Frankie groans as he tugs gently at your nipple between his teeth. 

The spark in your stomach suddenly explodes, pushing you over the edge. You wrap your arms around his neck and press his forehead against your own. “Come with me,” you beg, just above a whisper as each thrust he makes is punching the air from your lungs. 

You pace yourself just for him. The faster he moves his fingers around your clit, the closer he is. Overstimulated tears well up in your eyes, your jaw dropping wide as you look at him like he is a God. Frankie’s thrusts were growing sloppy with need, losing their rhythm, your man was so close. Finally, like a dangerous volcano, he erupts inside of you as your walls pulse around him. Both of you come in unison, blasting you with a hot heat across your body. 

You cry out, and Frankie moans loudly into the living room, hearing your name echo along the walls as his hips still momentarily inside you. His warm cum spurts and paints your walls, shooting off multiple times. It’s the hardest he’s ever finished, he’s so deep and filling you to the brim with his white hot seed. 

Lost in a cloud of lust, you think you melt into the floor. His arms shake as he holds himself up by the forearms placed on either side of your head, your sweaty foreheads glistening. Your bodies feel like one. 

With a shaky hand, you reach up and gently brush the hair out of his eyes. Frankie weakly smiles and leans down to press a messy kiss on your lips. You hum softly and keep him there, whimpering as his hips twitch a few final times before he completely stills. You were seeing stars behind your vision as Frankie soothingly brought you back down to Earth. You were so happy. 

“I love you.” He whispers as he presses one last kiss to your mouth, watching your hazy eyes fill with love as he slowly sits up. 

Both of your sweaty bodies peel off of one another, and you hum lowly as he starts to pull himself out. 

Frankie watches in lust-filled amazement as your hole leaks dribbles of his cum. 

He shakes his head with a disapproving hum, parting your legs once more to see his mess, gently using his fingers to push his cum back into your hole. 

You nip at your lower lip, watching as Frankie stares at you like he’s hypnotized, making sure every little drop stays inside of you. 

“Such a good girl for me, momma, keepin’ all my good cum inside you, that’s it,” he hums, finally letting your legs go as he tumbles onto his back beside you on the floor. 

His hand holds yours as you stare at the ceiling in bliss. 

“We’re trying for a baby.” He whispers with an indescribable amount of happiness. 

You nod as you snuggle into his side, feeling his strong arm wrap around your shoulders to keep you close to him. “We’re trying for a baby.” You repeat back to him, your fingers gently weaving through his dense dark chest hair. 

“I have a name for the baby.” He murmurs, fantasizing about your future together already. 

“Yeah, what’s that?” 

“Frankie Jr.”

“No.” You quickly cut off. 

Both of your heads fall back in laughter, feeling so secure next to your best friend who has promised you a family and a future, all laced with love. And for that, you were hopeful for the New Year. 

[deakyjoe]

Something Stupid

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Reader (no pronouns apart from “you” used, I believe)

Category: fluff, friends to lovers

Summary: And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like “I love you”.

Warnings: slightly insecure Frankie and reader, kissing, awkward love confessions, pining, seemingly unrequited love (it’s requited), they’re both just super awkward really, basically soulmates, reader implied to be shorter than Frankie, alcohol consumption, Santiago described as short…

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: Title and summary from the song Somethin’ Stupid by Frank and Nancy Sinatra. For everyone out there who won’t be getting a kiss at midnight (me), this is for you <3

Consider buying me a coffee :)

“You could always kiss me at midnight, if you’d like.”

The words had been rattling around in Frankie’s brain for the past two hours.

It was the last thing he’d expected you to say when he’d mentioned, casually in conversation, that he hadn’t kissed anyone at midnight on New Years in at least half a decade.

Initially you’d scoffed, not believing him in the slightest. He was too attractive for that, women were constantly throwing themselves at him, and there wasn’t a chance that not a single woman at the party you were attending would offer to kiss him at midnight.

But when he’d insisted that it didn’t feel right with a stranger, who wants to begin the new year with someone you don’t care about, you’d paused for thought. He was right. You understood him. Yet you’d asked him to elaborate.

“So, what? It has to be someone you’re dating? Or someone you’re in love with?” You’d sipped on your drink steadily, bracing yourself for whatever answer he decided to give.

“No, not necessarily. Could just be a friend, a really good friend.” He’d clarified. “Just someone you care about, y’know? Someone you want to celebrate with.”

You’d hummed at that, deciding to tease him. “I’m sure Benny wouldn’t mind a little kiss from you.”

Frankie had rolled his eyes. “Don’t joke. I’d kiss that fucker if he wasn’t going to have about twenty women fighting for him at midnight.”

“Yeah, can’t wait to see how that goes down.” You’d giggled, a thought suddenly popping into your head. “You could always kiss me at midnight, if you’d like.”

Frankie’s brain had short circuited. He must’ve misheard you. There was no way you’d offered to kiss him at midnight. Not a chance in hell.

“Really?” He’d almost squeaked.

“Sure.” You’d shrugged, trying to create an air of nonchalance. “We’re friends, right? Have been forever. And I don’t have anyone to kiss either. So it makes sense.”

You hadn’t expected him to agree.

“Okay.”

So when he did, you tried desperately to hide your excitement.

“G-great!” You’d chirped, taking another couple mouthfuls of your drink. You had a couple hours until midnight, which you’d need to fill yourself up with liquid courage if this was actually going to happen.

Before the two of you could say anything else, you’d been whisked away by other people who wanted to chat, wanted to dance, wanted to drink. Time flew by, the clock counting down to midnight, and the only thing the two of you could think of was your kiss at midnight.

Frankie did shot after shot with his friends - Santiago, Will and Benny all having their own obscure flavours of liqueur that they insisted the others had to try. He felt extremely nauseated by the time the last one had reluctantly slid down his throat. Attempting to blink away the blurriness his eyes had suddenly adopted, he realised that the drinks had been a bad idea. He wanted to be as coherent as possible when he finally got to kiss you.

You, however, were happy to throw back multiple drinks considering you were berating yourself for being an idiot for most of the night. Why had you suggested kissing? All you were going to do was tease yourself with the prospect of having him momentarily but not quite fully.

What if he was a really good kisser (you knew he would be)? What if he held you close (you knew he would)? What if he wanted to use tongue (you knew he would)? What if he tasted good (you knew he’d taste delicious)? What if you fell even more in love with him (you knew you would)?

You were an idiot.

And so fucked.

The suggestion had been incredibly stupid.

Midnight was approaching fast, and the two of you realised at around the same time that you should probably start seeking the other out. Just so you were definitely together by the time the clock struck twelve. But every time one of you entered a room, asking for the other, you were informed that they just left.

Oh, you’ve just missed them.

I’m sure if you go now, you’ll find them.

They were literally just here.

Frankie found himself getting frustrated when he bumped into Santiago and asked after you.

“In the kitchen, I think. Anyway, excited for the new year?” He was very drunk. And Frankie really didn’t have time for this.

“Yeah, so pumped. I’ll see you later, man.” He tried to walk away but was blocked by Santi’s smaller frame. He took up a lot of room for a shorter guy.

“Why so anxious to leave, bud?”

Frankie hesitated before quickly explaining the situation. His attempt to hush Santiago when he started cheering went completely ignored.

“Catfish, my man! You’ve wanted this for years! Quick! Go, go!”

“I was trying.” He grumbled to himself as he made his way to the kitchen and left his friend behind, still celebrating.

He didn’t find you in the kitchen, but back with the majority of the crowd in the living room where most people were gathering around the television with their respective partners for the night.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Frankie exclaimed, pushing through a group to get to you. He sobered up at the sight of you. You were so beautiful.

“Well, you found me!” You smiled widely at him, the nerves dissipating as soon as you saw his face. His gorgeous face. “I figured we were going around in circles looking for each other so I decided to just stop so you could catch up with me here. And it worked!”

Frankie couldn’t help the pull on his heart at seeing you so happy at your simple plan working out. He adored you so much. “That was a good idea.”

You shrugged. “Thanks.”

There was a brief moment of silence between you.

“So, uh, ready for midnight?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

The anxious yet excited energy between you was palpable. Neither of you commented on it.

As the room grew more and more busy, everyone determining that they should be together in the same room for midnight, the two of you inched closer and closer together. Until you were chest to chest. And there was no room to breathe without touching the other.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah!”

Before you knew it, it was one minute to midnight and everyone was counting down from sixty. You and Frankie didn’t join in, just looked at each other and sent questioning looks to make sure that the other was sure they wanted to do this. Neither of you had been so certain about something before in your lives as you were with this.

The countdown reached ten.

“Ready?”

So ready.

“Ready.”

Five.

This was really happening.

Three.

His face dipped closer to yours.

One.

“Happy New Year.” The both of you rushed out before your lips crashed together.

Neither of you were patient, hands immediately on each other. Yours clinging to his shirt and on the back of his head, his on your waist and cupping the side of your face.

It was exactly as the two of you had predicted, butterflies floating around wildly in your stomachs at how good it felt to finally do this. Yet, somehow, the both of you remained unaware that the other felt the exact same way.

Frankie decided to take the opportunity to be greedy, sliding his tongue against your bottom lip and then into your mouth when you opened up and allowed him to. A deep groan rumbled in his chest when your tongue met his, a smile curving up your lips slightly at the sound of it. You tugged him closer, the handful of shirt tightening into a fist and your other hand carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. You’d been right about everything you’d been questioning before. The arm around your waist kept you flush against him and standing straight, the hand on your cheek stroking soft circles with his thumb.

The people around you broke away from their respective kisses, the music being turned back up and the dance party continuing. But the two of you were too busy wrapped up in your own little world. Wrapped up in each other. It would’ve taken the apocalypse to stop the two of you in that moment.

Frankie momentarily broke away for some air, feeling the earth shattering beneath him and the gates to Heaven opening when you immediately tugged him back towards you for another kiss. His cap got slightly knocked to the side when you forced him downwards even closer to you than before. But he didn’t care. He was too preoccupied with you.

He had to remind himself that this wasn’t real. You weren’t his. This was just for tonight. Just for this moment.

But you felt so warm and soft and perfect in his hands that it suddenly felt impossible that you didn’t feel the same. How could you not when the two of you fit together so easily?

So, without really meaning to, Frankie took the leap.

“I love you.”

The words were mumbled, barely a hushed whisper against your lips compared to the raucous noise of the room. But you heard them. Loud and clear.

It was evident by the way you froze momentarily, head rearing back in shock. Frankie’s heart dropped when panic suddenly flashed across your face and his hands dropped back to his sides.

He’d fucked up.

Could he play it off as a friendly I love you? No, probably not, considering that you’d just made out and the way he was looking at you was very non-platonic.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It was stupid. But I thought-“

He cut himself off. Thought what exactly? He couldn’t confess that he’d convinced himself you were as madly in love with him as he was with you. That sounded crazy. You were nice to him, sure, very friendly. But you were like that with everyone.

Frankie adjusted his cap, pushing some hair back away from where it was sticking to his forehead. Had the room always been this hot?

Still you said nothing, your wide-eyed stare speaking a thousand words.

“I’ll uh…” He cleared his throat with a halfhearted cough. “I should go. Thanks, uh, thanks for the midnight kiss.”

And he pushed past you, shoulder bumping yours, before you even had the chance to open your mouth.

“Wait.”

It came out raspy, unsure, but it was too late anyway. Frankie was gone. You stayed stuck, frozen on the spot, for way too long. What were you supposed to do now? He’d confessed his love to you and you’d done the one thing worse than just rejecting him. Nothing. You’d done nothing. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even smile. Shit, you could’ve just kissed him again to show that the feelings were reciprocated. But you’d just stood there, horrified.

It had been your dumb idea to kiss at midnight, a selfish plan to see what it would be like to kiss him. Just once. You hadn’t expected him to admit feelings to you. Yet, it had been the one thing you desired most for years. Francisco Morales loved you. And you’d fucked it up.

So you chased him.

“Frankie. Frankie!” You pushed through the crowd, desperation pouring out of you. “Frankie!”

The sight of his retreating figure filled you with relief. You could see his brown curls peeking out from under his cap, the familiarity of it filling you with warmth. But you could’ve sworn that he started to walk faster when you shouted his name again.

Calling out his name repeatedly, you didn’t stop for breath until you reached the empty hallway.

Once you’d refilled your lungs with oxygen, you straightened up. “Francisco Morales, I know you can hear me.”

He stopped still, a sigh lowering his shoulders. You rushed towards him with quick steps as he turned around and folded his arms across his chest in an embarrassed yet defensive stance.

“You don’t have to say anything because you feel bad. It was my mistake. Let’s just go back to the way thi-“

You wanted him to shut up, needed him to shut up. Just so you could speak. But he just wouldn’t, no matter how many times you opened your mouth to talk. So you just let it burst out of you in a rapid half-shout.

“I love you too.”

That got his mouth to stop moving. By some miracle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before but I was just surprised and I don’t know how to voice my feelings well. And you confessed so easily and I didn’t know how to do that. Which is ridiculous because I could’ve just said it right back to you.”

Now you were the one rambling.

“But I didn’t know what to do because the kiss was real nice and I was focused on finally kissing you and then suddenly you were saying you loved me and yeah.”

It was Frankie’s turn to freeze and look panicked.

You really were quite the pair.

“Say something, Francisco.” You mumbled, realising you couldn’t quite judge him for this as you’d done the exact same thing a few minutes prior.

“I, uh, I-“ He paused and took a deep breath. “You love me?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

“You love me back?”

“Also, yes. Technically, same yes I believe but yes nonetheless.” You internally slapped yourself for that. Just say yes, you idiot.

Frankie didn’t care about what you’d said. All he cared about was that you’d said yes.

Yes, you loved him.

And he loved you.

Had the two of you really been so oblivious to the other’s feelings for so long? Had you both hidden it that well? Or were you both just certain that the other couldn’t possibly feel the same way?

Either way, it didn’t really matter. It was all out in the open now and there was no turning back.

Frankie suddenly realised that he was stood staring at you silently. Why wasn’t he kissing you again? Good question.

He took the two steps forward and scooped you up into his arms, pressing his lips against yours desperately but in relief. Feelings had been boxed up for too long. He didn’t need to hide his longing for you anymore.

You giggled happily into his mouth, grateful that this had finally happened. Grateful to get this weight off your chest.

The two of you ignored the party going on in the next room, the floor shaking a little beneath you as people danced just a door away. You could only focus on each other, you’d wasted too much time already.

The confessions were whispered against just to be sure that the two of you weren’t dreaming or had somehow misunderstood the whole situation (of course you hadn’t).

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Neither of you could’ve been happier that you’d both been daring enough to say something stupid.

A/N: I wrote this instead of a uni essay. You’re welcome. Hope you enjoyed!

[notjustjavierpena]

Gum

A/N: Absolutely nervous to post my very first Frankie Morales piece! This is dedicated to his main bitch @gracieispunk 💖❤️ Hope you all enjoy. 

Summary: You have time to work from home, but there’s just one problem and it’s Frankie’s mind numbing gum-chewing. 

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (MDNI!), hurried and desperate sex, dirty talk, piv sex, a little manhandling, tickling, creampie, established relationship, fluff

Word count: 2.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49105711

Gum

The sun has warmed up the living room the past few hours where it’s been at its hottest. You’ve made yourself a glass of iced tea, sitting only in your underwear with one leg tucked underneath you on one of the dining chairs in yours and Frankie’s apartment.

You aren’t alone on this Sunday full of work; Frankie is watching TV with a beer in his hand not far from you, relaxed as ever since his daughter is with her mother. He has lowered the volume of his program significantly since he knows that you are not simply doom-scrolling on your computer. You have a big week ahead of you at work, and he knows not to disturb your workflow. 

Everything is perfect. The warmth, the afternoon breeze coming in through the window of the kitchen-dining area, and the iced tea that’s placed at a safe distance from your laptop. Everything is great… except that stupid piece of chewing gum that Frankie is mindlessly chewing.

You know it’s silly, know that he is allowed to have just one vice that you absolutely cannot stand, but does he have to do it right now? Right when you have to concentrate? It drives you up the fucking wall.

“Frankie, baby,” you groan, the tapping on your keyboard coming to a halt.

“What’s up?” He asks absentmindedly, after all, there’s a nature documentary on. 

“Please, please,” you turn on your chair, looking at him over the backrest, “Please spit it out.”

“What?” He sounds genuinely confused, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen.

“Your gum.”

“Oh, this?” He chews several times, loudly and obnoxiously whilst sporting a shit-eating grin, “Nah, don’t think so. Not when you’re being all fuckin’ boring with your computer. I’m not competing against technology.”

That stupid tease doesn’t hear himself, you think to yourself. He leaves you no choice. You haul yourself up from the chair and cross the living room with determination. Consciously blocking the view of the television, you stop in front of him. He eyes you from beneath his brown curls and hat, his gaze going from your head to your toe and back again, but he doesn’t seem bothered since you’re practically half-naked in front of him. 

“Spit it out, it’s disgusting,” you say as firmly as you can muster. You hold a hand out in front of his mouth, palm upwards, “Francisco.”

Frankie places the beer bottle on the coffee table. He leans back into the sofa, smirking up at you.

