Im On My Frankie Grind And Im Not Mad About It - Tumblr Posts

Cramps

Summary: After going off of birth control, your periods have been a little more intense than you're used to. What starts out as a stressful morning between you and your husband, very quickly turns into a night that bodes very well for the both of you.

Paring: Husband Frankie Morales x Wife f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.4K on the dot (idk how we got here)

Warnings: SMUT (18+) PERIOD SEX, unprotected p in v sex (do better, but also they want a baby so), vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving, again, you're on your period but our pussy eating king Fransisco Morales is an unstoppable force of nature), creampie, praise kink, big fat nasty breeding kink (it's who I am now, I won't apologize for it), Frankie's got a NASTY mouth, Frankie is the best husband, reader is on her period/has period symptoms, talks about family planning/not being on birth control, use of nicknames (hermosa, quierda, cariño), reader has no physical descriptions besides that she can wear Frankie's clothes

A/N: Well... This was gonna be a drabble... and then it was just gonna be fluff.... and then it was gonna be just some implied smut... and now, we're here??? Idk, don't ask me 🥴 self indulgent bc I just finished my period (and my periods have been whack since stopping bc) and what better way to heal myself than imagining what Frankie would be like taking care of you 🥺 also pls be nice to me this is my first time writing Frankie and I'm v nervous EEK I hope you enjoy!!! sorry Javi bby, I still love u

Bitchy. 

You wished you had a better word to describe your mood for today, but truth be told, bitchy was by far the most accurate. 

You and Frankie were hoping to start trying for your first baby soon, and had recently gone off your birth control after your doctor had told you it may take a few months for your body to regulate itself before you had a better chance at getting pregnant. Your doctor had also  warned you about many of the symptoms and side effects that stopping the pill could have, one of those being becoming more aware of your emotions and mood swings throughout your cycle. That, you were prepared for. 

What you were not prepared for, was to feel like an absolute psychopath in the days leading up to your period. 

 Your cycle had  been wonky the past few months as your body began to sort itself out- you had a feeling your period was probably about to start soon, but hadn’t thought much about it, considering your terrible and grouchy mood had overshadowed it. You had tried your best to pull yourself together the past few days, chalking up your grumpiness to long hours at work, or just being in a weird funk, but today, you woke up with a fire in your gut, ready to fight, and poor Frankie was about to be your punching bag. 

Sweet Frankie had been nothing short of a saint when it came to just about anything, but dealing with your newly heightened emotions right before your period really should have earned him some sort of Presidential Medal of Bravery, considering that your newly discovered highs and lows while PMS-ing were just as frightening as any time he had spent during his time in the military. 

Unfortunately for your husband, despite his best efforts, he had been on your nerves all morning. Not because he was really doing anything wrong, but because the little things that you were normally so good about letting go, or the patience you frequently had seemed to have flown out the window, and you were convinced that if Frankie even breathed the wrong way, you were going to absolutely lose it. 

So when unsuspecting Frankie decided to ask you a simple request about after work plans, there was very little he could have done to prepare for your response. 

“Morning, Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, emerging into the kitchen, his hand rustling through his untamed, sleepy brown curls as he let out a yawn and a stretch, the slight softness of his stomach peeking out between his t-shirt and pajama pants as he raised his arms above his head before settling behind you. He wrapped himself around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss into your shoulder as you finished putting the last of your lunch in your bag for work, trying to force yourself to focus on his sweet good morning, rather than the empty bowl of cereal in the sink that had greeted you first thing when you woke up, already starting you off on the wrong foot in your already irritable mood. 

“Morning, babe.” You grinned, forcing yourself to forgo the annoyance hidden behind your smile as you pecked a quick kiss on Frankie’s lips before gathering the rest of your things for the day scattered across the kitchen table. “Sorry, I didn’t have time to make you breakfast this morning because I was running late, but there’s extra scrambled eggs on the stove if you want them. I’m really sorry, Frankie, I gotta head out, have a good day, I’ll see you later okay?” You sighed, slinging your work bag over your shoulder, your hands full of your coffee mug, water bottle and keys, your cluttered grip and running behind schedule only adding to your frustration. 

“All good, Querida, no worries. Hey, actually baby, before you leave,” He paused, setting down the coffee mug he was just about ready to take a sip of, as if a little lightbulb had just gone off in his brain, “do you mind picking up stuff to make that really good buffalo chicken dip for Benny’s tonight? I told ‘em we’d bring like, an appetizer or something, if that’s okay.” 

For Frankie’s sake, you couldn’t have been more thankful that you had your back turned to him, because if looks could kill, Frankie Morales would have been a dead man. 

Every rational part of your brain knew that even though his request perhaps wasn’t the best timing, stopping by the store and making dip to bring to Benny’s for game night really wasn’t that much time or effort out of your day. But today, it seemed like every part of your brain but the rational one seemed to be functioning properly, and the raging, irrational part might as well have heard that Frankie wanted you to prepare and cook a Thanksgiving meal for 74 after you got home from work. 

You took a deep breath, your grip tightening around the items in your hand, praying with every bone in your body that someway or another, you had misheard your husband. 

“Tonight? As in, like, today, after I get home from work?” You questioned, trying to do your best to keep your tone from sounding too condescending. 

“Yeah, we don’t have to be there until 7, I just don’t think I’m gonna have time to since I probably won’t be outta work until 6:30.” He shrugged nonchalantly, taking another swig of his coffee 

Oh yeah, you’d heard him right.  

You let out a deep sigh, even more over dramatic than you had intended it to be, arms crossed over your chest and stark frown spread across your face as you turned towards Frankie. 

“Oh, perfect! That’s a great thing for me to find out about at 7:45 A.M. the day of, Frank!” Your voice oozed with ferocious sarcasm, now slamming your things back down onto the table to run your hands over your face. “No, that’s great, because there’s nothing I wanted to do more than to come home and make buffalo chicken dip instead of all the other shit I needed to do today before we left! Amazing! Thank you!” 

At this point, you were almost positive that if your eyes rolled any further, they’d be in the back of your skull, letting out another angry huff as you shook your head at Frankie, who was looking absolutely petrified as he leaned back against the counter, eyes darting to the floor to avoid yours, running his hand over the wispy curls at the nape of his neck. Frankie began to stammer, trying to defend himself from your wrath. 

“Hermosa, I’m- I’m sorry? I know it’s last minute, but you normally make it every time we go over there, I just- I figured it’d be easy for you to do? You can get something else, or I can try to stop by the store really quick on the way home, I just might-” 

“Nope, you want buffalo chicken dip, apparently I’m making buffalo chicken dip!” You groaned, collecting everything back into your hands, swearing under your breath as you tried to balance everything in your grip. “Jesus, okay, I need to go to work, just- I don’t even know. I gotta go, Frankie.” 

“Querida, I-” Frankie pleaded, beginning to trail behind you as you made your way to the front door. 

“Frankie, whatever, it’s fine! I’ll make the stupid dip! I have to go to work, I’ll see you later.” You could feel the muscles in your jaw beginning to clench as you gritted your teeth, trying with everything in you to keep from exploding as you headed out of the house. Without even a kiss goodbye, you left Frankie in the doorway, watching you throw your things in the car and slam the door behind you as you drove down the driveway. 

