#Frankie Morales | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capuccinodoll · 2 days ago

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The boyfriend act, part 9.2: "The one with the wedding" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Something’s changed, you can feel it, and you can’t fight it. Frankie keeps his promise—he accompanies you to Harry's wedding. Surprisingly, your ex isn’t the focus of the night. Instead, it's the strange, new dynamic between you and your companion that ends up tangled up in your house. Part 2 of chapter 9. WC: 12.4k

A/N: Oh God... enjoy. Hope you like it—it really helped me a lot to write this chapter this week! Love you love youuuuuuu!! Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

The air inside the party was heavier, charged with warmth from too many bodies pressed together, energy buzzing against your skin. The lights had shifted since you last looked, dimmer now, streaks of blue and violet slicing through the dark like something alive. You stepped into it, absorbing the dizzying warmth of the room. Frankie wasn’t beside you anymore. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t let yourself.

A song was playing—something with a slow build, something from the two thousands. You didn’t recognize it, but it didn’t matter. You let the sound settle over you, let it fill the spaces between your ribs. Without thinking, you moved. Not a dance, not exactly, just the natural sway of a body finding its own rhythm. You let your eyes slip shut, your lips curving in something close to a smile.

And then, just for a moment, there was nothing heavy in your chest. No aching, no lingering weight. Maybe it was fleeting. Circumstantial. Maybe it was the red wine, or the champagne, or Frankie. Maybe it didn’t matter. Somewhere nearby, Harry was spinning Lisa under his arm, and the sight of it didn’t hit you like it did before. The thought sat there, light and untethered, and it felt—God, it felt so fucking good.

Your feet didn’t hurt this time. At least not yet. Right now, all you felt was motion, the firm thrum of music in your bones, and the sharp, electric clarity of being completely, wonderfully untangled from everything else.

And then, again, that warmth. That familiar pressure, retracing its path over your skin—your waist, the soft dip beneath your ribs. He liked to put his hands there. You’d noticed.

Your eyes fluttered open, and Frankie was beside you, balancing two glasses in one hand like it was second nature.

Under the neon lights, he looked like a decoy made especially for you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just extended one toward you, expectant. You took it without hesitation, lifting it to your nose, inhaling the faint bite of alcohol before glancing up at him through your lashes.

“It’s not poison,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the music. “That’s in the past.”

“In the past,” you echoed, and took a sip, the fizzing liquid settling on your tongue before you swallowed. You stepped in closer, resting your free hand lightly on his shoulder. “That I do know. Your attacks are different now.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Are you still at it? You sound almost... defeated.”

“I’m not. I’m just—curious.”

“That much I can tell.” He lifted his drink to his lips, tilting it back, his throat moving as he swallowed.

Your gaze followed the movement without thinking, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way the lights shifted over the contours of his neck. A pulse flickered just beneath his skin, and for a ridiculous, fleeting second, you thought about sinking your teeth into it.

You exhaled, shaking off the thought, and lifted your chin. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me those moves, or I’m going to start thinking you’re all talk.”

He looked at you then. Held your gaze. One, two, three seconds. And then, slowly, a smirk edged onto his lips—mischief, something else underneath it.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his glass and tipped the rest of his drink back in one smooth motion. You followed suit, feeling the sharp heat of it slide down your throat.

He peeled himself away from you, took your empty glass along with his, and set them on the nearest table.

Something curled inside you. Expectation. Anticipation. He was coming back, moving toward you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from absorbing him fully—the disheveled mess of his hair, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell as he took those final, closing steps.

God, you wanted to touch him. You wanted to press your fingers into the mess of his curls, trail your hands down the solid plane of his torso, the soft belly right there, show him you weren’t afraid to.

What the fuck.

What the fuck was happening to you?

His body crashed into yours, the force of it pushing you back a step, knocking you slightly off balance. But before you could even process the stumble, his hands were already on you, both palms firm around your waist, steadying you. And then he was moving again, feet shifting forward, pulling you along with him, deeper into the swell of bodies that didn’t notice you, too wrapped up in their own worlds, their own dramas, their own little universes.

Your hands found his chest, instinctively pressing against the warmth of him, feeling the solid weight of muscle beneath your fingertips. Frankie slid one hand upward, brushing from your elbow to your wrist, his touch slow, deliberate. He peeled your hand away from him, laced his fingers through yours, his grip warm.

“This music isn’t going to do us justice,” he murmured, the sound curling against your ear.

He was right—the song blaring through the speakers was all wrong. Too fast, too shrill, the beat frenzied in a way that didn’t suit this.

“That doesn’t matter,” you countered, tipping your chin up at him. “Or you can’t do it?”

Frankie exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff, and without warning, he let go of your hand. Instead, he grabbed you by the sides and, in one fluid motion, started moving with you, pulling a surprised laugh from your lips.

Somehow, you understood what he wanted without needing to be told. Your body responded to his, falling in sync, matching his rhythm. His hands framed you, adjusting you exactly where he wanted, where he needed. His hips led the way, and yours followed instinctively, as if this had always been muscle memory, as if you had been built to move like this with him.

A grin spread across your face, wide and unguarded, and when you looked up at him, you found his gaze already fixed on you, his dark eyes drinking you in, like he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, seeping into your skin with every small shift between you. It made something stir in your chest, something reckless, something dangerous. Without thinking, you arched into him, pressing closer, as if there were any space left to close.