“Oh, you’re using my real name. Scary,” he smacks his lips as he chews again, “I don’t think so, no, baby.”

“Ugh,” you groan once again with a bit more frustration, “You leave me no choice.”

You straddle him to distract him (he is a man), a knee on either side of his lap. He lets out an oh hello and doesn’t seem to mind one bit. In fact, he rests his rough hands on your thighs and presses his fingertips into your skin. It’s time for you to strike. 

“What’re you—!” Frankie’s sentence is cut short and turned into a gargle of words instead. You have shoved two fingers into his mouth, searching out the gum and making him gag a little. He tries biting down on your fingers, but you’re quick to retrieve what you want from him and pull your fingers back out. You hold the little piece of peace-disturbing gum between your fingers before reaching back to put it into the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. 

“Hey!” Frankie pants, taken aback by what has just happened. He even looks a little unsure, still processing. Eventually, he furrows his brow, “Fuck you, man.”

“Sorry,” you giggle innocently. You turn his cap around so the brim is at the back, placing a sweet kiss on his still-open mouth. Your giggles turn into a squeak of surprise as Frankie tickles you, fingertips digging into your sides where you are the most sensitive. He holds you in place as you do it, fighting you as you try to squirm away. 

“Stop! Oh my God, Frankie!” You laugh loudly, body shaking and even accidentally snorting, “Shit!” 

“Oh no, you did not just snort like a piglet,” Frankie laughs too now, but his torture goes on. You find yourself trying to move back on his thighs to be able to stand again. 

“Don’t— hahaha! Don’t think I’m having fun! Tickling— aaaa! It’s literally the body’s reaction to expecting pain!” You push on his chest.

“Stop being clever, piglet,” he drags you closer to him again, pulling you by the globes of your ass and it causes the slightest friction between your legs as you are dragged over his rough jeans. Accidentally, of course, you moan softly instead of laughing.

Everything stops, even time for the tiniest bit of a second. The two of you look at each other like you’re trying to read the other’s mind, and then he kisses you and you melt into him. It’s rough, primal, and hurried. 

His hands skim up your sides, fingers dragging over the place where he has just tickled you, before coming up to unclasp your bra. He breaks the kiss to pull it off your shoulders, considers throwing it across the room but then tightens the fabric between two fingers and shoots it off into the living room like an elastic band.

“Are you actually joking with me?” You try to make it seem like you’re frustrated with him once more, but the goofy smile on his face makes it hard to not mirror his expression.

“Take off your pretty little panties,” he says, which isn’t exactly a response. It is hot though.

“Just pull ‘em to the side. I have work to do,” you mumble, looking down between you to unzip his jeans. They come undone quickly, and he helps you get his cock out as he lifts his hips off the couch so you can tug his pants down around his thighs along with his underwear. 

“Ever the romantic, baby, exactly why I fell for you,” he scoffs softly yet still follows orders. He yanks the small piece of fabric along your cunt to the side, swearing loudly as you get onto your knees to hold his dick in place before sliding down onto it. 

You gasp in unison, but you don’t wait for him to say anything before you do the first roll of your hips and set up a quick rhythm. He stretches you open in the best familiar way, the intoxicating sting making goosebumps rise on your skin as you start to ride him in earnest. 

His thighs twitch underneath you, his body clearly taken aback by how fast you are already going, but you haven’t promised him slow at any point. Your fingers dig into his shirt, your pelvis pushing firmer against him.

“That busy?” He groans into the room, leaning back on the couch and letting you have your way with him, “I’m not— fuck, you’re filthy, baby. Not gonna last like this.”

The hurried pace builds your climax quickly, stirring behind your throbbing clit and tugging all the way toward the base of your spine. The heat is delicious, coating your inside with a want that has sprouted from nothing but being close to Frankie.

“You feel fucking amazing, baby,” you moan loudly.

“Don’t want it to be over,” he gasps, tugging you closer until he can bury his face in your chest. He kisses between your breasts over and over, open-mouthed and hot. Even whimpers as he nears his edge, “Slow down, baby. Please.”

“Then fuck me,” you groan, hands going up to tug at his hair. His hat tumbles off his head and onto the floor when you yank his head back and swallow down his gasp by kissing him.

“Make me,” you add. 

It’s a whirlwind of movement in the next moment, but you whine as you feel him slip out of you. Your cunt clenches involuntarily at the loss of pressure, your climax fading rapidly from your grasp. 

Soon, Frankie slams you down into the couch and the leather slaps against your skin. The rippling sound almost drowns out the volume of TV and a part of you feels dirty for interrupting David Attenborough with your filthy mouth. Frankie doesn’t even have time to settle between your legs before you are crying demands at him. 

“Fuck, fuck, put it back, I was so fucking close, baby,” you writhe about, lifting one leg over the back of the couch to spread your legs as much as possible. It oughta make you irresistible. 

“Shhh,” Frankie soothes, strong hands finding your hips and yanking you towards himself after getting onto his knees. He guides his cock all the way back into you until it bumps against your cervix, giving you no warning whatsoever. It makes you gasp in relief when you feel full again. 

“Fuck me,” you plead shakily, no clue where this surge of pathetic nonsense is coming from. If he doesn’t soon, there’ll be actual tears in your eyes. 

“Extra fuckin’ needy, were you— shit— were you that bored over there by your dumb Word doc?” Frankie taunts, leaning down over you and putting a hand beside your leg on the back of the couch. He slams his hips into you, almost sending you backward, but you manage to wrap your other leg around his waist before you slip from his grasp. 

Frankie’s belt jingles around his thighs with each of his thrusts, jeans surely giving him rug burn but he powers through to fuck you until you feel too stupid to continue working. The undone zipper gnaws into your skin, his cock slides over your g-spot and his gaze feels like fire where it rests on your bouncing tits. 

“Fuuuck,” you drag the word out, it wavering from the force behind each rocking motion of Frankie’s hips. You are whimpering to the point of tears, climax building steadily once more, “Baby. Please.”

Frankie guides your other leg around his waist, moving the hand on the backrest to lie flat beside your head. He leans further down over you, rocking into you with more force, “You gonna be a good girl and come on my cock?”

You nod again and again, teeth sunk into your bottom lip, “Yes, fuck, yes—“

Immediately, you sneak a hand down between your legs. Firstly further down than where you actually need it to explore where Frankie is stretching you wide open. Your fingers then follow along your labia until you can rub your clit in tight and fast circles. All the while, you grab your breast with your free hand to squeeze and massage it as you feel yourself slipping off the edge.

You come so hard that your vision blurs for a moment. It knocks the wind out of you, mouth falling open in a silent cry of Frankie’s name as you enjoy the clenching of your heat. 

It takes Frankie one, two, three more thrusts before he comes inside of you with a loud hitch of his breath. He stills his hips after that, empties himself inside of you with a groan at each spurt of come. He breathes heavily with you, slips out of you, volume going down slowly as the post-coital bliss sets in.

When you don’t say anything, he buries his head in your neck, kisses you there, and laughs softly due to the dopamine high that takes over. You respond by wrapping your arms around his neck and shoulders, hugging him tightly. 

“I think I might be done for the day. I’ll clock out online,” you giggle, head turning and dipping down to blow a raspberry on his cheek. He grimaces but smiles. 

“We just had sex during company hours?”

“Don’t tell my boss.”

“Tell your boss?” Frankie scrambles for the cap which has fallen to the floor. He puts it on your head despite it being a little awkward when you are lying down, “Baby, I’m proud of you.”

You stick your tongue out at him, “Shut up… and let me go clean up.”

Frankie crawls off of you with a teasing grin, lets you leave the couch whilst he pulls up his boxers and jeans again. 

You waddle to the bathroom. 

When you come back, you find him as before; on the now-clean couch, watching TV legend David Attenborough talk about coral reefs and… chewing on another stick of gum. 

“You’re unbelievable,” you say as you pick up your bra from where it had landed on the floor earlier. 

When you plop down beside him, you hold out your hand with your palm upward. Frankie gives you a look, but you sigh dramatically, “Not that again. I mean it as in gimme some.”

[tropes-and-tales]

🤮 FINALLY

Day 9:  Exhibitionism (Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst, kinda; idiots in love; enemies to lovers but not really; smut (fingering; exhibitionism; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5553

AN:  This was requested by @elegantmusicdragon!

The cabin is small:  it only has two bedrooms.  The Miller brothers claim the loft bedroom on the second floor, the steep eaves of the roof leaving barely enough room for Will and Ben.  Pope, as the group’s resident planner, helps himself to the slightly larger bedroom on the first floor.

It leaves you and Frankie in the living room.  There’s a lumpy couch; there’s a thin, rolled-up mattress for the floor.

There’s also a fair amount of antagonism between the two of you.  It’s not complete hatred:  it’s love-hate, maybe.  Begrudging respect.  Admiration, but only if someone put a gun to your head and made you admit it.

You just irritate each other.  Too similar in some ways, too different in others.  Polar opposites in some aspects, the same person in others.  It’s been the same as long as you’ve known each other:  there’s a low-simmering annoyance with each other that eventually blows up in a fight, then cools off in a period of niceness until it cedes back to annoyance.  It’s been that way for as long as you’ve known each other—for years.

The hooking up is new.

The hooking up is so new the guys don’t know about it.  You haven’t been hooking up long enough to get caught.  Hell, it’s so new that even the two of you can barely fathom it.  Each time a dalliance ends, you both have the same stunned, sheepish expression, like neither of you can believe it happened.

But it keeps happening:  Frankie shows up at your door in the middle of the night.  You turn up on his porch on a Sunday afternoon.  You call each other; the other comes over eagerly enough.  The two of you sneak off at a group hang-out, and you reappear long moments later to the larger group one at a time, flustered or overcompensating by being too casual.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you told him the last time you hooked up.

“Obviously not,” he agreed.  “This is insane.”

Neither of you really meant it.

-----

The cabin is a thing Pope is trying to do.  It’s a tradition he wants to start in the wake of Tom’s death.  A way to keep everyone together, even if just for a long weekend every fall:  the gang may drift apart, but they can reassemble once a year at least, for good food and drink and sitting around the campfire.

Thursday, and everyone rolls into the rental property where the cabin is perched along the shore of a lake.  The Miller brothers turn up together; Frankie comes alone.  You catch a ride with Pope since he flew into your hometown.

Thursday, and it’s just take-out pizza and beer from the nearby village.  It’s stocking the cabin with provisions, unpacking, settling in, claiming where you’ll each sleep for the weekend.  Pope builds a fire in the massive fire pit outside just as the sun is setting, and Frankie feels a calm settle over his nerves.  He’s been clean now for over a year, but the cravings come and go.  He glances across from him and studies where you sit between Will and Pope:  the firelight casts you in an orange light, throws your features in sharp relief where shadows fall.  You’re quiet tonight—maybe your nerves are bad too.  Frankie knows you have your own anxieties.

Thursday, and when it’s time to turn in, you don’t even bother to fight Frankie for the mattress on the floor.  You take the lumpy couch, and you fall off to sleep within minutes, leaving Frankie to lie awake with his own thoughts for a long while.

-----

Friday, and everyone is back in their groove with each other.  There’s the usual laughter, the usual ribbing.  Pope knocks Frankie’s hat off his head.  Ben feigns a series of punches at Pope.  Will wraps his arm around your waist and spins you until you slap at his arm and shriek for him to release you.  It’s easy and familiar, like slipping into a faded old t-shirt washed to velvety softness.

Pope organizes a hike to the summit of a nearby mountain.  The weather is so crisp and the air so clean it hurts Frankie’s sinuses to breathe.  At the summit, the views are spectacular, stretching for miles in all directions, the hills and dales and low-slung mountains of this patch of Appalachia.  Frankie is reminded that not everything is so complicated:  there are swaths of wilderness where life is simple, where his problems seem small and inconsequential. 

You all settle on a flat stretch of rock and eat lunch, sandwiches and apples from a farmstand in town that you packed in for the hike.  Frankie watches you peel out of your boots and socks and stretch your bare feet against the sun-warmed rock.  The conversation flows naturally; everyone shares their latest life updates, their hopes for the near-future. 

If Tom is with you, his ghost rests lightly between the five of you.

On the hike back, there’s a tricky stretch of the trail, a switchback that was easier to climb up than it is to climb down.  Frankie is behind you, taking up the rear, and he loses the rhythm of his hiking cadence when you suddenly balk.  He pulls up just in time to not run into you.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, exasperated.  With Pope at the head of the group, Frankie has just been on auto-pilot, his feet leading him forward, but now he’s been yanked out of his reverie by your sudden stopping.

“Ground’s covered in scree,” you reply.  Frankie watches as you take a tentative step forward, reach out a steadying hand along the outcropping of rock.  You do this sometimes, he knows—you have sudden moments of freezing up, afraid to fall, afraid to stumble and jam up a wrist or twist an ankle.  Frankie watches in exasperation as you suddenly transform from an assured hiker to a bumbling newborn foal, all shaky legged and trembling hands.

“C’mon,” he repeats.  “Move.”

“Don’t rush me.”  The words come out tense, pushed out between clenched teeth.  You hate being weak, sure, but you hate being weak in front of others—especially Frankie.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not.”  You take another careful step forward, your toe knocking some of the scree loose. 

“It’s not even that steep here.”

“I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable.”  You turn your head, glance at him, and Frankie sees the animal panic in your wide, unblinking eyes, your nostrils flaring as you take shallow breaths.  “Go around if you have to.”

He doesn’t have to go around you but he does.  He heaves a sigh, edges around you on the trail, and he doesn’t miss the quiet little whimper of fear as you press yourself against the face of the mountain to make room for him.  He doesn’t glance back to see that you’re fully frozen now, not moving at all—until Ben notices and reverses back to rescue you.

“Overthinking it?” he asks.  Frankie can’t make out your reply, but it makes Ben chuckle, then add, “well, let’s get you off this part then, yeah?”

Friday, and Frankie learns that there’s an ugly streak of jealousy in him.  Ben manages to peel you off of the mountain face with gentle teasing and good humor, and Ben is the one to wipe away the couple of shaky tears that squeezed out during your crisis of courage.  The group rearranges itself:  Pope then Will, then Frankie, and you and Ben at the rear, and Frankie seethes the rest of the hike back to hear the two of you joking and teasing.

Friday, and Frankie learns that he can be jealous over you.  He’s quiet over dinner as he turns over this new intel about himself. 

Friday, and when it’s time to turn in, you take the couch again.  Frankie lies awake and watches you in the faint silvery moonlight streaming in through the curtains, and he berates himself for letting Ben step in where he could have intervened.  Frankie could have been kinder, could have helped you.  You’ve never been cruel to him about his own struggles.  A little episode of panic on a low-stakes hike would have cost him nothing in terms of kindness.

Frankie does something he’s never done before with you.

“Hey,” he whispers.  “You awake?”

You huff out heavy breath, a low groan.  “I am now.”

A long stretch of silence passes.  Frankie can’t quite get the words out; his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth.  Enough time passes that you sigh again, roll over on the squeaky couch.

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter.  It comes out gruffer than he’d like, more mean-sounding. 

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.”  Now he sounds defensive, a bit petulant.

“Oh.”  A beat, then, “for what?”

He rolls over on the mattress and faces where you lie feet apart from him, slightly higher than him on the couch.  “For being a dick on the hike.”

“Ah.”

There’s another long beat of silence, and then the room lights up as you turn your phone on.  He hears you tapping on it, and he asks what you’re doing.

“Just marking the date and time.  Latitude and longitude.”  In the white light cast across your face, Frankie can see your smirk.  “Need to know where to put the memorial plaque when the time comes.”

“Huh?”

“You know.”  You lock your phone and toss it aside, and Frankie hears you roll over to face him.  In the scant light from the moon, he can just make out your face, still smirking.  “The commemorative plaque.  On this place and on such-and-such date, Francisco Morales offered the first apology in his life.”

Frankie bristles.  “Funny, but I’ve apologized lots of times before.”  He thinks of his ex-wife, his mother, Tom’s wife.  He’s apologized plenty:  for his bad behavior, for his poor choices, for all the ways he’s lacked as a son or a husband or a teammate.

“Not to me you haven’t.”

“Bullshit.”  He rolls onto his back and stares up at the rough-hewn boards of the cabin’s ceiling.  “I probably have.”

“Bullshit,” you retort.  “You haven’t.”

“Well now I have, and I damned well regret it.”

You laugh softly, but it doesn’t have its usual bitter edge to it.  You don’t add anything for so long that Frankie’s eyelids start to get heavy, but just as sleep starts to lap around his ankles, he hears you say, far softer than before, “I appreciate it, Fish.”

Friday, then:  Frankie learns he has a jealous streak for you, and he learns that he can feel ashamed of how he sometimes treats you.  Both revelations pale in comparison to how he feels to own up to his less-than-stellar behavior…and how he feels when you accept his apology rather than retaliate with your own less-than-stellar behavior.

-----

Saturday, and the day starts promising:  sun in the blue sky, bird song, the wind rustling through the leaves.  Storm clouds gather after noon, low and fast-moving, blotting out the sky, and the evening turns into a torrential storm.

You and Pope go into town to pick up more beer, a bottle of wine for dinner.  Frankie and the Miller boys stay behind.  Ben gets a headache and goes to nap it off, which leaves Frankie and Will alone on the cabin’s porch, watching the rain disturb the mirror surface of the lake as they nurse a couple of longnecks.