But as soon as you were on the road and your house was out of view, you could instantly feel the tears beginning to well in your eyes, slowly streaming down your cheeks as you began to sob, wondering why you had ruined the morning over as stupid as an appetizer, and even worse, that you had been a complete asshole to your husband about it. 

You couldn’t have been more thankful that work had been quiet today- no meetings on the schedule, and no one coming to bother you, leaving you plenty of peace and quiet to continue sulking and brooding in your unpleasant mood. 

Right around lunch time, you found yourself eating alone in your office, wishing your lunch was about ten times saltier and chocolatier than it was, crying to yourself as you watched a video of a dog meeting its new human sibling for the first time.

Just as you were beginning to pack up the rest of your lunch and start back up with your work, you felt a terrible twinge in your lower stomach that had you just about keeled over in pain, followed by that all too familiar feeling in your underwear. 

Frantically scrambling, you reached into your bag to pull out a tampon, hurriedly shuffling to the nearest bathroom, only to reveal the murder scene equivalent as you pulled down your pants. 

Your period had come.  

In that moment, as much as you were dreading the pain and misery that was the next few days to come, you couldn’t also help but feel a slight sense of relief, realizing that you were in fact, not actually a crazy person for the way you were feeling, you were just PMS-ing out of your mind. You couldn’t also help but feel absolutely awful for your unjustified freak out at your husband this morning, your heart sinking with guilt as you made your way back to your desk, immediately grabbing your phone to text Frankie. 

“Hey… I’m so sorry about this morning. What you were asking me to do wasn’t a big deal at all and I totally freaked out on you. My period just started, I think that’s why I’ve been such a bitch this morning. I’m sorry, Frankie, I love you.💕 ” 

It was almost instantly after you hit send that the reply bubble popped up in your message, your heart pounding anxiously waiting for your husband’s reply. 

“It’s okay, I kind of had a feeling 😉 babe, you weren’t being a bitch- I should have talked to you about it sooner. Shitty timing on my part. I’m sorry. I love you too, Querida.” 

Before you could even respond, another message popped up below his first. 

“Don’t worry about going to the store or making anything tonight. I already texted Benny and told him we couldn’t come. We can spend the night in, just the two of us. I can pick up takeout on the way home if you want and we can pick a movie to watch.” 

You could feel your frustrated facade beginning to melt away as your lips shifted from a pursed frown to a small smirk reading Frankie’s text, your thumbs quickly tapping across the screen of your phone to reply. 

“Thank you. You’re the best.” 

“Of course. Hopefully none of your co-workers ask you to make buffalo chicken dip before you leave 😘” 

“Oh shut up, meanie.” 

“Just kidding. Have a good rest of your day, love you. 💙

“Love you too. 🤍” 

Although the rest of your day was nowhere near enjoyable, given the fact you felt like you were getting punched repeatedly in the uterus and your personality resembled that of Oscar the Grouch, you knew that your night in with Frankie was your light at the end of the tunnel, and only needed to make it a few more hours before there was at least some sweet relief finally headed your way. 

Despite the constant stabbing pain in your lower stomach and back, your drive home from work had you in much better spirits than your drive there, now not only having an explanation as to why you had felt like such a mess, but also knowing the rest of your night was going to be dedicated to nothing but cuddling up in your comfiest clothes and snuggling up next to Frankie on the couch. 

As you pulled down your street, you were surprised to see Frankie’s truck already parked in the driveway, wondering what he was doing at home almost an hour earlier than he had mentioned he would be this morning. Gathering all of your things out of the back of your car, you quietly entered your home, confusion scrunching in your brow as you called out for your husband. 

“Frankie? Babe, are you home?” 

Before you could even kick off your shoes or hang up your coat, Frankie had already appeared at the front door to greet you, boyish grin spread across his face as he grabbed your things out of your hand, carefully placing them on your entryway table before engulfing you in a bear hug, his broad arms wrapping around your body and pulling you closer into his chest. 

You could feel all the muscles in your body instantly relax as your face rested against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, soaking in the familiar woody and savory scent of him, letting yourself be consumed by every ounce of his embrace. 

“Hi Hermosa.” Frankie cooed, pressing a soft kiss against your temple, running his hands up and down your back as you looked up at his sweet brown eyes shining down at you. 

“What are you doing home so early? I mean, not that I’m mad about it at all, I just thought you said that you had to work until 6:30 and-” 

“Told my boss I had to head out early for a family emergency.” Frankie smirked, laughing at you playfully rolling your eyes from his so-called excuse. 

“Last time I checked, your wife being a grump because she’s bleeding out of her cooch doesn’t classify as a family emergency, Fransisco.” You teased, giving him a little shove, making the two of you giggle in tandem. 

“Eh, close enough. I’m really sorry about this morning, querida. I was a dick for not talking to you about plans beforehand and just assuming you could go do it. It wasn’t fair of me.” 

“It’s okay, Frankie. What you were asking for wasn’t a big deal and I made it one because I’ve been a psycho all day. I’m sorry, too.” 

“Well,” Frankie paused, pressing another kiss onto your cheek, the width of his palm gently cradling your jaw as you stared up at him and his sympathetic smile, “number one, you are not a psycho. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable you must feel right now, so even if you were, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. Number two,” he paused again, shifting his kiss from your cheek to your lips, his thumb delicately swiping across your skin, “you’re my wife and I love you more than anything, and if I can take a little time off to help make you feel better, it’s the least I can do. So, why don’t you go change into something comfortable, and when you get back down here, I will have pizza and ice cream, whatever movie you wanna watch, and a back rub ready for you, okay?”   

“Okay. Thank you, Frankie. God, you’re the best.” You grinned, pressing up on your tiptoes to let your mouth meet Frankie’s, the plush pout of his bottom lip swiping across yours, lingering just long enough to let the butterflies in your stomach begin to swirl, heat creeping through your cheeks in the tenderness of the moment.

“Of course, cariño. Te amo. Now go get changed.” With one last peck on his lips, you wiggled out of Frankie’s grasp to make your way up the stairs, grinning to see that your husband had already set out your favorite of his oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants, neatly folded on the bed for you to grab, quickly shuffling out of your uncomfortable work attire and exchanging it for Frankie’s clothes, your smile growing even wider at the feeling of perpetually being wrapped up in the essence of him. 

As you made your way back downstairs to meet Frankie, you found your heart skipping a beat again to see that the better part of the living room had been turned into a cozy sanctuary- lights dim and candles lit, both parts of your couch squished together, filled with every pillow and blanket you owned, and Frankie sitting in the middle, giant box of pizza, tub of ice cream and your handsome husband waiting for you. 

As if your emotions hadn’t already taken you on a wild roller coaster of a ride today, the adorable sight in front of you had you on the verge of tears again, wiping the wetness pooling in your eyes with the back of Frankie’s sweatshirt sleeve drooping off your arm before crawling into the blanket fort he had constructed for the two of you. 

“Frankie… You didn’t have to do this.” You sniffled, curling up next to Frankie as he draped a blanket over your lap and his arm over your shoulder, passing you a plate with 2 large pieces of pizza. 

