Frankie Morales X F!reader - Tumblr Posts

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snowdrop

frost on the windows, flowers in the bed - part two

Galanthus nivalis (common snowdrop) blooms in mid-to-late winter and can be one of the first signs of spring, sometimes blooming up through the snow.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI wc: 9k summary: after a night at the bar on NYE went much differently than expected, you thought that was it. turns out, fate wasn’t done with you yet. tags: smut, angst, feeling lonely in a new place, emotional unavailability, several references to madeleine l’engle’s a wrinkle in time, fuzzy logistics with respect to the events of TF, french and spanish, mentions of PTSD, fingering, oral (f!receiving and a whisper of m!receiving), one (1) boob slap (affectionate), protected PIV (but later mention of unprotected PIV) a/n: couldn't leave these two alone. I hope you love them as much as I do 🫶🏻 @adamantiumspy ily always & thank you for the spanish help | thank you for your help too, @joelsgreenflannel | divider by @saradika-graphics

read part one: queen of the night

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3 | @5oh5-notifs for fic updates!

You meet him again on Blue Monday. 

The air is a bitter cold, icicles forming on the overhang of the old wooden window frame that opens your appartement up to the rest of the city. It’s cold enough that the ice doesn’t even drip. A cold snap, probably only lasting a few days, but it’s enough to make you curl up under two blankets and a heating pad on your shitty sofa (that came with the place, fortunately but unfortunately), and not want to leave. You wanted snow, now here it is. 

You think back to a midwestern summer, huddled in the bathroom with your grandmother as the little yellow emergency radio blares warnings from the National Weather Service. You were what, all of twelve? When the weather forecast called for rain, you told your grandmother, “I hope we get a big storm.” Silly, silly girl. When the watch turned into a warning, a red ribbon along the bottom of the crackly TV, she ushered you into the central bathroom of the house and there you sat with your knees against your chest, her sore body perched on the closed toilet seat. The wind whipped, howled, screamed through every crack and crevice in the house, every sliver of doorway and window left uncaulked. “You’re not allowed to pray anymore,” she said with a slight smirk, and you smiled up at her and laughed. You’d gotten your wish, a tornado warning. Was God listening to you? It wasn’t something you believed, even then, but somehow her believing it for you brought you comfort. If she believed someone was watching, maybe they were. 

Did God hear you now? Did he see you as you ventured far away from that house and from your family? Far from your grandmother shaking her head with tears in her eyes as she struggled to comprehend the decision you were making? Maybe that’s why he sent you Frankie. 

You had been a little stupid and a lot bold, giving yourself up to a stranger as if all you were doing was shaking his hand and saying, sure is cold out, huh? and not taking the entirety of him in your mouth with the indentation of the sticky wooden floor forming on your knees. It felt like a fairy tale, a lucid dream, and the more days that passed between you and his warm and solid body pressing your hips into the hard porcelain of the sink, the more it felt like it never really happened at all. Maybe it was easier that way. You’d be lying if you said that he - with all those messy curls, the cleft in his bottom lip, the way his eyes shimmered in the low light of the bar, the warmth of his tongue and the syrupy drag of his cock - wasn’t consuming most of your waking thoughts. He appeared in your dreams too, laughing at something or catching your eye from afar, or sharing a milkshake at that diner from your hometown. You wonder if he likes strawberry marshmallow milkshakes too. 

It’s your fault, really, the fact that you don’t have the answers, the fact that you end every day with your fingers stuffed inside yourself at the memory of him, pulling out poor imitation orgasms that leave you feeling less satisfied than when you started. You reduced it all to a memory, knowing only his name and nothing else. An ex-pilot, a friend named Santiago. He likes Dr. Pepper, mows his neighbor’s lawns, reads crime novels he picks up at the thrift store. Some, you know. Some, but not enough. Nowhere in that mental file of information is there even the name of a hotel. You could have gotten his number, could have seen him again at least…but it felt like too much. It was too much. He was visiting, here from the States for God (or whoever) knows how long, only to leave you wet and alone in the end. What good would that do? You’re lonely enough as it is. You don’t need more heartache, don’t need more loss. 

Your job started on the eighth, a sea of chattering French kids pouring into your classroom as they exchanged bits of conversation with each other in their native language, in that kind of frantic and hurried way that children do. It’s a bilingual school, English in the morning and French in the afternoon, which is fortunate for you. You teach in the morning, as a native English speaker. The kids think you don’t understand them, since you’re new, and maybe you’ll let them believe that for a little while. Until you need it. 

Now, it’s Sunday night. You sit with a glass of merlot perched on the arm of the couch, Google Classroom glaring at you in harsh blueish light as you filter through their first assignment. You’re still working through their answers to the first question. Describe the characters introduced in Chapter 1: Meg, Charles, Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Murray, and the twins (Sandy and Dennis). Earlier today you picked up a chocolate chip cookie from the bakery a couple blocks away, and you munch on it quietly while you read through their answers. They range from good to bad to ugly to blank. 

Amongst the children’s answers, a clear thought. This is why I’m here. This is why I did what I did, so that you could sit on your couch in your flat on the Rue des Fraises, eating a chocolate chip cookie and drinking a glass of merlot, while you read answers to questions about characters in A Wrinkle in Time. Freedom. Life. Your life, and no one else’s. At the end of the day, when the smoke clears, all you have is yourself. You’re the only one that lives every minute of your day, your mind and your shadow the only companions that never part from you. You need to listen to them, care for them, like them, love them. It’s the only choice. It’s Meg learning to be an individual, to love the fact that she isn’t like everyone else. It’s a lesson you hope this book teaches your kids, just like it helped teach it to you at their age. Being different is not a curse. 

“Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself.” 

“Only a fool is not afraid.”

You ride the high of living a life you once only could dream of through into Monday morning. You discuss the next couple chapters with your class, smiling to yourself as they eagerly tell you their thoughts, realizing that this book has captured some of them up in its spell too. It’s not until lunch and an offhand comment from a coworker that a nasty feeling creeps back in. 

“Il m’a surpris, tu vois? We went on one date, and he sent a pot of tulips to my apartment! I mean, not just a bouquet but in soil and everything.” She continues her story, switching between French and English as many of you do, but you can’t hear anything anymore. Your brain launches you straight back into the past, as if hooking you around the waist and dragging you into the dark. A pot of tulips in his passenger seat, a smile on his face, the way your grandmother planted them in the front garden. Now your love can grow, and you feel sick. Something hurts, but you don’t know what it is. Another life, a life long gone, a life stamped out like one of the thousands of cold cigarette butts littering this city. That’s a future you’ll never know, an alternate dimension for a different version of yourself to live. A cozy little life with a white picket fence and a just okay husband, Christmas at yours or ours this year? A baby on your hip maybe, a dishwasher, a back porch, driving to the supermarket. A box of Cheez-Its, a flat screen TV. That’s not your life, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you take another bite of your sandwich, eyes focused intently on nothing. You think of Frankie, of his big warm hands and the words he mumbled into your skin. No. Too much, too much.

When school lets out, you dial your best friend’s number with numb fingers as you wait for the bus. Her day would just be getting started, several hours behind you in the land you left behind. She’s British though, one foot in your world and somehow one foot in something like this one, understanding the twin sides of who you both are now. You met in college, but now it seems you’ve almost swapped places. 

“It’s Blue Monday, babe. No wonder you feel like shit.”

“I don’t know, J. I don’t believe in all that,” you mumble as you absentmindedly press your foot into a thin patch of snow along the curb. You look at the perfect indentation of your foot when you pull it away.

“It’s grim, is all I’m saying.” She’s right, it is. White sky, a smattering of slush along the roads, bare trees stretching their witchy fingers over the rooftops. “January always lasts for ages. You’ll feel better when it’s warm again.”

What’s that they say, about depression following you no matter where you move to? You remember reading something once about how it doesn’t matter if you live in Illinois or in Portugal, France or Bali, you can’t run away from who you are, what you face. It will always catch back up to you when the dust settles.

She goes on to ask you about your day, if you’re making friends, and you contemplate telling her about Frankie. Something stops you, like if you voice it out loud it will make him real. For some reason, you’re scared of cursing it, jinxing it, speaking it into existence. You’re not even sure you want to say his name. What does it matter anyway? He’s back in the States now, you’re sure, doing whatever it is that ex-pilots who had a one-night-only bar fuck with an American in Paris do. You kinda wish you could text him, ask how his most depressing day of the year is going, but you can’t. You saw to that.

A particularly strong gust of wind swirls around you. You shudder and bury your face in your scarf. On the other end of the phone, Josie tells you about her shift later at the hospital in response to a question you asked, but now you can’t even remember what it was. You squint into the wind to look down the road, willing the bus to come already. You cast your eyes across the street, to the twin bus stop that stands on the opposite side of the road. There, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket, eyes staring down that same street from beneath that fucking hat, is Frankie. Francisco. Is this a trick? A clever prank of smoke and mirrors from the same God who handed you that tornado warning all those years ago?

Josie speaks your name in a question, and you realize with a bit of embarrassment that you’d suddenly forgotten she was on the line. “Are you still there?”

“Josie, I–I gotta go. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, love - love you!” she says in a sing-song voice. You would normally smile, laugh at the way she always signs off your calls and say it back to her, but you click off the call without looking down at the screen. His eyes sweep back over the road, and meet yours across the glittering pavement. Your breath comes to a stop in your throat, a fist squeezes around your heart with every pump of blood.

“Have you ever tried to get to your feet with a sprained dignity?”

You contemplate turning and walking away, the idea of talking to him too overwhelming to consider; however, without your permission, your eyes scan the road for cars, see that it’s clear, and your feet carry you across it.

“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. French. Pascal. The heart has its reasons, whereof reason knows nothing.”

–

Frankie knows three things for sure: how to fly a plane, that war is Hell, and that he’ll never forget you for the rest of his life. Two and a half weeks in Paris. Surely that would be enough to cleanse himself, to rid himself of the awful feeling he had back home. That’s what he had decided with the booking agent, which may have had something to do with those dates being the cheapest this month. Two and a half weeks…It wasn’t much time to find you again. Maybe that was for the best, but it was certainly a lot easier to think he should forget you than to actually do the forgetting.

An obsessive personality, unwavering devotion. It made him a good soldier, a very capable pilot, loyal to a fault, but it also propelled him into a festering, corrupting addiction. He is clean now, as he reminds himself at least ten times a day, but each reminder comes with feeling the ghost of tremors, memories of sleepless nights, spasming muscles, and leaning over the toilet again and again while Santi rubbed his back between his shoulder blades. How many times would he owe Santiago his life? Probably just as many as Pope would owe him his. It isn’t like that though, it never has been. 

His obsessive brain latches onto a lot of things: a really good book, a compelling TV show, peanut butter bagels for a while, cocaine, you. They’re not dangerous kinds of obsessions, with one obvious exception, but rather the kind that softly itch in the back of his head relentlessly. He can quiet it if he really tries, most of the time. Buried in the silky heat of your body, every voice was quiet. Every voice except for yours. He likes to think he felt that way with Valerie once, but if he’s honest with himself he can’t quite remember. With her it was different. He always felt like he was wronging her, always felt like he wasn’t living up to the man she wanted him to be. He felt…judged by her, like there was always something for her to pick apart. Maybe you’d judge him too if you knew all the things he’d done. It doesn’t matter, you’ll never have to know. With you he had been a ghost, only the Frankie of New Year’s Eve had been in the bar bathroom that night, with no other version of himself anywhere close to you. It was better that way. Not Catfish, just Francisco.

He’s not sure he’s ever downed a beer faster than the one he ordered right after realizing you’d gone, seemingly vaporizing into the sticky air in the bar. He didn’t even know your name. The rest of that night faded into oblivion, and he hardly remembers getting back to his hotel on the Rue de la Paix, but he sure remembered the night as soon as he woke up, head pounding and skin stuck to the sheets, mouth like cotton from the alcohol. In that dreamlike state between awake and asleep, he heard your moans muffled against his palm, felt the warmth of your body and your mouth on his skin, saw your eyes as they looked up at him from the floor. He woke up hard and aching, his hand a poor substitute for the warmth of your body. He’s afraid that everything else, everyone else, will forever be a poor substitute.

In the days since, he’s wandered the city hoping to run into you. With no way to contact you, it’s all he can do. He’s done all the touristy things one might expect, a day at the Louvre, the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe, the Notre Dame. He’s been enjoying himself, he can’t lie about that, sitting at various cafés and people watching while he drinks single espressos in the day and pilsners at night. Real life feels far away, which is exactly what he wanted. He looks for you on the street corners, hoping fate will cross your paths again. The longer he goes without finding you (and this is a city of two million people, what are the fucking chances anyway?), the more and more it feels like you might have been a figment of his imagination. 

“Why didn’t you start by asking her name?” Santi scolds on the phone while Frankie shoves his free hand in his coat pocket. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He’s been wondering the same thing for days.

“Fish, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry, hermano.” Frankie nods, even though Pope can’t see. 

Maybe this was his fate; maybe he wasn’t meant to be happy in a relationship. Right now, as he wanders the streets of Paris in the bitter cold, the mother of his child sits in a rocking chair in a split-level in Florida, willing him to stay far away. He is staying away…at least he can get that right. How am I supposed to trust you? How are we supposed to trust you? She had yelled, cried, flinched away from him when he tried to reach for her, to comfort her. He couldn’t blame Valerie, he had done something terrible. What made those bullets so easy to fire? He remembers glazing over, taking aim as if playing one of those glass bottle games at the county fair. He was dangerous; maybe he had no business being near a baby, even if it was his own. Those men were bad, sure…does that make it better? It was a botched job at best, a catastrophe at worst. Nothing to show, not a cent. Maybe fate was all it was. Maybe he had just finally become the kind of man that Valerie always expected him to be.

But with you, locked up in a bar bathroom in the middle of a city he can’t even begin to know, all of that disappeared. He’d do anything to escape like that again. He feels that itch at the back of his head. A need, a hunger, a craving. Once it was drugs that made him forget. Now, he fears, it can only be you. Francisco, Francisco…

–

Your fingers are numb from standing at the bus stop, but warmth sears the skin of your neck when you step up onto the curb on the opposite side of the street. You fear that as soon as you open your mouth he’ll disappear into the somber grey of Paris, and you’ll be forced to admit you hallucinated the entire thing.

“Um, hey,” you manage weakly, overwhelmed at the sight of him, the man who has crowded all of your free brain space for two weeks. He looks just as good as he did on New Year’s, better even. The cold air paints his cheeks in roses. 

“Hey yourself,” he gasps, a smile like a relieved sigh. So he is real.

“I didn’t get your–”

“I’m sorry I–”

You both chuckle awkwardly as your voices overlap, and your fingers fidget with the tassels of your scarf as you fall silent. His eyes are huge, his shock evident. He begs for something wordlessly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead.

“Starving,” you reply.

“First thing’s first,” he starts, and he takes his hand out of his pocket and offers it to you. You lace your fingers through his and wonder how his skin can be so warm when it’s so cold. You know what he’s asking, and you feel you owe it to him. You cast your name out into the frost, and he exhales it back, warming it with his breath. A smile consumes his face, the assurance of finally knowing makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, unable to stop the galloping drum beat that he awakens in you. Stupid? Maybe. A disaster waiting to happen? Undoubtedly. For now though, as you walk hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, all you feel is relief.

“So…you’re still here.” A statement, not a question.

“I’m still here.” A promise, impossibly.

–

The restaurant is casual, and he doesn’t appear out of place in his jeans. When you approach the door, he takes his cap off and shoves it into his jacket pocket before returning his hand to interlace with yours. You giggle a bit when you look up at him, his curls flattened against his head awkwardly. You reach up, carding your hands through his curls to mess them up a bit, freeing them from his forehead, and his cheeks flush at the gesture. You retract your hand all too quickly, shoving it back in your pocket. He squeezes your hand as he averts his gaze back to the door, pulling it open for you.

At dinner, you say you’re sorry. For disappearing, for leaving no trace, for withholding your name. You mumble your half-explained apology over a glass of wine for you and a beer for him, the fear of exposing too much keeping the rest of the words lodged deep in your throat. The reality of it - a long-term relationship, far from home, too much too soon - feels too intimate to expose. You don’t know how long he’s here, how much you can really know him when your lives are destined to be separate. He nods in understanding when you explain the little that you do, and it feels like he truly doesn’t blame you for what you did, even if you can hardly give him a reason why. You can still feel his curls between your fingers.

“I really understand, cariño. It’s okay. I was trying to escape too,” he admits, and you want to ask more, climb behind those doe-eyes of his and root around in his memories. Saving you from even trying, the waiter appears next to your table. You order for the both of you in French, eyeing the way that Frankie looks slightly panicked as the waiter asks what you’d like in a low and quick voice. The distraction of Frankie’s eyes on you makes it hard to form the right words, but the waiter is kind and patient as you place your order. Je vais vous prendre le plat au poulet et pour lui, ce sera le steak frites. S’il vous plaît. The chicken and the steak. 

“Merci,” Frankie smiles at you as the waiter weaves back through the tables. You want to resume the conversation, ask what Frankie was trying to escape from, but you freeze up at the chance to ask. You know it isn’t fair to want from him what you will not give yourself. He doesn’t volunteer it. Instead, you chat about France, about Paris, about school and Florida and Santiago and Josie. You can sense that there’s more underneath this conversation, the tangled roots below still invisible to you. Maybe there will be time to learn the rest, maybe you’ll tell him everything too. 

“Yeah right now I’m teaching A Wrinkle in Time,” you mumble around a bite of chicken.

“I haven’t read that, but I’ve heard of it. Is it good?” He asks, cutting off another piece of steak.

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites, and it’s good for that age, you know?”

“I’ll have to read it,” he smiles, taking a drink of his beer. “Maybe you can teach it to me, too.” 

You smirk. “Only if you keep up with the homework.”

“I’ll be good,” he grins as he takes a bite. There’s the Frankie from the bar.

“I don’t remember you being particularly well-behaved before.” You let your eyes roam his face, the blush that blooms up his neck, the way his curls fly every which way, loosened by your fingers. His eyes glimmer in the dim light of the restaurant as he eyes you.

“The situation didn’t exactly call for well-behaved.” His tone is honeyed, playful, and heat rises to the tips of your ears at his insinuation. With it, a flash of him behind you, your hips pressed back against him, his hand over your mouth. Now he sits across from you, smirking, during some kind of…what? First date? As if you hadn’t been moaning his name into the sink at the bar two weeks ago. This feels backwards.

The rest of the dinner flows easily. The food is good, the company is better. Your limbs feel pleasantly warm from the wine, and Frankie’s smile makes your fingertips tingle. Every time he tilts his head back and laughs you feel your control slip further and further out of your grasp. You try to reason with yourself, but the rational part of your brain seems to have been left out in the cold. All you can do is focus on tonight, focus on him. You don’t know how long you have him for, you haven’t had the balls to ask, but he sits in front of you now, and maybe that’s enough. It’s easy. Your eyes are drawn to his chest as it peeks out from his shirt, to the slope of his nose, to the heart-shaped patch in his beard, to the way his lips part slightly when he listens. You shouldn’t feel as nervous as you do, given what you’ve already done, but you can’t help it. He’s so beautiful, so charming, so easy to like. 

When it’s over, glasses empty and cutlery laying slanted across your plates, he pays the bill after a volley of let me, no, let me. When you stand, he rounds the table to your chair, picking up your coat and holding it up so that you can feed your arms through. He takes your hand again and guides you out of the restaurant. Outside, the cold air makes your eyes water. He stops, keeping hold of your hand and turning you towards him. In the light of the city and the streetlamp above, he reaches his fingers to your face, pulling the wind-blown hair from across your cheek.

“I’m really glad I ran into you again,” he smiles gently. Your eyes rake across his face as if you’re reading him, and all you find is softness and beauty. If you take him into your body again tonight, you’re scared you’ll try and keep him forever. You wish he could be less perfect, somehow worse, so that this would be easier. You lean up, placing a hand on his chest, and press your lips to his. His hand quickly finds the small of your back, pulling you up into him as you snake your arms around his neck. It feels like falling apart, like giving in, like the most natural thing you’ve ever done. He licks into the kiss, and you let him. 

“Me, too,” you murmur against his lips. Another kiss, another pull of your body into his chest. The air whips some of your hair between your faces, and he laughs as he reaches up to push it back again. His hand stays on the back of your head, guiding your lips to his again and again. You need to ask, you have to.

“So…” you start, pulling away just enough to speak. “When are you leaving?”

His eyes fall, his hand settling to rest on the base of your neck. You fear you know the answer before he even says it. 

“Tomorrow.”