“Good to have everyone here,” Will offers after a while.

Frankie grunts in agreement.  He doesn’t mention Tom, and neither does Will.

Will handles the bulk of the conversation, which is really just gossip about you and Pope and Ben since you’re all absent.  It doesn’t come across as especially catty, though, since Will spins everything in his motivational lingo.

Then Will touches on you and Frankie’s rocky relationship.  He takes a sip from his bottle and gives Frankie a sidelong glance, says, “heard the two of you talking last night.  Surprised it didn’t end in yelling.”

Frankie snorts and takes a drink of his own beer.  “First time for everything.”  He shakes his head, rueful, and adds, “we’ve just never got along.  You know that.”

Will nods in that irritatingly sage way he has now.  “Well, you’re both crabs.”

“She makes me crabby.  I’m usually fine otherwise.”

The man chuckles and shake his head.  “Nah, I mean you’re both crabs.  You’ve both got tough shells.  Even if you could get out of your own shell, you’d have to get past hers and vice versa.  Double walls up, whatever you want to call it.  Makes it tough to connect.”

Frankie bites back the obvious response:  that you and he connect plenty, in a carnal way, and that Will’s dumb analogy would crumble the moment Frankie mentions that the two of you fuck often, and that you don’t have a tough shell when he’s balls deep in you.  Instead, he snorts again and says, “okay,” heavy on the sarcasm.

“The problem with a crab’s shell though,” Will adds in that faux-wise tone of his, “is that if you don’t shed them once in a while you can never grow.”

Frankie almost wishes you were here to hear this bullshit too.  You’re irritating, but as a fellow crab, you’d tell Will to fuck off, to go play shrink with someone else.

-----

You and Pope return, and the two of you handle dinner together.  Pope sears the steaks on the grill outside; you make fresh pasta and sauté late-season vegetables.  Ben is pulled from the loft bedroom by the scent of the food, headache gone, and everyone circles up around the table to eat and drink. 

The fire snaps in the fireplace and the rain drums against the roof, and Frankie hasn’t felt so relaxed since South America and the scramble over the Andes that ultimately claimed Tom’s life.  He glances around the table, and it occurs to him that aside from his parents, the people he loves best in the world are all right here with him.  Even you, he supposes.

He lets the good food and drink and warmth of the fire work against his anxiety.  He feels the snarls and tangles of his tight muscles—those perpetually tense shoulders hiked up near his ears—unlock.  He feels all those bad feelings, the constant self-doubt and low-level depression ebb into the distance.  He is lulled into a drowsy state as he eats, as he sips at his wine, and he rejoins the conversation in process and finds himself jolted by its subject.

It's Pope needling you, and the man is clearly picking up a thread from earlier between the two of you.  He’s asking you about some guy, some guy named Paolo, and Frankie feels an uncomfortable prickle along the back of his neck.

“Just call him sometime,” Pope tells you.  “Grab a coffee or something.”

“Nah, Santi.”  You push a bite of steak around your plate and don’t look up.  “I don’t think so.”

“I think the two of you would get along.”

“I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?” Will interjects, catching up faster than Frankie.  Then to Pope, “you trying to set her up?”

Pope nods at Will’s question as you shrug and mumble something about being out of the dating game for too long, and Frankie stares at you, wills you to look up at him, but you don’t.

“Which is why this is perfect,” Pope replies.  “Paolo is coming out of a long-term thing.  He needs a gentle reintroduction to dating too.  C’mon…what would lunch hurt?  Or dinner?”

“You should think about it,” Will adds.  He glances over at Frankie, catches his eye.  “Might help for you to get out of your shell.”

You laugh at that.  “I think I’m good, William, but thanks.”

Then Ben gets in on it, Ben and Will and Pope cajoling you into dating this Paolo guy.  The Millers point out your paltry dating history, your lack of serious relationships—you’ve never even lived with a guy, let alone edged up against an engagement or marriage.  Pope tells you about Paolo, some coworker in his contracting work with a failed marriage, something about cheating, the man is hurting, blah blah.  Frankie is shocked to find that his jealous streak isn’t just wide but deep—it feels like a bone-deep ache, a cold searing in his gut as the guys egg you on, try to convince you to just meet the dude.

“What do you say, Fish?” Pope asks, and Frankie glances up and finds your eyes settled on him.  There’s a question there, but Frankie can’t see beyond his own tough exterior to know what it is.

“Sure,” he replies with a shrug he hopes looks nonchalant.  “I’m sure this Paolo guy would love to be disappointed by you.”

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder from Ben, who’s sitting beside him, and rolled eyes from Pope, and a disappointed tsk-ing from Will.

Frankie doesn’t see how his barb lands with you, though.  As soon as he launches it, he looks away, looks down at his plate, so he can’t see if you are hurt or not by him.

But he hears your reply to Pope.  He hears you say, “you know what?  Sure.  Give him my number.  I don’t have any better prospects.”

-----

The rest of the evening is a blur.  There’s a robust game of poker, low stakes, and the beer flows steady as the conversation.

Frankie goes mute, only mumbles out monosyllabic answers when the conversation turns to him.  His thoughts turn maudlin.

He always felt a step ahead of the guys.  More mature.  More of a man.  Him and Tom, both:  making the adult choice to marry instead of drifting around in the chaos of the post-army bachelor life.  Where Pope and the Millers lived in bland beige apartment complexes, strung together short-term relationships and hook-ups, Frankie had a house with a wife.  He felt a smug satisfaction when he’d meet up with the guys back then, like he and Tom were the sage elder statemen of the group.

You had been there too, of course, but it was different with you.  Back then, Frankie used to compare you against his wife—you were the other woman in his life, so you were a handy comparison to his wife, Sophia.  You were prickly where Soph was sweet.  Opinionated where Soph wasn’t.  When Frankie held the two of you up, it made Sophie shine brighter.

But now hindsight is twenty-twenty.  Because Frankie always compared the two of you, he can’t help but craft an alternate universe where a marriage to you had faltered and then fell apart.  With Soph, it had been ugly:  she never spoke up, never held him to account for his increasingly bad behavior as his addiction took hold.  She merely left one day—Frankie came home to an empty house and instructions to not reach out to her, that her lawyer would be in touch.

You’re the one who had confronted Frankie.  You’re the one who arranged for the intervention, who chased him when he stormed out, who grabbed him by the arm and shook him, told him he had to get his shit together and get help.  You’re the one who handled everything:  packing his bag, getting him on the plane to the rehab.  You found him a place for when he got out, you and Pope salvaging as much as you could from his marital home before it was sold as part of the divorce.

And now he’s back to square one, but even more so.  He’s divorced.  He’s a recovering addict.  He’s got a bad back and a suspended pilot’s license.  He’s nobody’s bargain, as the song goes, but he wonders how much his low mood right now is linked to you.  Pope and the Millers talk you up, gas you up for this date with Pope’s buddy, and Frankie feels worse and worse the more he realizes you may slip away from him. 

It's a startling revelation that he even cares.  If asked, he’d lie and say he doesn’t, that you can date whoever you want, move away to wherever.  That if he never sees you again, he’ll be perfectly okay, because the two of you have never gotten along and the hooking up has just been two bored, lonely people mutually using each other.

But he remembers a million little moments of you being…not kind, maybe.  You’re prickly with your kindness, you sigh and roll your eyes when you do nice things for him, but you’re the one who started him on the path of recovery.  You’re the one who stood in front of him at Tom’s wake and told him in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, it was no one’s fault but Tom’s own greed.

Hell, he bets you’ve even taken the couch this whole time in the cabin because of his bad back.

Frankie feels like he’s close to some world-altering revelation, but it’s just beyond his grasp.  Instead, he just stews:  his memories circle around his failed marriage, how he was never further ahead than the guys after all.  His memories shift to you then, circle around you:  the most irritating person he’s ever known, yet the one who probably saved his life.  The frustrating woman who has had his back for years, who squabbles with him and argues with him and (lately) has been fucking him with equal aplomb.

-----

When everyone turns in for the night, Frankie waits a long while before he hisses out your name.  You don’t sigh or groan like he’s woken you up; you answer him by saying his name back with a questioning lilt.

“You can take the mattress if you want,” he whispers.  “If the couch is uncomfortable.”

“It is, but I’m fine.”  A beat, and you confirm his suspicion by adding, “your back.”

“Mattress is wide enough for both of us.”

He hears your quiet snort of laughter.  “Nice try, Fish.”

“What?”

“You know what.  If I lie down with you, you’ll get all handsy.”

Frankie smiles in the darkness.  “You don’t mind my hands usually.”

Some spring deep in the couch squeals as you roll over.  “We said we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“We say that every time,” Frankie points out.  “And then you call me at two in the morning because you need it so bad.”

You snort.  “I never need it.”  You’re silent for a long moment, then add, “and anyway, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Pope’s friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.”  Your voice does lose its snarky, insouciant tone—you sound uncharacteristically somber.  “I need to get my shit together.  I’m tired of being alone all the time.”

That stings Frankie a little, like all those moments with him don’t count, even though he knows they don’t.  You’re talking about being alone, all those times you need someone to talk to or cuddle up with or just be with.  Frankie and your hooking up isn’t any of that; it’s a lone moment of physicality without any of the intimacy.

“And you think Paolo is the one then?” he asks, and the name Paolo drips with disdain that he doesn’t bother to hide.  You hear it, too.

“You sound jealous, Fish.”

“’m not.”

“Because I thought I was just gonna disappoint him anyway, so why would you be jealous?”

“Said I’m not.”  He’s not jealous.  He isn’t.  The bloom of hot acid in his gut is something else entirely.  Maybe Pope didn’t cook the steaks thoroughly enough.  Maybe it was too much red wine.

Now your voice turns faux-casual, conversational, like you’re just gabbing with a girlfriend.  “Do you think Paolo is hot?” you ask. 

“Probably looks like a troll doll.”

“I bet he’s big.  Huge.”

“Gross.”

“Bet he’s slinging a real hog around.”

Frankie scoffs.  “Pope said he’s divorced because his wife cheated on him.  He’s probably tiny.”

“Ooooh, you’re definitely jealous.”  Another rustling of your blankets, and then Frankie feels it—your bare foot reaching down and out to where he lays, your cold toes kicking him lightly in the side.  He swats at you, but you pull your foot back at the last minute with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” he grits out.  “I’m not.”

Another playful kick that clips him in the shoulder.  “Aw, Fish, did you fall for me?  Are you in love?  Are you—”

He’s quicker this time, and he catches your foot, catches his hand around your ankle and tugs you towards him.  You squeal; he gets you halfway off the couch but not entirely and there’s a moment of tug-of-war.  Frankie doesn’t release your ankle, and you try to break his hold, but Frankie (who knows how strong you are, how good you are at self-defense) doesn’t think you really fight him that hard.

Instead, you let him pull you the rest of the way onto the floor.  You let him tug you across the short span between the couch and the mattress, and he’d smirk and gloat at how willingly you come to him, but within a second you are beside him.  You smell smoky, like the snapping wood fire of the evening has burrowed into your hair, and you smell like the wet, washed-clean earth and loam, and you smell like the slightly-metallic water of the lake, and Frankie’s mouth finds yours, seals over yours, steals away any other teasing or arguing you may do.

Part of him hates how well the two of you fit together.  For as much as you squabble and irritate each other, in these moments, you are perfectly in line with each other.  On the same wavelength.  Frankie kisses you deeply, tastes you beyond the mint of your toothpaste, and he still—even after all these moments, all these stolen interludes—gets a fluttery swoop in his gut when you slide your tongue against his.

He maneuvers you underneath him and you go willingly.  Eagerly.  He wishes sometimes he could read your mind.  He wonders what you’re thinking in these moments.  Have you been lying beside him the past few nights, wanting this to happen?  Or are you only riled up and slick to his searching fingers because of the idea of this Paolo, a man who could theoretically assuage your loneliness?

The thought makes that deep streak of jealousy pulse inside him, so he breaks the kiss as his fingers slide into you.  He feels how wet you are, always wet and hot for him, and he hisses into your ear, “this for me?”

“Fuck off, Fish.”  You whisper it back, and in the wan moonlight, Frankie can see you glaring up at him. 

He pulls his finger out, adds a second, pushes both into you.  He catches how your eyelids flutter, how your lips part at the stretch of his digits.  He studies your face as he pulls out, pushes back in a handful of times.

“Tell me,” he demands.  He keeps his voice low, aware that the Millers are asleep in the loft above you and Pope is asleep in the bedroom just beyond the small galley kitchen.

“I said fuck off.”  You enunciate the fuck clearly, catch your lower lip between your teeth as you hiss out the eff.  As guilty as Frankie feels to compare you to his ex-wife, the differences are never more stark than here:  Sophie had been completely soft, completely submissive in the bedroom, never quite willing to do more than a handful of positions or situations.  Fucking you is like wrestling a wild cat sometimes, and you make him work for it, and Frankie kinda loves it.

He clucks his tongue in mock sympathy.  He pushes his two fingers into you as deep as he can, then crooks them inside you, strokes your inner wall until you gasp underneath him.

“There it is,” he croons.  He dips his head, drags the slick muscle of his tongue along your pulse point where your heartbeat jumps and thunders away.  “Knew I’d find it.”

“Fish—”

“Always find it.”  He moves his thumb, presses it lightly against your swollen clit.  “Pope’s dumb fucking buddy could never.”

You laugh but it’s breathless as he works his hand against you.  You tangle a hand in his hair and tug against him, steer his head back to you.

“Knew you were jealous, you asshole,” you whisper.  You surge forward and nip at the side of his neck, and he bites back his own groan, hushes you, reminds you that the guys are nearby and you have to be quiet.

Frankie reaches down and shoves his sweatpants down enough to free his aching cock, and he doesn’t even bother to get you out of your sleep shorts.  He only shoves them to the side and then removes his hand, guides his cock to replace his fingers.  He hears the low groan you give at the contact, so he reaches up a hand and covers your mouth and pushes into you in one firm, deep thrust.  His hand absorbs your moan as he mounts you, but he looses his own groan to be back inside your clenching heat.  You both freeze for a long moment—his cock twitching inside you, your cunt bearing down on him—but none of the guys make a noise, so you proceed as quietly as you can.

You’re not nearly quiet enough.

*****

Pope is woken by the sound of a thump, like a body hitting the floor. 

That’s exactly what it is:  Frankie yanking you off of the couch, and just as Pope starts to wake up, starts to swing around and put his feet on the floor, he hears a moan.

Ben sleeps like the dead and hears nothing:  not you and Frankie squabbling in whispers, not you and Frankie fucking, and not the furious clicking of Will in the other bed, texting back and forth with Pope.  He’s only woken up later.

Will hears everything.  He never fell asleep at all, only drowsed a bit, so he heard you and Frankie talking down below.

Then he hears the same thump as Pope, then the same moan.

His first thought is that Frankie has made you cry, that Frankie has said something mean enough to break that tough dam that holds back your emotions.  But then he hears a gasp (yours), a low chuckle (Frankie’s) and he realizes what he’s hearing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out.  “No way.”

His cell phone, silenced, lights up with a message.  Will unlocks it and sees that it is Pope.

Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing, the text reads.

Will responds.  Not sure, he types.

Pope:  You got eyes on them???

Will:  No way

Pope:  Sounds like she’s crying. Need confirmation.

Will:  NO

Pope:  Ur in the loft.  Confirm.

Will sighs, mutters “fuck.”  It does sound like you’re crying and trying to hide it, breathy, bitten-back moans that could be crying or could be…you and Frankie fucking.

The former seems unlikely.  Will’s never seen you cry, and he thinks he’s only heard you once—a similar gasping sound, through a flimsy motel room wall in Central America as you made your way back to the States with Tom’s body.

The latter—the thought of you and Frankie fucking—seems even more unlikely.  Yet when he freezes, when he holds his own breath so long he hears his heart beating in his ears, Will swears he can hear the quiet rustling of fabric, heavy breathing that sounds more like Frankie.

He moves as slow as if he were on a mission.  He turns around on the trundle bed and crawls to the edge of it, a millimeter at a time.  He reaches the open doorway of the loft; there is no door, and it looks down at the first floor, and when he peers over the railing, he sees the two of you awash in silvery moonlight.

Frankie, on top of you.  Your knees on either side of Frankie’s hips, one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand reaching down and grasping his ass, guiding him where he fucks into you in slow, deep strokes.

Will doesn’t know why he never saw it before.  This can’t be the first time between you—you move too well together.  The two of you have always grated against each other, but no one ever really thought it was hatred.  You and Frankie love each other in your own way, Will guesses, and maybe this is just a facet of that.

You helping Frankie get clean:  another facet of that love.

Frankie going silent at the thought of you dating Pope’s work buddy:  another facet of that love, perhaps?

Will retreats just as slowly.  He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, though he thinks he’ll need therapy to erase the vision of the two of you fucking from his mind.  He climbs back into bed carefully, then texts Pope.

She’s not crying, he types out. 

She’s not??? Pope replies.

Yeah, dude, Will types.  She and Fish are fucking.

Pope responds with a puking emoji first, but then he adds, FINALLY.