“It’s the least I could do. I put on Hercules for us to watch, but if you wanna-” 

Before you could let him finish the rest of his sentence, you were running your hand across the scratchy stubble of his cheek, pulling his face closer to yours as you planted a kiss on his lips, feeling your smiles melt into one another's as your mouths met. “That sounds perfect. God, how’d I get so lucky?” 

“I could say the same thing, mi amor. You ready to start the movie?” 

“Only if you also pass me that tub of Ben and Jerry’s to go with my pizza.” 

“I think I can make that happen.” 

About half way through the movie, pizza and tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, your and Frankie’s bodies were tangled together in a sea of limbs and blankets, contently snuggled up with one another as Frankie’s fingers traced lazy circles on your back and shoulder as you laid against his chest. 

“You doin’ okay, querida? Need anything?” He cooed, his soft voice dancing in your ear. As if it weren’t enough that you had already been through the extreme highs and lows of almost every feeling under the sun today, the one you hadn’t been until this very moment was insatiably horny. While the mood swings you had mentally prepared yourself for with your new period symptoms, the constant other kind of ache between your legs you had not, and feeling the low rasp of Frankie’s words tickling your neck had been just enough to flip the switch to make you desperately needy. 

Letting your leg slide over Frankie’s lap, you pushed yourself up to straddle his hips, running your hands through the dark curls of his thick, brown hair, and down his broad chest, your fists bunching the worn fabric of his shirt in your hands as your mouths became a mess of tangled tongues and teeth. 

“I need- fuck- I need you, Frankie, please.” You pleaded between muffled moans, his tongue swiping in the parted space where your lips melted together as one, instinctively beginning to grind your hips into his, feeling the bulge in his sweatpants starting to grow beneath you. 

“Fuck- You sure, baby?” Frankie rasped, reactively bucking up into you, making you whine as his hands dug into your hips, guiding you as you swirled over the tented fabric of his bottom half rubbing against your covered core. 

“Please. Please, Frankie.” You were all but whimpering at this point, nodding frantically in approval as Frankie used the grasp on your hips to guide you onto your back, making you cock your head in confusion as Frankie scampered to the other side of the couch, back turned to you as he reached over the ledge, pulling out a thick, black towel with a smug grin on his face. “Did you seriously have a towel ready incase I wanted to have sex?” You snorted, shaking your head at Frankie, now crawling back to you, caging your body under his with an electric kiss as he shimmied the towel underneath you. 

“Maybe.” Frankie smirked, breaking from your kiss to let his lips trail down your body, his hands toying with the edge of his sweatshirt covering your body as he pushed it up your stomach and chest, helping you to shimmy it over your head, leaving your top half exposed. He gently palmed at your breasts, taking each pebbled nipple in his mouth, sucking and flicking at the buds with his tongue before letting his kisses travel down the soft skin of your stomach and waistband of your sweatpants. The clothes on your bottom half soon joined your sweatshirt in a crumpled pile as Frankie nestled himself between your legs, gently nudging your hips to let your thighs part, revealing your pussy, slick and shiny for him with your juices. 

Even though Frankie would eat you out for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a late night snack, you couldn’t help but feel guilty that he still found himself between your legs during your time of the month, considering any other man probably would have scoffed at just the thought of going down on you on your period. 

But, then again, Frankie Morales wasn’t just any other man. 

“Frankie, baby, you know you don’t- Oh fuck!” You gasped, cut off in surprise as Frankie’s tongue licked a long, broad strip across your cunt, making you shudder in pleasure as his head perked up, revealing the devilish grin spread between his cheeks watching your chest already heave in heavy, shaky breaths. 

“Oh I know I don’t have to, sweet girl. But I want to. Relax, baby, lemme take care of you.” 

Before you could agree, protest, or anything in between, Frankie was back between your legs, arms wrapped around your thighs as they draped over his broad shoulders, digging his fingertips into the plush softness of your skin, dragging his tongue through your folds with the exact grace and precision that he knew made you fall apart in seconds. 

With flat, firm presses of his mouth latched against your clit, you could already feel your bottom half writhing under him, the perfect pressure of his tongue dancing around your sensitive bundle of nerves making you moan in pleasure. As your head dipped back, falling into the couch pillow behind you, your hand shot down, fingers burying themselves in the wild curls of Frankie’s hair, tugging at the thick ends for any sort of release as he worked relentlessly at your aching cunt. 

“Fuck, Frankie, oh fuck- Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” You whined, your praise only intensifying the way your husband drank every ounce of you up, two thick fingers now gently pressing inside your heat, curled deliciously as they rocked in and out of your entrance, nudging against your g-spot. 

Frankie had spent enough time worshiping the altar that was your pussy to know exactly how to make you crumble beneath him, leaving you chanting his name like a prayer as his lips latched around your clit, ferociously sucking as his fingers prodded at the soft, spongy spot that made your cunt begin to clench and heat in your belly pool. 

“That’s it, Hermosa. I know you’re close, baby girl. Let me feel you, mi amor. I’ve got you.” Frankie groaned, his words humming deep in his chest, placing chaste kisses on the inside of your thighs before drinking you up like a man starved, adding a third finger into your heat, the added fullness and stretch, combined with Frankie’s relentless pace, enough to have the tingle that had been building at the base of your spine now washing through every inch of your body. Your orgasm began to crash through you, your pussy fluttering as pleasure radiated in your veins, making you cry out Frankie’s name over and over. 

Frankie worked persistently through your high, only pulling back after making sure that you had cum again, sitting back on his haunches as he admired the blissed out and ragged mess you had become, your pussy slick and swollen as your chest rose and fell in wrecked inhales and exhales, trying to compose yourself from the Frankie and fucked you senseless with just his tongue. 

Wiping the slick and juices glistening in his mustache with the back of his hand, Frankie tugged the sweatshirt covering his own body over his head, followed by his pants and boxers, freeing his painfully hard cock as it slapped against his stomach, his tip red and leaking with precum as his broad body loomed over yours, sucking and nipping at your pulse point as you whimpered his name. 

“Frankie, holy fuck.” 

“Such a good girl for me, querida. You still want me to fuck you, baby?” He mewled, the metallic and tangy taste of you still lingering on his tongue as he kissed you, laughing to himself at the way you found yourself frantically nodding your head to tell him yes before your words could. 

“Jesus Christ, yes. Fuck, please Frankie, I need to feel you.” 

Reaching down to stroke himself, he lined his cock up with your entrance, easily sliding into your heat and brushing his tip against your cervix, taking a moment to let you adjust to his fullness. The whine you let out as Frankie filled every inch of you was nothing short of ragged, digging your nails into the skin of his broad back as he ever so slowly began to thrust in and out of you, dragging his length against the slick of your cunt. 

“Oh fuck me- Fuck, you hear how wet you are for me, sweet girl? This what you needed, baby? To fill up that pretty little pussy of yours?” Frankie groaned, letting his forehead rest against yours, his sweaty curls now starting to stick to his skin as he pounded into you, rutting his hips at a faster and faster pace. 

“It’s all for you, Frankie- Oh shit- only for you.” You moaned, your fingers wrapping around the width of his biceps, flexing deliciously as he hovered over you, sucking you in to a long, deep kiss, fucking into you over and over. 