Your heart plummets into your feet. Tomorrow. Tonight is it, tonight is the end. Tonight is all you get of the man who stands before you, the man who has made you forget everything you planned for yourself and give into a fantasy. At least now you don’t have to spill yourselves to each other, involve him in the drama of your past, your loneliness, your insecurity. Like the bar bathroom, tonight holds the promise of another place to be someone else, another time to forget. You force a smile to pull up the corner of your mouth. Maybe this is better, maybe this is enough.

“Well then, Francisco,” you sigh, your lips still dancing over his. “Where are you staying?”

He smirks, and the sunken look behind his eyes lightens. He catches the insinuation on your tongue. “A hotel. S’not far from here actually.”

“Hmm, what do you say?”

“I say…” he starts, pressing kisses along your jaw until his lips meet the shell of your ear. “Where have you been all my life?”

–

The hotel is simple. Old, but charming. White painted wooden window frames, floral accent walls, mismatched furniture. He looks a bit out of place in it, if you’re honest, but everyone looks out of place in hotels. The woman sitting at the front desk greets him with a friendly bonsoir, the no vacancy sign swinging against the door as you enter. She smiles when she sees you, a sudden guest he hasn’t had for the two weeks he’s been here.

You barely make it three feet into the room before his lips are on you again, your hands grasping and pulling on one another, desire like a puppeteer. “What time’s your flight?” you murmur into his lips as he backs you into the room, his hands splayed on your hips as you clumsily kick off your shoes and you both drop your coats to the floor. He yanks your scarf out from around your neck, letting it fly back behind him. The clouds have started to clear out, exposing a full moon that bathes the room in its gossamer. The city lights twinkle, mingling with the stars as the clouds part like curtains.

“S’not until 2,” he replies, his words getting caught on your lips. He steers you towards the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he lets you drop out of his grasp. As you sink down, he chases you with another kiss, pressing your hair out of your face until his hand cradles the back of your head, his leg slotted between yours, thigh pressing into thigh. He pushes you down until your back hits the bed and he follows, caging his body over you. He makes quick work of your blouse, unbuttoning it quickly as his mouth follows his hands. He licks kisses down your sternum, between your breasts, following each opened button with a swipe of his tongue. 

“Haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs into the skin below your bra. You run your fingers through his curls, his hat still tucked into his coat pocket that now lays abandoned on the floor. His hair is so soft, and you separate the curls with your fingers as he lays open mouthed kisses across your belly. 

“Haven’t stopped th–thinking about you either,” you sigh, your words catching in your throat as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your stomach. 

At that he smiles, pushing the fabric of your shirt up and out of the waistband of your pants. “Get this off,” he breathes, eyes dark as they roam all the skin he can see. “Been dreaming about seeing all of your perfect fucking body.” 

You do as he asks, powerless against the way his voice lowers, gravely and drunk on you already. You shrug off your shirt, and before you can reach behind you to unhook your bra, Frankie finds the clasp and does it himself. You toss it aside, and his breath catches at the sight. 

“Mierda, baby, look at–” he starts, but interrupts himself by pressing wet kisses onto the skin of your breasts, biting and sucking and kissing as you let your head fall back on your shoulders and groan. All the while, his warm palms spread across your stomach, your sides, holding your body to his eager mouth. He looks up at you through dark lashes, his thick fingers trailing down your body and dancing over the button of your pants. 

“Gonna let me taste this perfect little pussy again, mi amor?” he purrs as his other hand splays over your breast, squeezing and kneading the flesh in his palm. 

“God, yes, I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” you groan, your mind already floating away from you at the feeling of his mouth and his hands all over your skin.

“Made that much of an impression, huh?” he smirks, popping the button on your pants easily with his thumb and forefinger. 

“Maybe,” you lie, unconvincingly shrugging a shoulder, but heat bubbles in your core when he reaches up and playfully slaps one of your breasts, his eyes trained on the way it jiggles in response to his palm. 

“Don’t go lying to me now, baby,” he scolds, kneading the flesh of your breast in his palm. “I know you’ve been touching yourself thinking about me.” He taps the side of your hip and you lift them up off the mattress so he can pull your pants down your thighs.

You hum, watching the way his eyes don’t leave you as he drags the fabric down, your underwear going with it. “Does that mean you have?” you ask, but the question leaves your mouth in a sigh.

He smirks, raises a shoulder in imitation of you. “Maybe.”

“Alright,” you roll your eyes. “Fine, I have.”

“I know, cariño.” His eyes are dark. “Tell me,” he breathes, burying his smile in the crease of your thigh. He slides your pants down the rest of the way until they’re in a heap on the floor. You can hardly breathe, your heartbeat hammering relentlessly in your chest, Frankie’s breath hot on your skin. He doesn’t give in quite yet, hooking your leg over his shoulder but pressing chaste kisses to the side of your knee as he eyes you expectantly. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about–fuck,” you start, words dying on your tongue as he drags a knuckle through your folds, and he smirks at how wet you are for him already.

“Mmm see? Knew you’ve been thinking about me,” he murmurs into your leg. “Good girl, keep going,” he urges, stroking your silky skin with the back of his finger, flicking his attention between your lust-blown eyes and the movement of his own fingers.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about how handsome you were–are, your curls and your–” your breath breaks in pieces again as he slips the tip of his index finger into your opening, a shit-eating smirk playing on his face as he watches you fall apart. “Your lips,” you continue, breath labored as he drags just the tip of his finger through your wetness. “I wanted to kiss you as soon as I saw you,” you admit, the confession an almost-whisper.

“Mm,” he hums, removing his finger from your aching center and dragging the tip of his finger through your curls, over your hip and to the softness of your belly, running his other hand down the length of your thigh. “What else?”

“Never been eaten out like that,” you confess, heat rising through your chest and into your cheeks at the admission. You can feel your heartbeat in your pussy, your whole body is on fire. “S’never felt that good before.”

“Oh, cariño,” he coos, his eyes immediately ticking up to yours, full of cockiness as he takes in the fact that he’s the best you’ve ever had. “Such a shame this perfect little pussy hasn’t been treated right.” You wiggle under his grasp in a silent beg for him to put his touch back where you want it the most and to stop toying with you. “But I’ve got you now,” he smiles, bringing his fingers back to your cunt, marveling at the way you gush for him already, sticky and wanting. He slides two fingers through the wetness there, eyes blown dark. Still so careful, still holding you right on the edge.

“I loved hearing your French,” he says then, his gaze turning more delicate, some of the dominance succumbing to something else, something softer. “The words sounded so pretty coming out of your mouth.” 

You laugh a little; it sounds ridiculous. You’re so self-conscious about the way you speak French, always thinking that the accent isn’t right, that the word choice is clunky.

“S’true,” he continues, sensing your reaction to his compliment. “I couldn’t believe it when you leaned over the bar to kiss me,” he says, licking the words into the skin of your thighs. You wiggle under his grasp, wanting, needing more as he feathers his fingers through your lips. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” At that he looks up into your eyes, his irises gleaming in the low light.

“Please stop teasing me, Francisco,” you whine, tilting your head back. You feel sweat starting to prickle the back of your neck. He chuckles, dark and syrupy, and you think you could cry with how badly you need him to finally give in.

“Such a good girl, look at how messy you are, baby.” His voice is low, smooth, speaking as if almost just to himself. He marvels at the way you glisten for him in the dim light of the room, only the shimmer of the city and the sky outside illuminating your body in the dark. He finally, finally, plunges two of his thick fingers up into the wet heat of your body, and a choked groan escapes from your mouth into the air between you. He pumps them in and out, relishing in the way you gasp in response and your pussy clenches around him. Scissoring his fingers gently, he watches as your lips part as you look down your body at him. He loves taking his time, getting to pull you apart piece by piece in a way he didn’t get to in the bar that night. He wants to make you shake, wants to hear every sound. He slows his fingers even more until he reaches a rolling pace, deep and slow and consistent, that has you collapsing back onto the bed. 

He smiles. “As much as I loved shushing that pretty little mouth in the bar,” he murmurs between kisses to your leg, “I like hearing this a lot more, mi amor.”

You groan at that, and he soaks it in like sunlight. He kisses down the length of your thigh, maneuvering your leg for you. When his lips meet the crease of your thigh, you jerk into his fingers and groan, your movements no longer under your own control. You’re so perfect like this for him, so beautiful, so pliant, so good. He keeps up the rhythm of his fingers, kissing and licking all around your folds, your thighs, burying his nose in your mound. You whine, beg for him to give you what you want, eat me already, and who is he to deny such pretty cries?

He brings his fingers to a stop, curling them up into the wall of your pussy and pressing into your g-spot as he licks you into his mouth around his fingers. You buck against his face and he hides his smirk in your curls. His tongue joins his fingers inside of you, taking as much of you into his mouth as he can. He pulls on your skin with his lips, and you writhe against his mouth. 

Frankie is going to make you fall apart. His careful, slow movements are rendering you boneless. He continues to press up into your g-spot, hard, his fingers unmoving as his tongue takes over. He presses open-mouth kisses to your clit, smoothing his tongue flat over it as his lips close around you. You don’t realize that you’re saying his name until he looks up at you.

“Yes, cariño?” 

“Fucking hell,” you moan, “move your fucking fingers, please.”

He smiles that devilish smile before he pulls them out. He licks a stripe up the length of your pussy in the absence of his fingers, sucking your clit into his mouth, but he’s quick to wet three of his fingertips at your entrance before plunging them in. You arch against the mattress, crying out. He curls them against your g-spot, but this time, he moves.

“Oh,” you gasp, consumed all at once by the warmth of his mouth and the pressure of his fingers. “Francisco.”

He lets your clit go with a lewd pop, and he looks up at you again through dark lashes as he presses kisses and licks into the coarse hair of your mound. “Never heard my name sound so pretty, baby,” he murmurs. He drags kisses and licks up, up, up, until his lips find your nipple, pulling it into his mouth by his teeth. With the new angle and the added leverage, he slams his fingers up into you, shaking his hand and relentlessly hammering into your g-spot, hurling you quickly towards the edge. 

“Fuck,” you swear, feeling sweat on your forehead as you arch your body into him. “Please don’t fucking stop.” He’s still fully clothed, but you feel the hard bulge of his cock through his jeans against your thigh. He supports himself on his elbow as he continues the brutal pace of his fingers, leaning down to lick into your mouth. You can barely kiss him back as the pleasure consumes you, rendering you unable to stop the moans from tumbling off your tongue and your mouth from hanging open. 

“That’s it, baby, come on,” he coaxes, his curls falling over his forehead as he kisses down the side of your face, trailing his teeth across your jaw before softly sinking his teeth into the bone. With that, you let go, orgasm ripping through your body and clouding your senses, feeling like you’re a million miles away and tethered to the Earth only by Frankie’s fingers and his mouth. He groans into your neck as you fall apart, your pussy clenching around him and drooling over his fingers. 

“Fuck, good girl,” he rasps, pulling his hand away as your senses start to return to you. You need him inside of you now, and it appears as though he has the same thought. With another kiss to your neck, he’s standing, unbuttoning his shirt with wet fingers. You sit up and find his belt, undoing it quickly before yanking it out of the loops and tossing it to the floor. Your fingers are shaky, still tingling from your orgasm, as you try and make quick work of undoing his jeans. His shirt falls to the ground, and when you look up at him you realize this is the first time you’ve seen this much of his body. You’re distracted from your original task as you gaze at him. His strong chest, broad and tanned, his soft tummy, his fucking arms. You smooth your hands over his belly, over his sides, marveling. 

“You’re so pretty, Francisco,” you croon, and his hand finds the back of your neck as blush creeps up his chest. You mean it though; he’s so beautiful. The silvery light of the city washes his skin in diamonds, and you worry that tomorrow you won’t be able to say goodbye.

The sound of his zipper breaks your thoughts, and you quickly replace his hand to do it yourself. You push his jeans and boxers down in one shove, his cock springing free, aching and red and angry. You waste no time taking hold of him, wrapping your fingers around the base and pumping him once before bringing him to your lips. He groans and steps out of his jeans, jostling himself against you. One of his hands finds the back of your head and the other pinches your nipple between his fingers, making you groan into his cock. You take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the tip and tasting the saltiness of him there. You swear that you’ve been tasting this for days, remembering the way he felt on your tongue and tasted in your throat. He allows you a few licks, a couple pumps of himself along the length of your tongue, before he pulls you back by your hair and pushes you by your chest back into the bed.

“Got all night for that, cariño,” he growls, and you think you could probably come again just from the sight of him towered over you. His broad frame, dark eyes, wild curls, standing at the edge of the bed in the moonlight. Your whole body is aflame, aching and empty, every inch of your skin crying out for him. “Need to be inside of you right now.”

He reaches for his jeans, fishing a condom out of his wallet and ripping the package open with his teeth at the same time that he flings his wallet back onto the floor. 

“Always keep those in there, Francisco?” you tease, watching transfixed as his deft fingers roll the full length of the latex over himself.

“Gotta be ready,” he smirks before he’s crawling over you, pushing you back into the mattress as his cock hangs heavy between his thighs. “Didn’t know if I was gonna run into you again.” You smile at that.

He wastes no time, settling himself between your thighs and swiping the tip of his cock through your folds. He eases in, and at that first breach, you whine. The stretch stings just like you remembered, and you feel it in the tips of your toes. It’s a welcome feeling, and you wish you could feel that sting every single day, again and again until it becomes a permanent part of you, until he becomes a permanent part of you. A dangerous thought. Your breath falls in shallow pants, mingling with his in between your bodies. He feeds you his cock slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body time to adjust. His eyes are trained on yours, reading your expressions. “Breathe for me, cariño, you’ve gotta breathe.”

You can only nod, letting a breath go, consciously relaxing your muscles as you try to soften yourself for him. With a sigh he bottoms out, pressing his hips flush into the cradle of your thighs. He leans his forehead against yours, his breath hot on your face. He stays still, your cunt fluttering and drooling around him, the feeling of him inside you all consuming. It feels like he takes up your entire body, the tip of his cock nestling against your cervix. 

You’re not sure what possesses you to say what you do; maybe it’s the lust talking, the romantic setting of the City of Lights outside the window, or maybe it’s the fact that he fits into your body like he was made to be there, but you gaze into the deep brown of his eyes and whisper, “I don’t want you to go.” You barely recognize your own voice as you say it. 

“Mi amorcita,” he soothes, pushing a stray piece of hair that’s stuck to your forehead out of your face. “M’right here.”

“I know,” you sigh, opting to look at the heart-shaped patch in his beard instead of at his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Let’s not think about it right now, okay?” he says softly, tracing his fingers along your cheekbone. “We have all night.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, reconnecting your gazes. You think you see something like regret there, like he doesn’t want to leave either, but you try and swallow the feeling. “We have all night.”

He leans in to kiss you, and the way his lips slant against yours feels like the first time. He licks into your mouth, desperate and wanting, like if he kisses you hard enough he won’t have to leave. He bites your lip between his teeth, smoothes it over with his tongue, all while you squirm against his mouth and your body softens under him, fluttering around his cock. With a gentle pull of his hips, he slides back out of you, and the groan that escapes your lips is hardly recognizable as your own. He pushes back in, hitching your leg over his hip and holding onto it, pushing as deep as he can go as you arch yourself into him. He kisses you again, buried to the hilt, and then he’s snapping his hips back and forth again and again as you cry out for him.

“Take this cock like it was made for you, don’t you baby?” he mumbles, unable to keep from marveling at the way your body reacts to his, the way you mold into him, the way you make him feel like he’s finally found heaven between your thighs. He surely doesn’t deserve it, not with all of the shit he’s done, and it feels like he’s stealing something, getting away with something, laughing in the face of God. He doesn’t deserve this, and maybe that’s why he’ll leave. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell himself on the plane tomorrow when he can only gaze out the oval window instead of at your body underneath him. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell himself when he lands in the wet air of Florida, resigned to deal with all the shit he left behind. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve you. You’re better off without him, better off not knowing who he really is. If he leaves tomorrow, you’ll never have to know. All you’ll know is this: the perfect drag of his cock, the feeling of his skin on yours, the way he looks into your eyes.

“God,” you moan, breaking his thoughts into pieces and tethering him back to the moment. “You’re so fucking perfect,” you babble, unsure really of what you’re even saying, cock-drunk and delirious. He slams into the deepest part of you, and you feel him everywhere. He chuckles darkly into your neck.

“What’d I tell ya that night, hmm?” he chides, and you smile into his hair despite yourself. 

“Shut up,” you gasp, your laughs dying in your throat as he slams his hips back into you. 

He just smiles, pulling out and standing, dragging your hips down the bed along with him. Your feet rest on his shoulders, and he gazes across your body as he softly thrusts back into you. In and out, in and out, measured and slow. He can’t take his eyes off the way your breasts jiggle with each movement, the way your hair sticks to your skin, the way your eyes gaze back up at him. “I’ll think about this view for the rest of my life,” he muses, pressing a kiss to your ankle. You can’t help but smile at his words. You’ll remember this view for the rest of your life too. He grabs at your thighs, holding you steady as he once again sets a brutal pace. You writhe against the mattress, bringing your own hands to your breasts and squeezing them between your fingers. He groans as he watches you. He slides his hand down to come between your thighs and begins swirling tight circles around your clit with his thumb. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moan, the added sensation quickly making the tension in your belly tight and hot. “Fuck, Frankie, I’m going to–” and the word instead forms a cry as you press your head back into the sheets and let go. Your orgasm washes over your body in a wave of electricity and heat, white spots shimmering behind your eyelids. You barely hear his grunts in response, his swears. 

“Nunca quiero irme de tu lado,” he confesses, breathless and barely audible as he watches you come apart. He knows you can barely hear him.

“You’re gonna push me out, baby, mierda,” he growls, collapsing back into your body and folding your legs against your chest. He doesn’t let up the pace of his hips, fucking you through the crashing wave of your orgasm. As he continues his pace, another one crests, and you can’t even say the words before another orgasm wracks through your body.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and his hips fall out of time as his own orgasm rushes his body at the way you’re continuously squeezing around him. He falters, muscles pulled tight and his mouth hanging open as the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard claw out of his throat. His curls are a mess against his forehead, and you watch him through the haze of your own orgasm, trying to imprint the sight into your memory so that you never forget the way he looks like this. He pumps you full of him, and you once again wish in pure delirium that you could feel him for real, feel as he oozes back out of you. Instead you take what you can get, reveling in the way his cock pulses against your walls and his hips still, flush with yours. He collapses his weight into you, letting your legs fall to his sides. He presses a hot kiss into your mouth, soft and gentle and utterly spent. 

“You’re going to be impossible to forget,” you admit softly, pushing his sweaty curls out of his face. He smiles, something aching and pained and bleeding beneath the surface. 

“So are you.”

–

The clock reads 4:30. Tangled limbs, quiet voices, eager moans. The window is cracked open, an icy breeze spreading its fingers through the room, but it doesn’t mask the smell of sex that hangs cloyingly in the air. All night you’ve talked, about anything except yourselves, your head bobbing up and down on Frankie’s stomach as he laughed. But during any conversation he’d inevitably skirt his fingers back between your legs or you would press increasingly wet kisses to his thighs, and then you’d be right back in it again. Again and again and again. In the end you got your silent wish, running out of condoms after the second time. Now his cum dries on your thighs along with yours. Your skin is tacky, your body is sore, your eyelids are heavy, but you’ll have plenty of time to recover. Too much time, when he’s gone. You know this will suck when you have to teach those kids on no sleep, but you really don’t care.

“You know something?” he asks, pressing kisses into your hair.

“What’s that?” you sigh, stretching out your legs and turning half on your belly, the length of your body pressed up against his. A cool breeze tickles your bare legs.

“I like you,” he sighs, turning on his side and pulling you into him, wrapping his body around yours, his thigh slotting between your legs.

“I like you too, Frankie,” you chuckle as you nuzzle into the hollow of his neck, hitch your leg over his hip. You sigh, the reality of the situation creeping back into the forefront of your mind. “More than I planned.”

Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.

thank you for reading! 🖤 x

Ahhh! This was so good!!! 😍😍😍

girls night out || frankie morales

AO3 || MASTERLIST

pairing : frankie morales x f!reader

summary : after spending a night out for your friend’s birthday, you try to sneak back into the house without disturbing frankie. you thought he was a heavy sleeper, but your mischievous boyfriend never fails to surprise you.

tags : M-18+, no use of y/n, frankie being positively down bad for you, bar outing, alcohol consumption, reader is aware of her decisions and everyone is consenting, mechanical bull shenanigans, p in v sex (practice safe!!), grinding, riding, frankie has a filthy mouth full of praises, lotsss of nicknames, sweet aftercare bc its frankie and he's a sweetheart ofc

WC : ~3k

a/n : happy frankie friday loves !! hope you enjoy 🤭

“What bar is it again?” Frankie calls from the living room.

