#quick little gifset | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

604to647 · 3 months

Text

Strawberry Shortcake (part 1 of 2)

4K / Frankie Morales x fem!reader

Summary: You thought working as a cocktail waitress at a strip club would just be a way to make some easy money - you didn't expect to meet him.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Private room shenanigans, longing, ref to f!masturbation, nicknames as always, reader is a single parent (mentioned briefly in the this part), TF boys make a quick appearance!

A/N: In this part, reader only knows Frankie as "Francisco", but for the purpose of the narrative, I refer to him as Frankie most of the time. This came out of nowhere and I wrote it in one day instead of editing the next chapter of SwY 🫣 procrastination fics are a thing, right? Barely proofread, please excuse all my mistakes!

Series Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰 The moodboard Frankie pic is from Pinterest but after a wee bit of sleuthing, I believe it’s a screen grab from this gifset by @uuuhshiny - please correct me if I’m wrong!! 😊

Swaying seductively to the club’s upbeat remix of an old school RnB song you’ve always loved, you hit each bass beat with a little pop of your hip so that you lightly knock your knees into the widespread thighs of the man whose legs you’re dancing in between. The combined movement lends a little bounce to your naked tits, and as you raise your arms above your head and continue to move to the music, you have to bite your lower lip to prevent from smiling and chuckling. Even with your eyes closed, you know the man’s large, calloused hands, ever respectful of the private room’s ‘No Touching’ rule, are spread, straining with superhuman restraint and digging into those same meaty thighs that you keep rubbing against. You might be doing it on purpose. Afterall, the rule is that he can’t touch, but you can.

Trailing your fingers down through your hair, then down, down along your face and neck until you reach your chest, your hands grab and grope your breasts the way you know the man before you wishes he could. Letting yourself pretend that your desperate touches are his, you let out a little whimper that’s meant to try his resolve. As you bend your knees while rolling your hips, the lascivious show you’re putting on is lowered to his eye level, and you continue to palm your tits, rolling and pinching your nipples between your fingers – pretty peaks hardening as the fan of his heavier than usual breath hits them just right. You know you’re being terribly teasing and unfair, but here in this dimly lit room, wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties, you’ve never felt safer. Or sexier. And it’s all because of this man.

Francisco.

Never one to break the private room’s cardinal rule, or even cop a feel while out on the main floor, this man is nothing but respectful. And that makes you wish even more that he would just break – break all the rules and have his way with you. Touch you. Grab you. Manhandle you to his liking and take you right on the faux velvet couch that lines the wall behind him. With a low and wide swivel of your hips, you ghost over the growing bulge of his jeans and you hear him groan - a deep guttural sound from the back of his throat, and this time you don’t fight the smile that spreads across your face.

Francisco.

He’s probably been your favourite part of working as a club cocktail waitress these past few months. You have a job as a research assistant that you love, but earlier this Spring, a small accident in the lab led to a temporary closure that had you looking for short-term work – you needed something where the hiring process wasn’t drawn out and that you could quit when the lab reopened without any negative consequences to your career - the waitress opening at The Midnight Palace had fit the bill. The money was good and the work wasn’t arduous; it wasn’t as if you were one of the onstage dancers who had to perform some of the most incredible feats of acrobatics you’ve ever seen. Even the later hours turned out to be a blessing, allowing you to spend your now free days with your son, a welcomed opportunity to fill his carefree summer days with activities and play before he started kindergarten in the Fall. The girls, dancers and waitresses alike were incredibly friendly and welcoming, many of them single moms themselves. All in all, you think you might even miss the club when the newly renovated lab reopened. And still, even with all your unexpected fondness for this job, the thing you unequivocally look forward to most when coming in to work is Francisco Morales.

Every two weeks without fail he came in with a group of army buddies on Friday night. The first time you encountered them had been your second week at the club, amused at how the other girls had been excited for their arrival; the group was known for being fun loving and rowdy, but never disruptive or disrespectful. And generous - very generous. As a waitress, your dress code was lingerie of your choice - not any more or less skimpy than what the dancers wore on stage or when they came to the floor for lap dances, but it could invite the occasional butt slap or waist grab from some of the bolder club patrons. But never Francisco’s group – you served them drink after drink after drink, and they were only ever sweet and charming, nothing more than a polite touch as thanks, and generous with their words of praise and tips to every one of their servers and dancers. You come to learn that they usually end their evenings with a round or two in the private rooms, sometimes one-on-one, other times as a group. On that first night, you served the drinks in a private room that the group commandeered with three gorgeous dancers - all giggling and having the time of their lives. As you put down their drinks, the dark-haired man that you come to think of as the group’s leader, smiled at you with his piercing hooded eyes and laughing, “Hey hunny, why don’t you stay? We’ll pay for your time and you can keep Fish company.” He tilted his head back to indicate to his friend who sat a bit further back from the group in a chair, leaning back comfortably, arms crossed, with no stripper to call his own.