Even with the years between you and the ring on your finger, the possessive part of Frankie’s brain would never get over how the primal and all consuming feeling of knowing you were his, forever, your words shooting straight to his dick as a low groan rumbled in his chest, silently cursing to himself through gritted teeth, watching you fall apart below him. 

Readjusting himself, Frankie sat back on his heels, hooking his arm under one of your legs to drape it over his shoulder, the new angle stretching you out in a way that had you seeing stars as Frankie rammed into your g-spot and began thumbing at your clit, still swollen and sensitive from your first orgasm. You could already feel the heat beginning to bloom in your belly once again, your leg beginning to tremble hoisted over Frankie’s shoulder as he dug into the meat of your thigh with a bruising intensity. 

Just like he would never get over the fact of knowing you were his, Frankie would never get over watching you begin to crumble under his touch, taking the time to memorize every twitch and twinge your body made as you came closer and closer to your end, always savoring in the moaning mess you’d become as you fell apart around him. 

“Fuck, Frankie, Fuck, oh my god- I’m close, baby.” You were all but rambling at this point, your brain barley stringing together coherent sentences as you felt your cunt beginning to clench around his cock, the lewd noises of your moans, wetness and skin slapping together as your hips met filling the room at a borderline pornagraphic rate. 

“Meirda, I’m not gonna last much longer, hermosa. Fuck, where do you want me, baby?” Frankie growled through gritted teeth, his eyes locking on yours and telling him everything he needed to know without you saying a word. 

“Inside. Fuck, please Frankie, I want you to cum inside me.” 

Your confirmation was all it took to flip the switch in Frankie that sent him absolutely feral, the thought of being able to actually knock you up now that you weren’t on birth control anymore, giving you a baby, proving another way to the world to mark you as his? The thought alone was enough to have him bracing every bone in his body to keep him from cuming right then and there. 

“Fuck me. You want me to fill you up, querida? Fuck me full of you? Fuck a baby into you? That's what you want, huh?” Frankie moaned, grunting with each thrust of his hips, his rhythm becoming more frantic and shaky as he felt your pussy begin to flutter around him, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit, swirling them in frantic circles to make sure you came before he did. 

“Fuck, yes. I need you too, holy fuck- wanna make you a daddy, Fransisco.” 

You could feel the tightly wound knot in your core starting to snap, your legs trembling and breath shaking as Frankie fucked into you, finding yourself on the verge of collapse- but not before Frankie’s filthy mouth got the last word in. 

“Jesus, fuck- Fuck, hermosa. That’s what you want, pretty girl? I swear, I’m gonna fuck myself so deep into you it’ll fucking take. Get you fucking pregnant tonight.” 

That was all it took to have you orgasm come crashing through you, every inch of your body radiating with pleasure as you came, crying out Frankie’s name as you gushed around him, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head, your mind going blank and numb, the only thing grounding you were the incoherent ramblings of your husband as he followed suit behind you. 

“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too, fuck, fuck-ahhhhhh.” With one final thrust, Frankie could feel himself spilling against your walls, coating you with his spend as his cock pulsed, making sure he milked himself of every last drop deep inside your cunt before even thinking about pulling out. Moving your leg, Frankie slumped into you, splaying himself across your body as your chests rose and fell in sync, laying in silence as you let your breathing steady, coming back down to Earth from your high. 

With a shallow grunt, Frankie carefully pulled his softening cock out of your heat, leaning back to admire the mess he had made between your legs, his cum dripping down the inside of your thighs and pussy glistening with the mixture of your arousal. You let out a soft hiss at the loss of Frankie’s fullness inside you, only to quickly be replaced by a gasp as he buried his two fingers back into your cunt.  

“Gotta make sure every last drop stays in there, hermosa. Gonna keep you full of me all night, baby.” He mewled, carefully gathering his spend and pushing it deep inside you, making you whimper as he slowly pulsed his fingers back and forth, pulling away his hand to lean back into your body, engulfing you with an electric kiss. 

“Holy fuck, fuck me. Jesus, Frankie.” You laughed to yourself, your head dipping back on the pillow as you buried your face in your hands, at a loss for words at how euphoric you now felt in your post colital bliss. 

“Wow, again, already? Gotta give me a few after that querida.” He smirked, making you roll your eyes at his joke as you playfully swatted at him, making him lean in to pepper your body with kisses, leaving you squealing and squirming in delight. 

“You are absolutely ridiculous, Fransisco Morales. If you keep fucking me like that, then yeah, absolutley.” 

“If I keep fucking you like this, I have a very hopeful feeling that next month, we’ll have something else to care about besides period cramps.”

“I swear to god, if one of my cravings ends up being buffalo chicken dip once I’m pregnant, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Taglist:

@bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog @jaciejay13 @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog @lola8888673 @persephone-girl @copperhalfcent @innerpersonunknown @messinadresss @devineconjuring @endlessthxxghts @cool-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @theorganasolo @endlessthxxghts @messinadress @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled @amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @ilovepedro @pascalscoffin @missladym1981 @munson-hargrove-barnes86 @angel98624 @anoverwhelmingdin @pimosworld @nandan11 @iloveenya @survivingandenduring

queen of the night

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

Epiphyllum oxypetalum (queen of the night) blooms nocturnally, and its flowers wilt before dawn.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI wc: 7k summary: a stranger far away from home brings you unexpected comfort as you maneuver your new life. tags: smut, angst, descriptions of feeling lonely in a new place, emotional unavailability, a few vague mentions of PTSD, french and spanish, public make out, fucking in a bar bathroom bc it’s NYE, mirror sex as a little treat, calling frankie by his full name bc I want to, oral (f and m!receiving), protected PIV a/n: happy new year! thank you all for supporting me so much the last couple months, and reading all of your fics and chatting with everyone here was one of the brightest spots of my year. I hope you all enjoy a little bit of angsty, smutty NYE frankie 🤍 thank you, @chloeangelic ilysm and to my bestie @adamantiumspy for help with the spanish ily forever | divider by @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3 | @5oh5-notifs

This wasn’t quite how you imagined it. Taking a job so far from home had been an easy decision; too easy maybe. As soon as you saw the job posting, saw how perfectly it seemed to fit everything you had been looking for, you’d made up your mind in minutes. You could teach anywhere. The whole world needed teachers.

Besides, you had needed to get out. Your hometown was too steeped in memories, like trying to fit into a sweatshirt that you wore when you were a child. You couldn’t drive to the grocery store without being reminded of the countless other times you had driven the same route, wandered the same aisles, whether it was when you were sixteen or six months ago. The road past your mom’s work, the faded street sign at the corner of Cherry and Sycamore, the same diner that you used to drink milkshakes at with your best friend in sixth grade, the Walmart that’s been there since before you were born, all of it is tainted with something. Good memories, bad memories, or sometimes just a general feeling of nostalgia, and not usually the good kind; rather, the kind of nostalgia that settles deep in your body and turns you into little more than a fixture of the town – just as grey and low as the streets that get re-paved every summer.

Then there was him. You’d been together a few years, having met via a mutual friend. He’d gone to your college, the same college you both grew up a 5-minute drive away from. It was easy to like him, easy to laugh at the goofy things he would say and get lost in his smile. You hadn’t really gotten into anything serious before him, just casual hook ups and never-ending talking phases, but with him, it was real. It kept being real, being something good and comfortable and easy, until it wasn’t.

