Frankie Morales X Reader Smut - Tumblr Posts

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.