You had smiled politely, not sure of your answer even though Tiffany had nodded encouragingly at you; most patrons didn’t know, but any girl could be invited to a private room – not just the dancers. It was rare for a waitress to spend time in a private room – while there was no obligation, there was some expectation to strip and most waitresses didn’t; when you took the job, you didn’t have any intention of spending any one-on-one time in the private rooms, despite the rate and the tips being quite good.

As you approach the odd man out to serve him his drink, he gives you an almost bashful shake of his head, as if to say ‘You don’t have to’ – you’re not sure what it is, maybe it was his almost boyishly shy smile, or the glimpse of those soft brown curls you caught when he lifted his cap to nervously run his hands through his hair, but on a whim, you decide to stay. Afterall, it’s not as if you were alone – there were six other people in the room with you.

Putting his drink down, you slide into the handsome stranger’s lap, perching your scantily clad bum on his thick thigh, you blink bright-eyed and throw him a cheeky grin, “So… you’re a Fish?” The wholesome chuckle and crinkle of his captivating eyes that follow your question warm your chest more than they should and that’s how you meet Francisco Morales.

That first night, Frankie spends the remainder of the time that Santi pays for with you in his lap, arm thrown around his neck to keep from slipping off, just talking about nothing and everything. You learn that the men are old army buddies: Santiago (call sign: Pope), Will (call sign: Ironhead), Ben (no call sign, just Benny because he’s the baby of the group) and of course Francisco, call sign: Catfish. You giggled at this and Frankie thinks the sound is more than adorable. You get a chance to run your fingers through the curls at the base of his neck and find them to be as soft as you thought they’d be. Ultimately, you find yourself spending an inordinate amount of time staring into his warm brown eyes as Frankie tells you about himself and his work as a helicopter pilot and mechanic. When the little melodic bell chimes to indicate that the private room times are almost up, you can’t believe how fast the time has gone - you leave Francisco with a light kiss on the cheek and thank him for giving your tired feet a rest.

Two weeks later he returns and asks for a private room slot with just you. And again, two weeks after that. And again, and again – now a regular occurrence for the past few months, every time the boys came in to the club. Your time in the private room with Francisco is comfortable, fun, flirty, and always, always safe. A man of honour, he never touches you - his hands stay by his sides, on the table or on his own body, but never yours. With time, you give yourself permission to be bold, growing more and more unrestrained with your touches.

Taking off his cap, you’ll card your hands through his hair and lightly massage Frankie’s scalp – the first time you did this, you earned a soft ‘Baby’ from his plush lips that had your face feeling hotter than hot. It fills you with something akin to pride and possessiveness that you know those same lips are pillow soft - you’ve run your fingers over them a hundred times, just as you have his cheekbones and jaw line, tracing over every firm line of his handsome face with featherlight strokes. Nothing compares to feeling of his cheeks cupped in your soft hands as you scratch his patchy scruff, except maybe the swell of your chest when this affectionate gesture secures you another nickname, hermosa.

But by far, your favourite nickname comes during your third time together. Having looped both your arms around Frankie’s neck after making him laugh with a funny observation about a TV show you both watch, he closes his eyes once his laughter subsides and murmurs, “You smell like strawberries.” Giggling, you confess that it’s the glitter gel you borrow from one of the dancers; you were still too new to the club scene to have any of your own body glitter, but you liked the smell of this one so you kept borrowing it and Sasha didn’t seem to mind.

“Smells good, baby,” Frankie declares, “That’s my favourite dessert, you know? And you’re just as sweet, Shortcake.” Shortcake. The petname had stuck and made you feel giddy every time the endearment slipped from his lips. You don’t tell him that when you have to buy body wash the following week, you choose a strawberry scented one on purpose.

Sometimes your time with Frankie feels almost like taking an unsanctioned break – some misguided concept of proper work ethic finds you volunteering to dance for him even though it’s not in your job description; to both your delight, you discover you actually enjoy it, greedily drinking in Frankie’s lustful gaze as his eyes follow every dip of your waist and sway of your hips. More recently, you’ve progressed to massaging his tense shoulders and back when he tells you about his rough days at work; as you push and pull at the corded muscles under his shirt, the deep rumbling groan that drops from his chest shoots straight between your legs and you can’t help but salivate at the idea of making him feel good in other ways.

But most of the time, you simply sit in Frankie’s lap, the two of you chatting and getting to know each other as if you were just two people that met under totally normal circumstances and found the other to be attractive. You learn that he’s kind and giving, and he makes you laugh so very easily – some nights your face hurts a little from smiling so much, content to just listen to Frankie talk while absentmindedly rubbing his large, paw of a hand with your much smaller ones.