[undercoverpena]

and for the second instalment of “Pinterest is trying to murder jo” we have:

jawline, side profile and neck with morales

part one (broad back)

like… just let me nuzzle your neck, Frankie

[theywhowriteandknowthings]

Look at this amazing commission @littledozerdraws created for me.

SNAFU Frankie in his human and shifter forms 🥺🫶🏻

[hail-doodles]

✨SHOP REOPENING!✨

I’m sooo excited to announce that my Etsy shop will be reopening DECEMBER 30th (next Saturday) @ 11am PT!

I’ll be restocking a ton of pops as well as introducing my *NEW* Marcus Pike pop😌💼 More info in the pics below!

ALSO: I will be donating 10% of ALL proceeds from this restock to legitimate organizations in support of Palestine. 🇵🇸 I have a list of orgs down below, but if you know of any others then please lmk!

Etsy link in my bio, please reblog/share this around to spread the word if you can! TYSSSSM❣️

[morallyinept]

Update: I've now written a full fic to accompany this ramble below. You can read it here. 🖤

________________

Okay... So, older, slightly more greyer in the whiskers Frankie??

Like, it's been a while; the new baby's come and Daddy Fish is just packing on some meat whilst standing in the kitchen, snacking, doing the late night feeds with lil' babe resting and gurgling on his shoulder. He's a bit out of shape when Santi comes a-knockin' for this expedition to retrieve the cash, but he's reluctantly up for it.

A second shot at some dollar? Christ knows he could do with it. The garage needs a new door; that bastard creaking all the fucking time is doing his head in. The medical bills from his weekly therapy for his PTSD are mounting up. Not to mention the added costs of raising a child.

But they gotta do it his way this time. He ain't ending up like Redfly with a bullet popped in his skull, no thank you, hijo de puta. No mules. No picking at the scab. Frankie's got the bones to be a good leader. (Just keep him away from the coke and he'll be dandy.)

We saw a bit of that leadership when he stepped in to keep the boys in check. He can do it; pull those boys up the mountain again. Only this time, get him a decent. Fucking. Chopper. This man needs to get his hands on some sleek, shinier equipment.

Easy, baby.

Really hoping the TF2 rumour is true! 🤞🏻

Check it out here. (🖤 to @mysterious-moonstruck-musings )

[pettyprocrastination]

"When she was little, he would be cleaning off the remnants of dinner from her cherubic cheeks as she wriggled and fussed in his arms."

"Now Katherine sat still, eyes unfocused and glazed over as he wiped away the blood from her mouth. Her father said nothing about the pieces stuck between her teeth, but he was slowly beginning to put together what had happened."

I could not be more in love with this amazing commission by the ever lovely @miranhas-art depicting Frankie and his daughter katie from my first ever published horror story. Working with her is always an absolutely dream <3

If you want to read about girlhood, cannibalism and father-daughter relationships in horror- you can find that in my short story "Saturn, Inverted" that is published in a collection found at this link here

[getyouanearthygirl]

HEAR ME OUT

This.

But Pedro Pascal

A combination I don’t think any of us would survive…

[pedge-page]

Insatiable

Part 3/Finale to Cravings and Crash

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Summary: Frankie and reader spend some time apart before realizing that’s actually really stupid—and solid communication happens for once :) 

Notes: it’s finally HERE! Thank you all so much again for your words of praise and keeping with these two absolute idiots in love. Honestly intended the first one to just be a one-off drabble throw away thought, but I’m glad everyone enjoyed it so much to ask for more! I’m spitting this out earlier than expected. Don’t know if I’ve done them reasonable justice but this is what I’ve got—hope you like it!

Warnings: unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, mentions of m oral, pussy eating king returns, cum eating, missionary, doggy, cowgirl, overstimulation, fingering, squirting, bit of possessive and jealous Frankie, mentions of drug use, drugs present, language

18+ ONLY

- - - - 

You had cried when you got in your car. And again when you went to your cousin’s house to crash until you signed your new lease. And then again every night for a week straight.

You had NEVER cried this hard over a boy before.

Except this wasn't some boy—this was Frankie. The guy who comforted you through all your dates that stood you up, and shitty boyfriends, albeit few, that left you feeling less than worthwhile. The same Frankie who stood around you like a guard dog when you went drinking together so no one would even think to slip something in your cup, but who YOU have to comfort during horror movies because he's a big scared kitten. Who lets you sleep on his shoulder for five hours in the car no matter how uncomfortable it was for him, never once moving, but still ate the food you didn't like off your plate "because he's a garbage dump who'd eat anything, even mold." 

The first guy to tell you that you were beautiful when you weren't even trying to impress him. Who brings a hair tie with him when you go to eat because you always forget yours and get your hair caught in your fork. Who pushed you to take charge of your life and break up with your loser first love, and it was the hardest and best decision you could have ever made.

And you know what? The ONLY guy who made you cum 9 fucking times the FIRST time he went down on you.

You called Santi that night because you needed to let loose, and the only other person you trusted to hold you up outside of Frankie was Pope.

“So how is he?” Santi asked, as you immediately double fisted your first two shots. 

"I don't wanna talk about him tonight."

Santi nods, eyes widening as you don’t even resist the bitter taste going down your throat. He holds his finger up towards the waitress to order 4 more glasses.

You really didn't want to think about Frankie. The more you thought about him, the more confused you felt, and you couldn't afford to be confused about your purpose in his life right now. You knew battling addiction isn’t a linear healing process. That it would get worse before it got better at times. You're his friend. You're helping him. That's it. 

Frankie spent a whole year being physically intimate with you, but never once asked or made a move for anything more emotionally. So why let yourself get carried away even thinking about something more?

To even consider if you wanted more...

You snatch the shot glass out of Santi's hand right before he was about to sip it and catapulted it down your throat, the burning sensation taking your mind out of the gutter.

Fuck Frankie for not keeping his shit together. Fuck him for being hot and cold. Fuck him for using you when that's exactly what you’re here for.

It's much easier to keep it all that way. Easy to encourage him with sex to avoid overthinking his intentions. Easier to constantly verbalize it, knowing he won’t deny it, as a means of reassurance to yourself. 

But absolutely fucking HELL he’s being so difficult lately. The sex—wasn’t just good. It was fucking phenomenal. you could physically see how much better he was just moments afterwards, even if you were blacking out and falling asleep not too long after. He was so hungry for it too, why deny? But he’d been holding back too much now—getting too tense, crashing, then stressed again. You needed to get things back on schedule with him so he’d be happy again.

And gentle, nurturing, innocent, sober you just wasn't doing the trick for him anymore.

You barely hear Santi over the pounding in your head: "When we was the last time you got laid? You need a distraction from your Fix-a-Fish hobby."

You gulp down the last of the vodka on the table, suppressing a slight burp.

"I'm 'bout to do both tonight."

That was 4 weeks ago. You didn’t achieve either that night.

Fish didn't seem too upset when you left, ultimately making the choice much easier. You looked so fucking stupid walking in there, basically demanding sex from him when he made it clear all year that you were only there for HIM and not the other way around. He didn’t want you like that. 

Good. Makes staying friends that much easier.

Or it did, for a little while. 

You couldn’t get over the way he made you feel when all was well—when he’d serenade you so easily in affection like Querida, Carino, Hermosa, and you could barely contain the butterflies in your stomach each time. You had never once heard him even refer to his dates or ex girlfriends in the same manner. It was both confusing and arousing. He treated you like a best friend some times, but adored you like a lover more. 

Hadn’t the man heard of friendship boundaries? Aside from the fact he made you orgasm every minute of the day, what was Frankie like as a lover? What more could he possibly do to cross that line?

Who the hell treats their friend like that?

That last month, however, felt more realistic. Grounded in the truth of your relation. You didn’t realize how much he had gotten to you with sweet words first that made the change in his attitude so unbearable. 

You wanted to go back to being selfish with his unbridled love.

You hadn’t gotten off in over a week, a new record. But as you lay in bed, conjuring any and all pornos, audio eroticas, pillows, aching fingers, even the dusty vibrator still wrapped in its new plastic, nothing was getting you to that same addictive feeling that Frankie gave you every single day.

You should have called him to return his shirt you had accidentally packed in your bag in a haste to get out of there. But it still smelled like him. You felt perverted getting wet just by holding it in your hands, but it was doing the trick, and finally you could touch yourself without additional lubricant assistance.

All the memories that tumbled from then on only made the ache between your legs worse: The first night, Frankie between your legs, begging you to let go so he could force more orgasms from your shaking body. “Doing s’good for me, cariño. Give me more, fucking starving” ; when he held you in his lap as you grind down on his bulge, his head buried under his shirt that you were wearing as his lapped at your nipples, “Don’t you dare hold back those beautiful moans, wanna hear you singing when I’m devouring you”; when he’d come home from work and didn’t say a word, just grabbed your wrist and lead you to his bedroom, lied on the bed, slapped your ass a few times to get you to straddle him higher, higher, until you were right over his lips. He didn’t even wait for your hesitation, immediately bringing your hips down and crashing his lips on your pussy, shaking his head like a mad scientist at work, hell bent on discovering what makes you cry faster.

You pulled your fingers away from your slick cunt. No amount of memory would compare to the real thing—and it wasn’t all the acts that you needed, but the intimacy, the familiarity that came from Frankie—THAT’S what always sent you over the edge.

It scared you.

Santi was half right. You did need to get laid. Needed someone who wasn’t Frankie to remind you that you don’t rely on him for some shit like getting off (although you had developed a keen preference by now). You needed a new hobby that wasn’t thinking about Frankie all the time. YOU needed a distraction.

He was half wrong, however, because you knew very well that you’d be drowning in lame date after lame lay a million times before you got over the addictive feeling of being around Fish this past year.

It never felt like a chore. Well, obviously, you were getting ate out like a Sunday brunch. But it was everything else that made you want to keep staying around, even after he maybe didn’t need you anymore.

You realized then that leaving was the best for you and him. You had somehow managed to score a  date tonight, the first one in over a year, with a James. Or Jonathan. Or Jimmy. Something J. I think.

I’m excited. I’m going on a date. I’m going to have fun. I’m excited. Im going on a date. Im going to have fun.

You didn’t even have the care to shave tonight before you begrudgingly left for dinner and a movie.

-

He couldn't say it then. Frankie remembered so vividly the image that he wishes he could forget: you standing there, so meek and vulnerable, spilling your tears as you tried to level your emotions with your feelings and confront the fucked up situation he put you in. Maybe if you had screamed, yelled at him and cussed him out for being such a dick, then he could have told you how he truly felt.

He was always better at being shouted at by others from being in the service. The guys would let their tempers soar and just shout, honesty tumbling through like a flood, and then everything would be out on the table, and shit would get DONE.

The apartment is unforgivably quiet and cold.

He's noticing little things you left behind: your nice moisturizer, expensive shampoo, a paper towel holder. He thinks you’re mocking him by leaving bits of you around his place, so he collects them in a bin and waits for you to come retrieve them. But you don't contact him for the first week.

He starts to think maybe you left those things for him. You bought all these things while you were here, forcing him to use them with you:

"Your face is as dry as a desert; you need moisturizer, not body lotion.”

"You can't use a 4 in one hair and body wash!"

"Who the fuck doesn't have a holder for their paper towels?"

It wasn't all just sex when you were here. He remembered coming in to the bathroom when your feet were soaking in the tub, and you explained you were rubbing your calluses off your feet. He joined you, sweats pulled up above his knee as you held him down to get the stone on his crusty feet, the whole time laughing and squirming because it tickled too much. He fell on his ass in the tub desperate to escape your strangely strong grip around his ankle, getting his clothes all wet.

And despite how well he had known you even before your arrangement, he continued to learn new things about you. Like you took night showers, and could only go to bed with your hair in braid. He'd come to see you, agitated in his room all morning, waiting for you to finally wake up so he could distract his craving. He’d walk into the kitchen where you were already cooking him breakfast, slip his arms around your hip, and pull your braids out lovingly to smell scent of your shampoo waft off in waves, closing his eyes and feeling his jitters dissipate, instantly calming him like no other remedy.

Found it funny that you couldn’t use a regular spoon for cereal, always replacing it with a tea spoon because the other ones are “too big” for your mouth to fully close around. A sentiment he suspected to be a load of BS when you had no problem swallowing his cock whole and then gulping down his cum without spilling a drop.

Or when you got red sauce all over the laundry and had to borrow Frankie's shirt to sleep in. He liked that you smelled like him, that it draped over you so pretty, and you'd never wear pants underneath. He'd put you in his lap and make you hold the shirt up with your teeth, showing off your perky tits. His thumb circled your hip bone, large hand clasping your waist to keep you upright while he'd kiss your nipples, and then make you both look down and watch as he rubbed his fingers through your folds, sucking the juices off as he finger fucked you over top him.

He can't help but feel his twitch of his cock stir in his pants at the thought.

Ok. Maybe the sexual parts were a big part—how could they not be? That’s all it was, at first. And he was able to pretend like it was too. But the more time he spent with you. The more time he got to really know you, live with you, breathe you in, unravel you and bind him to you so that you had no sanctuary untouched by him, it was all over before it began. 

He sat down with Pope a week after you left: 

“You look like shit.”

Frankie grumbled, shrugging it off. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten like he used to when you were around. His beard was growing in more patchy and less manicured than before.

“Have you talked to her since?”

“Don’t wanna talk about her tonight.”

Jesus, a broken record with these two, Santi thought. But he knew Fish much better, knew the exact reason why he called him out instead of all the boys together is precisely because he needed to get this off his chest. “She thought you were stressed, needed time. Clearly she was right.”

Frankie’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding so hard that he could form diamonds.

Santi cleared his throat, twirling the ice in his glass casually. “Course, I didn’t tell her you’re head over heels in love with her. Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t think he could again. “Imagine how that would have gone? She was crying right there. Right in front of me, BECAUSE of me, after I’d treated her like shit for weeks until her breaking point. Would have given her some fucked up idea that that was my expression of loving her. If I’d said it then, she would never have believed me. Would have ruined everything. Including our friendship.” He pauses, staring down at his rough hands. “She deserves better,” he said weakly, more to convince himself than anyone else.

Santi leans back against the booth. He’d heard the Frankie pity train before, but this was much lower than usual. “And friendship is still good enough for you?”

“I’ll take whatever she’ll give me at this point. I can’t lose her.” 

“You can’t? Or don’t want to?”

Frankie thought about that for a while. He had realized too late he didn’t actually still need you. He hadn’t really “craved” cocaine like before. He no longer needed you tending to his every reaction, overly serving his necessities and desires, always a few steps away to brighten his smile, or warm the house with your laughter, your cooking, your terrible taste in movies, all for the sake of keeping him sane and sober.

But damn it all, he still wanted you.

Frankie goes 4 weeks of the hardest withdrawal of his life. You were right, he was getting better at not thinking about cocaine. But without you here, he's more agitated than before. It's not that he craves it now, but rather craves a substitute to get him through your absence.

He's itching for his phone, for the number of his dealer he should have blocked and deleted so long ago.

He shouldn't. It would devastate you. You'd think it's your fault because you weren't here to distract him, only making the whole lie he’s been telling himself that you could still be just friends more abundantly evident. Pushing that useless tale even further, rooting it in your mind.

 In truth, it is your fault that his entire happiness is now emotionally and physically tied to you, but he can't really blame you for leaving him since he's the big idiot. He had the entire year to make it right, damned be the consequences of your possible rejection.

He’s clenching his fist at his sides, debating whether to text his dealer. He doesn't even want that shit, at least not the way before. He just wants a distraction from the real aches that you've left behind.

And if he did... wouldn't you come back to him to make it right?

You’re so clear in his mind that doesn't even struggle, doesn't hesitate as he pays the money and carries the little pouch in his hands. He gets back to his apartment with vigorous haste, slamming the door behind him, and sits it on the coffee table, staring.

Even if you don't come back to him, getting just a little bit high would help take his mind off it all. He'd be able to stop thinking about you, even for just the night. Just to get some sleep.

Just to stop feeling.

He shakily tries to undo the tightly sealed bag, but few particle traces catch in his finger tips from outside the plastic, and he instantly wafts the infinitesimal scent of it on his finger tips. He stops, feeling something he's never felt before when staring down at the thing thats caused him so much trouble in his life:

Disgust.

-

You considered calling Frankie a million times, but how soon was too soon? Would he think you were just desperate to get ate out again? Would he deny you the second you wanted to see him, thinking it was just a booty call again? You had made some stupid choices, like going on a shitty date with a guy you weren’t even interested in, just to get over Frankie, so that you could avoid thinking about how badly you had shattered your friendship.

And going right back to being his friend, which included sharing one of your reckless decisions you make on your own, was one of them. He’d be interested in hearing about it, right?

You dial him up quickly.

You rock back and forth on your heels, unable to sit still.

The phone rings out to voicemail.

He’s never missed a phone call from you. Not even at 2am on a work night. He's never on his phone, and yet still always managed to answer your calls even if it’s on the last ring.

He's just avoiding you again. It's fine. Santi said he'll get over it eventually. That you’ve done enough worrying for him, and need to take care of yourself for a change.

You glance at the key he gave back to you, and not even a moment later, are soon slipping on shoes and heading out the door with it in hand.