“It’s called ‘Deo Drinks,” you reply. “Apparently it’s new in town. Anna said she wanted to see what all the fuss is about. Supposed to be pretty nice.”

Tonight is your friend Anna’s birthday, and she wanted to take all of her best friends on a night out to a new local bar that popped up recently. According to her, it’s a nicer venue (as far as bars go, at least), so she suggested that everyone get dressed up nice for the fun of it. You look down when your phone dings, a message from Anna saying:

make sure your outfit is still practical tho! there’s something at the bar i want everyone to try <3

So here you are on a Friday evening, standing in front of your bathroom mirror perfecting your eyeliner, adjusting your hair, waiting to be picked up by your friends. You hear hefty footsteps traversing the hallway, getting closer and closer to your ensuite. You look in the mirror over your shoulder as Frankie rounds the corner. “Hey, check out these pictures of the bar—”

He cuts himself off when he finally looks up to see you. You’re wearing a sheer sparkling black shirt with a simple black tank-top underneath all tucked into your skinny jeans, the whole outfit being tied together with beautifully shiny jewelry and a pair of black heeled ankle boots. In the mirror, you catch his gaze as his eyes size you up and down, unable to pry them from all of the sparkles. You turn around and his eyes finally meet yours.

“Well? What do you think?”

“Baby… you look beautiful,” he says walking toward you, his eyes leaving yours and continuing up and down your body again. “I mean, you always do, but…” His hands trail up to rest at your hips, holding you at a distance so he can look at you.

You stare at his expression until he’s looking at you again, studying your makeup as his pupils visibly grow. You never get tired of watching your effect on him. You finally ask, “So, those pictures?”

“O-oh, right,” he stammers and brings his phone up. “There’s not very many since it’s so new, but I figured you might want to see anyway. Looks pretty cute.” You can hear the small smile creeping on his lips as you watch him scroll through the pictures. You look up again and smile at him, leaning in for a long, sweet kiss. His hands drop down to your waist to bring you closer to his body, but before he can take it further, you both hear the unmistakable sound of a car horn outside.

“That’s them,” you say, breaking away. 

He steals another kiss, humming in protest before freeing you from his grip and smiling down at you. “Go ahead, then. Go have fun.” You smile back, turning away. He playfully smacks your ass and you yelp from surprise.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

You look back and give him a wink.

Your friend Emily drives the group to the bar, opting to be the designated driver for the night. Pulling up to the bar, you see the sign and decorations on the building: the bright red neon sign illuminating your face, wooden planks lining the building, and old, fake wooden shutters on the windows. Of course, you think. “‘Deo” for rodeo. It’s a western bar.

Suddenly, your phone goes off again:

Have a good time princess. I’ll be awake to let you in the house later, so call me when you’re on your way. Love you, don’t get too fucked up :)

You chuckle and send back a quick “will do, love you too!” before you walk in with your friends.

The rest of the night is a blast. You learn a few line dances from the regulars in the bar, eat food that’s honestly better than you expected, and drink probably a few too many shots and mixed drinks with the group.

“Guys!” Anna yells, obviously feeling the alcohol at this point. “I can’t believe I almost forgot!” She huddles you all together and leans in so everyone can hear better. “There’s a mechanical bull towards the back. I want everyone to try!”

You make your way towards the back and see that, surprisingly, there aren’t many people back here. You approach the bull and everyone lines up for a turn. One by one, you all get on and see how long you can last. When your turn comes, you get an idea. You hand your phone to Emily, the only sober one of the bunch, and ask, “Could you record my turn for me?” She kindly agrees, taking your phone as you kick off your boots and mount the bull.

Back home, Frankie lounges on the couch relaxing in his sweats and a t-shirt, watching some random movie he found. When his phone chimes, he sits up to grab it, sees it’s from you, and opens the message to a video. Before he can even press play, his eyes go wide. 

No fucking way…

He sits up a little straighter and presses play, watching you with bewilderment as you straddle the mechanical bull, meeting every one of its jerks with an equal but opposite rebuttal. He stares at your hips swaying perfectly to keep your balance and your free hand in the air as you exclaim, your friends in the background cheering in excitement. Frankie gazes at your shocked expression. Of course, she’s a natural. He knows exactly why you’re so good at the game, even if you might not.

You ride it so well, but I’d expect nothing less from you ;)

As if he’s being broken from a trance, he notices his sweats feel unusually tight and sees a bulge slowly growing between his legs. He curses the universe that he’s not there with you right now. Though, he probably wouldn’t be able to contain himself anyway, so maybe it’s for the best. He decides that what he really needs is a shower to take care of his… issue.

But nothing will keep that video off his mind for the rest of the night.

By the end of the outing, the only one who can reliably hold her footing is Emily. Birthday girl Anna is by far the drunkest of the bunch, and while you are really not that far behind her, you might be holding your liquor the best of the group. Emily rallies everyone in the car for a ride filled with loud karaoke and copious slurred compliments to each other as she chauffeurs each girl back to their house. You are the second to last passenger to be dropped off, but Emily had planned on staying at Anna’s house anyway, so you were the last stop.

“Do you need me to walk you in?” she asks with a gentle smile through the open window.

“No, no, ‘s okay. Frankie said he left the door open… or something. I don’t remember.” His text from earlier completely slips your mind. “I think he’s sleeping anyway,” you continue with a giggle.

“Okay, I’ll stay here until I see the door close behind you just to make sure you make it in. Goodnight!” she replies.

“G’night!” you say, turning around and making your way to the door. You turn the doorknob as slow as you can and find that Frankie did in fact leave it open for you, but when you walk in, most of the lights are already turned off. You turn and wave to Emily as she pulls off, closing the front door as slowly and quietly as you can. You slip off your boots and leave them at the door, shuffling over to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

You creep back to your bedroom in methodic yet messy steps, reaching your bathroom. You smear a makeup wipe across your face in a lazy, drunken attempt to clean it up a little and slip into some random comfy clothes that you aren’t sure are yours or Frankie’s, but you don’t really care. Gazing into your bed, you see Frankie’s silhouette, laying on his side under the covers, and you feel a warmth bloom in your chest, thinking about how lucky you feel being able to come home to him.

As you reach down to climb into bed, every intention to spoon Frankie until you fall asleep, you’re interrupted by a hand gently grabbing your forearm. You let out a tiny gasp of surprise. “Frankie?”

“Hey, sweetheart. You made it home alright,” he says sweetly, turning over and sitting up some.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Did you really think I’d go to sleep before I made sure you got home safe?”

You look down a bit, suddenly remembering his text from earlier. “Hmm… no, I guess not. But I definitely forgot you told me you’d be up,” you reply bashfully.

“I heard you as soon as you walked through the door, anyway.” A grin breaks out across his mouth.

Your eyebrows raise, surprised. “Really?”

He lets out a chuckle. “I know you tried, but you weren’t really that good at keeping the noise down.”

You look down and giggle too. You really thought you were being quiet.

“Plus,” he continues, “I couldn’t sleep if I tried, thinking about that goddamn video you sent earlier.”

You think for a second and remember. Ohh, the bull. You grin back at him seeing his eyes grow dark merely remembering it. And now that you’re finally back in front of him, he’s ravenous. “Oh really?” you tease. “You liked it?”

“Liked it? Baby…” he says, reaching up to grab your sides and pull you closer into a gentle but hungry kiss. He pulls away, his lips mere centimeters from yours, and whispers, “You wanna show me how you did it?”

You see a glimmer of desperation in his eyes underneath his playful tone and nod. He kisses you again, a little sloppier this time as he guides you to straddle him. You lean down and melt into his lips, your tongues waltzing together. You can already feel the outline of his cock stiffening up in his pants and you subconsciously guide your hips up and down the growing bulge. 

He growls into your mouth and you swallow the noise, suddenly aware of the warm wetness growing between your legs. You keep grinding, feeling him get harder and harder, moving your kisses across his cheek and down his jaw. He groans as you lick the muscle flexing on his neck when he tilts back to give you better access. You kiss back up to his ear, nipping at the lobe and whisper softly, “Touch me, Frankie…”

His hands wander down from your face to the bottom of your shirt and he pulls it off over your head freeing your tits to the colder air of the room. His lips immediately attach to you, licking and sucking at your nipple and drawing sweet moans from your lips. He hums back at you, the vibrations reverberating against your skin and moving down between your legs as another wave of wetness fills your panties.

“Frankie… need you inside…” you whine, his tongue furiously working against the hardening bud. “Please…”

“Mmm, always such a needy girl,” he says. “Be a little patient. I missed you.” He helps you out of your soaked underwear and sees just how wet you are. “Fuck princess, you really are needy…”

His hand resting on your hip glides over to your middle, his thumb ghosting over your clit as your hips buck forward chasing the new sensation. You whine as he slowly, agonizingly teases the sensitive bundle of nerves and stares at your face watching it contort with pleasure.

“Yes, Frankie… needy jus’ for you… all you…” you whimper breathlessly at his touch. He loves when you’re like this, losing yourself to the sensations he gives you, soaking him with your slick. He can feel your wetness soaking through his sweats as your naked core rubs against his fingers and clothed cock. 

“Goddamn, gorgeous. Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, please…” you mewl. You keep grinding against him, the pressure in your lower belly building quicker and quicker. “Fill me up… please… wanna come on your cock…”

A guttural moan rumbles in his chest at that and he lifts you slightly to free his throbbing cock from his pants, precome already making the tip sparkle. He loses the pants completely and he guides you to lower down onto him. “Thaaat’s it baby… fuck, feel so good and warm,” he encourages, your walls welcoming him with every inch added inside. You gasp and moan at the stretch despite being so wet that you’re practically dripping for him. You quickly settle and feel positively stuffed. “Perfect fit. Pussy was made for me, princess.” He brings you down for a deep kiss before he says, “Now, show me how you rode that bull.”

You sit up and rest your hands on his chest for support as you slowly rock your hips forward and backward, gripping his shirt as you go. Sinful moans fill the room when you glide forward feeling the skin on his belly rub perfectly against your clit at the same time. “Fuck, Frankie…”

“Doing so good princess,” he praises, using his hands on your hips to help guide you back and forth, encouraging you to slowly pick up speed. “Yeah, ride me like you rode that bull, baby. Fuck… show me how good you are.” You sit up and pick up speed a bit at the praises he gives you, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. “Yes, beautiful. You’re so good. Gonna come on my cock baby?” 

Your walls flutter around him and he groans at the feeling. “Mhm,” you reply in a high-pitched whine and a nod. You claw at his shirt wanting to feel his skin. “Want this off. Wanna feel you.”

Frankie lifts up a little, ripping the shirt off his body and tossing it off the bed. Your hands roam his chest, feeling him up and down. Your face contorts at the sudden tightness in your abdomen. “Gonna come for you… oh my god…”

“That’s it, keep going… come for me baby, let me feel you squeeze me.. so good…” Frankie drives his hips up just a little as you grind yourself to a shaking orgasm on top of him, crying out in pleasure and collapsing onto his chest. He wraps his arms around you and keeps fucking into you, letting you ride out your orgasm on top of him.

He keeps going, slower now as you come down from your high, holding you in place with those perfectly muscular arms. “My good little cowgirl, wish I could have been there to watch you earlier,” Frankie praises as he moves and you’re teetering on the edge of overstimulation. While you’re still a little dazed from the booze, your senses are heightened nonetheless, and he fills them all. His scent fills your nose as you bury it into the crook of his neck, you feel his burning touch wrapped around your body, and you hear the sweet sounds and praises he mutters into your ear.

“Frankie… ‘m gonna come again…” you manage to whimper out.

“Already princess? Feels that good, huh?” he teases, but he’s barely holding on himself. You can feel the unmistakable throbbing of his cock inside of you. “Go ahead, baby. Come on my cock… not gonna last too much longer either…”

The rolling waves of pleasure overtake you quicker than you thought they would. Without a chance to warn him, you convulse under his touch, soaking him in your pleasure and writhing on top of him. Your muffled cries fill the room and send Frankie into a frenzy, fucking into you with sloppy, hard thrusts.

“Fuck yes, baby… ’m so close… my little cowgirl, ride me so good… fuck!” he yells and quickly pulls out, dropping one hand from around your body to pump his length, spilling all over his stomach in between your bodies. His legs shake and so do yours, barely able to keep yourself hovered over him. You meet his grunting with your own whimpering as you both pant your way through the aftershocks of your orgasms.

You stay laying on his chest, still held there by Frankie’s other arm and panting into his neck. Your tired eyes stay closed and you just want to lay right here on top of him with his sticky mess between you both. And you do, for a while, Frankie unable to completely catch his breath from the ride you just gave him, until he finally chirps up, “I knew you’d be an expert, princess.”

You smile and giggle. You remember hoping earlier when you sent him that video that it would drive him crazy like this, and your plan worked. “Knew you’d wanna see it first hand,” you murmur through tiredness, lingering alcohol, and complete fucked-out bliss.

He gently flips you over and lays you in the bed, getting up to retrieve a towel and clean up his mess. He wipes his stomach walking back over to the bed and gently does the same to you, pressing a kiss right below your belly button. You hum quietly and he gives you another kiss on your forehead. When Frankie climbs back into bed, you tuck yourself into his arms getting swallowed in his embrace, both of you wiggling into a comfortable position before you sigh, satisfied in every way you possibly could be.

“Goodnight, cowgirl,” he whispers and kisses the top of your head. He can tell from the feeble attempt at a response that you’re nearly asleep, and he hugs you a little tighter before you both doze off together.

a/n : could possibly have a fluffy little sequel for this if anyone would ever maybe want that...

Oh! I love this so much!!! 😍

what have I done

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 4,050 warnings: angst, piv, wrap it up folks, there's an established relationship of sorts here so it's already been discussed, reader has no physical descriptions. summary: you finally realise what frankie means to you, but is it too late? ao3: linked

what have I done.

Now wasn’t the time to be self-conscious. 

Clutching your phone in your hand and trying to peer around the crowds of people huddled in line for security you looked desperately for his familiar frame. You didn't have a ticket, the impulse of your decision meant the airport’s barricades were as close as you were going to get.

The security clearance lineup was busy despite the hour. You fought to focus as the crowd swayed and jostled. The sound of luggage wheels clicking on the tiled floor bled into the noise of early morning conversations, some excited for the journey ahead some tired already of the grind of work ahead. Anxious anticipation pulsated through you, urging you to continue searching through the sea of faces as you bounced on the balls of your feet.

You were almost ready to give up, turn on your heel and head home. But with a break in the crowd, so small and so quick, there was no mistaking that glimpse of his silhouette. His broad shoulders, his unruly mop of hair - everything. 

He stood near the security checkpoint, emptying the contents of his pockets into one of the grey plastic trays that he'd plucked from the stack beside him. He appeared calm amidst the chaos that surrounded him.

Yet panic flooded your chest, and heat prickled under your skin. 

It was now or never. 

Steeling yourself you clenched your hands into fists. Your nails dug into the flesh at the heel of your hands. The sting ran up your arms and it gave you a reprieve from the worry of your nerves. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

Before you could think it over any longer and before the nerves won out and had you walking back to the short-term parking lot. You shouted his name as loud as you could to be heard over the thrum of the airport's buzz. 

Then the world around you fell still. 

Hush swept over the security lineup. There was a shared intake of breath that seemed to take place between you and those around you. Your heart, beating so hard and so fast, it was the only thing you could hear as the thud thud thud pounded in your ears. 

Frankie’s head snapped up, his eyes searching until they locked onto yours. The shock on his face was palpable, mirrored by the surprise of those in line who turned to see the cause of the commotion.

For a moment, you were frozen, the gap between you feeling like an insurmountable distance. Then, impulsively, Frankie stepped out of line, leaving his belongings behind. The security guard called out to him, but he quickly threw back a plea of few words but didn’t hesitate, his focus entirely on you, surprised to see you there.

As he approached, you noticed the uncertainty in his eyes, a vulnerability that you hadn’t seen in him before. It was as if he was bracing himself for rejection, yet couldn’t stop himself from hoping.

When he was finally in front of you, the noise of the airport faded into the background. It was just the two of you.

The moment stretched, suspended in time. People around you resumed their activities, but the two of you remained locked in a silent exchange. You saw the questions in his eyes, the confusion. For he had bared his feelings to you, and in response, you had offered quiet and uncertainty.

“You're here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You nodded, struggling to find the words that had seemed so clear earlier that morning. The epiphany of waking up alone, with only the company of Frankie's admission of his feelings for you, a ghost that lingered in the still of the room. The house was quiet, with no familiar sound of the coffee maker or socked feet padding down the hallway - noises that had become a comfort in the past days of his most recent visit. 

You had been caught off guard by his declaration of love.

But you would be lying if you said you hadn't expected it was there. Hiding in plain sight this whole time. Bubbling under the surface, on the tip of his tongue on more than one occasion. Each time you'd suspected he was going to say something, you'd swiftly changed the subject or found a way to leave the room leaving him hanging with unspoken words in a state of confusion. 

But it was easier that way, safer. The occasional fooling around after a few drinks, the sudden bursts of affection that you both indulged in, those were manageable. It was a dance you had become skilled at, the art of keeping things casual, of never allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Those moments were pockets of escape from the realities of your lives, was an arrangement that worked for both of you.

At least you had thought it had.

It seemed that while you were comforting yourself with quiet ignorance of your feelings, Frankie was growing more confident in his feelings for you.

“I–” you started faltering, stumbling awkwardly over your words rethinking everything you had planned to say on the drive to the airport. 

It had been so much easier, formulating the words, reciting the monologue in your head. You'd been piecing together from the moment you'd left your home. But now, standing in front of Frankie it all felt like it wasn't enough.

The weight of your silence hung heavy in the air, and Frankie's hopeful expression began to waver. His eyes flickered with a mix of disappointment and resignation as if he had braced himself for this outcome. You could see the gears turning in his mind, preparing for rejection, the flicker of hurt in his eyes.

But then, something inside you shifted.

The fear of losing him, the realization of your true feelings, it all peaked at that very moment. It was after all what had jolted you out of bed. Caused you to frantically search for some half-decent clothes and your car keys before racing out of the door.

You finally found your voice, though quiet and cracked, “I'm sorry.”

Frankie's face fell, and the small hope that had flickered in his eyes extinguished. He took a step back, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of your apology had physically pushed him away.

“I thought…” he trailed off, his voice barely audible.

You reached out, your hand trembling as you gently touched his arm. “No, Frankie, let me finish,” you pleaded, desperation creeping into your voice. “I'm sorry for not saying anything earlier. I'm sorry for not acknowledging what,” you gestured at the space between the both of you frantically, “this is.”

Frankie's eyes filled with a mix of hope and apprehension. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid you might disappear if he touched you too forcefully. His fingers brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

You sighed, “I'm fucking this up, this all sounded a lot better in my head on the way over here.”

Frankie's lips twitched into a small smile, the vulnerability in his eyes gradually replaced by promise. “It's okay,” he said softly, his voice filled with understanding. “I've been fucking this up too.”

You stared at him, your mind aswirl with both relief and confusion. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Before he could answer you, a voice over the loudspeaker announced the final boarding call for his flight. The moment was interrupted, the reality of the situation setting in. Frankie glanced back towards the security checkpoint, the impatient TSA agents waiting on him, torn.

You took a deep breath, knowing what you had to say. “Go, catch your flight. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

He looked at you, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. After a moment, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Okay. We can figure this out together, right?”

“Sure,” you assured him as you took his hand in yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

He looked down at your joined hands and then with one last lingering look at you, Frankie turned and hurried back to his belongings, rushing through security.

You stood watching long after his head had disappeared out of view. Suddenly the departure of Frankie and the void of not knowing whatever this was now between the two of you. Whatever evolution had taken place in those split seconds had created a void, taking you out of the comfort of what you were and into something unfamiliar, something you felt you'd never get to experience again - something you didn't think you deserved.

Pulling the sleeves of your cardigan down over your hands for comfort, you tucked yourself away from the crowds and the flow of pedestrian traffic that had picked up flooding the security lineup. Your head was spinning, replaying the fleeting conversation. Such a small interaction that carried such a heavy weight that settled on your shoulders and made it harder for you to catch your breath for fear of tears.

As you made it back to your car, dodging the reuniting couples in arrivals, and happy families walking hand in hand back to the parking lot the reality of what had happened started to sink in. It wasn't about casual flings or unspoken feelings anymore. Frankie had revealed his heart to you, and you'd reciprocated, albeit in a clumsy manner.