You think about his laugh and the way his entire chest shakes with it all the time. On the nights between his visits to the club, you go home and think about his soulful eyes and the way they can flicker from a soft puppy dog look to a darkened, gripping expression of want with just a single touch from you. After the nights you spend with him, he stars in all of your bedtime fantasies and you come to his imagined touch, hard and desperate with his name curling over your lips. You wonder what it would be like to wake up next to him. If he would smile at you in the morning daylight the way he does when you kiss his cheek goodbye in the dark private room, all soft and almost disbelieving. You wonder if he ever thinks about you at all outside of your nights together at the club. You try not to let yourself get too lost in your longing for what might never be, but as the summer goes on, you start to ache for him, missing the little you have of him every day between your rendezvous.

Sadly, as much you cherish the time with Francisco in your little bubble within the safety of the club’s private room, you know it’s a fantasy that can’t last. While Frankie knows you have a separate career outside of the club, he doesn’t know that your time together is nearly up. The original timeline for the lab to be ready was end of summer, but an email you received last week indicated that the renovations were ahead of schedule and all lab and research staff could expect to return to work soon, though the exact date was yet to be fixed. You don’t say anything to him - unwilling to spoil the mood of your limited remaining time together, and moreover, unwilling to broach the topic of what this is and if it could be anything else. Anything more.

Afraid, really, of what Francisco’s answer may be.

You have a feeling that your call back to work will come any day now, and that’s how you find yourself in the position you’re in now: topless and gyrating, cunt positively dripping while you touch your breasts salaciously for Francisco’s enjoyment. Earlier tonight, when he had you sitting on his lap like that first time, the two of you drowning in the other’s eyes and longing looks, you had realized just how much you were going to miss him when you left. The thought that this might be the last time you’re able have Frankie like this - all to yourself, able to soak in his adoring gaze while drawing a deep sigh of contentment from his chest as you study the strong features of his face, makes you bold and brave. You rise and stand in between his legs, tilting his face up with your fingers so he looks at you while you reach behind and start to unclasp your bra.

“Hermosa, you don’t have t-” Frankie starts to protest, not sure where this might be coming from. He’s been perfectly happy with how the two of you have been spending your private room time together. In no way has Frankie ever wanted you to feel like he was pushing for more than you were giving him. He won’t pretend that he doesn’t dream about your soft curves and the way your gorgeous figure nearly spills from the drool worthy lingerie you always wear; his nights alone in bed are spent imagining how you might feel writhing underneath him, what sounds he could pull from you while he explores your body – he’s willing to bet you taste sweeter than the strawberry scent that always seems to linger on his skin after he visits you. But here in this room, it’s only the pleasure of your company and the opportunity to make you laugh and smile that he will ask from you.

Pressing a finger to his lips, you assure him, “Shhhhhh, Francisco. I want to. You’ve been so good to me these last few months. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the way you make me feel so special – it’s been a long time since anyone has made me feel this way.”

“Baby, I want to make you feel special everyday,” breathes Frankie.

You sigh, “And you’re so respectful. I appreciate it so much, baby. Please. Let me show you how much I appreciate you.” Letting your lacy black bra fall to the ground, you watch as Frankie’s pupils dilate until his eyes turn jet black with want, jaw dropping.

“Holy fuck, Shortcake,” Frankie practically growls, “you’re even more gorgeous than I imagined.” His unblinking gaze lingering over your pert and bouncy curves, bare and presented for him – a sight he didn’t even dare allow himself to dream.

Cocking your head to the side, you can’t help but feel your heart burst at his admission, “You think about me, Francisco?”

“All the time, baby,” there’s no use playing coy with you, not when you’re so perfect and vulnerable before him. Frankie manages to tear his eyes away from your nearly nude body only to be met with what he thinks is the most beautiful sight on Earth, you smiling at him sweetly, radiating pure happiness. Did he do that? Did he make you happy? He can’t help but feel a burst of pride - he wants to do it again and again.

Almost shyly, you tease, “Would you let me dance for you?”

Finding himself at a loss for words, Frankie can only assent with a quick nod before he watches, mesmerized, as you start to sway you body to the beat of the music pouring in from outside the private room; every line and dip of your figure moves rhythmically as if to hypnotize him. Frankie doesn’t know how long you dance, but every brush of your legs against his causes his dick to twitch and he has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning. When you move your hands to cup those perfect breasts of yours, he stares as you fondle and play with your nipples and thinks he might actually rip holes in his jeans with how hard he’s digging his fingers into his legs. He’s painfully hard and he wants to touch you so bad. But, of course he won’t. You trust him not to cross that line, and he would never want you to feel anything but perfectly safe with him.