As much as you had changed, grown, shifted into something independent and smart and strong over the course of your early twenties, he had not. He was still just a kid in many ways, he just now had the body of a 25-year-old. As the days started feeling more and more grey, you knew something had to change.

He resents you, and you know that. You’ve made your peace with it. You left him one night in a fit of choked sobs and shaking limbs, knowing that what you were doing was the right thing even when it felt like the entire world was crashing down around you. You looked around at the apartment you shared, at the stacks of books on the floor, the art on the walls, the couch you picked out together at IKEA, and you said I’m leaving, and I don’t want you to come with me.

Now, here you are. A stranger in a strange world, an anonymous face on the street in a city twice the size and not even half as familiar as the one you’d known all your life. Maybe you had gone too far. You studied abroad in college, one of the things that changed you, but that was different. Group bus rides, distributed tickets, class on the steps of the Louvre, professors that handled the details. Now, there was no one else to handle the details. Only you.

It isn’t like you to get homesick, always grateful for any time away that you have ever gotten, but there’s something about this place, as beautiful as it undeniably is. It’s the anonymity, the impartiality, the feeling that if you drop dead in your tiny apartment on the Rue des Fraises, no one will ever know that you’re missing from the cobblestone streets. It almost makes you miss that stupid little diner and their strawberry marshmallow milkshakes. Almost makes you miss him. Almost.

You still have a couple weeks until your job starts in the new year, relying solely now on what little savings you have to carry you until the first paycheck. With one teacher leaving part-way through the year, they needed someone to fill out the semester before you can start on your own classes next fall. You’re not even entirely sure how you’re going to get that first paycheck, since the method for getting a bank account had so far evaded you. It was weird not to have anyone to ask, to not be able to call your mom and say, “how do I do this? Which account do I pick? Does it matter that I don’t have any credit over here?” You can certainly ask her those questions, but this time she doesn’t have the answers.

The air is cold, but not cold enough to snow, the temperatures teetering on the edge of freezing. You wish it would snow, maybe that would make you happier. You always did love the winter, loved going out and standing in the driveway on the night of the first big snowstorm, listening to the absolute silence that only a freshly fallen blanket of snow creates. Maybe some snow would make this place start to feel like a home.

You turn the key in the lock, burying your nose in your scarf, the big door covered in chipped blue paint swinging open into the foyer of your apartment building. You climb the stairs, and relish in the familiarity of at least this. These stairs, the way they curve upwards and the way you always take the outside as to not have to balance on the tiny marble wedges that nearly meet around the bend. You know that when you step inside your barely furnished apartment, you will be somewhere almost normal.

When you finally collapse into bed, shivering under the duvet and staring at the blank walls of your bedroom, your brain is too tired to fight with you. It’s been another day of elbowing your way through the language, of looking up vocabulary words on your phone as you stand in line at the boulangerie, of working up the courage to say avez-vous instead of qu’est-ce que vous avez like you had learned first, of trying to recall all of the French numbers as the man at the supermarché tells you your total in a quick and low voice. You can rehearse your own lines all you want, but you can’t rehearse what they’ll say back to you. You have a minor in French, should surely be able to handle this, but it turns out that an hour of class three days a week for four years is no match for living on your own in the country where everyone is born speaking it.

Christmas had come and gone. Without enough savings to fly back home, you’d spent part of the holiday on a video call to your parents and sister, watching as your family talked and laughed together on the other side of the world. It became too much too quickly, so you lied and said that you lost internet to justify hanging up the call. You let your head fall into your hands, phone screen going dark, and you thought that nothing had ever felt lonelier than that.

You got through it, half a bottle of wine and two watches of The Holiday later, your head throbbing from the alcohol and from the tears. Honestly now you were just glad it was over. Hopefully next year it won’t be like this again.

Now it was December 31st. New Year’s Eve. You had never really been one to go out and celebrate, spending most of your New Year’s Eves laying on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. Your now ex-boyfriend would stay up with you usually, placing a soft peck to your lips at midnight. Sometimes your dad would stay up and watch the ball drop, but usually he’d end up snoring in his chair well before the countdown. Spending New Year’s alone was much easier, and after the week you’d had, hell, after the year you had, it felt like nothing.

Still, as you stand at your window and hear the whooping and hollering emanating from the brightly lit streets, you can’t help but feel left out. Like someone forgot to send you an invitation but you accidently happen across the party anyway, watching your friends laugh and dance without you through the window. Maybe it was just residual loneliness from Christmas spent by yourself, or maybe it was the heavy weight of constantly feeling like you don’t belong here, but as you pour a glass of wine for yourself to the tune of crackling fireworks outside, you think this might be your new low.

Qui embrassez-vous à minuit? No one, probably. Though you kind of like to picture it. Who are you kissing at midnight now? Now that you’ve left everything and everyone behind? Is this what you wanted? Is this better? It hadn’t been that long since you’d been with your ex; your body still remembers the way he felt, the feeling of his skin on yours, the way he touched you. It hadn’t been a long time since you’d been held, kissed, fucked, but it had been a long time since you’d enjoyed it. At night, when you let yourself fall into that dark pit of longing, you distinctly feel the empty space around your body, devoid of someone else’s presence. The absence like a ghost, the ghost of someone you haven’t met lies beside you just out of reach.

You peer out the window, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of your wine glass, and take another sip as your gaze wanders to the bar on the far corner of your street. A group of three friends sit at a table outside and laugh, and the woman of the group gets particularly animated as she talks, accidently knocking her cider glass off the table with her waving hand, and you can hear the glass shatter from where you stand at the window. The three go silent, before erupting into another fit of laughter. You chuckle along with them, watching as she gets up from the table and disappears inside the bar, presumably telling someone about the spill. Your gaze shifts to a couple tucked in the corner under the awning, both leaning against the stone wall, lost to each other. They stand impossibly close, her hand holding a half-empty wine glass against his back. His forearm rests on her shoulder, his glass of beer just behind her head. You watch as she tilts her head to the side, resting her temple on his arm. As he leans in to kiss her, you look away.

You know what? Fuck this.

You set your glass down on the side table by the couch and disappear into your bedroom, filtering through the few outfit choices you have before settling on something vaguely more presentable than your sweats and t-shirt. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror, grab your coat, and disappear into the night.

--

The bar is loud, too loud, the warm humid air around Frankie filling with a cacophony of French conversation, none of which he can quite understand. He can pick up pieces, bits that are close enough to Spanish to make some sense to him, but after a drink or two he lets it all fade into white noise. Still, the music and the talking and the light is beginning to get to him. He never used to get overstimulated, being able to handle seemingly infinite inputs all at one time, juggling them all without a problem. That was part of the job, focusing under intense pressure, a million things happening at once and being required to function at the highest level anyway. Now though, things become too much a lot of the time. He hears something shatter against the cobblestone outside and jumps, his fingers instinctively tightening around his sweating pint glass. He turns his head to the door, sees a woman head for the counter next to where he sits. She says something about mon verre and un accident before the bartender disappears into the back room and comes back out with a broom and dustpan. Frankie watches it all with random fascination, the way that it is sometimes so easy to dissolve your attention into someone else’s life for a few minutes, forgetting your own and morphing into nothing but a fly on the wall.