The drive home didn't help, the journey feeling like it took twice as long. Each passing mile only made the void feel bigger, the hollow of your chest ache more. You'd just figured out what you wanted and now he was gone. The silence of the car, unable to bear the sound of the radio, amplified the cacophony of thoughts running through your mind.

Pulling into your driveway you grabbed your phone from the passenger seat and glanced at the screen.

A text message from Frankie.

Your heart skipped a beat, in conflict with the dread that you felt at the pit of your stomach. You unlocked the phone and read the message. It was short, quintessential Frankie, but held so much promise.

Two weeks.

It was exactly two weeks later when you felt the warmth of his body slip into the bed beside you. Arms around your waist pulling you into an embrace that brought his name to your lips whispered in quiet reverence in the silence of the night. 

Frankie.

The key you had pressed into his hand at the airport, your spare key, he had used it to let himself in at that late hour. Unable to entertain the notion of waiting to see you any later than that very moment. The darkness of the room enveloped you both as Frankie held you tightly, his breath warm against your neck.

For the past two weeks, communication between the two of you had been limited to sporadic phone calls and text messages as you negotiated work schedules and time zones. It was a constant dance of longing and uncertainty, as you both navigated the intricacies of your newfound connection. But now, with Frankie lying next to you, all the doubts and anxieties melted away.

You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent you had missed so desperately.

Frankie kissed your forehead softly, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “I couldn't stay away any longer,” he murmured.

“That's what the key was for,” you responded as you nuzzled yourself into the crook of his neck.

His laughter rumbled through his chest, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Even without it, I'd still have found a way in, I know where you keep the spare.”

The silence of the room, filled only by your shared breathing was a comfort. His fingers traced circles on your back as a contented sigh escaped your lips as you revelled in the warmth of his embrace. 

“I missed you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

His grip tightened around you as if trying to convey just how much he had missed you too. 

He dropped a kiss to your shoulder, his stubble grazed at your collarbone and despite the rough feel of it against your skin, you shrugged your shoulder into him to encourage him further. Groaning at the loss of his lips against your skin you looked up and against everything that was you, you pouted.

Another laugh escaped Frankie's lips, he pulled you tight to him, his lips finding yours for the first time since the airport. The night was late, and the room dark, but behind your eyes which fell closed in delight at the touch of his lips to yours, there were floods of colour bursting forth.

It was a moment that was equally suspended in time as it was filled with urgency. The anticipation that had built over the last two let go with the held breath you'd been holding onto since you left him letting way for those unspoken feelings you had spent so long pushing down. Every touch, every kiss was wave after wave pushing out the doubts and fears that had lingered in the depths of your mind.

Looking him in the eyes, you reached up and cupped the side of his face with your hand. He stilled, his arms caging you in on either side of your shoulders. The moonlight that slipped through the gap of the gauzy curtains cast shadows over the room but a slither hit his face and the warmth of his dark brown eyes radiated more than you could put into words. At that moment, you wondered what you had done to deserve something like this, someone like Frankie. 

You traced the outline of his lips with your thumb, savouring the tenderness of the moment. 

You lifted your gaze to meet his, examining his eyes for any hint of uncertainty or reluctance. Yet, all you saw was an abundance of love and unwavering determination. It was evident, without a doubt, that the past two weeks apart had only solidified his beliefs.

As he leaned down to capture your lips, you held your breath in anticipation. You weren't sure what you had done to earn the care and attention of the man above you, 

but you were grateful beyond words. His kiss was gentle yet passionate, a perfect blend of longing and tenderness. It felt like coming home after a long journey, like finding the missing piece of yourself that you never even knew was lost.

Frankie pulled you into a warm embrace, your heart skipped a beat. He smelled the same as always, faintly sweet with a hint of warm spice. His arms wrapped around you pulling him closer to him. Your hand rested on his chest, you could feel his heart racing, as was yours. The warmth of his breath danced across your neck sending shivers down your spine.

Your fingers, without even thinking about it, laced into the curls at the nape of his neck and tugged eliciting a growl from him as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, taking in the scent of your skin. He kissed you there. Softly and slowly before trailing more kisses down to your collarbone.

A moan escaped your lips as he nipped at the sensitive skin. Goosebumps rose on your arms and involuntarily you arched your back to give him more access, inviting him to continue. His hands slid up and down your sides, tracing the contours of your body underneath the thin fabric of the t-shirt you wore.

His kisses moved up your shoulder, to the crook of your neck, and your ear before meeting your lips in a tender but passionate kiss. His lips were soft and demanding all at once making your head spin as he explored yours patiently.

With his mouth on yours, you could taste familiarity on his lips. But it was mixed with something new - something that hadn't existed between the two of you before. It was intoxicating and made you quickly lose yourself in the moment completely. 

He paused for a moment, his breath lingering at your ear as he whispered, “God, I want you more than anything. This is real isn't it,” you heard the waiver in his voice, the disturbance of confidence, the genuine fear that possibly you might have changed your mind, “I don't know if I could be okay if this isn't it.”

You tucked an errant curl behind his ear, you knew he'd be alright without you. That he could go on. But the difference now was that you couldn't imagine going on without him. It wasn't just physical, though the last two weeks had been torturous, you'd missed the way his touch set your skin on fire and his kisses were enough to make you forget everything. It was more than that. It was the way he was able to see through you, through the walls you built up. He got you in a way that no one else before him had.

You inhaled deeply, feeling like you were standing on the edge of a cliff. Your heart raced with anticipation and your body was unsure whether to fight or flee. You were a work in progress, and changing habits overnight was not an option. But what was not in question, was your feelings for the man above you.

“It's real Frankie,” you managed a nod, “it's real,” you whispered as your fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, his bicep and forearm where your fingers found his and entwined together.

“Tell me,” he murmured hoarsely as his forehead dropped to touch yours, “tell me what I can do.”

Something about his request made your heart swell over with love for him again. This was Frankie, he wanted to know, to do, whatever it would take for you to feel safe, loved and at home in his arms. Swallowing you tilted your head so you could get a better look at him. Just enough so you could take in his face basking in the moonlight. His eyes were dark beneath the shadows, traces of darker circles hinting that the last two weeks hadn't been as placid as he'd made them out to be. His eyes and his face were set with serious concern - but his lips, they were turned up in a soft smile as he watched you think.

It was sweet and maybe a little adorable at the same time. It was also taking everything in you not to kiss him again. Instead, you smiled back at him, “I just want you, Frankie, just you. All of you.”

His lips crashed into yours and you felt something start to knit together inside of you. He wasn't going to fix you, you didn't need him to, but something about the acknowledgement of your feelings for him was soothing. His mouth and hands moved with urgency. He rolled onto his side, bringing you with him, his lips never leaving yours. His one hand cupped the side of your face, while the other tugged the t-shirt you slept in up and over your hips.

His fingers greedy, in one swift move he’d pulled your panties aside and sunk his fingers into your already waiting folds and the two of you moaned at the sensation. You at the feel of those calloused fingers working their way to curl and tease you. Him at the feeling of your warmth and receptive sounds you made as he found a rhythm that had the two of you humming with electricity.

“God, you feel good, Frankie,” you breathed out, arching your back again in response to his touch, which pushed his fingers just that bit deeper, just that bit further that had you biting your lip in anticipation of what more was to come.

He wrenched his lips from yours for a moment, only to kiss down along to your collarbone and the hollow of your throat, his nose nudging at your jaw tilting your head up, his breath hot against your skin and despite the warmth that coursed through your belly, you couldn't help but shiver.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, his voice raspy as he nipped at your jaw, his teeth sinking softly into your bottom lip, just enough to elicit a satisfying moan at the delightful sting.

You gasped as he drew his fingers out slowly as he continued to tease with a slowed pace that filled you with an ache that left you needing more. Your hips buckled with the need for him to sink his fingers back in, but he was on to your move and pulled away further despite your moaned pleas. 

You watched as his eyes locked onto yours, the hunger evident within them. A shiver ran down your spine again as he slowly traced a path with his fingers down your arm, your side, and over your hip, as he pushed your panties down and off of your legs despite him now pressing you into the mattress. You felt his breath against your skin as he leaned in to whisper, "Are you ready for me?"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded, unable to speak past the lump that formed in your throat in anticipation. His lips met yours in a soft kiss that was in conflict with the want and need that had built up between you. Frankie's name was a soft caress on your lips as he positioned himself between your legs, the warmth of his body enveloping you.

In that moment, you knew that this was something real. Something that felt like it was meant to be. The anticipation of what was to come left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as if it couldn't wait any longer. As he sunk into you, that moment of connection you knew it, this was the feeling you'd been pushing aside all those other times. Keeping it to just fast and dirty sex, no feelings, but this? This right here? This was a whole other level of intimacy between the two of you. It was no longer just about the physical need, but the emotional connection that had long been brewing deep between the two of you.

Your breath hitched as his hips found their rhythm, and your hands tangled in his hair, the knot twisting tighter and tighter.

“Frankie,” you moaned, your voice breaking as your climax neared.

His eyes never wavered from yours, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half smile as he picked up the rhythm, the heat and tightness of your body driving him further to the edge.

The way his voice had grown more tender, the way his lips brushed softly against your skin, the way his hands sought to touch and hold you closer with every passing moment. It wasn’t long until his name was a sweet plea on your lips as yours on his as your orgasm crashed over you. His pace didn’t falter and continued in his rhythm until he too found his release. His rhythm faltered for just a moment before he came to a stop, his forehead pressed against yours before he collapsed to the side of you.

Your breaths ragged and hearts pounding in your chests, your thighs pressed together as the aftershocks of your orgasm echoed through your body. He kissed the side of your neck, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.

“You okay?” he murmured, his gravelled voice full of concern.

You nodded, finally finding your voice and replied, “I’m good,” you pressed your lips to his in a slow, lazy kiss.

He smiled against your lips, relief washing over his face. “I was scared I'd fucked this up.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” you murmured, stroking his hair.

The silence was a blanket over the two of you in the quiet of the room. Everything had shifted and yet somehow everything still felt familiar, like coming home. There was no returning to the way things were, the line was crossed. While two weeks ago you weren’t exactly sure you wanted this kind of connection, now you weren’t sure you could ever let him go.

Oh that ending 🥲

in the locker room

frankie morales x f!reader | frankie masterlist

summary: when you join him for benny's fight, frankie appears stressed. you have an idea to de-stress him.

warnings: TF canon compliant. explicit smut/oral m! receiving. my spellings (written on phone) wordcount: 1.6k

an: dedicated to @rhoorl who I wound up yesterday with this. babe, ily and our thot chats.

Waiting feels like a whispered question in a room of time.

Phone in your palm, glancing as you watch the text change from received to read—smiling, locking it as your grin is caught in the reflection of the screen, illuminated, proof that once again he does this to you. Has this effect on you—makes you a little reckless.

Your nose catches another whiff of the slightly off citrus disinfectant. The ones doing its best to smother over the stench of old sweat and socks. It lingers, attempts to embed itself in your clothes, lets you walk away with the reminder you were here.

A part of you hopes to walk away with something a little more than a reminder. A memory, maybe. Tapping the back of your phone against your palm, nervousness begins to ebb over the adrenaline from sending the message.

Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting—

BANG. 

Leaning against the locker, metal sinking into your bones past clothing and skin, you pocket your phone. Listening to it, the door shutting behind him, his gait in those boots—heels clicking as he rounds the lockers and spots you.

Frankie drinks you in. Does so like a man starved, parched—as though he wasn’t seated beside you moments ago before you excused yourself. Before you made a beeline for a different door that wasn’t the ladies' bathroom.

He's looked at you like he's wanted to devour you since the night you met, and all the nights that have been since. Even if he has, plenty and plenty of times. The look doesn't waver, it doesn't lessen.

Now, it's just embroiled in love, affection, care.

“You alright?”

Nodding, he comes closer—more lines deepening around his brows, eyes; shoulders almost hanging like earrings they’re so high up.

“Querida, what are…”

As soon as you can, you pull him close by his jacket. Brown, worn—cuffs rolled up and suede greet the pads of your fingers as he moves close to you with ease.

Still, Frankie frowns.

Still, he’s weighed down by something, irked by it. Brain totting things off that he won’t share or spill—just offers hollow smiles and barely-there glances.

“You look stressed, baby.”

His jaw ticks, just when your palm cups his cheek—thumb brushing over the patch. The little heart you trace when you can, that your thumb finds when you’re kissing him, when he’s so canting his hips and making you sing.

But, you suspect he’s still not caught on. Not grasped why you’ve sent him a mayday message to meet you in an old, smelling locker room. 

“Baby,” you whisper, more sweetly—a slice of sultry to it. Like a cocktail you hope he’ll drown himself in.

Chewing his tongue as he averts his eyes, storing secrets and hiding terrible truths from you. Things you’ll pull from him in time, retrieve. Probably wish you hadn’t, too.

But it’s not why he’s here—not why you want him here.

You don’t want to talk, to find out.

“Wanna make you not stressed.” 

Swallowing, you see it shift and feel him freeze. His eyes slide back over you, almost snapping to you as his hands rest on your hips.

“Here?”

Smirking, you tilt your head. Offering nothing, saying nothing.

It’s then you feel Frankie’s hands. Those large, capable and fucking perfect hands sliding around your waist, pushing you flush with the locker and his frame. Little to no space between you. Soft stomach against yours, your thumbs fingering at the suede of his jacket as you stare into his eyes. 

“Want you in my mouth, Morales.” 

“Jesus, fuck.” 

Hands sliding down over the curve of his stomach, eyes not wavering, never leaving, your palm runs over the growing bulge in his jeans as you tell him. As you describe to him how bad you want him, how it’s all you thought about—that having him in your mouth would make your night, your day.

“—so, can I, Morales? Can I suck you off on here?”

“Yeah, baby. Fuck. ‘Course you can.”

The thank you comes out on its own, escapes in a whisper as his head tilts around yours to glance at the door—the sound of cheers echoing down the corridor, leading here, cutting through silence and held breaths. 

It’s with ease his belt undoes, clanging and clattering; his jeans open next, zip grating against teeth as you slide it down, pulling the fabric down next—just enough to free his straining cock.

“We gotta be quiet, baby.” 

And he snorts, offering a roll of his eyes. Hand taking yours as he helps you descend to your knees—the floor hard, cold as it crawls in past your jeans. But, head level with him, your mouth waters at the sight of him. All of a sudden desperate to feel the weight of him on your tongue, to feel him kiss the back of your throat and coat the back of your teeth in his pleasure.

It’s teasing the way you wrap your fingers around him, lightly pumping, making him groan somewhere deep inside of his chest—a grumble in Spanish, one that makes the corners of your mouth lift as you clear your throat.

“You’ve got such a nice cock, Morales,” you whisper, leaning forward, pressing a kiss to the tip—salty tang lingers on your lips when you kneel back. Watching as his hips buck, cock twitching in your hand. 

“You want to come in my mouth?”

It’s a murmur, an array of letters merged together to say please as you slide the tip of his cock inside your mouth, your smirking lips closing around it. Hearing it, the hiss from his teeth; but, you pull from him. 

Hearing it—the tortured sound that feels like a reward. But the prize is the way he looks a mess already. His lips were already parted, nostrils already slightly flared. That line between his brows gone, something you’re more pleased about than the sounds.

It’s why you lick a stripe up the base, smile at the pained fuck he lets escape. Taking him back into your mouth, fully, no games. Feeling his hand on the back of your head, before his grip tightens as you take more of him, feel him deeper—tears pricking at your eyes as spit begins to soak your chin at your enthusiasm.

Flicking your gaze up, you find his hidden under the shadow of his hat, the angle different—but you know his forehead is smooth. The furrows of whatever had caused them to melt away on your tongue as you taste what you crave. All salty tang and stress, it seeps into your throat as your head bobs and cheeks hollow.

Because it’s a reward to do this for him. To do this to him.

To have him like this, relaxed and yet tense. 

“Fuck, y’so good for me.”

The crowd masks over the sinful sounds of your mouth working him. You only lift off to catch your breath, letting the tip trace your swollen lips as you stare up at him, finding him transfixed, unable to see anything but you.

Fingers swipe over your chin, cleaning the spit from it, showing it you glistening on his fingers. “Don’t make a mess.”

The command—you’re sure has ruined your underwear. The same fabric that would provide so much relief if you could angle yourself to gain some friction.

Moaning, you clutch the base of him, mouth close to taking him as you breathe, “I love your cock, Frankie.”

Angling his head in a ‘yeah?’, his words are stolen as you slide him down your throat. Knees shuffling closer, you nudge them against the tips of his cowboy boots, hands around the back of his jeans for leverage. You feel it, the familiar fabric you’ve got in your palm—the one you’ve had chafing on your thighs when you’ve been bare and wanting; the one which you’ve picked up and washed with your clothes.

And it’s that familiarity that makes you moan, makes you swirl your tongue over the head of his cock, as you hear him curse in a deeper, more gravel-filled voice.

You love him, love this—love this thing between the two of you that you’ve never had with anyone else. It's like an inferno, consuming, not yielding even as time ticks on between you. There's only trust, understanding—a hard honesty, but the two of you work to keep there every single time.

Then, there's the fact that you know from the sounds he’s making he’s getting close. It makes your skin warm, pussy flutter; it makes you tempted to slot his boot between your thighs and ride him. Especially as you notice the sweat shining on his forehead, it twinkling under the shitty fluorescent lights when he rests his head against the metal behind him.

Fuck, it spurs you on. 

That and the taste of him reaching his pinnacle—how it’s stronger, tangier; his moans louder and less reserved. 

“Fuckfuckyesqueridafuck—“

The expletives flow freely, not held back or restrained. They practically echo, becoming a song that only your ears get to hear as his hand tightens and you watch his other fist clenched at his side.

Then you feel him at the back of your throat—him filling your mouth. Breaths ragged, pulled from him as you slowly continued to bob, not wanting to waste a drop, to not have everything you could.

You don’t consider moving until he loosens his hold on the back of your head, until his eyes unclench, and you’re washed in soft brown. 

He slips himself free from your lips as you swallow, his palm cupping your chin and jaw as he tilts you to look at him. 

“You alright?”

Nodding, you trace your thumb over your lip. “You feel better?”

He hums, for a moment looking all at peace as his hand aids you to your feet. You believe him, believe it—the hum. Looking away, for less than a second, allowing him to stuff his softened cock into the confines of his clothes as he redresses.

Then you see it.

The shadow in his eyes, the thing that had been there when you’d made it just for the last round of Benny’s fight. When you’d kissed his cheek and he’d gripped your hand and said he’d missed you—even if he'd seen you this morning.

Breath shaky, you fold your arms loosely. “You need to talk to me when we get home, don’t you?”

Not saying anything, not needing to, he pulls you close, unravels your arms and kisses your forehead. 

“I love you, querida.”

“Lo sé, Morales.”

Because you do.

Love this!!!

a debt to pay

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: you surprise frankie by coming home earlier than planned, answering the door a-la-fake-porn like, making him drag you to your bedroom.

warnings: smut. established relationship. praise kink. minor (and I mean brief) hand necklace. dirty talk. okay, frankie likes to talk kink. cowgirl riding for iwd. and the pizza goes cold (felt it needed a warning) wordcount: 4.8k an: to the wonderful, amazing @morallyinept - happy international women's day! i hope frankie treating you right is what you had on your bucket list for the day. but if not, just know you inspire me, and i'm grateful for your friendship every day. and ily.

Nothing should surprise him.

He’s seen a lot. A thing some could argue is far too much. In some ways, they’re right.

Frankie isn’t sure people who weren’t doctors should know the exact hue of red that blood is—shouldn’t know the pain from a bullet grazing his shoulder, catching flesh and ruining cloth.

Still, he found himself continually surprised—especially the night he met you.

Falling into him, into his life. Disrupting his days from bleeding into the next, knocking things off their axis. Change should be scary, but it was all welcomed, just not in a way he’d ever thought he’d earned.

Somehow, amidst the chaos you brought with you, you also handed him harmony. You made the corners of his world slot together. Slowly, he even found himself anchoring down to brick and mortar, and calling it ‘home’ for the first time since he’d originally left his for battles and fighting.

In time, even as months became a year, your things found their way to be with his, Frankie had assumed he’d seen everything. Happy to accept it, the routine, the complacency. He looked forward to lazy Sunday mornings with his fingers inside yours, toes curling; Thursday nights in a bar, watching a line appear on your brow as you scoured your brain for an answer to the trivia question.

He liked it, adored it.

And then you opened the front door for him.

Flooding him in golden light that makes him squint, before he finds himself reminded, quickly, he hasn’t seen it all. Not even by a margin.