When you finally open your eyes, you see Frankie gazing at you - eyes glued to your face with an almost pained look of reverence, devotion etched into the handsome features of his face and it makes your heart sing. “Francisco,” you tut playfully, “I finally get half naked for you, and you’re looking at my face?”

“Prettiest view in the room, Shortcake.”

“Oh, baby,” you purr, and then as if taking off your top for him wasn’t bold enough, you close the little distance left between your bodies and kiss him. Soft and tentative at first, but when you feel Frankie’s mouth chase yours for more, the kiss quickly becomes needy, hungry. Frankie’s hands remain on his legs, so you touch him for the both of you – running your hands through his soft hair, you cradle his head in your palms and tip his face to yours, pulling him up so you can press your lips more greedily to his. Frankie’s tongue finds yours and he matches its every brush and stroke with equal fervour; as he map the inside of your mouth, the needy groans that vibrate from the back of your throat make his teeth rattle and his heart soar. You gasp for air, but don’t take in enough because you can’t bear to be parted from his perfect, plush mouth – trading air for the dizziness that comes with the way Frankie devours you. You kiss him like it’s everything you’ve been wanting to do for the last few months because it is; you kiss him like it’s the last time because it might be.

You break apart to the chime of the bell that warns the private rooms that their sessions are almost over. Arms still around Frankie’s neck, you’re flattened against him – your knees pressed against his groin where you can feel his hard cock straining against his pants, your now heaving breasts tucked right beneath his chin, but he only has eyes for your face – the two of you grinning like lovestruck fools, though Frankie swears your eyes look a little sad.

“Time’s almost up, Francisco,” you whisper. Backing away, you grab your bra from where it fell earlier and thread your arms through the straps. Turning, you hold the cups to your chest and throw over your shoulder, “Do you mind?”

Wordlessly, Frankie expertly hooks your bra closed; when the backs of his thick fingers brush against your skin to buffer the snap of the band, that iota of contact sends an electrical current straight to your throbbing core. And just when you think that’s all you’ll ever have of Francisco’s touch, you feel it: a soft, tender kiss to your lower back. It’s so sweet you have to choke back a sob.

Leaving him at the curtain to the room, you kiss his cheek lightly as you always do.

“See you next time, Shortcake.”

“Goodnight, Francisco.”

As if you were clairvoyant, the call from your old job comes the following Wednesday, and by that Friday you’ve worked your last shift at The Midnight Palace. Saying goodbye to your co-workers, you know you’ll genuinely miss them and truly hope to keep in touch.

You wrestle briefly with leaving Francisco a message, but the truth is, you don’t know what you’d say or what you’d be asking for. What you shared in the private room had seemed so precious and real, but was it really? Could it ever survive in the real world? The real world of kids, and long work days, and mundane chores? If the magic of your time together with Frankie was marred by reality or if he never even responded, your fantasy of him would be shattered and then you wouldn’t even have the memory of him. So, selfishly and somewhat cowardly, you opt to keep your little fantasy of Francisco for yourself and your lonely nights, and you leave knowing that in a week’s time he’ll show up and find you gone.

The return to work is unremarkable and your schedule quickly normalizes to what it was before the lab incident; you’re happy to see your team again and easily delve back into the work you enjoy. The remainder of the summer passes quickly, and before you know it, the first day of kindergarten is upon you.

Walking hand in hand with your son, you can’t help shedding a few tears seeing your child take this monumental step. He’s nervous, but is taking a lot of big kid pride in being brave like you talked about. After helping him find his cubby and putting his backpack away, you step into the hallway to say your last goodbyes as the teacher has instructed.

Burying his face in your neck, your son murmurs, “I love you, mama,” before striding confidently back into the classroom, waving back to your tearful, “I love you, Ray-ray! See you after school!”

Behind you, you hear the sniffles of a young girl who is having a little more difficulty separating from her parent; the low rumble of her father whispering words of reassurance and love transition to a louder and clear, “I’m proud of you, mija!” as the little girl walks tentatively towards the open door of the classroom.

That voice. That calm, deep baritone is oddly familiar to you but you can’t quite place it. You might puzzle over it a little if it wasn’t for your son reaching out his hand to the little girl at that moment and saying, “Hi! I’m Raynor! I’m in your class!” and the little girl smiling back wide, “Hi Raynor! I’m Valentina!” before they walk hand-in-hand towards their new teacher.

Proud of your son and slightly relieved that he might have just made his first friend, you turn around to beam at the father of the little girl.

You can only imagine the look of brief recognition quickly giving way to shock that the tall, good-looking man gives you, mirrors your own. How was this possible?

Francisco.

Part 2

#frankie morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #no y/n

247 notes · View notes