-

You unlock the door and slowly walk in to the familiar layout of Frankie's apartment. It's entirely dark, curtains drawn save for a small crack in the shades. You call out his name tentatively, the eeriness of the place making you anxious. When you see the bathroom light on and door slightly ajar, hearing the rushing sink water running, you sigh relief.

Thank God.

You gently push open the door. "Fish?" You see him, heart skipping a beat at how much thinner, paler he looked now than before, eyes sunk from lack of sleep.

His eyes light up when he sees you, and your heart breaks at how different he looks but STILL has the brightest, softest, loving smile at you.

Your eyes drift down, smile fading, horror quickly overtaking your face at the unopened baggie of white powder sitting at the sink. And his face drops at the realization.

You take one step back, unable to close the gape in your lips, petrified. "Fish—I—holy fuck..."

You had never seen him doing it, never seen him freshly blown high from it. The closest you ever got was what the boys would tell you, or seeing the long aftermath of his crash. They were always first on the scene and quite frankly, ensured you were never the one to find in him these states. You had never been able to mentally prepare to have to handle it now.

"No—no no no! It's not, I didn’t, I didn't! Look—ok it looks like I did but I swear I haven't touched it. It’s still sealed! I’m. I'm dumping it down the toilet."

You don't trust his word, seeing as the bag is here, albeit fully wrapped up, seal unbroken like he said. But here, nonetheless. With him. In front of you with no denial that it was his. 

He gets on his knees and wraps his arms around your waist. “Please don’t leave me. I didn’t want you to leave the first time…”

“And it’s taking you being high right now to admit that?!”

I’m not high, seriously. Check me.” You peer down closer, and aside from his rampant heart beating against your leg and big round eyes, there’s no trace of smell or lingering white powder anywhere on him. But you’re hesitant.

“I bought it but then realized It wasn’t what I really wanted…”

He licks his lips quickly, his brown eyes pleading up to you, biceps flexing against your ribcage.

Your chest is pounding, the encasing feeling of Frankie refusing to let you back away making you feel like a trapped rabbit. 

“Please believe me,” he breathes.

"Your eyes are dilated as fuck Frankie!"

"That's because of you!"

You both hold your breath, a pregnant silence ringing in the air.

“I—I’m. Um. I meant." His eyes trail off sheepishly as a warm blush takes over his face. 

He stands up, rubbing the back of his head. He can tell you’re patiently waiting for him to get over his blubbering awkwardness so he can explain properly. To find the words he’s combing his brain for. And find them he did: 

"I miss you, Querida.”

He breathes slowly, time catching up and suddenly stopping. 

You glance toward the bag, still fearful that he had gotten to this point while you were gone. “Frankie. I’m—I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. For your needs—“

“I don’t need you to fix me. I haven’t craved that shit for a while, still don’t even now. I just wanted you here with me.” He snatches the baggie and chucks it in the toilet, immediately flushing it.

You want to say that might not be great for the plumbing, but Frankie’s hands are on yours, holding them securely to his chest. “I just want you. I should have said it before you walked away.  Should’ve said it a year ago, when I knew I didn’t want to pretend this was just some—some drug replacement.” He goes quieter. “I didn’t want this to be nothing. I thought when we had sex, maybe you’d feel the same, but you didn’t—”

“I was afraid about what would happen to you If our dynamic changed, Fish. I was worried it was just another high. So I tried to make things go back to how they were since it seemed to be working so well for you before,” you rambled. He can see the shininess in your eyes, feel how your body is no longer resisting him and instead, cradling his neck with affection, empathy, nurture, all the things he’d been depraved of for weeks. “But then it made everything worse and I didn’t know what to do—“

He cut you off, as if suddenly things didn’t line up. ”Why did you come back?"

You lick your lips, eyes unable to meet his. “Well I called, and you didn't answer. And I wanted to check up on you, and tell you... um—I mean I always tell you about… I went on a date, my first one in over a year."

Frankie's eyes blankly drift lower, down to your feet, his arms retreating. He takes an awkward step back. "How... how did it go?" He asks slowly, feeling the distance between the two of you growing again.

You throw your hands up in the air, unable to express yourself. “He was…Handsome. Funny. Charming. Paid for me, made me feel pretty, treated me real good—“

He nodded, unable to bring his eyes anywhere else but back to the back on the sink as he listened. “S’good. That’s what you deserve,” he says, jaw tensing.

“Yeah. Yeah it is what I deserve.” You pause, here goes everything. “Except the whole time, I hated the fact that he was nothing like you." 

Frankie’s attention darts back to you as you cup his scruffy face in your hands. "You're irritable, and sassy, and needy and clingy, and you pout when you don't get what you want. And you don't listen to me or stop when I tell you to stop—“

A roasting fest? Now?? “OK, That's, Jesus, I get it—“

"And I love all those things about you.” You hold his gaze, feeling his breath seize in his chest. “And I miss being here. I miss waking up with you every morning, and your smug face being the last I see before I go to sleep. And it took me until after I left to realize how I actually felt about you. This whole year with you has felt like this perfect—“

"High?"

Your brows furrow shyly. “I didn’t want to put it that way, for obvious reasons. But fuck it. Yes. I don’t—I don’t wanna let that go.”

His fingers tense around your waist, almost begging you to say it, spill it out for him and don’t hold back ever again. 

“You got me addicted to you, Francisco."

You aren't aware of how fast he moves, his hands grabbing your neck as he smashes his lips to yours. Your heart is beating out of your chest when he sucks every breath from you, barely separating from your lips to utter "I've waited—so long—for you—“ He hoists you up on his waist and brushes out of the bathroom with your legs wrapped securely around him, his kiss hot and full of passion the entire time. "Wanted you since you first let me have a taste of you.” He slams you on the bed, the familiarity of you two being in this exact situation settles on you. “Wanted you to want me. Want more.”

He continues to engulf your lips with his, his moans vibrating against your tongue. "I shouldn’t—“ he hastily bites your lip with a grunt “—shouldn't have pushed you away—treated you so bad.” He pauses his assault. “I was so scared you didn't want me like that. Couldn't handle pretending I could be okay with it.”

You place your hands on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart matching yours. "Frankie, I want you."

"Good," he smiles, leaning up to remove his shirt over his shoulders. You whine at the sight. Draping himself over you, his lips never leave your body as he kisses down your chest then back to your lips. You’re unable to bring yourself to action as his body dictates both of your moves.

You feel his bulge pressing painfully against your core, eliciting an obscene moan from your throat. "Frankie—Let me take care—“

"No. Fuck no. I'm taking care of you tonight. And tomorrow, and every fuckin’ day after," he growls.

He kisses you once again but then slowly backs away. "Um, if... if you want that."

He feels your hand tangle in the hair behind his neck as you bring his face back to yours, teeth clashing for dominance. "I want it," you whisper, sucking his lower lip and biting it possessively.

His jaw hitches. “Prove it."

You unbutton your pants, taking his large hand and guiding it down your panties in haste. His digits make contact between your folds, the two of you sighing.

"Oh f-fuck. You want this, don't you?"

"Want you so bad, Frankie. It fucking hurts.”

His fingers dont leave your dripping cunt, spreading your slick around your swollen clit. His other rips your string underwear off with incredible strength. He then helps push your shirt over your head, and you immediately unclasp your bra. Frankie growls lowly at the sight of your perky breasts bouncing from their release. "Fuck, I missed these.” His mouth wraps around as much fat of your tit he could before biting, making you lurch. 

“I—I’m not gonna be slow—I wanted to—“

"Jesus Fish, I don’t care, just take me!"

He plunges two of his thick digits into your soaking heat, making your back arch off the bed. He takes the opportunity to suck a nipple back into his mouth, half his body hovering over you to keep your form perfectly positioned between his mouth and fingers. They teasingly thrust in and out slowly from your hole, intentionally dragging out his torture against you. "So mean to me, baby." His teeth nip at your nipple with a smug grin. "Takin’ my sweet little pussy away from me like that. I barely touched you and you're absolutely soaked. Were you wet on your way here?"

"Frankie I haven't... haven't been able to get off in weeks."

"How long?"

You moan out loud, eyes rolling back as your brain turns to mush. Your hand tries to guide his wrist faster but he slaps it away, continuing his teasing ministrations.

"Answer me!"

"Since the last time you touched me!" You cry.

He haults his movements. 

The girl who bragged about cumming an average of 6 times a day just grinding on a pillow, now telling him she hasn't been able to orgasm in a month, because of him.

Ohhhhhhh fuuuuccccckkkkkfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. “That why you went on your little date, huh?"

You nod shamefully.

"Did you fuck him?"

You whine, eyes burrowing in confusion that he still expected you have coherent thoughts while he had you in this compromising position, teetering on the brink of your much needed orgasm.

"Your date.” He repeats, his wrist slowing down entirely. “Did. You. Fuck. Him."

“No—no! I didn’t even let him kiss me goodnight. Couldn't even get wet for him, that's how bad—Frankie, fuck! please!—bad you've got me fucked up."

He speeds up his hands, satisfied with your confessions. They are thrusting perfectly in and out at record speeds as his jaw clenched around your tit, watching your eyes roll back as your first orgasm in WEEKS overwhelms you fast. You’re shaking violently, legs desperate to close but Frankie pries them open with his strong hand, continuing to dominate your cunt with his incessant fingers.

You feel something else coming as he continues to ram his wrist against you, fingers digging so deep, curling so effortlessly that you can’t stop the gush of liquid squirting out of you. “Oh shit, oh fuckfuckFUCK that’s it! That’s my girl, holy fuck yeah—yeah keep going, Cariño, so fucking good.” He continues to finger fuck you repeatedly, working you through it as your pussy continues to contract and release your spend.

You hardly have time to process your embarrassment as he's shifting below your hips, throwing your thighs over shoulder and giving your soaked pussy a longing look. Your clit twitches excitedly. Cool air is blown on it, making you fist his hair harder. He presses his large nose into you, inhaling your scent like bloodhound, growling like a man possessed at the sticky coating. "I fucking missed you, Hermosa," he groans, and his mouth latched right on to your pulsing cunt. You gasp, hands fisting his hair as he rolls your overstimulated clit with his tongue, jaw opening wide to practically swallow your pussy whole, sucking away everything you're giving him.

Whether he was talking to you or your pussy, it didn’t really matter to you. All you could process was the rough feeling of his fat tongue and scruffy face rubbing perfectly between your legs as Frankie got reacquainted with his former addiction. "FrankieFrankieFranke-ohFUCK!"

You can’t stop him, can’t even warn him as the overstimulation send you into a fit of gasps, cumming again, legs squeezing his head as painful pleasure courses through you. His upper back is littered in your scratches, the red marks raising his skin like tiger stripes.

You're struggling to catch your breath with ragged moans. He slows his licks to draw it out, letting your spasms pass. His sinful, lidded eyes have never left your face, absorbing every reaction from you, committing it to memory.

"You really have neglected this poor pussy," he teases, kissing your clit as his fingers begin to spread your glistening folds once again.

You can only nod, arms covering your face as he starts to rub the pad of his thumb on your swollen nub again. “It’s—not as good—unless it’s you.”

He grits his teeth in satisfaction. “S’okay. M’ gonna take care of you now. Gonna fuck you real soon."

You whine when he pushes his fingers back in to your tight heat.

"And then, when I’m done fucking you—We're gonna fuck again," he laughs.

You’re a bit frightened with how he’s looking at you: like he’s fucking possessed by a hungry, malicious demon.

He makes you cum on his fingers again, then his lips, then both at once. He’s pinning you down so harshly, you have no choice but to take the endless barrage of orgasms he’s forcing from you, almost as if he’s trying to make up for the time you two have been apart. 

By the time his tastebuds are content, he brings himself back up to you, messily kissing your lips so you taste yourself, his beard and stache now soaked in your cum and rubbing along your chin.

You gasp when you feel his hard cock sliding along your folds. He rolls his hips against you, your copious slick letting him glide effortlessly, tip nudging your clit.

“Frankie,” you warn, unable to handle his teasing now.

He grabs the base of his dick. “Beg. Beg me for it,” He commands with a godly voice you’d never heard him use before. He slaps the underside of his throbbing member repeatedly against your pussy with a taptaptaptap. “Tell me you want it.”

You don’t care for the fat tears spilling down your cheeks as you whine like a bitch in heat. “Fuckyou, Frankie,” you seethe, anger building with your desperation. “I fucking want it, want it so bad, want you to ruin me, please, Fish, fucking please put it in already!”

He grins, big and sadistic as he watches your face contort with the first push of his tip into your wetness. “Oh F—“ he breathes, eyes closing as your tight walls do their best to accomodate his size.

Your eyesight is blurry, waves of pleasure rolling throughout your entire body, delirious as he bottoms out. Where he belongs. Where he’s always meant to be.

He presses his forehead to you as his hips start rutting.

He’s hardly fucked you for a few seconds, but the pressure building inside of you, desperate for this moment again after months, isn’t giving you a choice to savor it. “Fish—fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK! ‘M not gonna last!"

He growls excitedly, driving his cock more harshly into you, reaching that special spot he’s decided is only his to abuse. “It’s okay, babygirl. You cum for me. You're always so good at it."

And you are, you really are. “OH FUCK FRANKIE!” You scream. Your body agreeing with him so much that your abrupt orgasm squeezes around him so hard, his movements stop altogether.

“Oh shit—“ he hisses, your pussy greedily milking the cum right out of him. He only pauses for a moment, shaking over you for a moment as his first orgasm subsides before his hips are moving of their own accord, his cum forced out with each thrust.

“Keep goin’, pretty thing. Give me more,” he grunts. 

You nod deliriously, eyes rolled to the back of your skull as he pounds your battered puussy.

He pulls out, the sudden withdrawal making you whine with emptiness. He sinks to his knees again, yanking your knees up to your chest. Your pussy twitches, his cum spilling out and sinking down your ass.

He lets out of primal groan from the back of his throat before smashing his mouth on your cunt, sucking your clit and tongue fucking your hole like a cream filled pastry. You feel the descending bob of his Adam’s apple against your rear as he swallows the mixture of your cum, drinking it like liquid life from the source. “We taste—so—fucking—good, Princesa,” he taunts, tongue lapping your little clit in quick succession before shaking his head back and forth aggressively against your mound, smearing the obscene mixture across your folds and making a mess.

Oh fuck, he’s so gone.

He quickly gets on his knees, turning you over on your stomach like you weigh nothing. His hands grip around your hips, bringing them flush against his crotch again as you arch your back for him. He puts his palm on the small of your back, keeping you right there, pressed tight against him as his cock slides back into your eager and cum coated cunt.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans, setting a faster pace this time. You hadn't realized just how much Frankie was holding back the first time you had sex. He leans over your body, hands splayed past your shoulders, fisting the bed as he rails you deep, his thighs crashing against you with harsh slaps. Your temple lands against his cheek, meeting eye contact. He smiles, breath caught in his throat like running a mile at your fucked out expression. 

He continues to fuck you like an animal. A soft hand grips your chin lovingly, tilting your head further back so his lips meet yours with each punishing grind. You’re surprised by how much you love the hold he has on you, willingly submitting to him without being told. Drunk on each other’s lust.

You suck greedily around his tongue, hand reaching behind the two of you to play with his soft brown curls, refusing to let him leave your mouth. He stutters with a few more thrusts before halting, eyes scrunched closed. “AUUGHHH—haaaahh!” You feel the twitch of him inside you, draining his balls some more of his plentiful seed. 

“Fuck, fuck I love it when you cum inside me!” You confess. The action makes you fall forward, mouth burying into his pillows as you muffle your own cry of your release again.

He pulls out of you and flops to the bed. You think maybe he is done, after having cum twice now, bur Frankie is quick to bring you to straddle him, his dick never once softening as it presses incessantly to your entrance again. He licks his lips, watching his cum spill down your thighs, right to his creamy cock that refuses to fully part from you. 

“Frankie,” you moan, unsure if you can take him again.

“Want you just like this. Ride me,” he breathes. He’s covered in sweat, out of breath and shaking with a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline if it were possible. His hands gently wrap around your waist as he guides you. Eyes so lidded, transfixed on the area where your mound slowly swallows him again.

You’re nodding, body taking over all actions, completely starved for the man under you. 

He leans up to get a good look at you, taking it slow, burning this in head to remember.

"Thought about you... everyday.” He whispers, mouth parted in lust, gliding your hips along with steady rolls. “Couldn't sleep."

His hands down along the curve of your ass, to your thighs spread out over him, before rubbing up the length of your back, holding you as close to him as he can possibly bring you, your tits pressing against his chest. He struggles to breathe evenly as your creamy pussy continues to tighten around him each time he breaches you, the two of you moaning softly into each others’ open mouths. He occasionally catches your lips, slotting perfectly as you grind against him.

His mouth finds its way back down to your pebbled nipple, biting gently before kissing it better. He brings his face back to yours. “So perfect for me,” he whispers.

You start grinding on him more fervently, lifting yourself on your knees ever slightly and baring down on him. He grits his teeth, sinking further down into the bed, eyes never leaving you as his digs his nails into the meat of your hips, forcing you to bounce harder. 

“That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that. MY girl, my beautiful girl.”