Because you're not supposed to be here, due back tomorrow.

Your voice on the phone earlier muted, low, "I miss you, Morales," as he stares at your untouched, clean mug on the kitchen counter.

Yet, here you stand. All veiled in barely anything except bits of lace and sheer, a sight his eyes aren't able to tear away from even if he tries. Not even the dryness in his throat or the warmth emanating from the pizza box he's holding (attempting to sear his skin to his palm) is bothering him.

"Bab—"

His words are cut short, ended.

"Oh," you gasp. “Let me take that; and how much do I owe you?”

On registering your words, his eyes narrow, staring.

Doing so from one eye to the next. It taking a while, brain firing, ticking over, taking precious seconds as he remains out in the cold and you stand in the warmth in barely fucking anything, before it dawns on him. Crawls up over him as realises what it is you’re pretending to do, what you're reenacting.

Lips lifting, curling into one of his cheeks he steps in through the doorway. Almost over the threshold, easily able to take another step and close the door behind him.

But he waits.

Fingers twitch at his side, Frankie swallows, eyes dropping, tracing up the bare backs of your thighs as you bend over. Because fuck, you're something beautiful. A thing he always thinks, but finds himself reminded in waves as they crash into him.

Raising his hand, he itches across his chin, scratching along the wiry hair there as his gaze drops to the thin fabric protecting the last bit of your modesty as you and the bits of lace spread across your ass—

“I only have card—unless, I can pay you in another way?”

This shouldn’t be real.

You, like this. Him, standing like this. Not even as he steps inside, eyes trained on you—forgetting what words even mean—as you bend over.

A low exhale escapes, lips remaining parted as he fights to place his palm on the back of your thigh—stops himself from hooking a finger in the band of your underwear and dragging it down your thighs, bending you over the sofa, and burying his—

“I would really like to pay you in some way.”

Your words are almost lost due to the way his pulse has quickened in his ears, thundering, pounding. Feeling nothing but discomfort as his cock hardens against the zip of his pants as you bite down on your lip.

Brain quiet, no thoughts, all rendered silent by your appearance. Only able to shift enough to discard his cap, his jacket—folding it over the back of the sofa, eyes drawing out over you as he takes a step closer. Fingers finding his wrist, pinching, making sure this isn't some dream he hasn't woken up from.

But he can smell the present. The glorious cheese and several toppings, even if devouring the pizza are long forgotten. Because his eyes are raking over you, because how could he not—especially now as you straighten up, softly wiggling your hips.

"Is that so?” his voice rough, words catching. Letters clagging at the back of his teeth as though they attempted to glue to his mouth.

He's aware the three words are stained with want—a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips as you turn to face him, knowing it too.

But then, you always do know. Having long figured him out.

Like always, your eyes meet his in a way he can never explain, no words to articulate, to explain—just shared understanding dancing between the two of you.

“It’s only right,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your fingers reaching out to trace his wire-stubbled jawline. “It’s bad of me to order food and not have the money to pay.”

He catches your wrist, gently but firmly. Pulling you close, steadying you with the other at your waist. Hearing it, the gasp, the briefest of indications you'd been caught by surprise, as he brushes his fingers against the fabric, all unable to stop themself. Half-needing to know what it feels like, as his thumb smooths out, taking his time—forcing the tension to buzz in the air as he leans closer. The distance you small, minimal—almost non-existent—as his breath hitches in his throat.

“You know what you’re getting into?” his voice a low growl, strained.

His gaze locked on you, watching you bite on your lower lip. “I really don’t like being in debt.”

It’s low, the way he replies. Short, two words: okay baby, before he’s leading, guiding, pecking kisses on your lips that likely leave you disorientated. It thrumming in his veins, the fact he gets to undo you, peel off the thin fabric you’ve likely had stuffed at the back of the closet—or even purchased with him in mind on your trip, thighs pressed together, wondering, finger and thumb stroking it as you imagine if he'd rip it off or slowly slide it from you.

He's not sure himself.

A part of him wishes to snap it from your frame in front of open blinds and undrawn curtains. To place his palm on your ass and taste your gasp on his tongue.

But another, the part which has missed you, wishes to wait. Make you wait. Wants to drag it out as long as humanly possible, have you soaked, wet, needy and desperate.

Because Frankie wonders if you've imagined this. Or, if you plotted it or it came to you randomly.

He gets an answer to it when the two of you are behind another door—one more private, intimate.

And it feels different in the bedroom than it did out in the living room.

The lighting being one of the reasons.

In here, you had opted for a darker shade when you’d both redecorated. Told him you preferred it, and had given him a shrug and a smile as you did. It had been a while later when he’d learned it was for him. For his eyes, for the sleep he struggled to grasp. It’ll help, I think? Saying it to him as though it wasn’t the kindest fucking thing someone had done for him.

But then, you are a waking dream.

A thing which has shaped itself and made itself real right before his eyes. Sculpted yourself from wishes and wants, shaping until you’re nothing but tangible and real.

He’s not afraid to tell you that either. Spends hours whispering it into your skin, pressing it close to your ear, repeating it over and over what perfection you are as you look at him with lust-blown eyes and lips parted around his name.

Frankie doubts it’s enough.

Least of all now, when you’re painted in soft white light, all gentle in how it rolls over you, as it becomes clear you’ve been home for a while.

You've drawn the blackout curtains—keeping out the evening—and you'd flicked the little bedside lamp on, doing its best to illuminate the room.

Swallowing, he traces his teeth over his tongue, wondering if you watched him reverse off the drive as you waited to make your move. Wondering if you're snuck in, trying not to disturb—dress yourself up, even if you never need to.

Because you’re a vision always.

The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even angry because he's left his tools out or with disappointment etched into your eyes because he’s forgotten something, you’re radiant, a goddess on earth.

A thing he finds himself reminded of as he steps closer to you. Fingers fiddling at his side as begins to close the small gap.

If not for the way he’s looking at you, he might have missed the shiver running through you from anticipation—and he knows it because of his action, due to the hungry look he's sure he's sporting as he raises his hands to remove his outer shirt. Balling it up, throwing it, a thing already unremembered before it even leaves his fingers.

"Frankie..."

"I know, just keep your eyes on me."

And you do, ever obedient. A thing no one would believe him off outside of these four walls. Not when you hold yourself strong and are quick to bite back, all wit and quick-thinking in addition to your brains and beauty.

He hooks a finger under the edge of his t-shirt, dragging it up over his head as he hears it—that little hiss, that slight gasp you do as though you’ve not seen him topless a thousand times.

It feels good. Makes heat rise up his neck and flood his ears. For a moment, he forgets he’s not all that. Because he’s soft, a little thicker around the middle, it feels like a lifetime ago he was trained in combat. But the way you look at him makes him feel like that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Fuck, you make him hard. Make him want. Have done since the moment you’d given him half a chance.

It’s why he's quick to pull you close, desperate to slant his mouth over yours. All fiery, hungry. Aiming to claim and write out all the ways he’s thought of you in the days since you’d been away. How the hours of you being gone and the amount he’s missed you have all balled up into a thing that is now fuelling him—sketching his wishes and desires across your lips, against your tongue, burying them past your teeth so they sit in your throat.

He grasps. Likely leaves marks of it on the perfect skin that covers your waist—because his palm is calloused and worn. Reminders of holding things not half as soft as you. A flicker of guilt almost bubbles in his, as he moves to rest it on your cheek, cradling your jaw and ear in one hand, as he slides the other up your back.

You whimper against his teeth before fingers find the clasp—finger and thumb, pinging it open before he feels fabric scrape against him—then you moan.

His chest being greeted with nothing but warm, smooth bare skin—nipples pebbling in the cooler air before being pressed against him, before he cups the swell of one, thumb stroking, playing a pattern.

“Do this for all the deliveries you get?”

You snort, it blowing out in a breath. “Only the ones with packages I like.”

In the time you’ve been together, you’ve said worse, but this time makes cock harden more than it already is. It's almost uncomfortable, in how it presses against his zipper, wishing to be released, as his index and thumb stroke over your skin. Taking it on how warm you are, how impossibly soft—distantly feeling the tremors from your heart hammering into your ribs.

"Too good for me, you are." You hum, as he seals his mouth back over yours. “But, I don’t take card.”

Purposefully, he drops his hand, fingers dipping, tracing across the lace that covers your slit—finding damp fabric as his ears take in the note of a quiet escape leaving your lips. It trying to bury itself between your two mouths open, breathing it in.

“Guess you’ll have to swipe something else.”

He snorts, and buries it into your neck, teeth grazing your skin—nose catching the scent of your perfume. And the scent almost makes him dizzy from how his blood rushes south. How the moment he’d dropped you off for your flight, it had lingered in the cabin of his truck. Remaining there for the first few days you were gone, before slowly fading. Leaving.

Just there on the coat you'd hung near the door and the pillows he slept beside.

The ones he rested his head against when he’d heard your voice down the phone, tell me to touch myself, Frankie, I need you. His own hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it as you moaned his name, all those miles away, dripping instructions into your ear.

“You're such a dirty girl.”

You grin in response, fingers tugging at his curls—urging his mouth back to yours.

But, he instead traces his tongue over your pulse, circling it, all defiant in bowing to you as his teeth trace over his path. Instead, his finger dips, traces the crease of your thigh with his gaze never leaving yours.

“Missed you,” you whisper.

His hand slides between your thighs, cupping you—feeling the discernible wetness soaked through.

“Can feel it.”

You scoff, but he kisses it away.

Doing so in a similar way to how he makes you forget, how he pulls you from your mind and brings you to the present. It’s also swallowed by another gasp, one made because of his fingers finding the edge of the lace, hooking a finger underneath, sliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen nerves and slick entrance.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the whine you emit. “Feelin’ needy, querida?”

And he can’t take his eyes off you.

Practically locked in, watching as your lips part, and your hips try to shift for more friction. He’s too fearful he’ll miss it, all of it—a slight curve of a brow or a shimmer on your eyes. All things he thinks over when he dreams, when he wishes for replays of moments until the next day when he makes another that easily replaces a good one.

He likes how you say his name when he slips another finger inside you—how it falls all soft, breathless. So much intention in such a low sound. Even as you squirm, mouth pausing over his; little mewls and moans falling as he drags them in and out, all languorous, teasing.

“Want you.”

His thumb brushes over your swollen clit, a hiss escaping. “I know.”

You gasp his name, stifle a moan, teeth biting down on the underside of your lower lip as your lashes flutter. It’s your nails digging into his scalp that keeps him rooted, that keeps him focused—precise touches and strokes that have you rocking against him and keep him tuned in to you.

“Missed how you sound, baby. You're doing so well.”

You’re close. His words make your perfect pussy clench around him. A chorus of moans escaping as he curls them inside of you, finds that spot, the one which makes you babble and turns your muscles into liquid.

He likes that he can do this.

That he can read you and undo you. That it’s a thing he’s mastered when he’d thought he was far from learning. But then, he’d taken great pride in spending hours studying—in alternating between being on his back and on his knees.

And because of that, he knows when he halt you over the edge. Let you linger, not tipping.

Normally, he’d never tease, never make you want—but, today is a different kind of day as he stops. As he retracts his fingers and allows the fabric to lightly snap back into place.

It’s a different whine that cuts into the room then. It pours out from your lips as your eyes dig daggers into him—but, he knows you.

Knows it’s momentary and nothing he can’t fix. Able to hold his ground against it, digging heels into the floor—all refusing to be swayed by the storm rising inside of you, creeping across the formerly tranquil sea. Instead, his hands move to his belt—undoing it, metal clanging and zip sliding down as your eyes break from glaring to stare hungrily at the outline of his cock.

Watching as you walk backwards, the back of your knees hitting the bed before you’re perching—eyes holding his, tip of your tongue sweeping, tracing, as you move further up the bed. The one you’d picked—chosen.

He’s in a trance.

Under a spell when you hook a thumb on either side of your underwear.

It’s not smooth, it doesn’t glide or remove with ease—there’s even a slight kick out of your legs before it flings from your ankle. But, it makes him tighten the hold on his cock. Because it may not be a thing people ever see on TV or in movies, but then they never feel like this.

They don’t feel real, no rawness, no tangling of his trousers he has to step out of as he strokes himself, eyes flicking down to where you’re bare—where you’re glistening—

“Wanna ride you, Frank.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath, hands gripping the base of his cock.

It’s slow, the way he grazes his teeth over his lower lip. “S’that how you wanna pay me, yeah?”

“All I’ve thought about,” you reply, a soft smile greeting him. “Lemme ride you—wanna look at you, wanna watch you come, baby.”

Fuck. He doesn’t fight it.

Instead, letting you guide him, allowing you to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw when he kneels on the bed and groans—because it’s been a long day, querida; he’s not as young as he once was.

“Still know how to be good, though. Don’t you?” you smirk, open mouth leaving a trail down his neck, eyes flicking up when you leave one in the space above his heart.

Hands behind his head, admiring, doing nothing but watching you place your thighs on either side of his as your fingers wrap around his wrists. You pin him, pressing down—aching cock ignored, left to leak against his hip as your lips press to his, over and over, and over until he’s chasing for the feel of them when you pull back.

You only offer a gentle, "I missed you," against the air before you're lining him up, bearing down, sinking, taking him in as he paints a groan against your collarbone.

There’s a beat, maybe two.

Stillness, enveloped entirely by your walls as his mouth wraps itself around your breast, leaving it wet, coated in spit as he groans when you begin to move. Setting a rhythm, slow.

“Not rushing this, Frankie.”

He never wishes you to.

His hands gripping your hips, guiding you. Head falling back onto the sheets as his breath hitches, the sight of you atop him, breasts bouncing—owning him—is a sight he could never grow tired of. One he also never feels worthy of—but he won’t squander, won’t ruin.

Because you’re perfect, head to toe—pussy made for him as it strokes up and down and breaths leave your mouth in short pants.

“Y’so good to me, Frankie. So handsome.”

And he wants to tell you that it's you who is so good—who is nothing but colour in an otherwise grey world. That you’re sunshine and stars, moon and so much more goodness than he can list buried inside of you.

“Go on, querida,” he grunts through clenched teeth, hands squeezing your hips a little tighter as you move a little faster.

As you take a little more. It makes your eyes flutter, parts your lips—watching in nothing short of awe as you use him, as you lose yourself in the moment.

"That's it, just let go. Make yourself feel good.”

It’s something majestic when he sees you nearing release—when he feels you clench and flutter.

“Feels good, y’feel good inside me baby.”

“You need more?”

And you nod.

The green light—the sign—and he doesn’t wait a moment.

Just canting his hips up, making a rush of pleasure spread up his spine. He’s lightheaded, hot—practically dizzy with how good you feel enveloped around him.

The noises filling the air, your slick walls taking him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It’s drowned by the noises he pulls from you, making a mess of you as your lust-blown eyes land on him.

It almost steals his breath. Thieves it.

Because you’re so pretty, wild—a fucking dream on top of him. All soft and shimmering with perspiration from how good you ride him as he’s bathed in whines, moans and cries of his name.

“You're perfect,” he says, hand clamping on your hip as he shifts, and angles himself before thrusting up into you—watching your eyes squeeze shut. “From your smile to your tight pussy. You know that?”

Studying you as you try to keep the same rhythm. But, you’re nearing your climax—nails digging into his shoulder and neck, half-moons etched there, and he hopes they take hours to disappear.

“Thought about you all week—”

You moan, eyes meeting his. “Thought about you too—missed you. Missed how good you make me feel.”

“Fucked my fist to the thought of you like this. Never thought—fuck—I’d come home to this, baby. Y’fuckin’ perfect.”

Your chin lifts, neck elongating as he spreads his palm across your side, fingers pressing, grasping.

“Love hearing how much you missed me,” he smirks, watching you—thinking nothing but revolving thoughts as to how pretty you look, what a picture you are on top of him—

Then he hears a slam. Heavy boots. A voice he'd rather not hear at all:

“Fish? You home?”

He stops, realisation slamming into him.

A hand drops to the bedsheets, grasping them so hard his knuckles pale, and throb—the bones in his hand aching as he fights shouting and blowing his load right there and then.

The plans he’d made—the ones he’d put into place because you weren’t supposed to be home—all coming back to bite him. How he hadn’t wanted to spend another night alone, another evening in front of the television until you could call and tell him about your day—when he should have. He really fucking should have.

And you’re frozen, hips halted in place—his other hand remaining on your waist, fingers digging in as you both tense, keeping movements paused.

He considers it, the two choices he has and decides.

Leaning more against you—half-grinning, whispering shh as you look at him full of alarm—suddenly aware of the impending actuality that you could be caught like this.

And, then you clench around him. He feels it. Head tilting and eyes narrowing as he takes you in.

"Dirty girl," he mouths, and you look bashful, shy—a look he rarely sees when you’re split open on his cock and the base of him is covered in your slick.

“Fish, where the fuck are you?”

“Getting changed Ben, be a min.”

Your pussy flutters around him at your shout, as he moves to not shout the words towards your ear—feeling you clamp down, muffling a whimper. Another falls as he lifts up further onto his palm, dragging his nose down the valley between your breasts.

He knows you’re close—teetering, a few more thrusts and you’d have unravelled.

Dropping his voice, low—barely above a whisper, “Shh, baby. Or, I won’t let you finish.”

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Can‘t, Frankie—I can’t.”

He nods, finger and thumb holding your chin because he knows you can. Seen you do so much, and been witness to what you’re capable of—before his hand guides your hips to begin moving, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hips.

“Touch yourself for me, querida. Be good for me.”

And you whimper, something akin to his name.

But he’s guiding his mouth away, shouting, “Beers in the fridge, Ben.”

His mouth presses to your chest, hearing the shout from his friend back, but it’s the sound of your fingers on your slick and swollen clit that he tunes into. That he wants to flood his ears. Watching you shiver, shake, tremble from it as you tighten around him, choking his cock as he begins to thrust in and out.

He could keep you here. Should do too.

One week has already been too long. A need to make up for it—to have you pay for all the times you ask him those questions you wait until the lights are usually out for and he’s about to tip over to sleep; have you press yourself against him, nudging your ass into him as you cuddle, but really you want his mouth between your thighs. He should edge you, hang you over the edge of pleasure and watch your eyes dig into him until your lips whisper the word beginning with P.

But he won’t.

Couldn’t.

He likes knowing he pleases you too much.

Your moan bringing him back to it. Seeing how your eyes are clenched shut, trying to keep it behind your teeth. Failing, expletives dropping in breaths before he raises his hand, pressing it to your mouth, muffling it, the moans you have to release before you shake your head and fold into him.

Suddenly, he wants to move the dresser and lock the two of you in here. Wants to let them watch whatever fucking sports they want out there, and him just watch you in here.

You’re his favourite sight, after all. Especially like this. Free, not overthinking or worrying, just present, feeling as good as you should—as good as he always wants you to feel.

And you deserve this.

Hearing the low please fall before he plants his feet down, angling his cock up into you as you let out a muffled gasp. His palm flat to your shoulder, steadying you, as he feels your fingers slide it to your collarbone, resting it, fingers an inch away from the base of your neck.

You flick your eyes open—smothering him in permission, in radiant sunshine and lust, before the softest fucking smirk graces your lips—as his own mouth chokes out your name.

“Not tonight.”

It’s less words, and more a noise.

Because he’s close too—it having risen close to the top. Toes clenched around the sheets, digging in.

But he wants to feel you come first. And it’s there—that familiar sign. Lashes fluttering, gorgeous mouth going tight, slack as you tighten around him, locking up, clamping down as your hips move sloppily and out of rhythm.

You’re so fucking close.

“Shh, be good for me.”

Fingers, trembling and weak, slide around the base of his neck, tugging on his curls that are likely slick with sweat.

“N‘gonna last—let go for me baby.”

“Please.”

“Come for me.”

Spearing up into you with more vigour as you rasp, groan, and hiss—spit coating his fingers as he slides them out, dropping his hand from you as his knuckles press to the mattress as he fucks up into you.

Your body bucks, a cry you bury into his neck—a drag of nails against his scalp—as you come undone around him. Convulsing. Muffled cries vibrating against his pulse.

Frankie is barely able to contain the low growl as his hips stutter—heat raging through him, joined by rabid electricity. It sparking, ripping through, making him both ache and feel alive.

The sight of you and the feel of you drives him to the edge—and then over. A grip on your hip all tight as he thrusts into you one final time, unable to contain the growl. His chest heaves as he spills inside of you, and you tremble against him—panting, all messy and boneless as he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his back.

"You're incredible," he breathes into your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck.

You let out a small laugh, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips. "So are you."