What the hell was he doing here? In one of those random bursts of awareness, he remembers leaning against the check-in desk at the airport, the words when’s the next international flight? tumbling from his lips before he can even really think them through. Valerie hadn’t taken him back. He turned up at her doorstep, their doorstep, after disappearing for two weeks into the jungle with absolutely nothing to show for it but several more notches on his gun and several more regrets. He had fallen into his old role so easily, in the way that you slip on a worn pair of sneakers, all of his quiet reservations staying tamped down by his sense of duty to his friends. They were brothers. They’d been through hell together so many other times already, what was one more time? The money was a nice motivator, not that it mattered in the end.

His eyes focus and unfocus on the dripping condensation as it glitters down his glass in the warm light of the bar. Every crack of fireworks makes him want to jump out of his skin. It’s not until he hears something unexpected, French that doesn’t fit, French with a halting cadence that doesn’t quite flow like the sea of lyrical words that have been cascading around him all night, that awareness crowds his senses again. His eyes snap up to meet the sound just as you slide onto an empty barstool across the corner of the bar. His breath catches in his throat as he watches your lips form around your words, watches the way your eyes catch the light.

--

“Je voudrais un whisky-coca, s’il vous plaît,” you say to the bartender as you slide into the seat. He nods once before turning to take a bottle of Four Roses off the clear shelf behind the bar, and you think to yourself how strange it is to be drinking a whiskey that’s distilled so close to home in a place that feels so far away.

You run your hand over your forehead, your elbow coming to meet the sticky table. It’s gotta be almost eleven now. You look around, taking in your surroundings as you wait on your drink. That’s when you see him. He’s looking at you already, and he quickly shifts his gaze when you meet his eyes. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. He’s wearing a navy-blue Standard Oil cap, wild curls spilling out around the edges. He’s broad and big, his hand making the pint glass look comically small. Salt and pepper scruff accents his jaw, and you drag your eyes down his nose and to the little cleft in his bottom lip. God.

You thank the bartender in a haze with a quick merci when he sets your drink down in front of you on a flimsy paper coaster. He responds with “you’re welcome,” in accented English, and you sigh. That always seems to happen.

“Are you American?” someone asks you, and you lift your eyes to see that the voice belongs to him. It’s low, raspy, and it fits him perfectly. His unaccented English surprises you. He sounds American too.

“Is it that obvious?” you sigh, chuckling lightly as you bring your drink to your lips.

“Less obvious than me,” he smiles, taking a sip of his beer.

“Mmm,” you hum, eyeing his hat again. “Not a lot of Standard Oil hats around here, I’ve noticed.”

He laughs at that, his eyes glimmering in the low light. You could drink him in forever, and you try to take in as many of his features as you can without being too obvious about it.

“So, what brings you here then, American?” he asks, scooting his barstool a little closer to you, to hear you better over the music and the white noise of the bar. You still talk across the corner of the sticky wooden surface.

“I moved here for work,” you explain, tracing the rim of your glass with your fingertips. He watches them for a second, before ticking his eyes back to your face.

“Wow, that’s a big move,” he marvels, already thinking that in some ways you’re a lot braver than he would be.

“Feels kinda like it right now,” you admit. “What about you?”

“Just here on vacation,” he says, and it isn’t untrue.

“Alone?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” You try to search his eyes, and you think you see something like loneliness, like pain, behind the little pools of dark honey, something that almost seems to mirror your own. There’s more there, though. Definitely more. “Why France?”

“To be honest, I just asked the lady at the check-in counter what the next flight out was,” he sighs, taking another drink.

“Wow,” you huff a laugh out of your nose. “That’s quite a ballsy move.”

“Yeah, well,” he chuckles. “Not as glamorous as it may seem, as you can clearly tell.” He laughs as he gestures at the empty space around him, signaling that he might be feeling as isolated as you are. “Frankie,” he offers, extending his glass to clink against your own. You smile at that. It’s so cute, boyish almost. It’s an interesting contrast to the deep lines that cut into the skin beneath his eyes. You change the subject before he can ask for yours.

You keep talking, falling into easy conversation. You learn that he’s an ex-pilot, he learns that you’re a teacher. You learn that his best friend’s name is Santiago, he learns that your sister is a lawyer. It’s easy to talk to him, and it’s hard to overstate the comfortable ease that you feel at getting to speak your native language, for once in the last few weeks not having to worry about trying to find the words. You talk for what feels like forever, though it’s really only an hour or so. You talk about random things, trying to keep too much of your life story from spilling out on the table. He seems to do the same.

As midnight approaches, you wonder what it might be like to kiss him when the ball drops. Of course, the ball is miles away in a city you don’t know, hours behind you, but talking to this man who knows your language, who is so easy to talk to, brings home a little closer anyway. After all, what is there to lose? Wouldn’t it be nice just to feel the touch of someone else? Feel the warmth of another person, someone’s lips on your lonely skin?

There’s cheering as the bartender holds up ten fingers, announcing that the new year is only seconds away.

Dix!

Neuf!

You look at Frankie, and his eyes dart around the room at the sea of cheering strangers. You’re only looking at him – his curls, wild and splayed around his ears under his hat, his wide brown eyes, the cleft in his bottom lip as he parts his lips ever so slightly, tiny hint of his pink tongue ghosting the backs of his lips.

Huit!

You take another sip of your drink, letting the warm, sugary taste coat your tongue. He might be the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.

Sept!

He looks at you then, meeting your eyes. You search his face, for what you’re not sure, but he doesn’t break your gaze as he brings his glass to his lips.

Six!

You’re lost in his gaze, suddenly feeling nervous under it. He offers you a soft smile, just a little tick of the corner of his mouth, and you return it. The moment seems to last forever, the chaos around you fading into nondescript noise. It feels strange, to have never known this man before tonight. Something about him makes him feel familiar, like you’ve known him before, in another life perhaps. The soft honeyed tones of his eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way his eyebrows furrow slightly as he looks at you…you’re intoxicated by him. More than any swig of Four Roses.

Deux!

Your attention snaps back, and you look around one last time before the clock ticks over.

Un! Bonne année!

The bar erupts into cheers, and before you can think about it you stand on the bottom bar of the stool, lean over the corner of the counter, and press your lips to his. His hand finds the back of your head instantly, his other grabbing at your arm. The brim of his hat hits your head and starts to fall back off his curls, and you quickly grab for it as you chuckle into his mouth. He smiles against your lips and takes the hat from you, placing it on the counter hurriedly before his hand is back on you. All the while he barely takes his lips away, seemingly unable to stop kissing you already. He tastes like beer, like freedom, like finding yourself. Your loneliness dissolves against his skin. With a swipe of his tongue, he drinks in your solitude and swallows it whole. For a moment, this moment, you have it all. On your lips he finds the same – a time to be someone else, a chance to forget.