You bite your lips, feelings your clit catch on his public hairs. The sloppy squelching of his cum being driven out of your heat by his thick cock is no match to the heavenly sounds you were making atop him. The vein in his neck strains like he’s suffocating himself from air, refusing to slow down, to take a break, to let go for even just a moment.

“More. Give me more,” you moan, confidence soaring as you feel him begin to meet your hips with every thrust. “I want all of you, Frankie.”

He shouts out, lifting you up, his feet digging into mattress as he fucks you from below. “Fuck, fuck!”

You want to throw your head back, ride out this high, but the dangerous allure of him watching you brings your focus down to him, watching the way the two of you are getting off to the other falling apart.

“Just like this. You n’ me. Want it just like this. Forever.” He mumbles repeatedly, ragged pants uneven as he fills you the way you had been unknowingly wanting for months.  

You feel the build of your umpteenth orgasm building in your lower tummy. “Frankie-F-Franke! I’m—I’m gonna—“

“Do it, Querida, do it f-for me.” He thinks he can starve off the low build of his third orgasm of the night, just enough to make you cum for him once more.

You feel the heavy knot in your stomach snap. With absolutely no hesitation, no doubt behind your word, you cry out, “I love you!” as you cum harder than any time before.

Lifting you both practically off the bed, Frankie’s hips seize, pressed so tightly against yours there was no room between you. He shouts loudly, animalistic, snarling with his teeth baring at you and 0 control left in him, immediately emptying his load deep inside with each heavy pulse of his cock against your cervix, painting your walls white with the last of his cum that his balls could give you.

You collapse on top of him, the two of you sucking  air like you were underwater for years. Neither of you say anything, covered in sweat and cum, but finally being able to relax from the pent up release that’s been building there far longer than it ever should have been.

His hand rests against your lower back, somehow pressing your naked body closer to his. 

“I love you,” you whisper again to his collarbone. He brings your eyes to his, and this time he knows you mean it.

-

Frankie wakes to a cold bed.

His arm reaches out subconsciously for your body, but only feels cool empty sheets at his side. His eyes fly open, head sitting upright as he scans his bedroom. There's no sign of you. None of your clothes are scattered on the floor, no immediate trace of your scent. He feels a strong pain in his chest suffocating and stabbing him all at once.

He lies back flat on his pillow, fingers rubbing his forehead. He has two thoughts: the first thought, the one he'd rather think is true, is that it was all dream. You hadn't come home to him.

Before he could bring himself to consider the pain of the second thought, the fear is instantly squashed when he hears the door creak open, your sweet soft smile and gentle eyes landing on him.

‘Hiiiii,” you whisper in a singsong, gentle morning voice. Tip toeing bare foot on the hardwood floor, he see’s you’re dressed in nothing but one of Frankies slightly torn over sized, faded band T shirts that swallows your body. Your bed head still evident, eyes baggy yet happy from the events of last night.

He didn't realize he had held his breath the moment before you walked in, afraid that rather than having dreamt it all, that it did happen, and you had left him anyway.

"I made you tea," you hummed, setting the two cups down by his bedside table.

Your ears go red at the image of him: sheet pulled half way up his hip, his bare chest and torso visible as he props himself up with his elbows to get a good look at you. And the WAY he's looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters in the world, has you sheepishly avoiding his big brown pupils, sliding in to the covers and nuzzling your head against his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around you, unwilling to let you sneak off again. “Don’t wake up before me like that again.”

You giggle. “Frankie, it’s 4 in the afternoon.” 

He checks his digital clock by the bed, true to your word. You both had fucked so hard, so long last night that he didn’t even realize it was well into the morning by the time you had drifted to sleep. 

He lies back down in bed, encircling you to him again. He can more clearly see the damage of last night’s episode on you: bite marks along your tits, hickies against your inner thighs and swollen lips. he doesn’t even need to touch your pussy, feeling its puffy soreness pressing against his leg. He kisses you gently yet passionately this morning, cradling your head so you can’t back away. Not that you want to—he doesn’t feel any resistance in your movements as you devour his lips. 

“I love you,” he says clearly. He can feel the way your breath hitches, the blush on your cheeks at the confession. “I love you, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I caused you so much confusion and I—“

“Okay, Fish. It’s okay. I know.” You bite your lip, pushing your hand against his chest so that he’s lying down on his back. “But I’m not sure I forgive you just yet.”

A brief moment of confusion wracks his face before you’re clambering on top of him again, your naked lower body straddling his under the sheet. You fist the t shirt of your head, letting your soft supple breasts fall. Frankie immediately grabs them tenderly with both of his warm hands, his breath quickening. His length twitches, hard as a rock and pressing right against his lower stomach as you glide your slick folds along him.

“I think you should keep making it up to me.” You align the tip of his throbbing cock against your swollen entrance and sink down, hands seeking purchase on his chest, scratching the skin there as he fills your sore cunt, taking him down to the hilt in one go.

You let out the tiniest, sexiest whimper, and Frankie is ready to drop everything he’s ever owned just to hear it again. So smitten with you, he’s grinning harder than he has his entire life. Like a big dumb idiot.

Your big dumb idiot.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Querida: I love you.”

Tagging people who either requested a part 2/3 or directly requested to be tagged. At least what i can remember (sorry if I missed you!)

- - - -

Series masterlist

Series Taglist: @paleidiot @pedropascalsbbg @tonakings @nerdieforpedro @thewritermj @ahintofkiwistrawberry @perfectly-imperfect-me23 @sammy-4103 @survivingandenduring @millercontracting @emilyjustemily @boiistfu @pedritoferg @missladym1981 @titlee78 @fairytale07 @multiplefandomwritings @steviesimp @marisemonteiroo @dilfluverrrrrrr @howdigetinhere @jessthebaker

Permanent Taglist: @harriedandharassed 

[hellishjoel]

slow shift

7k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Next Chapter

series summary: Tommy’s Diner is where dreams go to die and burnouts clock-in for work. Waitressing would be boring without the flirtatious distractions of line cook Frankie Morales.

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), swearing, talking about w33d, alcohol consumption (not by reader or frankie, but discussions of alcohol), oral (f! receiving), discussions of periods and Plan B, frankie having a fat d!ick, slightly public sex, unprotected p in v (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), you know how I roll

A/N: welcome to the first part in my linecook!frankie series! It's all just going to be chaos!! enjoy dirty dishes, cussing, and decent food made by the hot linecooks. I’ll have a title as soon as I stop putting it off <3 enjoy! let me know what you think! also how LIT is the banner

here's my masterlist!

**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle.  You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 

Welcome to hell. 

A makeshift building somehow still holding up four walls that housed a small restaurant inside. 

This wasn’t some secret treasure that belonged on an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives or a hidden hole-in-the-wall five-star Michelin Restaurant. This was Tommy’s Diner. 

The locals had different names for the run-down dump you called your place of employment: the Hometown Heartburn Hut (true), American Pie ( ha-ha funny), the Rusty Spoon (some guy OD’s behind the place one time, and no one ever forgets), or Tumbleweed, your pothead coworkers liked to call it. It was a tumbleweed because the restaurant was barren, emphasis on the weed to accommodate the faded line cooks that lurked in the back of the restaurant. 

Don’t let today’s slow shift fool you; there were times when Tumbleweed was cram-packed. Friday night football games were busy with tailgaters, bustling with teens after a championship game. Other times, it was when a Greyhound bus or a similar cross-country vehicle drove through and took a stop for the passengers. 

The most popular time of year was in the summer. Tommy’s Diner hosted Saturday night Cruise Nights. The town would flood with classic cars and hot rods, and the diner would transform into a drive-in. Their engines revved through different cities from far and wide to be at Tommy’s. That’s when the place felt the most alive, bustling with people and their laughter, little kids running with their milkshakes and flipping quarters into the rigged claw machine. 

But it wasn’t a Saturday in August. It was a Monday. You were stuck with the misfit motley crew that did everything from dishwashing, cooking, bussing, running the register, being half-ass managers, and, of course, the token pretty waitress. You. 

You will admit that each character working at Tumbleweed had a unique story etched into their grubby hands or baggy-eyed faces. They’ve weathered years of late-night shifts and condiment, grease-stained aprons. 

Tonight there was Lou, the jaded by heartbreak teenage busboy. He walked with a shuffle, always sniffling about an ex-girlfriend. He worked slow and god damn, did that piss you off. 

Then there was Tina, the aspiring singer stuck in a small-town type. She was newer, still learning how things worked since she had never waited tables a day in her life. She had that fresh twinkle of stardom in her eye despite being in her late 30’s. You were training her and trying not to let her drive you up the wall whenever she started singing different songs on the jukebox. Note to self: Put a sticky note saying it’s busted every time you work together. 

Paul was the do-it-all guy. Toilet clogged? Get Paul. Dishes piling up? Ask Paul to do it. The cashier on a bathroom break? Paul can run the till. He was useful, just complained and grumbled a lot. 

Tommy of Tommy’s Diner hasn’t worked a day in years. He’s older, so it’s understandable. Last thing you heard was he was down in Florida, living out retirement in a cheap home with a gambling addiction. Sounded like he was doing well for himself.  But now his idiot son Rudy ran the place. Tommy’s picture was still on dusty display, toothy smile and all at the front door that people huddled in and out of—speaking of. 

Your head lifted to attention as the bell above the door chimed, sighing in annoyance as you leaned back onto the counter. It was just Frankie. 

“It’s fifteen after. You were supposed to be here on time today because we have to set up for Carla’s thing.”

Frankie breezed past you, aviators and stupid ballcap on, his smile lifted in a sneer. He was smacking on pink bubble gum as he neared your part of the counter and purposely shuffled past you with his hips against yours in an attempt to get into the kitchen. You couldn’t help but lean into him with a little smirk. 

“Tommy said it was fine I was late.” He joked once he ducked into the back, your arms crossed as you followed him aimlessly. 

You sigh and lean back against the locker next to his, watching him shuffle off his jacket.

“You disappoint me, Frankie.” Your face held a teasing pout. 

“Never meet your heroes, baby.” That stupid fucking cocky smirk painted his face. 

You opted to roll your eyes and look away as a defense tactic against Frankie’s flirty moves. Frankie calling you baby made your guts twist. 

He was an ass ninety-nine percent of the time, but you two were hired the same summer a few years back and were the only ones who stayed once summer had run its course. You supposed it was bonded trauma after that. 

New workers had come and gone, but you and Frankie were still at Tommy’s, still working crappy shifts on crappy hourly pay. Despite Frankie being a douchebag, he made the place bearable. He was comfortable. You knew each other. 

“Can you just meet me on the floor like you were supposed to fifteen minutes ago and help with the banner? Carla’s going to be here at five, and you still have to make her special-”

“Jesus fuckin’- yes, I’ll be out in a few.” Frankie playfully groaned, shoving the brim of his hat into his mouth to hold it, his hands busy as he tied a tattered red bandana around his forehead before he replaced the cap back on. Okay… hot. 

He took a deep breath once he finished, and leaned against the locker beside you, arms crossed, mimicking you as your shoulder brushed his bicep. You looked up at him, so many inches taller than you, as he looked down. Maybe too far down. He started at your eyes, but those eyes of his tended to wander right down to the cut of your shirt.

“Ugh- Frankie!” You rolled your eyes and pushed him away, readjusting your top as he playfully threw his hands up on the defense. 

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous today, by the way!” He shouted as you exited the locker room, smiling and shaking your head with your back to him and throwing up your middle finger before the door swung closed with your exit. 

---

You stood on the top of a dining table in your sneakers, attempting to hang a shitty banner you had painted for Carla’s birthday. You glanced down at the table and made a little face about the scuff you put in it. Oops. You can try and scrub it later. 

There was no other person you or Frankie would do this stuff for. But it was Carla’s birthday and she was a diamond in the rough at this dump. 

Carla's position at Tumbleweed is a mixture of human resources, accounting, decent management, and a mother figure to not just you but the entire staff. Besides Carla, we could all care less about everyone else's birthday. You were burning this ‘Happy Birthday!’ banner as soon as the clock struck midnight. 

You let out an exhausted huff as you attempted to tack the final hanging string into the wall, but it was just out of reach. That’s when you heard the smacking of his stupid pink bubble gum. You didn’t even have to look. 

“Are you gonna help me or not, Morales?” Your voice seethed in annoyance, not only to Frankie but also cursing your short legs and your just not long enough arms. 

He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the differential space between you and took the tack and string into his meaty fingers. 

You glanced down, watching his teeth capture his lower lip in concentration, checking to see if it was straight. Pushing the pin in, he backed up to where you stood on the dining table and crossed his arms in observance. 

It was incredibly crooked. But it was the thought that counts, right?

“Good enough for me. You?” You glanced down at Frankie, and he was biting back a smile. 

“What?” You pushed, narrowing your eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good.” Distracted by something else. “D’you paint this?” The warmth of his hand slowly crept onto the back of your calf, your chest tightening as he slowly skated it higher with no interference from you. 

You gently nod, avoiding his eye contact as you look at the sign. Now, his hand was on the back of your thigh, and you had to take a breath. A mhm was all you could muster up. 

His fingers delicately skimmed the skirt of your uniform, knuckles brushing against your backside. You used to hate these 50’s style waitress uniforms, but now they didn’t seem so damn bad because Frankie’s movements were making you lightheaded. Snap out of it!

“Need help down?” Frankie asked, hand at the ready on your hip. 

You shook your head despite using his assistance anyway. You squatted on the table, black lace panties peeking out as you used Frankie’s broad shoulders as leverage. You put one foot down onto the linoleum and then the other, wiping your hands cleanly down your uniform as you both returned to look at the lopsided sign. 

You hoped it was enough. You hoped she appreciated it, especially all that she’s done for you over the years. Covering your shifts, leveling out the register when you accidentally gave someone the wrong change, tucking extra tips into your apron when she knew your rent was coming up. Everyone needed a Carla, not everyone was lucky to have one. 

“She’s gonna love it,” Frankie seemed to sense your nerves as he lifted his cap to bring some air to his sweaty dark curls before putting it back into place. “I’ll start workin’ on her special. Mushroom Swiss patty melt?” He said before disappearing into the kitchen again, only leaving once you gave him your little nod of assurance. You liked that he remembered.

---

“Happy birthday, Carla!” Uncoordinated voices cheered as Carla entered Tumbleweed right on time for her shift. 

Her face lit up, and she looked beautiful. She packed a little extra blush and eyeshadow to commemorate the special occasion. 

“Oh, shit- oh my- You guys! Thank you!” Carla made special eye contact with you, knowing you were the only one caring enough to orchestrate this shindig. 

Carla has this soulful charm about her. Raised in Louisiana, she loved to cook family recipes and bring the leftovers to work for you and Frankie to fight over. You remember she had three kids at home, so she had this curvy mom's body that put a proud sway in her walk. A playful and confident woman at heart, she was all the regular’s favorite to see. And she knew everyone. And she knew everything. She put Tommy’s back in business during the slower seasons. People would come to see her face on Sunday mornings over their coffee and runny eggs. 

“Oh, baby, thank you.” She cooed as she cupped your cheek and squeezed, making your face tick. “This the red velvet?” Her voice hummed as she observed the cake in your hands, pushing her finger lightly into the frosting to taste it. 

You had pulled one of the cakes from the display case and shitily piped it with chocolate sauce ‘HBD!’. 

“Of course, your favorite... Right?” You pursed your lips and snuck a nervous glance at Frankie before you set the cake down on the countertop. 

Carla looked beyond touched for something you’d consider a bit lackluster. “It’s my favorite ‘cause you made it. Thank you, baby.” 

You glanced around for the cake cutter, watching as Tina pushed a quarter into the jukebox and got the party started. Everyone was doing shitty dance moves, even the one or two customers that had filtered in for a cheap dinner. 

You sighed as you looked behind the counter for the cake cutter, grabbing the cake and its stand to haul it to the back. 

You thrust your shoulder blades into the swinging door, setting the cake stand on the counter as you started sifting through the different drawers to find the serving knife. 

Half a carton filled with cigarettes; Frankie’s. Matches from an old jazzy gentleman’s club; Rudy’s. Hair ties; yours. Where’s the fuckin’ cake cutter?!

The music from the jukebox was more faded in the kitchen. The serving window, professionally called the pass, was just big enough to see faces and hand plates through from the kitchen to the front. 

You made a face when you found the cake server inside a  large pot-- how, no, why? Jesus Christ. Fucking idiots. 

The swinging door to the kitchen wooshed in before slowly creaking closed, seeing Frankie coming to stand beside you in your peripheral. 

You carefully plunged the slicer into the soft sponge of the cake, carving a piece for Carla and setting it on a plate. You reached forward across the counter for another small plate, the short skirt of your uniform revealing the curve of your ass to an overly curious Frankie. You could feel his heat burning through his chest. 

“Could you be less obvious?” Your voice held teasing notes, putting another piece of cake on a plate and pushing them away to make space for more. 

He had tried this a handful of times with you, and he had yet to be successful besides that one time when you both drunkenly made out at the last December holiday party. You were pretty sure he had been hung up on you ever since. You enjoyed watching him try. 

Your eyes flitted over to his, observing his body and facial features. 