He smiles against your skin, his heart swelling with affection. He may have assumed he'd seen everything, but you—you continue to surprise him, to captivate him in ways he never thought possible. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling his mouth from yours, feeling you ease him out of you, his hand lightly slaps you on the back of your bare ass.

"I missed you, querida," he murmurs, heart still racing in his chest.

Meeting his gaze, your lips purse. "I know," you whisper, leaning in to capture his lips in a tender kiss. "I'm here now."

“Shame you’ll have to sneak out the back and come in through the front door. Otherwise, you’ll be in here all night—”

His words trail off, a sly grin tugging at his lips as it dawns, rises up over your face and makes your mouth fall open. “Francisco….”

“Shoulda' told me you were coming home. It's boys night.”

Narrowing your eyes, you tick your jaw—spine straightening. “Well, I could stay in here—like this…”

Smirking, he kisses your nose. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby.”

Your mouth opens, a smirk gracing his lips in response as he raises a finger to his mouth, moving and pressing a kiss to your knee. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Oh this is so sweet!!! 😍😍

what comes after (frankie morales x f!reader)

summary: frankie comes into your life when you’re least expecting it, and you end up falling harder than you thought possible for him. will past heartbreak hold you back from true happiness?

warnings: age gap (28/38), asshole ex-boyf behaviour, infidelity (not by reader or frankie), kinda anxious!reader w commitment issues, soft!frankie, kissing, alcohol, cigarettes, smutty thoughts & happenings, mention of protected piv, cursing, benny being annoying, food, tiny mention of blood & vomit, reader has a tattoo and wears skirts & dresses, 18+ mdni.

notes: if you felt frankie morales’ shirts, they’d be made of boyfriend material. the super sweet, amazing, hot kind. i said what i said.

thank you to my bestie & beta @macfrog 💛 i love you, babe. this fic wouldn’t be here without you. tysm for holding my hand throughout; everything i have is yours, now & forever.

You first meet Frankie Morales in a club.

You’re with Kimmy: your best friend since hazy summer days consisting of scraped knees and jelly shoes. You’re also exhibiting typical break-up symptoms: not sleeping all that well, feeling distanced from yourself and the life you knew before your ex-boyfriend.

It’s Kimmy’s idea - go out, get drunk, fuck around and forget.

You were hardly one to argue, especially when she put it like that.

You’re dressed in a meagre scrap of satin; backless and skimming the tops of your thighs, Steve Maddens from eBay on your feet. You like how it all looks on you, sad that your favourite things have languished at the back of your closet for far too long.

You both forgo jackets, hoping to spend the extra cash from the cloakroom on vodka. You giggle together, arm in arm, floating past security in a cloud of perfume and last-minute tequila shots.

This is how it should be. This is where you belong.

The thumping bass soothes your soul, neon colours swirling behind your closed lids. You tip your head back, hands thrown in the air as you and Kimmy move in time - a routine you’ve had down since you were old enough to be in these places.

You garner jealous glares and longing stares; none of it bothers you. Nobody can touch you, not when they don’t know you. Then, and only then, would you worry.

You both head to the bar after a while, sweat shimmering on your exposed skin, holding tight onto one another as you squeeze through the throngs of people. You fight for a space, bar top sticky against your elbows as you wait to give your order. Bursts of laughter and flirty chatter soon come from beside you: without a doubt, you know what’ll come next.

Kimmy always gets hit on when you go out together. You’re not upset by it - you’re the quieter one by nature, happy to let her take the spotlight. Besides, up until recently, you’d been spoken for anyway. You turn to see your friend enamoured by a good-looking blonde guy, and she giggles in your ear that his name is Benny, and he’s an MMA fighter.

You stifle a laugh, watching as he tips his head to you in greeting, leaning in close to snatch Kimmy’s attention back. You try - and fail - to get the bartender’s attention, debating whether to head back to the dancefloor alone.

Then, you notice him.

Hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, throat bobbing as he swallows his drink down. His cap sits low on his head, dark curls spilling out underneath. He glances at you; you turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring. You feel the heat of his gaze; look back to see his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he studies you shyly.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Dark eyes, thick lashes, curved nose. Strong shoulders and a wide chest beneath his jacket; black and silver hair littering his jaw, save for a few patches here and there. He looks a little tired, out of place, kinda like he’d rather be anywhere other than here.

Older than you, for sure.

Sexy as hell.

He makes an apologetic gesture, rolling his eyes towards Benny, who has his tongue down Kimmy’s throat enthusiastically. Your best friend is responding just as eagerly, and you slide round them, approaching the man you’ve been side-eyeing.

You introduce yourself, and he does the same in return: Francisco Morales - Frankie, he shrugs.

You push past the awkwardness threatening to hold you back, righting your shoulders and try to emulate Kimmy. Stupid idea, in hindsight.

You find out Frankie’s a retired pilot, now the co-owner of a local hardware store. He tells you he and Benny were part of a bachelor party, made up of best pals since their military days. They happened to be the last ones standing, something that seems to surprise him as he says it.

Frankie asks about you: if you’re from around here, what you do for work. You watch him nodding intently as you talk, his eyes to travelling down to your cleavage when he thinks you’re not looking, slow smiles at your responses.

He leans close to hear you over the music, nose bumping your temple to talk to you. “You smoke?”

He smells earthy; musky cologne, a little sweat. You shake your head, but tell him you’ll tag along anyway. You check in with Kimmy, tell her where you’re headed as she drags Benny off to the dancefloor, agreeing to meet back at the bar in twenty.

You follow Frankie down the stairs, admiring his broad back in the dim lights as he offers you his hand to hold. “Wouldn’t wanna lose ya,” he chuckles, and you feel butterflies in your belly as his hand swallows yours, large and warm.

He lights up a smoke when you’re safely outside, offering it to you anyway, and you decide to take him up on it. God, what’s happening to you? You don’t do this. You haven’t done this since.. Nope. You’re not letting your mind wander there. Not now.

You hate how turned on you are by such a simple gesture: watching Frankie’s thick fingers languidly flick the lighter, cigarette dangling from his plush lips, dark eyes looking down at you.

“You both come here often?” he asks, exhaling smoke into the frigid air. You laugh, knowing honesty is probably the best policy. “More than I’d care to admit.”

Frankie grins again; his face so open and inviting. “Can’t say the same for us,” he tells you. “Will gets married next month, and it was Benny’s idea to bring him here tonight. That fucker didn’t think to plan anything else. So, the rest of ‘em got too drunk and crashed out at Santi’s.”

“So what I’m hearing is, you’re the sensible one?” you tease, goosebumps erupting over your bare arms as the trees shiver above you both. “Uh, kinda,” Frankie admits, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I don’t drink. This isn’t my usual idea of a good time.”

You digest this information, not wanting to probe. “Plus, ‘m probably too old,” he sighs, and you feel your eyebrows raising. “No age limit in a place like this,” you tell him quietly, and he stares at you again for a moment: eyes flicking between your lips and back up to hold your gaze. “Guess not,” he concludes with a slow grin, making your stomach flip over itself.

You feel yourself sobering up, rubbing your arms as the embers from your cigarette glow in the darkness. “You cold?” Frankie asks, and you shake your head. You smile at his generosity, the way his face has changed to being genuinely concerned. “We’ll be heading back inside soon, anyway.”

He shrugs off his jacket, offering it to you. “By my watch, we still got another fifteen minutes ‘til you said we’d be back. I wanna make the most of them.”

You try to refuse at first, but as soon as it’s draped round your shoulders, you embrace the warmth gladly. You sneak a glance at the curve of his biceps, thick forearms, narrow waist; and avert your eyes hastily.

Frankie tells you more about himself: thirty-eight, an ex-serviceman, set up the hardware business with his buddy Santiago - one of the no-hopers of the evening. You, in turn, tell him about your administration job in the city, how it barely covers your rent, let alone any future hopes and dreams.

But you get by, you have fun, and that’s all that matters.

You decide to omit any would-be sob story about your ex-boyfriend, the way you’d had to find a place to live within weeks due to exactly how you’d broken up. You don’t want to frighten him, and you feel out of practice with flirting: a winter coat you haven’t worn for months, potential compliments and pick-up lines forgotten like screwed up receipts in the pockets.

Frankie nods his head as you talk, crushing the end of his cigarette beneath his boot. “So you’re a live-in-the-moment kinda girl,” he concludes, and you find yourself smiling. “Guess I am”.

“What about you? Free spirit?” you ask teasingly, and his shoulders roll again. “Trying to be,” he says, laughing softly, tugging his cap off his head to run a hand through the mess of curls underneath.

Oh, you’re actually enjoying this.

Frankie’s so sweet, but you know there’s something a little deeper and darker below the surface; you can tell by the way he looks at you, his eyes tracking down to your mouth, the skin you have on show. You’re suddenly, savagely glad you wore this dress tonight.

“C’mon,” Frankie murmurs after a beat, motioning to take your arm again. “Better see what kinda carnage they’re creating in there.”

You follow him, slipping his jacket from your shoulders as you go. You’re sad to say goodbye to it: it smells so good, a woodsy scent you hope will linger for a while to come.

You’re soon plunged back into a different kind of darkness: the club is sweaty and warm, but you find the lights give you nothing other than a headache this time around. Kimmy is still wrapped around Benny, the two of them entwined in an embrace so bold you can’t even look at Frankie.

He wraps his arm around you regardless, indicating a booth in the shadows. “Wanna grab a seat?”

You find that you do. Very much.

The conversation flows easily, you sipping on a vodka tonic whilst Frankie nurses a rootbeer. You talk about your lives a little more: favourite bands, foods, beach spots. You notice your shin knocking against his; you rest it there, enjoying the feeling. You can’t help but watch his throat as he drinks, the thick expanse of smooth skin visible above the neckline of his shirt. Frankie, in turn, compliments you constantly, albeit a little bashfully.

He’s so fucking cute.

Before either of you realise it, it’s 2:00am. Benny and Kimmy stumble over like a couple of teenagers, and you welcome your friend back into your arms, lipgloss kissed off and shoes held in her hand. Benny drunkenly teases you both, shoving his friend lovingly, and you notice the flush blooming on Frankie’s cheeks, the way he clears his throat, legs untangled from yours.

“You girls want a ride home?” Frankie offers, and the four of you head out to the parking lot. You hear Benny and Kimmy making plans, swapping numbers, sharing kisses. You feel suddenly awkward around Frankie since his abrupt change in body language. You find yourself wishing - again - for the confidence of your best friend.

You take the front seat next to him, trying to ignore the noises coming from the backseat; all teeth and tongue and hushed laughter. Frankie switches on the radio, Alexander O’Neal crooning softly in the cab. You stare out the window, city lights blurring in the darkness.

The journey to your place is only half an hour, but every minute stretches out languidly as you glance at Frankie handling the wheel. The way he spins it, thighs nestled beneath.. Maybe it’s because you haven’t had sex in a while, but goddamn. Every movement he makes does something to your insides.

It falls quiet in the back after a while: you turn to see Kimmy slumped on Benny’s shoulder, the two of them snoring quietly, open-mouthed. She’ll kill you in the morning for it, but you take a quick snap on your phone anyway, dying inside at the fact your first night out as a single woman has ended up like this: her asleep on her would-be paramour’s shoulder, you in the front with some insane crush on his friend.

“Thanks for this,” you offer to Frankie, clearing your throat. “S’okay, means I know you’re home safe,” he shrugs, and you stifle a laugh - you only met him a few hours ago. “You don’t need to worry about that, Frankie,” you tell him, and he chews his lip. The scruff along his jaw and sweet curve of his nose shine in the silhouette from passing headlights, and you cross your legs deliberately.

“I didn’t mean to - y’know, be so awkward back there,” he confesses, and you stay silent, hoping he’ll say more. “I’m just used to Benny giving me shit about women, telling me not to get my hopes up ‘n all that. This doesn’t really come naturally to me, so.. I’m not.. Fuck. ‘m sorry - I’m useless at this,” he sighs, slumped in his seat.

You can’t help it. You giggle, and then Frankie’s laughing too. You hold your finger to your lips, indicating your two sleeping friends behind you.

You place your hand over his, feeling the rough skin stretched over his knuckles. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” you tell him. “Benny clearly doesn’t know shit, anyway. I’ve, uh, really liked getting to know you,” you squirm, feeling a little unease settle into your belly at how childish you sound.

You have liked it. You swore to yourself you weren’t looking to date so soon after having your heart trampled on; that you’d keep it close, under wraps, nurture it back to full health before you pulled it from your chest again.

You weren’t expecting to meet Frankie.

Yet, here you are. Offering yourself up to him, because something tells you he’s worth it. Drawn helplessly to him: a moth to a flame.

“Me too,” Frankie tells you, turning the bend that leads towards your apartment. You both grin at your quiet, shared admission, and you hate that you have to say goodbye. “This is us,” you say, and Frankie pulls over, leaning across to shake Benny awake.

You catch the sliver of skin above his waistband as he stretches, the soft belly nudging at his shirt, the edge of his boxers, the bulge beneath the material. Gotta be the vodka, you remind yourself, tearing your eyes away from him. All four of you climb out, Frankie asking if you have your keys, taking Kimmy’s shoes from you so you can search in your purse.

Your friends are in their own world - Kimmy has Benny pinned against the passenger door, toying with his shirt collar, telling him she’ll give him a call in the morning. You roll your eyes at Frankie, wordlessly apologising for the stall. He laughs it off, hand on your lower back as you approach them.

You don’t miss the small gesture.

“Kim, babe? Frankie probably wants to head off now,” you tell her gently, taking her hand. “Aw, fun sucker,” Benny teases, and Frankie tuts in annoyance. “Whatever, man,” you tell him lightly, and Kimmy gives him a final kiss goodbye. You turn away, Frankie’s hands back in his pockets, just like they were a few hours ago.

“There any hope in asking for your number?” he asks, brown eyes wide and kind. You swap digits, and he leans forward to kiss you on the cheek. Frankie lingers a fraction longer than you expect him to, and you’re so close to tugging his lips to yours. It’s the closest you’ve been to him all night, and you want more.

He pulls away before you can change your mind.

“I’ll call you,” he promises, and you feel the kind of excitement that has long laid dormant inside you. You’re seeing Frankie again. The first rays of light on your face after too long a spell in the dark.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Things burn out between Kimmy and Benny at an impressive speed. She’s at your apartment two months later, laid on her back on your bed, throwing out cheap insults you know she doesn’t really mean.

“There’s just no… what’s that thing?” she groans in frustration. “Spark?” you offer helpfully, sorting through your closet. “Yes. I mean, the sex is insane, right? But we have nothing in common. He doesn’t even try to get to really know me. Plus, I went to watch him fight, and it made me want to hurl. All that blood...” she makes a vomiting noise, and you throw a sock at her. Lovingly.

“Kimmy, you didn’t even give him time to prove himself,” you laugh, and she glares at you. “I know my worth, babe,” she sighs, flopping back down onto your sheets. “Amen, sister,” you murmur, throwing an old shirt of your ex’s into the trash pile. “Anyway, I’m starting to think I chose the wrong guy that night,” Kimmy goes on, and you pause.

“You mean Frankie?” you ask, and she hmmms in response. “He was gorgeous. It’s a shame, though. I saw him at the fight, said he’s seeing someone. Benny said he’s down bad,” she laughs, and you feel the band of tension round you snap in relief.

Down bad, huh? Interesting.

You figured you were having that kind of effect on him.

Frankie had texted you the very next morning, asking how you were feeling and if you wanted to head out for a drink sometime. You were seized with momentary panic: it’s too soon. You’d sworn yourself off of any meaningful connection, any risk to your dented confidence and wounded pride.

You were quick, however, to remind yourself of those brown eyes, warm hands, quiet laugh. Too quick.

You’re vaguely aware of Kimmy saying your name impatiently, bringing you back to the present. “Huh?” you mumble, and she stares at you. “Where’d you go? Don’t tell me you’re giving that fucking loser another second of your time,” she raises her brows, indicating Tyler’s shirt on the floor.

“I’d rather die,” you sigh dramatically, and Kimmy nods in approval. “That’s my girl. So, I’ll come over for drinks later before we head out?” she asks, and you give her the thumbs up. “Sounds good to me.”

Kimmy flashes you her signature grin: megawatt and sparkling, the one that landed Benny and several other unsuspecting people in the years you’ve been friends. She heads out, music blasting from her convertible as she goes. You shake your head fondly. You love that girl.

You’ll tell Kimmy about Frankie. You know you will. Eventually.

God, Frankie. You lay back on your bed, staring at the ceiling as you try not to spend every fucking waking moment thinking about him. He’s infectious, though: he makes you laugh, treats you so good, takes care of you, calls you his cosa linda, fucks you like nobody ever has before.

Your first date was a few days after you’d met him.

Nothing spectacular, just pizza at a place nearby Frankie swore was decent. And hell, he was right. You shared a greasy pepperoni, cheap but delicious. You didn’t care where you went with him; both of you were open about the fact you didn’t have much money. You’d never been less bothered about it in your life.

Frankie tells you - between bites - how all the cash he has goes back into the business he shares with Santi, how hard they can find it to compete with the big chain stores. He’s a little more guarded discussing his previous life as a Delta Force operator: you note the pain that clouds his eyes as he skims the surface of it, wordlessly refusing to delve any deeper.

So, you don’t push him. You let Frankie take your hand as you exit the pizzeria, thumb rubbing circles over your skin, soft kiss to your temple as he takes you home and tells you how much he enjoys being with you, asking when he can see you again.

Frankie’s happier when the two of you are at the beach the next weekend, drinking Coke out of glass bottles, stretched out on a fraying picnic blanket, talking about everything and nothing. He pulls you into the water with him, holds you against his chest, kisses you deep and slow, salt on your lips and your fingers in his curls.

You sleep together for the first time that night.

He’s so fucking meticulous about it: taking your clothes off slowly, savouring how bare and messy you are for him at the end of it, his tongue and teeth and lips driving you insane. You cling desperately to the sheets below you as Frankie makes your toes curl, your back arching as you reach to tug at his hair; his name a broken, groaning, loud mantra from your lips as your legs shake around him.

Frankie gets off on your pleasure, tearing the condom wrapper open with his teeth, eagerness like you’ve never encountered in your life. It’s a revelation. Once you start, you can’t stop. He’s big; so much more to take than you ever have before, a sweet ache between your thighs for days after.

Soon, he’s over at your apartment most evenings. He drops by with burgers after work one Friday night, and you sit cross-legged on the floor eating them straight out of the paper, sharing fries. Eighties music and golden light flood the room as the sun slides away; Frankie reaching out to swipe some ketchup from your bottom lip, sucking his thumb into his mouth afterwards, cargo shorts snug around his thighs.

It takes every ounce of your self-control not to ask him to fuck you right there and then.

Frankie asks about the tattoo he’d seen on your sternum the night before, a delicate fine-line inking of your star sign. “You believe in all that?” he smirks, tossing a fry into his mouth. “You don’t?” you raise an eyebrow, and he holds his hands up in defence. “S’long as we’re compatible, baby, I’ll believe whatever you tell me.”

Frankie spends the rest of the night showing you just how compatible you both are: hot tongue dragging over the ink beneath your breasts, nipping at the pillowy flesh he finds there, fingers digging into your ass as he pushes inside you, the two of you groaning in unison. He stays in your bed till the morning, shy smile and a dimple in his cheek as he leans over to kiss you.

“Can I take you out today?” he asks, looming above you, dark hair peppered with grey sticking out at odd angles. You think about combing your fingers through it, smoothing it down, worrying quietly about the level of intimacy you’re already sharing with him. “Sure,” you smile, and watch the creases beside his eyes deepen as he grins.

Frankie takes you on his favourite hiking trail, the two of you taking it slow, talking at length about your families as the route grows steeper. You discover he and Santi have been best friends since childhood, their mothers close since forever. You, in turn, tell him you don’t speak to your father much, but you dote on the child he has with his new wife: your baby sister.

Frankie squeezes your hand a little tighter, interlacing your fingers together. “Must be hard for you sometimes,” he says gently, and you think about it for a moment. “I mean.. I wonder why me and mom weren’t enough for him, sure. But as soon as that kiddo smiles at me, I forget all about that. She’s worth it. Even if he isn’t,” you tell him, and Frankie hums in agreement, kissing your temple.

Again, you’re rocked by the intimacy of the gesture, the way both of you have fallen so easily into soft touches and lingering glances. You know it’s naive, but you feel like you’ve known Frankie forever, like you’ve woken up to those dark eyes and broad shoulders your whole life.

One morning, on your way into the city, you decide to stop by Frankie’s hardware store with a coffee for him. Santiago finds you first, embraces you warmly, says he’s heard a lot about you. He has a twinkle in his eye as he wraps an arm around Frankie’s shoulder, hand on his chest affectionately as he introduces himself properly.