As you lick into each other’s mouths, you hear a whoop from somewhere behind you, and heat floods your cheeks at the thought of the people around you starting to notice. You’re practically kneeling on the seat now, one hand bracing yourself on the counter and the other splayed over the delicate place where his neck meets his shoulder, fingertips curling at his nape. You pull away reluctantly, placing a soft kiss over his lips. When he looks at you with doe-eyes and plump, parted lips, you smile. “Bathroom,” you murmur, dragging your fingers over the scruff on his jaw. His lips tick up into a smirk, and you climb down from the chair as you take his hand in yours. He quickly grabs his hat, arranging it loosely over his curls. A couple people eye the two of you over the rims of their glasses as you guide him back towards the back of the bar. You hurriedly try the bathroom door, but it’s locked. The thrumming of your heart in your chest and the fluttering heat in your belly is making you feel dizzy, and so is the way his large hand envelops yours. You swear under your breath when the handle doesn’t turn.

“Eager, are we?” he smirks as he catches up with you, yanking your arm gently to bring you to his chest.

“Shut up,” you retort, but the words die in your mouth as he pushes on your hip until your back meets the wall. He crowds you against it, his broad frame encompassing yours easily. He chuckles.

“Is that any way to talk to a kind stranger, cariño?” he smirks into your neck, trailing kisses up to your jaw before grazing his teeth over the skin there. You let out a soft groan, before tilting your head to see that a few people are peering down the short dark hallway at the two of you. They look away and start chatting to each other again when you meet their gaze.

“Don’t look at them,” he coos, bringing his index finger to the side of your face to push on your cheek. “Look at me.”

You can’t stop touching him, smoothing your palms over his chest and his sides and his back, reveling in the way his body is so firm but so soft, strong but still gentle. You feel enraptured by him; your body has been starving for this for so long. He slides his hands up your sides, ghosting the soft swell of your breasts over his thumbs, but not crossing the line just yet. You lean into the crook of his neck, taking your turn tasting the skin there. “Is Frankie short for something?” you murmur into him, ghosting your lips over the little bare patch in his beard.

“Francisco,” he breathes, wrapping an arm around the expanse of your back, pulling you off the wall and into his chest.

“Mmm,” you hum. “I like that.”

“I’ll like it more when it’s the only thing you can say,” he chuckles as he smooths a palm over your cheek and behind your head, pulling you back and off of his neck before he plunges his lips back into yours. Your breath hitches at his words, at the possessiveness of his movements.

“That’s big talk, Francisco,” you tease, but you can tell by the way he kisses you that he’s undeniably right. He’s tasting behind your teeth when you hear the door unlock from behind him, and you push him to the side a little as a man exits the bathroom, eyeing the two of you quickly before walking back into the crowd, undeniably sussing out the entire situation. You both look drunk on each other, lips swollen and shining as your limbs stay entangled. You take Frankie’s hand in yours again and pull him into the room. He kicks the door closed behind him, latching his mouth to your neck as soon as he turns the lock on the doorknob.

The anonymity brings you comfort, solace, because it doesn’t matter how fucked up you are, how sad you are, how desperate you are. None of it matters as this gorgeous stranger crowds you against the porcelain sink, the edges digging into your hips. You almost wish you didn’t even know his name, because knowing it makes him more real, locking him in your memory forever. Frankie, Francisco. You’re a little glad you know it, if only so you can moan it into the sticky air of the night, just like he said you would. It’s cold out there in the dead of winter, so cold, and yet your body is coated in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Look at you, cariño,” he marvels as he tilts your head up so you can meet your own eyes in the mirror. You can’t though, you can’t yank your eyes away from him, from his reflection. The way his broad frame presses against your back, his wild curls, his dark eyes clouded over with lust, his big hands splaying across your belly as he presses opened-mouth kiss after open-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin behind your ear. “Can I touch you?” he asks, licking the question into the shell of your ear, palms smoothing over your hips and down your thighs.

“Please, Francisco,” you moan, leaning your head back against his shoulder. His hands quickly find your breasts over your shirt, palming them in his hands as he groans into your ear. He handles them greedily, seemingly trying to get them both in one of his hands as his other finds the button on your jeans. He undoes it quickly with the flick of his wrist, pulling down the zipper hurriedly. He hooks his fingers over the waistband, pulling your jeans and underwear down in one fluid motion. His warm palm presses into the small of your back, bending you over the cool porcelain.

“Mierda,” he swears, kneading the flesh of your ass between his fingers. “Knew you’d be fucking perfect.”

He drops to his knees, disappearing from the mirror, dragging his hands down your legs before using them to spread you open. He takes off his hat, folding it into the back pocket of his pants. Pressing kisses into the crease of your thigh in a mess of tongue and teeth, he groans into your flesh. He wastes no time, latching his mouth over your cunt, licking your folds into his mouth. A ragged groan claws its way out of your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this, an eternity since it felt this good. He licks into you expertly, sucking and nibbling until you’re a writhing mess against the sink, your hand folded over the faucet to pad your forehead as you let it drop. His nose teases the skin around your asshole, and with every swipe of his tongue, every greedy kiss, you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. You’re panting his name into the bowl of the sink, just like that smug fucker said you would be.

You can still hear the faint roar of French from the bar, but in this room the only sounds are the lewd smacking of Frankie’s mouth and your choked breaths in response. He pulls you apart easily, your orgasm wracking through you in waves of electricity, and that lonely girl on the Rue des Fraises feels so, so far away. He moans into your cunt as you let go, licking all of you into his mouth and not letting any of your desire go to waste. He loves this, you realize. He loves this a lot. When he pulls off of you and begins to stand, he licks a broad stripe up the length of your cunt before spreading his tongue over your asshole, and you jolt forward at the sensation. He chuckles darkly as he stands.

You twist around to face him, kicking your jeans off the rest of the way in the process. Normally you would care about your clothes being in a heap on this nasty floor, but right now you couldn’t give less of a fuck. When you slot your lips into his, you taste yourself on his tongue and your moans tangle into one another through desperate sloppy kisses. You fumble with his belt, but he doesn’t help you, just smirks as his tongue finds your teeth. Soon, you get his pants undone, and when you slide your palm against his pelvis and under the waistband of his pants, you moan into him when you feel what waits for you there.

“What’d I tell ya, huh?” he chides, placing his warm palm over the back of your hand to guide your movements as you both free him from his pants.

“Got quite the ego on ya, don’t you, Francisco?” You roll your eyes, but you’re not fooling anyone.

“You can see why though, can’t you?” he murmurs with a smirk, bringing your hand to wrap around his length, swearing under his breath. He pumps over it with you, still guiding your hand.

You hum and click your tongue. “Size isn’t everything, you know,” you say as you pump him a little faster. He lets his hand go from yours, bringing it to push the hair out of your face.

“No,” he smirks, trailing his palm down the side of your face, down your neck, until it rests on your shoulder. “It isn’t.” At that, he pushes you down, your knees buckling beneath you until they hit the floor. Face-to-face with his cock, you look up at him through fluttering lashes.

“Get it wet for me, baby, and I’ll show you what it can do.”

He doesn’t have to fucking tell you twice. You lift him up in your hand and bring your mouth to the base, licking a broad stripe up the length of him. He swears in tumbling Spanish as you circle your tongue around the tip, dipping your tongue in the slit and reveling in the salty precum that you find there. When you slide him past your lips and over your tongue, his hand finds your hair as he lets his head fall back with a ragged groan. You briefly remember where you are, that there is undoubtedly someone waiting on the only available bathroom, but the way he lies heavily on your tongue and crowds your mouth makes you quickly forget again.