He looked gross, honestly. The two meals he cooked including Carla’s special before she came in for her shift made his face and neck sweaty and his hands greasy, his apron to match. It was white at one time, a long, long time ago. His stupid red bandana was still tied around his forehead, catching the spare sweat droplets, as the kitchen became unbearably hot in the middle of August.

You probably didn’t look much better. Hair all over the place with makeup you put on in the morning probably half smudged off by now. Your hands were checkered in pen ink, a spare papercut from snagging a receipt from the register. But still decent. He was still decent. 

His hand was back in dangerous territory, lingering low on your waist. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. You could feel warmth flooding your body, heat from the heart of his hand burning into your hip. He was admiring your body, slow and appreciative as he cupped the curve of your ass. And then he squeezed. 

Your shaky hands barely got the fourth slice you cut onto a small serving plate. The cake cutter clattered onto the metal counter as Frankie shifted his body behind yours, his watchful eyes on the pass. No one was watching, stupid and oblivious. You swallowed a lump down your throat, your small hands clenching the rim of the counter. His hips were flushed against yours. Worst of all was that you really fucking liked it. 

“This okay?” You’re flattered he asked after the fact. 

You leaned back into his touch, quietly humming on the brink of a little moan. You were a little desperate for touch, maybe you’d be on your period soon. “Mhmm..”. 

Frankie was a douchebag, but you two have been flirting back and forth with one another for years like an ongoing tennis match. He was older, he had years on you. Not an obscenely amount, but enough to make people raise an eyebrow. You were surprised he had the balls to actually make a move on you like he was right now. 

“Like you in black.” Frankie’s voice was cut down to a murmur, low and all-enveloping. You weren’t sure if he was referring to the black in your waitress uniform or your black panties. Probably the latter. 

His fingers brushed past your goosebump-covered ass and slipped between your legs to your clothed pussy. You softly gasped, eyes shifting closed as your hips involuntarily leaned into Frankie’s touch. You didn’t look subtle at all. You looked like you wanted to be touched, manhandled, kissed, fucked… 

“Open your eyes, baby girl.” He purred, your chest already heaving. “Act normal.” You forced your eyes open, looking back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Needy pupils connected with his blown-out ones. The back of your head brushed his shoulder, setting it there for just a moment before he looked straight ahead. 

Frankie nodded back to the pass, your eyes following his eye line to everyone distractedly dancing and sipping coffee mixed with bourbon on the floor. 

You bit down on your lower lip, knuckles cast over in a milky white with the iron grip you held on the metal rim of the counter. Frankie’s body heat had disappeared from your back, and now you felt it cast against the back of your legs. You glanced around, seeing him on his knees behind you with his mouth now latched to the back of your thighs. Oh, fuck. His kisses sponged up higher, towards your heat. 

Your eyelashes fluttered, Frankie’s act normal echoing through your hollow head. With distracted hands, you resumed cutting the cake. You probably looked slow and stupid, but feeling his patchy beard hair nestle between the sweet skin of your inner thighs had you in a haze. 

Frankie’s big hands reached under your skirt, lining the black panties that sat snugly on your hips with his forefingers. He slowly peeled them down, feeling the material roll as he stopped them to rest halfway down on your thighs. 

Your shoulders shuddered as your warm pussy met the slight chill of the outside world, panties adorning a little soaked spot. 

“Frankie,” Mm? “Someone’s gonna see.” But you weren’t stopping him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t kicking him right in the gut like you probably could. In fact, you were leaning into him. 

“Such a pretty pussy... Can’t stop, baby.” 

A helpless whimper left your lips, thighs shaking at his affectionate, warm kisses. 

Frankie’s hand swatted at the inside of your right ankle and then the other, hinting for you to spread yourself for him. You pursed your lips and shakily sighed, parting your legs as your sneakers lightly squeaked on the checkered floor. Fuck me, Frankie. 

You didn’t know how much longer you could be patient. The waiting was tantric, hypnotizing you into seduction. 

Spread for him and dripping, Frankie’s mouth finally attached to your slit. Your knee lightly jerked up and smacked a bus tub filled with dirty dishes, a few eyes on you through the pass as you nervously laughed. “S-Sorry!” 

Frankie couldn’t help but let out a warm puff of laughter against your cunt, and you swore your insides were twisting at the sensation. 

“Easy pretty girl… Don’t need us gettin’ caught. You want me to stop?” Frankie’s voice was husky, warm palms spreading your thighs, your body lightly bending over to lean on the counter. You tried to look busy with something, stupidly polishing a random fork. With the extra exposure, he had full access to your sex. 

“Does it look like I want you to stop?” You finally punched out through air-abducted lungs, anxiously chewing on the skin of your lip. “Frankie.” You said in a hushed warning tone, wanting more and not knowing how to ask nicely for it. But that’s what he liked about you. You weren’t nice. 

His lips finally attached properly to your pussy, his devilish tongue lining the center of your cunt and flicking off your clit. Your head dropped, ears ringing at the sensation. 

You wondered how good he would feel if he could take his time instead of giving you head quick while all your coworkers were distracted.  Maybe he could run his thumb over the front of your panties, trace the seam of your pussy, and feel how soaked you were for him and his attentive fingers. You thought Frankie had always been so down bad for you. He probably dreamed about getting this opportunity. He finally got you when you were just as horny for someone with a pulse. But this wasn’t all the time in the world; this was a slow shift at Tommy’s. 

You rut your hips back into Frankie’s face, hot pants fanning fog onto the cool metal of the counter. 

Frankie put his mouth where you needed him most, his tongue dedicating a poem to you. He flattened his tongue and licked a wide, wet strip up through your core, taking in all your juices. His tongue lapped at your weeping hole, thighs shaking against his head as you stifled a moan into the counter. 

He was good, manipulative, a fucking menace. 

Frankie’s tongue made precision flicks against your bundle of nerves, a gasp a bit too loud leaving the kitchen as you whimpered broken fragments of his name. 

You weakly looked up, seeing Tina pluck another quarter in the jukebox, cranking the volume to some seventies soul music. Fuck being quiet. 

Concealed by the groove of Stevie Wonder singing We Can Work It Out, your moans were hidden by the shake of a tambourine and plucks to an electric guitar. 

“Goddammit, Frankie, mmm, so fucking good,” a gasp and a moan followed suit, lazily smirking with your eyes closed. “So fucking… hot.” You murmured. 

Frankie’s mouth was a welcome wonder, dedicated to making you cum. He was swirling his tongue around your clit, weakly flattening your front over the counter again and pressing your cheek against the cool metal. Don’t be a douche right now, Francisco Morales. Make me fuckin’ cum. 

The kitchen door swiftly swung open, and your body flew up to stand straight as Carla waited in the doorway. 

“What’s taking you so long to cut my cake, baby? I know that bitch is stale as hell, but that don’t mean I don’t want it.” 

Your eyes were wide, lips parted in an attempt to speak, but Frankie’s movements didn’t cease despite Carla’s unexpected intrusion.  You bit back a whimper as he lined his tongue just barely into the tight entrance of your walls, his greedy fingers piercing into the flesh of your thighs to keep you spread. Thank god the counter covered your waist down. 

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.” 

Carla looked you up and down, curious but ultimately not giving a damn. You could feel Frankie’s dirty smirk against your thighs. 

“Alright... Hurry up. I’m tryna get my dessert.” 

And with that, the door swished closed, and your back slumped at the relief. 

Frankie’s unexpected voice made you jump lightly, his words echoing against you. “Gotta make ya finish fast, princess. Want my dessert, too.” 

You whimpered but willed yourself to stand up straight and turn around to face him. He looked like a mess. Lust-filled black eyes and a cocky smirk to match. Your juices glistened on his lips and chin. Frankie would be incredibly hot if he knew how to keep his mouth shut. 

“Taste as good as you look, princess.” Frankie stood up, tall and broad body making a white hot spot form in your stomach. Fuck,  you couldn’t do this right now. Not right here. 

He could tell. He took a few cautious steps away, you watched him carefully like a rattlesnake. He knew when not to push you and when to let you make the decisions. He also knew how to give you orders when you were too pussy fucked to think straight. 

“Serve that cake and meet me out back.” He was looking over you, enjoying the few times you looked totally fucked like you did right now. He stepped back into your space and pulled your panties back into place, a sobby whimper leaving your lips as he gently cupped your aching mound with a smirk. “So fuckin’ needy, huh?” 

“Fuck off.” You mumbled, fixing the bottom half of your uniform. 

You watch as Frankie grabs the beer bottle you all used as a makeshift door prop and his half-carton of cigarettes you had brought out of a drawer in an attempt to find the cake cutter. He disappears out back into the alley. Shit, the cake. 

You hurriedly sliced the remainder of the cake, placing a few stray candles into the slices. You lit them once you greeted the group waiting on the floor, singing a shitty rendition of Happy Birthday.  Paul lights his cigarette from one of the candles, puffing smoke across the frosting. 

The crowd hastily grabbed one of the small plates and a fork. Most of you only tried a bite or two. The cake had been in the display case for far too long. 

---

Anxious and impatient, you slip into the back with everyone’s dirty dishes and sneak back into the kitchen. You do nothing more with them than chuck them into the sink for Lou to wash up at some point or another. Your eyes stare at the beer bottle keeping the back kitchen door ajar. You take in a deep breath, leaving a shaky sigh before following Frankie out into the alley. 

The air was warm, a welcome breeze passing over you. The alley was everyone’s hideaway, littered with crushed beer and soda cans, two large garbage dumpsters, and a large one for recycling. You could see the highway in the distance. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning purple and blue. You’d watch those cars drive right past your little town, paying no mind, probably off going to somewhere bigger and better. The only people from the highway who stopped to visit Tommy’s were people who didn’t know any better. 

A flick of a lighter crackled, dividing your attention. Frankie was smoking his cigarette, his back leaning against the brick wall of the diner. He was trying not to smirk. Seeing you out here was way too much power for him. He took a drag, the end of his cigarette lighting up in a glowing orange haze before he pulled it from his mouth. The smoke he exhaled was taken by the breeze. 

“Happy to see me?” His goading tone asked.

“No.” A challenge. A pause. 

“So, you want me to go back inside?” 

“No.” Another beat. A step closer to him, arms crossed. He’s smart enough to let his cigarette land on the ground. 

“So, you want me to stay out here?”

Silence. Staring. Gauging each other’s reactions. Your tight jaw meets his cocky smirk. Too stubborn to ask meeting too stubborn to give without begging. Fuck. 

Maybe it’s because you’re both desperate. Maybe because Frankie knows you. Knows you’re too stubborn to ask for him to fulfill your needs. Your inaction meets his unwillingness to waste another moment that he could be inside of you. 

Stomping on his cigarette before closing the distance between you two, he envelopes you in a kiss that robs you of your breath. He tastes musky and bitter. The smoke that recently captured his lungs was hot on your lips. 

Your heart was beating with excitement, happy to lose control for a moment as Frankie walked you blindly backward into the brick wall. Ouch. 

Your tongues danced in a rhythmic motion, seducing you into letting him take the power as the kiss deepened. The flavor was subtle but distinct. The Marlboro’s held an acrid undertone, an unexpected layer of the kiss you sort of liked. If he tasted like spearmint gum, it might have turned you off. 

It was like you were his cigarette now, breathing you in and clinging to you in addiction. It was his bad habit, but who were you to judge. You had a closet full of skeletons you weren’t open to anyone seeing. Maybe this was one of his. 

His hands were a welcome guest, feeling his warm palms explore a body he had probably fantasized about. 

“Don’t-- mm -- don’t have a lot of time, Francisco.” You teased for dominance, using his full name made him muster up a dirty chuckle. 

You were ready to turn around and have him fuck you into the wall, but his hand snagged your wrist, and he stopped you. Confusion screwed into your face. Then his mouth muttered the most filthy thing you had heard yet from him. “Wanna see that pretty face when I fuck you.” He muttered, your body slumping into his. Fuck it, you were Frankie Morales’ tonight. 

Frankie guided you further from the backdoor, hearing voices enter the kitchen. Probably Paul and Lou to start working on closing chores. He took you behind the dumpsters and hiked up your dress. You decided to be useful and push your panties down. He rounded up the material that was tying you up at your ankles and shoved them into his pocket. You were not letting him keep those. 

You pushed his apron aside, fingers fussing over his belt buckle. He watched, amused, unwilling to help. He liked seeing you so desperate for his cock. Unbuttoned. Unzippered. Black boxer trim peaking out now. You made slight eye contact with him before you shoved his pants and boxers down to his thighs. Your heart clenches at how girthy he was. Fuckkk, this was gonna feel good. 

He didn’t take his apron off, merely shoved it to the side as it haphazardly swayed on his hip. He closed the distance between you again, a greedy kiss, a kiss to mark you with. You pulled away to spit into your hand, taking him by his base and squeezing. 

Frankie’s eyes shuddered closed, his head dropping as you took his manhood in the small of your hand. He was.. more than a handful. He was so meaty, not even able to wrap your fist fully around him. 

You purred out a little moan as you worked your hand over him, feeling him grow heavy in your hand as you lubed up his tip, slowly circling your thumb teasingly around the pulsing head. 

“Enough.” He muttered. He didn’t like you toying with him. 

Frankie hiked up your leg by the underside of your calf, hooking around his hip as you leaned your back against the cold brick wall. It wasn’t comfy, but when you fuck against a run-down diner, you don’t get many options. 

Your chest shuddered as you felt his cock heavy against your folds, erect and brushing up against where you needed him most. He was running his hand up and down himself now. You watched as he put down another line of spit from his mouth to his cock before his knuckles shuffled up and down his shaft a few more times. 

The sight made you reel your head back and stare up at the sky. As eager as you are, you’re worried about feeling how thick he is. He knows. 

“M’gonna go real slow.” He punches out, setting his forehead down against yours, and you shakily nod. Please don’t fucking split me in two, Frankie Morales. You still have a shift to finish, after all. You’re thankful he at least acknowledges his girth. It’s sort of the elephant in the room. 

You both look down at your centers, your dripping one and his angry, pink head meeting in unison. It’s sort of fucked up the way that you’re two horrible people. But you knew horrible people always seemed to find each other.  

You wet your lips and bite down. Hard. You weren’t a fresh spring virgin, but this wasn’t any other half-decent dick. 

You lay your head back against the wall as Frankie guides himself into your welcoming entrance. Your wetness lubes him up well, but he’s still large. 

You clench your eyes close and smile. The pain is always pleasure. “Fuck,” you mutter, your head wanting to come back down and watch. 

Frankie’s being gentle, an odd word you’d never describe him as. He’s grunting and impatient, but patient for you. He fills you up to the brim and your head is flooded with clouds. You’re in the sky, lightheaded, but so fucking horny. 

His hips meeting yours are a gentle greeting, both of your lips brushing as you shared pants of desperation as well as relief. Your stomach was tight, recoiling with the pressure he was providing to the inside of your walls.

“God-

“Jesus-

“-fucking damn.”

“Christ.” 

The two of you moaned in unison. 

Your nails are piercing into his shirt, bunching around the tops of his shoulders. You move to grip his apron for some sort of control. There is none. 

One of his hands is still supporting your leg wrapped around his hip, the other flattened against the brick wall beside your head. You took solace in his arm, resting your forehead against it weakly. 

He was cocky for a reason. His length in inches was his amount of reasons. 

“Fuck me.” You finally mustered up enough strength to demand. He shakes his head against yours. 

“Give it a minute.” He mutters, barely coherent. You’re scrumptiously tight around him, and you know it. You both do. 

“We don’t have a minute.” You feverishly bite back, attempting to shift your hips against his. He retaliates by planting his hips against you, fucking the final few inches of his dick into you as you both fell deeper into the wall. 

A hot moan rolled off your tongue, hiding your face away in his forearm and shuddering your eyes closed. Frankie’s hand slipped from your leg, cupping the globe of your ass in his warm hand. He squeezed and it made you smile as he reeled his hips slowly back. 

He grumbles something. 

“What?” You asked with a dopey grin. He pushes back inside you and wipes the smirk clear off your face. 

“I said… you’re so fuckin’ impatient.” His voice was tattered with grunts, your tight little pussy making it hard for him to breath. 

Now he was creating a rhythm, fucking you into the wall in steady thrusts. You were already feeling your insides tug eagerly in excitement, the hot pool he had created in your guts simmering to a boil. 

“Mhmm, mhm, mhm,” you moaned in silent begs, moans you had to read between the lines to understand. Fuck me, fuck me harder, fuck you feel good, I-I can’t think of anything other than fuck! Fuck me, Frankie!

He filled you up to a brim you had yet to discover you had. His tip tickled your cervix with each snap of his hips. He was getting greedy, a little sloppy. You’d judge him on this short-lived fuck later, for now, it was perfectly timed to get back into work without anyone noticing. 

Your eyes widened and met his murky brown ones as he moved the hand he had against the wall nudged between your thighs, circling your clit. It was messy at first, but he found what made you tick and adjusted. Now he was running tight circles around you, and you were finding it hard to stay silent. 

“Feel so fuckin’ perfect for me.” He murmured, his lips ghosting over yours in a teasing motion. You actually wanted to taste him again, so you leaned into it, your tongue lining his mouth and tasting his old cigarette with a moan. 