Warmth spreads through you watching how people adore him. You remember Benny’s easy teasing, how affectionate Santiago is toward him. Frankie walks you back to your car, pushes you gently into the door, taking advantage of the empty parking lot. His tongue is in your mouth, palm cradling your jaw, heat pooling in your belly. He makes that soft little groan, the one that drives you insane.

You pull away.

“You’re evil for that, Morales,” you scold him, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You’re the one showing up to my place of work in that goddamn skirt,” he sighs, eyes narrowing under the brim of his cap; fingers finding the band of your panties, pulling and releasing them with a gentle snap.

You’d forgotten how much he’d liked that particular skirt: you remember Frankie on his knees below you the week before, unzipping it slowly, hands dragging across your thighs. His pupils blown apart with lust as he gazed up at you; messy kisses on the bare curve of your hip, a bite that made you gasp his name.

“Mierda,” he’d moaned. “You’re a bad girl.”

Frankie repays the favour a few days later: calling by the office with your lunch, leftovers from the dinner he’d made the night before. Your team teases you when you come back sweaty and rumpled after your hour break - little do they know, he’d fucked you in the back of his truck and pocketed your underwear for good measure.

It’s brazen, bold, and fun. Just like wearing his cap whilst you rode him one time had been: his fingers digging into your waist, urging you on, telling you how fucking good you looked, that you’re his princesa.

Last night, he said he wanted to take you some place nice to eat, that he had some extra cash with nothing he’d rather spend it on than you. You’re happy anywhere with Frankie: kissing in the bed of his truck, his arms around you in the shower, wandering hand-in-hand around the farmers market, dipping your toes in a freezing cold lake together.

But, it is nice to be wined and dined sometimes. You can’t even remember the last time it happened.

The place was fancy, kitted out in low-lighting and jazz music. You wore a lemon-yellow dress: all laced-up bustier and draping skirt. You’d thrifted it, squealing at the price tag and texting Kimmy instantly. She said it’d be a crime to leave it behind, so it was yours for keeps.

You’d felt bashful watching Frankie’s eyes widen when you opened the door, looking good enough to eat in a white shirt, taut across his broad frame. No Standard Oil hat that evening - your heart melted envisioning running his fingers through his curls, floppy across his forehead. You’re fucking stunning, he’d murmured, grin warm across his features.

He’s not your boyfriend, though. A fact you’re continually reminding yourself of.

You don’t even know if you’re exclusive: Frankie never mentions anyone else, doesn’t even talk about himself all that much, unless you prompt him. His focus is all you, all the time.

Don’t you deserve that? After what you’ve been through? You deserve to enjoy the company, the sex, the feelings brewing below the surface.

What are you so afraid of?

You think of him now as you dress, the memory of his hands on you burnt into your brain, seared into your subconscious. Kimmy texts to say she’s on her way over, and you clatter downstairs in your heels, flicking the music stations over and pouring two large glasses of wine, trying to push Frankie and your worries to the back of your mind. For now.

The club is packed out.

Busier than it was when you were last here; people crammed into the booths and across the dancefloor, posted up against the bar. You and Kimmy haven’t let go of one another all night; borrowing lipliner and gum in the bathrooms, hand-in-hand as she orders shots that sizzle in your throat.

You’re stood not far from where you first encountered Frankie, and your mind drifts to what he might be doing. Snoring, you think. Lying on his back, hand flat on his chest, sparse hair you can feel on your cheek beneath it. You check your phone: 11:23pm. There’s a text from him.

Have a great night baby. Let me know if you need me x

You know he means if you need a ride home, someone to call in the cab. Yet, panic bubbles inside you at the sentence, threatening to spill over, poisoning your blissful tipsy state. A legacy left by your ex-boyfriend, the fear you try to squash down each time Frankie takes your hand, presses his lips to yours, makes your back arch beneath him.

Do you need him?

Of course not. It’s not like you’re in love with him or anything. Right?

Tyler devastated you. You remember your legs trembling as you sat on the side of the bath one night as he slept, curiosity getting the better of you. His phone was in your shaking hands as you scrolled through scores of messages between him and his work colleague, Melissa.

He’d been your boyfriend for five years. You were ready to move in together, take his last name if he asked. Yet here he was, hanging you out to fucking dry; telling Melissa everything he wanted to do to her, had done to her, how horny he was for her. You were so fucking embarrassed, especially when he’d tried to convince you it was all in your head. How foolish you’d been.

Kimmy had distracted you through it all, kept you going. You’d put in work yourself, piecing your life back together: the person you were before Tyler, sitting with the feelings and letting them wash over you till they didn’t sting so bad anymore.

Frankie frightens you. He could pull a single thread and you’d unravel, back at square one on a boardgame nobody wants to play.

Had it all been too much? Too fast?

“Hey, babe!” Kimmy pulls on your shoulder, and you’re spinning out of your reverie. “You see Sarah’s here?! Sarah from high school?” she tells you excitedly, and you smile weakly. “Shit, no way,” you manage, and you’re pulled over into a group of girls you haven’t seen for years; all air kisses and squealing over an engagement ring.

Something you could have had.

“Kimmy,” you shout over the music, hand on her arm. “You okay if I take five outside?”

She nods, and you follow the same path Frankie led you down all those weeks ago; his hand clasping yours, eyes twinkling in the low lighting.

You feel so strongly that Frankie won’t hurt you, yet your mind’s so corrupted by what Tyler did to you: waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to reveal his true colours.

Yet, you think you’ve seen them already.

The blue ocean Frankie held you in, kissing you deeply as his fingers dug into your thighs, holding you close. The orange sky of the sunset from the bed of his truck, wrapped in blankets as he told you the craziest shit he’d seen as a pilot. The thick green of the forests you’ve hiked in together, the way he’d drag you by the hand when you were puffing out of breath because you just had to see the view.

The dark brown of his eyes; ones you swear are flecked with molten gold. The pink of his lips; the way they curve into a smile when you open the door to him. The yellow of the sunlight that creeps through the blinds in the mornings, your naked body pressed to his, sore and sweaty and satisfied. The black sky you first spoke to him under, littered with faint stars, just like it is tonight.

Each time, you worried the water might be too cold, hike too steep, sunset too boring. Frankie kept proving you wrong: every experience more vibrant, saturated and warm than the last. You owe it to yourself - and to him - to trust him.

You call him without hesitating, shivering on the sidewalk. Frankie answers on the second ring.

“Hey, princesa. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, feeling your anxiety dissipating a little at the sound of his voice, velvety and deep. “I, uh, think I’m just about done tonight, though. Was thinking about calling a cab home.”

You hear him moving, shifting in his sheets. “It’s up to you, but I’d rather come get you. Can drop you straight home, ‘f you want,” Frankie offers, and you bite into your lip to stop your grin from widening. “So you know I’m home safe?” you manage to tease, recalling the conversation you had the night you met him.

“Think I’m pretty much qualified to worry about that now,” Frankie chuckles lowly through the phone into your ear. “Can stop for some fries, and you can stay here?” He offers, and you close your eyes, thinking there’s nowhere else you’d rather be in the world than right there.

To your horror, you feel tears threatening, and you swallow thickly to force the emotion back down. Frankie notes your silence. “Sweetheart? What’s up?” he probes gently, and you tap your foot in annoyance at yourself for worrying him, taking a deep breath.

“‘m all good, baby. Promise. See you in twenty?” you ask, and Frankie tells you he’ll see you soon, as quick as he can. “Kimmy need a ride?” he asks, and you make it your mission to go inside and find her.

You spot her easily, tell her an abridged version of your plans. You decide now isn’t the time to tell her about Frankie: not in a club full of people who remind you of Tyler, when you’re teetering on a knife edge with your emotions.

She asks if you’re alright, if you mind her staying out: they’re talking about an after-party somewhere, booking Ubers to the suburbs. You tell her it’s not your vibe - not tonight - but you can see she wants to carry on. She won’t, though. Not without checking with you first.

Kimmy promises to call you in the morning, that you’ll go and grab brunch. “You sure you’re okay, babe?” she asks one final time, squeezing you close. She makes you swear to let her know when you’re home safe, and you request the same.

Frankie’s there waiting for you when you leave the club, just like he said he would be.

He’s leant up against his truck: long legs in denim jeans, an old flannel stretched across his shoulders. He’s smoking languidly, gaze on you beneath the cap he never takes off. That smile you’ve come to know and love unfurls across Frankie’s features as he reaches for you, pulls you into his arms.

“Hi,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “You look so beautiful.”

It’s such a simple phrase. But it means so much more to you coming from Frankie: older and kinder than anyone you’ve been with before him.

Your fingers grab at the collar of his shirt, your lips finding his. You slide your tongue into his mouth and he responds, huge hands sliding to your waist and squeezing. You moan a little as the kiss deepens, and Frankie pulls back, eyes searching your face.

“Hey, hey. Everything okay?” he asks, taking your jaw in his hands, thumbs stroking your skin gently. “There’s, uh, some stuff I wanna tell you about. From my past, I mean,” you sigh, watching the crease deepen in Frankie’s brow at your words. “You’re fucking married, aren’t you?” he grimaces. You smack him lightly on the chest and he chuckles.

“I’m serious, Frankie,” you huff, and he relents. “I.. Didn’t have a good experience with my ex. Cheated on me with his colleague, gaslighted me about it; the works. I guess you could say he wasn’t a good guy, right? And I think I’m kinda fucked up as a result,” you tell him, voice trembling. Frankie’s eyes are wide and pleading, but he’s quiet, waiting for you to continue.

“I don’t wanna carry this on without you knowing that some things might be hard for me. If I ever hold back a little bit, come across like I don’t trust you..” you trail off, fingering the button of his shirt awkwardly. “Baby,” Frankie grips your wrists, “you don’t gotta explain anything to me. Not now - not ever - not if you don’t want to. But you should know, none of this is your fault.”

“So, we take it day by day. We keep talking, keep being open, you let me know if something’s too much, or I’m not giving you enough. You know what I mean?” Frankie asks, tilting your chin to look at him. His thumb swipes away a stray tear from your eye, and he kisses you softly; barely there before he pulls away.

“Living in the moment, right? I told you I was gonna try,” he chuckles weakly. “I’m not going anywhere, mi amor. I like you too damn much,” he admits.

You kiss him again, taking his cap in your hand so you can feel his curls, pressing your lips to the bare patch in the scruff along his jaw. With Frankie’s hand in yours, the pain begins to fade away. You’re sure it won’t be long till it’s gone forever. You smile at him.

“Let’s go home.”

I love this dynamic! 😍🫠

end up here

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: you’ve had a distaste for frankie for as long as you can remember, so how did you end up here?

word count: 1.6k

warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut, unsafe p in v, porn with literally no plot, pet names, creampie, kinda enemies to lovers vibes, no mention of age gap so read however you’d like

notes: soooo i basically only wrote this as a little exercise to get myself back into writing after not feeling it for awhile. i wasn’t really going to share it but!! here we are lol. i used the prompt “if you hate me so much, why are you letting me do this?” from this list as inspo to write this. if you decide to give this a read i hope you enjoy <3 also a big thanks to @javiscigarette for being a big part of helping to making the writing process enjoyable for me again i love you so so much my baby & @pr0ximamidnight for also encouraging me and taking a peek at this before posting i love you mother 🩷 MWAHHHHH xoxo

You’re not quite sure how you ended up with Frankie pressing you against the wall in his apartment as he desperately kisses you and grabs at your waist, but it’s the last thing you would’ve expected. Your distaste for the man, if you could even call it that, goes back further than you can remember. At this point you’re not even sure what caused it, the two of you bickering and making snide comments whenever there’s a chance, but here you are now, hands wandering up his broad chest as he presses his tongue into your mouth.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, breathing heavily as his dark eyes roam your features. “Bedroom?” His low husky voice sends heat straight to your already burning core.

You frantically nod your head and he grabs your hand, not wasting any moment. As he leads you from the living room down the hallway towards his bedroom, your heart beats rapidly in your chest, adrenaline from the way he was pressed against you just moments ago rushing through your body. Your eyes are glued to the back of him as he pulls you into the bedroom, roaming over the expanse of his broad shoulders and the way his hair curls along the back of his neck. He pulls you close to him when you enter the room, spinning you around before kicking the door shut and attaching his lips to yours once again.

You let out a small moan as his lips press into yours, soft as they move in sync. His hands trail down the sides of your body and over the curves of your waist, stopping at your hips as he grabs onto the fabric of your shirt. Slowly he starts to walk you backwards towards his bed, never breaking the kiss. The back of your legs hit the mattress, he lets out a small grunt as you squeeze his biceps to keep yourself steady and break away to look up at him.

“Lay back for me baby.” Baby , something you never thought you’d hear him say, at least not towards you.

You don’t hesitate, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and laying back with your legs slightly spread where he stands between them. His hands immediately latch back onto the hem of your shirt, you raise your arms allowing him to pull it up over your head in one swift motion before tossing it across the room.

“Christ…” he shakes his head in awe of you.

Becoming impatient, you grab at the hem of his own shirt causing him to remove his unbuttoned flannel leaving him in a gray tshirt and dark jeans. You bite your lip in anticipation, arms falling to your sides and grasping the comforter of his bed. His large, warm hands trail down your stomach before toying with the hem of your bottoms. He slips his finger below the hem and runs his knuckles back and forth on your soft skin, causing you to shudder, before pulling them off along with your underwear. Your hips lift off the bed the slightest bit as he takes a good look at your dripping cunt.

“All this for me?” You don’t say a word as he cocks his head to the side, a sly grin on his face as he looks down at you.

“Yes.” Your hands grip tighter as you hear the sound of his belt coming undone.

He unzips his jeans, pulling them down to reveal his hard cock and you let out a low whine as you watch him. He’s huge, precum already dripping from his dark red tip.

“How long have you thought of me this way querida?” Two large fingers run through your slick folds as he speaks, teasing you.

“Frankie,” you groan, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down toward you to capture another kiss. “I hate you.” You whisper, a small smile toying on your lips as you stare back at him.

He rests on his elbows, one on either side of your head as he laughs at your statement. “If you hate me so much, why are you letting me do this?” His voice is just above a whisper.

One of his arms moves between the two of you and without a warning, he lines up his cock with your throbbing entrance and slowly begins to push in. You let out a gasp, mouth falling open as you grip onto his shoulders.

“Oh my- fuck!” Your eyes fall shut as he splits you open, stopping only once he’s filled you to the brim.

He stays still for a moment, letting out a pleased hum as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, one hand grabbing at your waist as he tries to compose himself. Your arms wrap around his large frame, splaying out across his back as you hold him close to you. Once his breathing starts to steady, he begins to move, not hesitating to quicken his pace.

When he lifts his head from being buried in your neck, his eyes dart back and forth between your own. You can’t read the expression on his face as he continues to thrust in and out of your sopping wet cunt.

“I’ve thought about this,” he lets out a huff. “so many times.” His hand moves to caress the back of your neck as he kisses you again, deeper than before, if that’s even possible.

You sigh, wrapping your legs around his waist as your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt covering his upper back. He’s thought about this so many times. You try to wrap your head around the words that just left his mouth, unable to believe that it’s true even though you’ve thought about it many times as well.

“Frankie-” he thrusts deeper, causing a whine to leave your lips and interrupting your thoughts as you clench around him.

His eyes close and he lets out a shaky breath as he pauses, relishing in the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him, the heat of your bodies pressed against each other as he hits that perfect spot in you. The pool of heat in your stomach is growing by the second, his unexpected words fueling the fire.

“I’m close.” You rasp, barely able to form the words.

His thumb gently swipes across your cheek, other hand moving from your hip to caress your covered breast. “Let me feel you baby.” He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, then begins trailing them down your neck and chest.

Your back arches, a low hiss leaving your mouth when his large hand removes your tit from your bra. His soft, wet lips latch onto your already hardened peak, tongue circling the sensitive skin as your hands find their way to tangle in his curls. The combination of his quick thrusts and his tongue drawing circles on your breast finally send you over the edge.

You can’t help the cry that leaves your mouth as the coil in your stomach finally snaps sending a white hot sensation throughout your body. Frankie doesn’t stop his thrusts as he stares down at your trembling body beneath him. As your orgasm starts to come to an end, you tug at his curls, instantly triggering his own orgasm.

“Fuck.” He whimpers, forehead pressing against yours as he unloads himself inside you.

His body stays still, falling limp against you as he closes his eyes and catches his breath, shirt sticking to his damp skin. You lift your head to plant a gentle kiss on his lips, he lets out a deep sigh before he jolts up, eyes flying open.

“Oh shit I- I’m so sorry.” He looks down between the two of you where his spend is seeping out around his cock, still buried inside you.

You grab his cheeks, stopping him from moving any further. “Hey, it’s okay. Promise.” You give him a reassuring smile.

His hand smooths over your cheek as a smile grows on his own face. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You give him a small nod before he pulls out of you and you gasp at the loss, sitting up on your elbows as he goes in for another kiss. You watch him constantly as he pulls his jeans back on and runs a hand through his hair before sauntering off towards the bathroom.

You sit there for a moment while you wait for him, wondering how the hell this all happened before he returns with a washcloth to clean you up.

“What is it?” He stops in front of you, a wondering look on his face.

You snap out of your thoughts. “Hm?” You look up, eyes meeting with his.

“What are you thinking about?” He reaches down to start cleaning you up.

“You.” You say shyly.

He hums, nodding his head as he tries to control the smile on his face. Once he’s gotten you cleaned up he grabs a tshirt from his drawer, helping you put it on before changing his own and slipping out of his jeans. He pulls the comforter back so you can crawl in and nestles himself behind you as he pulls the blankets up.

“Still hate me?” He whispers as his hand drapes over your waist, pulling you closer.

“Hmmm, don’t know. Ask me again in the morning.” You press your lips together trying not to smile.

He lets out a deep laugh that shakes the bed as you turn to face him, snuggling into his chest as he rests his chin on the top of your head. He plants a small kiss there before the two of you drift off to sleep.

thank you for reading <3

Parents to Lovers Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

These can all be read as stand alone one shots, they are listed here chronologically but posting wise it’s random. ❤️

Paint with Me: You have a crush on the dad of your daughter’s best friend.

Friday Night: First time Frankie tells you he loves you and finally meeting the boys.

Play Date Hookup: Frankie arrives early to pick up Missy. ✨NEW✨

Between Us: You and Frankie are dating but keeping it a secret from your daughters.

Goober: On a stormy night, a dog makes a dash for the garage. Frankie is insistent, like all dad's, they are not keeping that damn dog.

AHH! Tattooed Frankie?! 🫠 Did not expect that cliffhanger at all! Holy shit!

Punto De Perder

Prisoner!Frankie Morales x Plus Size Reader

word count: 1k

warnings: DDDNE (some topics in this fic might be triggering for some, please be advised), talks of gang affiliation (kinda-ish), special guest 👀. that's all the warnings i'm going to give to not spoil anything. read at your own risk.

note: i'm slowly getting back into the grove of writing my friends so i hope you enjoy and YES there's gonna be a part 2!

“How did you even meet this mystery man?”

“Pen Pals.”

“Oh? Where's he from then?”

“He's in prison…” you muttered under your breath.

She gave you the most judgmental look you'd ever seen on your mother’s face. Something changed only a few seconds later, and she started laughing.

“That was a good joke,” she laughed. You scoffed, tossing down money for your half of lunch and walked out. Everyone had laughed at you when you mentioned Frankie. Said he was either a figment of your imagination or that all you did was tell them a joke. But he wasn't. He wasn't an imaginary man or a joke, he was real - he was just someone who had made a bad decision and was paying the consequences.

You brushed it all off as you pulled into the parking lot of the correction center. You flipped down your visor, fixing your lip gloss before getting out and fixing your dress. It may have sounded and looked silly, but you loved dressing up when you came for visitation.

It always looked the same. You and a group of people sat in a boring beige room filled with plastic chairs and steel tables bolted to the floor, with guards posted at each corner in the room. The door alarm went off, grabbing everyone's attention. As the door opened, a small sea of dark teal jumpsuits filled the room. Everyone stood up, hugging their loved ones before sitting down and talking. You looked up towards the door, and just like always, he was the last one to walk in. Tattoos on display and his dark curls being somewhat tamed by his cap.

“Conejita…” he whispered before wrapping his arms around you.

“Hi, baby,” you smiled, placing a small kiss on his cheek. “How are you?”

He let out a small sigh as he sat down in the chair, placing his hands on the table. “You know. Same old, same old. How about you, amor? How's the outside life?”

“Good. Just got settled into my new apartment.”