“Fuck, cariño,” he swears as he lolls his head forward, his eyes coming to meet the reflection of the two of you in the mirror. You bury your nose in his coarse hair, eyes watering at the effort it takes not to gag around his length. “Perfect fucking mouth, mierda.”

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, smiling up at him as you hook your finger over the hem of his boxers, dragging them down a little so you can lick and kiss at the crease between his thigh and his groin, continuing to glide over the length of him in your other hand, your fist a mess of spit and precum. He lets out a choked groan at the feeling of your lips and tongue on his skin there, not remembering the last time someone kissed that spot. You lick another stripe up his length before plunging him back into your mouth, relishing in the sounds he lets fly into the muggy air. His grip tightens on your hair as he begins fucking into your mouth, and you dig your fingernails into your palm to keep from gagging around him. He drags in and out against your tongue with tumbling words of so perfect—fuck—mierda, cariño, how did I get so lucky tonight? He pulls you off of him and tugs you to your feet, not giving you time to process the loss of him before he’s licking into your mouth again, tasting himself this time on your lips.

There are three heavy raps on the door and you both jump at the sound. You’re too lust-drunk to translate the French, but you’re sure they’re yelling at you about taking too long. “Don’t have much time, baby,” he says, turning you in his arms to press you back against the sink.

“I don’t give a fuck about them,” you rasp, reaching behind you to tangle your fingers in his curls. “Let them pee outside for all I care.”

You watch him in the mirror as he chuckles, reaching into the back pocket of his pants for his wallet. He pulls a condom out from among the euros, tearing the package open with his teeth before slipping his wallet back where it came from.

“Don’t wanna get between you and a fat cock,” he chides as he spits the edge of the packaging onto the floor. He reaches between your bodies to slide the condom over his length, tossing the rest of the empty package to the floor. You roll your eyes dramatically.

“Don’t wanna fuck a litterer,” you say, eyeing the condom wrapper.

“Yeah, yeah.” He slides the tip between your folds, his hand firmly wrapped around your hip. “Just shut up and let me fuck you.” His eyes are dark, wrecked, but there’s a playful glint behind the blown-out lust.

“Now who’s eager?”

He shuts you up with the searing sting of the head breaching your entrance, his knees bending to push up into the soft heat of your body. You groan, catching yourself on the sink in front of you. He wraps his arms around your torso, his palm splaying out over the skin beneath your breast. With nibbles onto your jaw, his tongue on your skin, he pushes the rest of his way in, and your cunt flutters and drools around his impossible size. The sting is overwhelming, and you hurriedly reach around to grab his hip with shaking fingers, stilling him inside you before he has the chance to move.

“What was that about my ego?” he murmurs, kneading the flesh of your breast and your tummy in his palms over your shirt. He reaches under the collar, pulling your chest free and exposing you to his hungry gaze in the mirror. He bunches the rest of your shirt up under your breasts, smoothing his hands over the soft skin of your stomach.

“Shut up, Francisco,” you hiss, breaths coming in short pants as you try and adjust to him, but it feels like he takes up your entire body. He just chuckles as he continues to knead your flesh, pulling and pushing and pinching it between his perfect fingers. When your breath evens out, he drags himself out of your wet heat, and the groan that escapes your mouth is loud. Too loud. He claps a hand over your mouth, pulling your body to his chest and your head to his shoulder.

“Shhh, cariño, those sounds are only for me, huh?” He punctuates his words with the long push of his cock back into your body, and you mewl around his fingers. His other arm still encompasses you, holding you impossibly close. You can still smell the alcohol on his breath, smell the cologne he likely put on before he came. It’s so much, the all-encompassing feeling of this man around you. He presses your hips into the sink with his own, fucking up into you now and picking up speed. All you can do is whine and take it, every drag of his cock pushing against the top wall of your cunt before it kisses your cervix, rubbing against that rough spot that makes your eyes roll back in your skull with every stroke. You chant his name again and again, the only words you remember, just like he promised. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, surrendering to a stranger in this sticky bathroom. It’s not the time for a relationship, not now, not after so much; however, as he drags his heavy cock through your folds and into the deepest parts of your body again and again, you don’t want to ever imagine a time where you don’t feel him inside of you.

“Look how incredibly beautiful you are, baby,” he coos, turning your head so you see yourself in the mirror. Instead, you look at the way he’s holding your head by your mouth, the corded muscle of his forearm braced against your stomach, the sweaty ringlet curls drooped in front of his forehead. He drops a hand down to rub tight circles around your clit, and it’s not two swipes of his fingers before you’re coming undone in his arms. He fucks you through it, licking lyrical Spanish into the skin of your neck, holding your head to the side with his hand over your mouth. When your body stops convulsing, he pushes you down with murmurs of mierda, mierda, fuck, until your hand meets the faucet, leaning your head against it just in time for him to slam into you again and again, the porcelain threatening to push bruises into your skin. With a few more thrusts he’s there, folding his body over yours and burying his head between your shoulder blades as his muscles jerk, spurting hot ropes of cum into your body through the condom. You stupidly wish you could feel it, feel it spill into you, watch it ooze out of you. Another time, maybe, though probably not.

You crane your neck back to kiss him, and he smiles into your lips. “Feliz año, baby.”

“Bonne année, Frankie.”

Maybe it was all worth it, he thinks as he pulls himself out of you, gripping the edge of the condom at his base to keep it from sliding off too soon. Maybe the withdrawals, the Delta Force, the jungle, the murder, was all worth it if those things led to him taking you apart in this bathroom. You don’t know any of that about him, not really, only knowing that he was once a pilot and some other random plot points of his life that he’d offered you. In this dark and hazy bathroom, he doesn’t have to be that man. He doesn’t have to be the man that dug stacks of cash out of Lorea’s walls, the man that watched his friend die on that mountainside. He doesn’t have to be Catfish; he can just be Frankie. Francisco, he thinks, after hearing how perfect his full name sounded when it tumbled out of your mouth again and again.

This can’t happen again, you think as you steady yourself on the counter. If you let him into your life, you’ll never let him go. You can’t jump into something now, you can’t. It’s not the right time. You’ve been alone all of a few weeks, no…no, not yet, not yet.

“Let’s get you dressed, huh? We’ve kept those poor fuckers waiting long enough.” He chuckles as he drops the condom in the trash can, making a point to wave the condom wrapper at you before dropping it in too. He zips himself back into his pants before grabbing your jeans off the floor. He smooths your underwear up over your legs before helping you into your pants, your hands resting on his shoulders for balance.

You let him lead you out of the bathroom, too satiated and happy to give a shit about what everyone on the other side of the door thinks. There are a few people standing there, angry looks on their faces, and one of them spits something at you as you pass. You give them a soft smile, one that says you can’t fucking touch me.

He lets go of your hand as he brings you to the bar, and you take a long look at him – the flush of his cheeks, the wildness of his hair before he tamps the hat back down over top of the curls, the plumpness of his lips. You sear it into your memory…because that’s all it can be.

He turns to look at the bartender, readying himself to get his attention. Your name. Fuck. He doesn’t know your name. Mierda, he’s an asshole. He whips around to face you, saying, “Shit, cariño, I didn’t get your—” but when he turns to look at you, you’re gone.