Now he was filling you up, no hesitancy in his hips as he snapped the full extent of his length into your cunt. Your head flew back against the orange and red brick, a fucked moan leaving your mouth. Neither of you cared. Frankie’s face was nuzzled against your jawline and neck, sloppy kisses tasting old perfume as the circles on your clit intensified your impending orgasm. 

“F-Fuck, Frankie, shit, I’m gonna-” You gasped and closed your eyes, clutching your arms weakly around his shoulders and holding him to you. His body enveloped you like a shield protecting you from anything in your surroundings. 

Your orgasm crashed over you, coursing through your body like a million volts of electricity as you whimpered and moaned into his neck. Your eyes were clamped closed, your walls clenching and fluttering around his sensitive cock. 

His moans were heavenly, guttural and deep, a little shaky even as he puffed them into your neck and shoulder. His hips twitched against the inside of your thighs as he came undone inside of you. It felt like he was cumming for days, filling you up with white rope after white rope of his semen and painting your insides with only remnants of him. 

You couldn’t think. You just focused on the distant sound of the highway, creating a bustling amount of white noise for you. You gently held his head to keep him close, your shaky hand winding into his hair as the two of you reconciled over your orgasms. 

He was the first one to move. He slipped himself from you and gave you a few lazy kisses. Your stomach fluttered before you shook your head.

Stop it, Frankie. 

‘M not doin’ anything. 

Teasing smiles. Hands softening their holds on each other’s bodies. Fixing hair. Fixing undergarments. 

He would have held onto your panties. He probably hoped you forgot about them. You tugged them from his pocket and attempted to slip into them with ease, but you ended up having to use the brick wall as a support to lean into. 

You steadied his apron straight, and he pulled the skirt of your uniform down. Teamwork. 

You don’t really talk, just clean yourselves up, nod, and dart back inside before anyone can really notice or give a damn that you were missing in action. You kept having to excuse yourself to the bathroom, feeling Frankie still seeping from you. It made your chest hot, an embarrassed smile on your face. 

Fuck it. That’s what Plan B is for. Or you can just wait to see if you get your period in a few days time. 

---

You and Frankie danced around one another during the closing shift. Carla went home and took the cake in a to-go container to give to her kids. It was shitty that she had to work on her birthday, but she said that getting to see your gorgeous face was a present of its own. 

You tiredly yawned, seeing it was a few minutes past ten. You helped Tina even out the cash register, putting today’s earnings in an envelope, then putting it in the safe for Rudy to take to the bank at the end of the week. 

“You sure you don’t mind cleaning up on your own?” Tina asked, giving her a tired smile and a soft shrug. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you Wednesday.” Despite her annoying singing, Tina wasn’t that bad. She gave you a big grin before she hopped off the stool and left out the front door. Lou and Paul had already left at the start of closing. You didn’t know if Frankie snuck out the back early. 

You did a double take to the jukebox, watching Frankie flip his baseball hat backward and push a quarter into the machine. Your face softened, seeing him flip between the different records before landing on one. 

Something by Fleetwood Mac started playing. You watched him reach up and untack your banner from the wall easily. You nodded softly before grabbing the spray bottle filled with disinfectant and began wiping down the counters, seats, and tables. 

He walked up to you once you finished cleaning, handing you your folded-up banner. You twisted your lips in thought, rolling the banner around in your hands. 

“Wanna help me burn this in the burn barrel out back?” 

Frankie sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah. Fuck it. Got nothin’ better to do.” 

---

With Frankie’s lighter, both of you watched with glassy eyes as the Happy Birthday! banner burnt to ashes. His face was lit up in orange and yellow hues. He haphazardly tried to lean into the flames with a cigarette dangling between his lips, a stupid laugh leaving you. He shrugged and put the cigarette behind his ear. 

“Fuck it.” He huffed, both of your eyes transfixed on the fading flames.

There was a beat of silence. 

Frankie’s eyes met yours. “We should do that again sometime.” 

Half of your mouth quirked up into a smirk.  “Do what?”

He cocked his head to the side in annoyance. “You know what.”

You shrugged and shoved your hands into your jacket pockets. The hum of the highway in the distance made you flashback to just a few hours ago with Frankie railing you against Tumbleweed. A black and purple-streaked night sky submerged the two of you, making you feel tiny. You sigh and shift on your feet, keeping your eyes on the flames that licked up the ay! in Birthday!

“Maybe.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Maybe?” 

“Mhm.”

Frankie teetered on your half-ass decision. Even the notion of having an open door left for him to sneak in was enough to make him happy. “Okay. I’ll take a maybe.” 

God, you were bluffing so hard. Maybe it wouldn’t be sooo bad to throw him a bone every once in a while. 

Your fantasizing was cut short as ashes of the banner spewed up from the depths of the barrel and fluttered up into the air between you and Frankie, both of you taking a preemptive step away.

His lighter clicked again; he had to do it a few times before the end of his cigarette caught a flame. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He murmured. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was trying to walk you to your car, wanting to leave, but not until you started heading home, too. 

He swung his body into the driver seat of his beaten-up pickup truck. You decided to follow suit, sliding into your car. You saw Tommy’s fade away from the rearview mirror in the distance. But the thoughts of Frankie between your legs, fucking you into oblivion, and begging to serve your aching center would sit with you until your next shift at Tumbleweed. Sorry. Tommy’s Diner. 

---

here's my masterlist!

wanna join my taglist? I don't have one! follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

[its-a-show-stoppin-number]

any Pedro Pascal character: *breathes*

me:

[vivelacoconut]

I think my favorite thing so far in the triple frontier fandom is finding a post with trigger warnings and one of the TW being Ben Affleck 😂🙃

[tropes-and-tales]

Alone Time

Day 13:  Masturbation (Frankie Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Frankie is mildly creepy and a thief; pining; smut (masturbation, male; Frankie's imagination; a pinch of voyeurism); 18+ only.

Word Count:  2415

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s not rock bottom, but it’s damned near close.

Other men Frankie’s age have so much more:  family, a mortgage, a steady job.  What does Frankie have?  An ex-wife, a suspended pilot’s license, and a shaky year’s worth of sobriety.  He’s got a head full of bad memories—his time in the service, Tom’s death, the implosion of his marriage.  He’s got a tricky back that aches in bad weather and pinches his sciatic nerve if he breathes the wrong way.

The sum total of his personal belongings are stored in your garage and in your spare bedroom, where Frankie has been crashing since…well, when he sits and counts out the months, it makes him feel like the world’s biggest asshole loser, so he doesn’t dwell on it.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing.  It’s been ten months.

Hell, it takes less time for a baby to be formed and born.  Frankie Morales?  Ten months of crashing at your place and he’s no closer to launching on his own.  Rent is too high, his credit is abysmal, his mechanic job pays next to nothing, and he’s so damned broke that he’s technically owed alimony (though his pride will not allow him to accept it).

But if he sits and ticks off all the reasons why he hasn’t left your guest room yet, there’s a couple of reasons he won’t voice. 

That you stopped calling it your guest room and started calling it his room almost immediately after he moved in.

That you integrated his stuff into the wider home—his chipped coffee mug in your kitchen cabinet, his beer in your fridge, his scuffed work boots lined up neatly beside your shoes in the entryway—so he’d feel at home.

That you cook for him, that you wheedle his favorite meals from him and have an uncanny ability to know when he’s having a rough day and needs the comfort of a good meal.

That you eat his paltry attempts at cooking for you, a poor stab at repaying you, that you smile and thank him and pretend not to wince when something is burnt or too heavily salted.

That the casual intimacy of living with you—even platonically—has knocked something loose in him.  That seeing you early in the morning, mussed hair and sleepy eyes, rumpled pajamas as you get the coffee started…or seeing you before bed, after you shower, your skin soft and damp and smelling like your herbal soap.  It all makes something warm unfurl in his chest, and when Frankie starts to think on it, it makes him feel out of control.  He has no right to develop feelings for you.  You’ve been nothing but generous with him, and he cannot repay your goodwill by being a creep.

So he doesn’t dwell on it.

-----

He doesn’t dwell on it, and he doesn’t give it voice. 

He sits on the couch and listens as you dart between your room and the bathroom, getting ready for a work holiday party.  He listens to your muttered curses, your bathroom mirror pep talks you give to your own reflection.  He listens to the patter of your bare feet as you bounce between dressing and doing your makeup.

A moment later, you appear, a clutch in one hand and a pair of heels in the other.  You stand in the doorway and fix him with a nervous smile before you ask, “do I look alright?”

Frankie has a beat to study you—the dark green dress, the tasteful amount of cleavage, the skirt that flares just above your knees.  He looks closer and sees that you’re in stockings, subtly patterned, and as he watches, you brace yourself in the doorway and slide your heels on one at a time.  You usually don’t wear much makeup, but for this party, you’ve gone all in:  dark lashes framing your eyes, velvety red lips.

You look beautiful.  You look like a damned present just begging to be unwrapped and ravished, and Frankie clears his throat roughly before he answers you.

“Yeah, you look alright.”

You snort, shake your head.  “Jerk.  Seriously, is it too much?  Not enough?  Give me something to work with here, Francisco.”

“You look nice.”  He swallows hard, amends it by adding, “you look beautiful.” 

“Alright, nice, beautiful,” you laugh as you pull on your coat.  “Good adjectives.  Thanks, Frankie.”

He gives you a mock-salute.  “Anytime.”  And because he feels like a sulky asshole now—he can never strike the right tone with you, tries too hard to hide his feelings and so swings too hard the other way into sullen indifference—he adds, gentler, “no, you look great.  Seriously.”

That earns him a hug.  You walk over to where he sits, and you lean over to wrap an arm around his shoulders.  Even the brief press of your body against his is enough to fuel a month of fantasies, because you look feminine as hell—dress, heels, deep red lipstick on your kissable mouth—but you’re wearing a warm, almost masculine perfume.  You smell like tobacco and rum, undercut with the sweetness of vanilla, and the juxtaposition makes him perk up at a cellular level.

“Be good,” you tell him once you release him from the hug.  You walk towards the front door and gift him one of your sweet smiles.  “Enjoy your alone time.  I’ll be back late.”

“You be good,” he replies.  “And drive safely.”

-----

You leave, but your presence haunts Frankie.  The ghost of your perfume lingers, as does the click of your heels as you walked out.  The image of you in that dress feels like it’s burned on the back of his eyelids.

He tries to settle.  He tries to relax.  He orders in, puts on a mindless movie.  He picks at his food, drinks a beer, then a second beer.  Hours pass and he still feels jittery, and it’s like the early days of his sobriety, but he’s not craving cocaine.  He’s craving you, which is stupid because he’s never had you, so it’s all conjecture—pure imagination, pure pining.  Pure want.  But the fact remains:  he’s not hard, exactly, but he’s at the point of near-arousal, the ghost of you just in his periphery.   

Frankie puts his picked-over food in the refrigerator.  He cleans up a little.  He should go to bed, try to sleep, and so he makes his way back to his room.

But in the hallway, he pauses by his doorway and glances towards your bedroom.  The door is cracked.  Frankie has been in there before, has sat on the edge of your bed once when you were sick with a migraine and he nursed you back to health.  Alone, with you out of the house, your bedroom feels like something in a gothic novel:  the forbidden chamber, your sanctuary.

Be good, you told him, and Frankie wants to be good, but his feet lead him the few steps to your door, and his hand pushes your door open wider.  The scent of your perfume is stronger here—the incongruously masculine scent that reminds him of a dark-lit jazz club, even though he’s never been to a dark-lit jazz club.  The scent curls around him, fills him up, and he steps inside your bedroom.

You’re neat but not painfully so.  A neat stack of books are on your bedside table.  A basket of freshly folded clothes sits on the bench at the foot of your bed.  He steps further inside and studies the top of your dresser:  the little dish that holds some of your jewelry, a half-burned candle, a row of lotions and perfume bottles.  He leans against the dresser and looks at your bed, and of course he pictures you lying there, which leads to him imagining more.

You lying on the bed.  Naked.  No, in that green dress.  He imagines unzipping it, pushing it off your shoulders, dragging his nose along your warm skin and smelling the perfume on you, your fingers threaded through his hair as he—

No.  He rewinds it in his head, starts over.  You lying on the bed.  In the dress.  He imagines pushing up your skirt, imagines you in garters, imagines shoving your skirt up—

No.  He shakes his head, goes back to the first scene.  Stripping you slowly.  Yes, that’s better.  Frankie was always the kid who unwrapped his Christmas presents slowly.  His mother saved the paper, so it was a contest between him and his brothers to see who could unwrap it the best while saving it for future Christmases.  He could strip you just as carefully, his fingertips dancing over your skin, making you twitch at too much sensation, moaning out his name—

No.  It’s still not right.  He switches the two of you in his mind, imagines himself on the bed, you perched over him.  Your hands undoing his belt, his zipper, grasping his cock and stroking it before lowering your head, wrapping those red fucking lips around him, your dark-fringed eyes gazing up at him while you—

“Fuck,” he breathes out, aware of how he’s passed the threshold of near-arousal into outright excitement.  He’s hard just from imagining it, and his erection presses painfully against his jeans.

He turns to leave, but his gaze falls on your basket of clean clothing.  Christ, he could swipe a pair of your panties, and the thought tempts him but it’s going too far…so he reaches out and swipes one of your t-shirts instead—a soft cotton one you wear around the house.  He’s still crossing a line but it doesn’t feel quite as bad, so Frankie flees to his own room with your shirt clutched in his hand.

But not before he pauses, hesitates.  He snags your bottle of perfume and spritzes your shirt with the scent. 

He has no plan; he’s operating on lust alone, but he figures he can just wash it on the sly and give it back to you, give you some tame lie about it getting mixed in with his own laundry.

-----

In his room.  Door locked, just to be safe.  Lights off, naked in his bed, the soft scented cotton of your shirt clenched in one hand and held up near his nose.

His other hand gripping his cock, stroking himself.  Eyes closed.  Pretending it’s your hand and not his own.

Frankie tries out the fantasies from in your room.  You on the bed, you in the dress, you with your skirt hiked up around your waist.  He tries out other fantasies he’s entertained in the past:  taking you against the kitchen table, taking you on the couch.  A million positions, a million scenarios, and he can’t settle on one.  His orgasm feels far away, unattainable.  He’s never been good at just imagining things, has usually relied on a handful of tried-and-true porn clips he’s saved on his laptop, but he doesn’t want that now. 

He wants to imagine you.  He sighs, refocuses.  He reaches over to his nightstand and squirts a fresh dollop of lotion into his palm, then grips himself again.

You….you wouldn’t rush it.  You’d go slow.  If it was your hand and not his own, you’d go slow, so Frankie goes slow.  Strokes his cock slow and steady, imagines you pressing those kissable lips to his neck, his chest.  You’d leave smudges of dark red lipstick on him, a trail marking him as yours.

“Good boy,” you’d whisper to him.  “Such a good boy for me, Francisco.”

“Yes,” he whispers in the silence of his room.  “Always for you.”

“Such a big cock,” you’d whisper to him.  “So thick I can barely get my fingers around you.”

Frankie tilts his head back, brushes his nose against the bunched-up t-shirt.  He takes a deep inhale, feels the answering throb in his cock as he strokes a bit faster.  He imagines you whispering more to him, imagines you telling him how you can’t wait to feel him inside you, his big, thick cock splitting you open, your pussy molding to the shape of him, how wet you already are for him just from jacking him off—

“Always wanted to do this,” you’d breathe in his ear as you stroke him faster, harder.  “Touched myself at night thinking about you, Francisco.”

His orgasm, so far away initially, takes him by surprise.  He feels the hot coil of anticipation snap, and he groans out your name over and over in the darkness of his room as he comes, spurts of cum painting his belly and thighs, coating his hand.  He lays there a long moment, his blood and heartbeat roaring in his ears, his harsh panting slowly calming.

Frankie lays there a long moment, and the post-orgasmic bliss fades too quick.  Masturbating is a release, but it always leaves him faintly sad afterwards.  He’d rather have the real deal, obviously, but he’d rather have all of it.  He wants the afterglow of sex with you, wants to fall asleep beside you.  Wants to wake up too early and take you again.  Wants to know how that smoky, whiskey-tinged perfume of yours pairs with the scent of sex.

Frankie wants all of it, and when the post-orgasmic bliss fades, he despairs that he’ll never have it.  That he’ll be stuck contenting himself with these pathetic moments, jacking off to the smell of you, your soft shirt laid against his skin.  That he’ll be stuck at rock bottom.

But the nice thing about rock bottom, as they cliché goes, is that there’s nowhere to go but up.  Frankie has hit his bottom and is on an upward trajectory—he just doesn’t realize it yet.  It’s the final moment of him not realizing, of feeling maudlin about himself.  When he stands up and reassembles himself enough to leave his room and clean up in the bathroom, he’ll run directly into you:  standing outside his door, high heels in hand, eyes wide at what you’ve just heard.

You’ve heard everything.  Frankie and the obvious sound of him masturbating.  Frankie and the sound of him groaning out your name over and over as he came.

Frankie so wrapped up in his fantasy of you that he failed to hear your car in the driveway, the click of your key in the door.  Frankie so wrapped up in his own world that he hasn’t realized that hours have passed; that it is late and you’re home when you promised.