“That's good…” his lips turned into a smile as his eyes scanned your body, admiring how your dress defined your curves. “Te ves hermosa…” (You look beautiful.)

“Gracias, amor. Wanted to look nice for you. I know looking at men all day isn't really your style,” you joked, pulling a laugh from his lips.

Your heart swelled at the sound of his laughter, something that couldn't be expressed through pen and paper.

As visitation came to an end, you wanted nothing more than to walk out with Frankie by your side. But you couldn't. You said your goodbyes and shared a sweet kiss. One that you'll cherish until the next time you visit.

—

Frankie sat in his cell, reading over the letters and looking at the pictures you've sent him over the past few years. As his release date got closer and closer, he missed you more and more. Knowing that any day now, he'd get released, and you'd be there to pick him up. A tap on the steel door grabbed his attention.

“Fish.” His close friend and one of his crew members, Benny walked in. “Santiago wants to see you.”

Frankie rolled his eyes at Santiago's name, tucking the letters and pictures back in their safe spot. “What for?”

Benny shrugged. “He came to me personally. Didn't send one of his minions.”

“Shit… Fine. Where?”

“Laundry room.”

Frankie nodded, patting Benny on the back as he walked out of his cell. When Frankie first got here he had quickly gained the respect of most of the men in here, except for Santiago's team. Santiago had connections from the outside that helped him while he was on the inside, and one of those connections was someone serious, which then made some men look up to Santiago as a leader. Just how some looked up to Frankie.

Frankie walked into the laundry room, looking around and noticing he was surrounded by Santiago's crew.

“Fish.” Santiago chuckled as he walked to the center of the room. “Great to see you.”

“This another meeting? I told you I'm not-”

“No, not like that. Wouldn't want you to ruin your chances of getting out of this dump. Which is soon, right?”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah…”

“Pleasure working with you, Fish. Won't be the same without you.” Santiago got closer, handing Frankie an envelope. He shook Frankie's hand and pulled him close, whispering in his ear, “Don't open it ‘til you get back to your cell.”

Frankie tucked the envelope into his jumpsuit, wondering what the hell it could be. Knowing Santiago, it was probably just heroin. Frankie would just flush it when he got back to his cell.

“Anything else?”

“Nope.” Santiago smirked. “Have fun on the outside.”

—

Avoiding the guards at all cost, Frankie walked back into his cell. If Santiago had given him drugs and the guards were to have found it, Frankie's chances of getting out would quickly disappear. He closed the cell door and pulled the envelope out, quickly tearing it open. Thankfully none of his cell mates were there, so no one would see what's in the envelope.

To Frankie's surprise, it wasn't drugs. It was a polaroid. He pulled it out, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach. His hands started to shake as panic and anger flooded his system.

It was you. Curled up on a dirty mattress with what looked like shackles around your ankles. His eyes scanned the background, hoping to see some kind of hint on where you were, but the room was dark. All he could point out were cement walls. He felt handwriting on the back of the polaroid, which made him quickly flip it over.

“Shouldn't have fucked me over.”

His eyes scanned down to the signature scribbled at the bottom.

Dave York.

beta'd: @nerdieforpedro @kilamonster @ak-vintage @80ssong

divider: @saradika-graphics

Masterlist — Frankie Masterlist

Awww! I’m glad you found it again! ❤️

Parents to Lovers Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

These can all be read as stand alone one shots, they are listed here chronologically but posting wise it’s random. ❤️

Paint with Me: You have a crush on the dad of your daughter’s best friend.

Friday Night: First time Frankie tells you he loves you and finally meeting the boys.

Play Date Hookup: Frankie arrives early to pick up Missy. ✨NEW✨

Between Us: You and Frankie are dating but keeping it a secret from your daughters.

Goober: On a stormy night, a dog makes a dash for the garage. Frankie is insistent, like all dad's, they are not keeping that damn dog.

Ahhh! The way this made me want to SOB!

😭😭😭😭😭😭

She needs her happy ending!!!

he's got you on a pedestal, and me in his arms

Frankie Morales x bff!Reader

Word count: 3.6K

Summary: you've known Francisco "Frankie" Morales your whole lives. Not even his marriage kept you from being in his life and in his bed. Then one fateful weekend everything changes and you have to find the will to give him up.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, brief mention of underage sex (both parties are minors, 14-15 years old, and is consensual), childood friends, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, established relationship, cheating, idiots in love, reader and Frankie are the same age, mention of infertility (reader), fluff and angst, midlife crisis, camping sex, oral sex (f receiving), biting, creampie, oh and some sleepover antics of the nonsexual kind as well.

Author's Note: this is a re-upload. The original had a link to another site to read it, then I thought, why not just post here, dummy? This takes place before the events of Triple Frontier, and I'm a sucker for the whole "they knew each other all this time but only realized they're in love too late" kind of story. Also, bonus points for anyone who knows where the title of this story is from!

FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

You and Frankie stand side by side in the middle of the campsite, admiring the newly-erected tent that will serve as your shelter for the weekend. "You did that in a fifth of the time it took me." He shakes his head. "I'm both impressed and angry. And of course I was watching your ass the entire time." To emphasize this he gives your ass a little grab.

"I know," you reply smartly with a smirk. You grab a bedroll in each hand. "Did you remember to bring your Hello Kitty blanket?"

Smirking back he chuckles and takes the bedrolls from you and places them inside the tent. "Damn, I knew I forgot something." A late evening chill sends you both inside. Frankie quickly unrolls the beds and you lay on them, close together, staring up at the see-through roof, gazing at the stars. "C'mere," he motions you to join him. You scoot next to him and rest your head on his chest as he wraps his arms around you protectively. "This is nice, huh?"

"It's peaceful," you whisper. The inky blackness of the sky is only disturbed by the faraway specks of light that the stars give off, before the clouds move to finally reveal the moon.

"You ever just get tired of the constant stress of the world and just want to disappear for a little while?" Frankie sighs contentedly, leaning back with you nestled on his chest, his face illuminated by the gentle moonlight.

"All the time," you whisper back. "But only if I get to disappear with you."

He holds you closer, and when he presses a kiss to your temple you feel his lips curve into a smile. "Sometimes I just wish things could be like the good ol' days when we were kids. No worrying about, well, anything really. Just having fun and not having to care about all the other bullshit." He takes a deep breath and exhales, and you listen to the beat of his heart as you rest your head on his chest. "I think I'm only truly happy when I'm with you."

It's not the first time he's ever said this to you, this man you've shared most of your life with, who you've known since childhood and grown up to do everything with. Only now when you hear these words you're reminded of the ways your lives have forked off into different directions. Your responsibilities have changed, and when you raise your eyes to meet Frankie's you're tempted to just take him away from the woman you convinced him to marry. But there's one small catch that halts such a decision on your end.

He nudges you. "I thought you fell asleep there. You got so quiet. That's not like you."

"You're imagining things." You try to push your worrisome thoughts away.

"You know if you fall asleep first, I'm obligated to get out my Sharpie and draw a dick on your face."

You bury your face into his chest and laugh. It's one of those little traditions you carry out, ever since you were young and innocent enough to sleep over at each other's houses. "I guess I'll have to do my best to stay awake." You kiss his cheek.

Frankie pulls you in closer, sighing contentedly. "I think I really needed this.." his voice trails off and his breathing becomes deep and even until he's on the brink of falling asleep. "This is nice," he whispers, eyes closed.

This.. the yearly camping trip you take, a tradition that started that first year of his marriage, the year that separated your paths. This allows you to reconnect.

At one time there was nothing you didn't do without the other: you graduated kindergarten in the same class, learned to ride bikes, and Frankie even defended you from the school bully, earning a black eye for his efforts. You had your first kiss together at a friend's birthday party, playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. You fumbled towards each other in the dark of a closet, and once your lips met there were fireworks. It was one of those rare moments when you realize the person you're supposed to be with is already your best friend.

When you were teenagers and spending the night was no longer appropriate, you stayed down in his basement until his parents were asleep and you practiced kissing on the couch, trusting each other as you went a little further each time, until the night it happened and, unable to control yourselves, you were suddenly half-dressed, trying to keep quiet as your bodies came together. It was a blur of warm flesh, wet kisses, and a twinge of pain that was soon overshadowed by growing need. You didn't cum that first time, but Frankie definitely did, and after weeks of worrying you were relieved to find you weren't pregnant. Years later you found out that you would never be able to be a mother at all.

But that new chapter had begun, and so you spent nearly every spare moment together fucking. He'd sneak into your bedroom or you'd drive out to lover's lane and get hot and heavy in his truck. You were a couple, unofficially, always together. Even your families expected that one day you'd get married and have a family. But your paths diverged after graduation, when he joined the military and you chose to go to school across the country. You stayed in touch, called when you could, but time and distance kept you apart. You were both too reticent to talk about the future, and when you both started to see other people it became apparent that your childhood love had come to an end.

You kept in touch sporadically, typically when you were both in town visiting your families. And you'd hook up, as if time hadn't created any distance between your hearts. When you got your first apartment after college Frankie offered to help you move, and by the end of the day, despite the aches and pains after carrying boxes up two flights of stairs and arranging furniture, you still found time to christen every room, fucking like rabbits against any and every flat surface of your new place. Frankie had stamina like you wouldn't believe, but he always insisted it was only with you.

You were on-again, off-again, trying to kickstart your separate careers. But your friendship remained even when you dated other people. There were a few times when you found yourself in his bed when you were someone else's girlfriend, or vice versa. There was no malice or guilt involved. You just sought each other out because it was natural. Even when he got engaged you never lost faith that you would lose him. You liked his wife-to-be, Melissa, and even got along with her. But the night before she and Frankie were to get married, it was you he spent the night with, worried he was making the wrong choice. You'd convinced him, after he'd eaten you out from behind then fucked you hard, spread-eagle on your bed, to marry her. The next morning you stood at the altar with both of them, looking on and smiling, still feeling the drip of his cum from the night before.

What would Melissa think if she knew? Does she even have a grain of suspicion when you drive away with her husband to be unreachable for a whole weekend? This year everything is different, and maybe as you pulled away from their driveway, as she waved and blew kisses, she was gloating inside with the secret knowledge that she's the most important woman in his life now.

Frankie looks so serious in his sleep and you stifle your giggles as you draw on his face with eyeliner.

He stirs from his sleep. "Did you just draw a dick on my face?"

"No, you're dreaming," you lie, continuing to vandalize him with crudely drawn dicks as you straddle him.

"What the fuck? Stop that!" He laughs hysterically as he tries to push you off. "Babe, I said stop! There's no way those things are even proportionate!"

"Art is subjective! They don't need to be proportionate!" You're barely able to catch your breath from laughing so hard.

"Oh yeah? Subject this!" Frankie rolls over onto you, grabs your eyeliner pen and scribbles onto your face with it, drawing a huge dick and balls on your forehead and your cheeks. You let him, your eyes shut tight, trying to stay still though your body shakes with laughter. "Oh man.. look at you." He leans forward admiring his handiwork. "You look like a little dick-covered goblin. It's hilarious."

You ask for your mirror and he finds it within your duffel bag, then you both take turns checking out each other's artistry, giggling like kids. "Is it too much to ask for a few veins on these guys?" He grumbles.

"You have to earn dick veins. See this one right here? That's you. I drew it from memory. See the slight curve?"

Your smirk turns him on. "Anything else I have to earn? Maybe a wet nap to wipe all this away?"

"I've got something wet you can have.."

With a barely suppressed growl Frankie leans down and kisses you, tongue ravishing your mouth as your moans intermingle, and your limbs wrap around him as they've done hundreds of times. His heated kisses travel down your jaw, your neck where he leaves little love bites, marking you as his to whatever dumbass you decide to flirt with once you part ways after the weekend. Desire blooms, pink to hot red under your skin as he rips open your shirt, sending buttons flying in every direction. Jesus, you're already soaked for him, but he's taking his sweet time as usual, leaving you to want, to beg, to whimper. It's no use. He nips at your breasts, leaving love bites on them as well, little spots of magenta on the tops of your soft tits, before giving attention to your nipples, sucking one while plucking the other, feeling them harden so nicely in his mouth and under his savvy touch.

"Where the hell'd you learn all this patience?" you mutter, biting your lip as his tongue swirls around your navel, while he adeptly pulls down your shorts and panties together.

He glances up then laughs. "Even with those dicks drawn on your face, you're still so hot." He pays attention to the little tattoo of his name on your hip bone, giving it a gentle bite as well, feeling his blood surge when you sigh, arching your hips up, then laves it with his tongue to soothe it. Then he dips his head between your thighs, keeping one hand on your breast and the other on your thigh as he softly swipes you with his tongue, tasting you, moving his tongue in slow circles as he holds you down, knowing you like to be dominated in small ways like this. You taught him everything he knows about eating pussy, from those first fumbling attempts in high school, you guided him on what you wanted and how you wanted it. Now he knows it by heart, but he still listens to your body's signals, to your shuddering sighs and high-pitched screams when he's doing it right.

Tongue tickling your clit, then gently biting your swollen pussy lips, bringing out a sharp, stifled cry from you. "Don't pretend you don't like it, baby," he coos, his breath whispering over your slick folds. "Come on, let me hear you scream.."

Your thighs threaten to close around his head but he's strong enough to keep them wide apart, effectively restraining you as you grind against his face, offering up that honey he can taste even in his dreams. "Come on, baby.. come on.." he urges you, almost tantalizing you, and before you can put forth a smart response the dam breaks, and you feel it in the weakness of your knees before the fire within surges and makes you cry out, fucking his face until you're completely satisfied.

Not missing a beat, he flips you over and lifts your ass, admires your sopping cunt before running his finger along your wetness and offering it to you to suck off. You moan around his finger as he starts to fuck you from behind, spreading your thighs wider so he can see where you're joined, watch the smooth, rhythmic movements as you back up on him, your ass cheeks rippling with each bounce. "Fuck me.. fuck me.." you wail as your fingers clench the fabric of the bedroll beneath you, it's upholstery scratchy against your face as Frankie pushes your shoulders down and keeps your ass up.

"Jesus Christ!" he moans, and the rest of what he mumbles is completely inaudible as he speeds up, knowing the rhythm you like, the rhythm you need in order to cum, and his hands are magic on your clit as he rubs you from beneath.

"Frankieeee!!" His name turns into a moan, punctuated by the slap of his balls thwacking against your cunt. Your hair is wrapped around his hand, and he pulls you up as you support yourself on your arms. He presses in deep and your eyes widen from how he grazes your cervix, careful not to cause you any pain. Your arms wobble as a series of shocks originate deep within your cunt, growing and spreading as you start to cum. Frankie feels the swell rise within you and grunts, pushing harder because that's what's going to send you over the edge. You cry out in unison as you clench around him possessively, keeping his cock there where it belongs, in the first woman he ever fucked, in the only woman he measures everyone else against. He spills himself inside you, fingers indenting themselves on your hips, leaving small bruises, marking himself on your skin.

"We're a disaster," he moans later, catching his breath next to you.

"But we're fun."

"I don't know," he sighs. "It just feels like I've been living a mundane kind of life the past several years."

You raise yourself on an elbow, studying the solemn look on his handsome face. Lately in your texts and emails he's been downhearted, and now you're seeing it in person. His words pull on your heart. "We just fucked and now you want to get sad on me?" Then you smirk and press a soft kiss to his lips as you gently trace his graying beard with your fingertips. "Hey, listen to me: there is nothing mundane about Francisco Morales, okay?"

His smile is wide and he kisses your fingertips. You've put a bandage on his heart. "You're right, I think what I meant was, I've just been in this rut, this monotonous cycle, just doing the same thing over and over."

"Yeah. It's called Middle Age. Population: us." You take some makeup wipes from your bag and you both wipe away each other's dick artwork.

"Hey, no need to remind me I'm not that young anymore," he laughs, trying not to make a face as you wipe his face clean. "I don't wanna be the guy clinging to his youth. I just miss our younger days."

You sigh, settling in against him. "Those were the best times.. stealing my mom's car to go to parties, playing pranks at school, skipping class to make out in your truck.."

"They say high school will be the best years of your life and we laughed it off, calling it bullshit. Maybe they were onto something."

You playfully smack his shoulder. "Don't say that! I'm in my prime."

Frankie chuckles and kisses your forehead. "Sorry, I'm just in my feels tonight."

So are you, and you can't help the next words that come out of your mouth. "Sometimes I wonder how it would have turned out for us if we'd gotten together like everyone thought.." In the distance you hear thunder rumbling.

He shifts position slightly. "I'd like to think we actually would've stayed together. We've known each other forever. That kind of bond doesn't just go away." You're both quiet, lost in those dangerous thoughts of 'what-if' when he says, "You know I'd make you my wife if it weren't for Melissa, right?"

"Don't say that. Melissa's a good woman for you. She doesn't put up with your bullshit."

He continues as if he doesn't hear you, or chooses not to. "I'd leave her for you. I just don't want to continue this charade that we don't mean anything to each other, that our calls and our weekends together are dust in the wind, meaningless."

"Nothing between us is meaningless.. never has been," you whisper as your heart threatens to beat its way outside of your body, to fly straight into Frankie's chest and merge with his own red, throbbing heart. "Frankie, I think your judgment is just a little clouded.."

"Do you know how many times I've laid in bed, thinking about you? How many times I wish my wife was you?"

He starts an ache inside you, one that only he can provide the remedy for, but now things have taken a serious turn. You've never defined your relationship, you always just were. "Frankie, stop. Don't say that. Melissa's one of the few females I actually get along with." You tell yourself if you keep saying her name it'll humanize her, keep her as the victim of the story, the heroine, the protagonist. Whatever will help label you as the villain, because what else would anyone call you if they knew what you were doing?

"I don't take stock in what people say. We can always go back. We can't get back the time that was taken away from us, but we can claim the future for us." He takes a deep breath. "I'm leaving her. I've made up my mind. I'm going to tell her when I get home." He sees the look of shock on your face and he mistakes it for something else. "I've been thinking about this for a long time. This is what I want. And I know it's what you want. You know what? Fuck it, let's just run away together. She'll take the hint. I don't love her the same as I love you. She has to know this by now. Let's just start our lives together. Just go where we want. We can have that." His hands are gripping yours now, and the way he talks is manic, as if he's barely holding onto the last shred of his sanity.

You're shaking your head, going against your weaker nature. "If you'd asked me this a year ago I would've said yes immediately.. I'd follow you to Hell, you know that." Your heart breaks as you consider your next words. "Frankie, you can't leave Melissa, and we can't continue this.."

A pause. "Why the hell not?" You can hear his heart breaking in his voice.

You struggle with what little honor you have left. You promised Melissa you'd keep her secret. But you've also been betraying her trust for years. Your heart is heavy with the choice you have to make.

"She's pregnant," you answer quietly. And the rain starts, a light patter on your tent.

Frankie stares at you as if you're speaking gibberish. "I don't.. wait, what did you say?"

You groan inwardly. It's bad enough you had to say them once, now he needs them repeated. "Frankie, you're going to be a dad.. Melissa gave me the news yesterday.. she wanted to be the first to tell you."

He processes this, and you watch the expressions that cross his face: disbelief, calculation, understanding, then realization. You commit to memory the look of joy that's etched across his features. "That explains so much," he says, a smile growing on his lips. "That's so.. wow!"

Your own heart begins to break. It should be you with the life within you, but it's not. It never will be. You try to be happy for your best friend. As of now, that's all he'll ever be to you. There are so many things you want to say to him in this moment, but you swallow each and every word so that they're stopped in your throat and you choke on them.

When all is said and done, you can't be the number one girl in his life anymore. In fact you're already losing him. He hasn't even brought up the idea of running away with you. That small window of time you once shared has run out. And you have to learn to be okay with it.

At the end of your weekend together, you drop him off at his home where his wife waits out front, a beatific smile on her face. Your stomach twists as you try to keep from your heart turning bitter.

Now that you're both faced with the reality of your separate futures, Frankie turns to you before he exits, and an emotion crosses his face to which you can't put a name. "That can't really be it for us. Nothing has to change between us," he says, a last-ditch effort to keep you.

"We're always going to be friends," you tell him, a tear in your eye that you hope he doesn't see.

"We've never been just friends."

"But I've been selfish in keeping you around.. and I'll never be able to give you what she's giving you."

It's quiet in the car, and there is rarely quietness between you.

"I love you," he says, and you don't doubt it for a minute. You grab hold of his hand.

"I love you too," you tell him. "It's their turn now."

You watch from your car as he reunites with his wife, the intimately joyful conversation they have, after which Frankie picks her up and embraces her happily. It's both the worst kind of pain and the best.

dividers by @firefly-graphics 👑