There wasn’t. Not anymore.

Then, his fingers curled around yours, firm, insistent. In one swift movement, he spun you, pulling you back against him, his arm sliding across the front of your body, locking you in place. Your head tipped against his shoulder, your breath catching for a fraction of a second. The sensation was dizzyingly familiar—how many times tonight had he positioned you like this, as if he wanted you pressed to him, as if his body was something for you to fall into?

His mouth skimmed your ear. “Does this meet your requirements?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment before you tilted your head, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I’m on my back to you again,” you murmured. “I think that tells me something about the kind of man you are.”

His lips parted. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Why not?”

His hands flexed, fingers pressing into your ribs—not rough, not demanding, but enough to send heat coursing through your veins. Enough to make your pulse hitch. The pressure anchored you, shattered you, pieced you back together in the span of a heartbeat.

He turned you again, your body yielding to the unspoken command in his touch. But this time, you didn’t let him take the lead.

Your hands shot up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer before he had the chance to do it himself. His breath stuttered, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, and you felt it—his hesitation, his control, the way he was holding something back.

A smile curled at your lips just as his hands found their way to your lower back, pressing, keeping you there. Like he had no intention of letting go.

You shut your eyes for a beat, as if the darkness behind your eyelids might offer you clarity, a sharp-edged thought, something to arm yourself with. But your mind was a useless, static-filled thing, buzzing in your ears, drowning beneath the erratic pulse in your throat. Whatever words you might have thrown at him had disappeared, leaving you unarmed, exposed.

So you turned to the only thing left.

You couldn't fight, but you could touch. You could bring your hands to the sides of his face, feel the heat of his skin under your palms, and close the space between you. You could press your lips to his, soft and deliberate, tilting your head just right, angling yourself toward that sliver of vulnerability in him you’d always known was there.

Frankie exhaled sharply against your mouth—you had him. Right there, in your hands, in the way his lips moved against yours; not rushed, but desperate all the same.

You needed to stay in control. Not let yourself fall on the sword you were wielding. But he got closer, somehow, his hands sliding up your back, mapping bare skin with his fingertips. One settled at your waist, fingers pressing in like he needed proof that you were there. The other skimmed higher, threading through your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers, pulling—just enough to make your breath catch, to tip your head back, to drag a sound from you that you hadn’t meant to give.

And he heard it. Of course, he did.

His breath came harder now, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that burned through whatever restraint he'd tried to hold on to. And for all your careful control, you weren’t sure if you had him exactly where you wanted him—or if he had you.

Frankie pulled back, his mouth slipping from yours with infuriating ease, a lazy, knowing smile settling on his lips. He didn’t let go of you completely—his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping your head bowed, like he was admiring his own handiwork. The moment stretched until you let out a breath, your hands sliding back to his neck in some attempt at regaining control.

You were just about to say something—something halfhearted, a weak protest dressed up as wit—when the music changed. I Feel It Coming by The Weeknd.

Frankie hummed in approval. “Now we’re talking.”

He released your hair, his hands settling on you differently now, shifting with the rhythm, guiding you into it with him. Like it had never been a question, like it was inevitable.

You followed his lead because what else could you do? You weren’t going to step away now, make up some flimsy excuse and disappear. That would be an admission, wouldn’t it? That all of this had an effect on you. That you could be pulled into him like the tide, no resistance. And from the way he was watching you, that knowing smirk carved into his face, he already suspected as much.

Then the lyrics came through the speakers, weaving their way into the space between you.

Tell me what you really like

Baby, I can take my time

We don’t ever have to fight

Just take it step by step

Your throat tightened. A slow, creeping warmth curled its way up your neck, not the pleasant kind but the kind that came with the quiet, unbearable realization of being seen. Really seen.

I can see it in your eyes

'cause they never tell me lies

I can feel that body shake

and the heat between your legs

You closed your eyes, willing the moment to dissolve into something less intense, less unbearable. But your breath hitched anyway, unsteady, shallow. Overloaded, overwhelmed. Just for a second, but it was enough.

And then you felt him again—his cheek pressed against yours. A quiet anchor. Your eyes fluttered open, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, holding onto something tangible. You exhaled again, this time steadier, firmer.

Like you could pretend, for now, that you still had the upper hand.

You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you

You don’t have to run, I know what you’ve been through.

The lyrics blurred into background noise. Instead, you focused on your breathing, each inhale smoothing out the jagged edges of your pulse. Frankie’s body was solid against yours, unmovable. A wall you could lean on.

Without thinking, you let yourself sink into him, resting against the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his chest. His arms tightened around you, not possessive, not urgent—just encompassing. Holding you there as the music stretched on, your bodies swaying in time, your feet moving without effort, without thought.

You lost track of how long you stayed like that, how many verses passed before the spell was broken. Maybe the song had ended. Maybe it had been cut short. You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, suddenly, the air shifted.

A new beat crashed through the speakers, shaking you out of the hazy moment. Everybody by the Backstreet Boys. A sharp contrast, like being yanked from a dream before you were ready. And with it, the rest of the world reappeared—people you hadn’t noticed before, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the space you had occupied so quietly with Frankie.

He stepped back, just a little. When you met his gaze, he was smiling, but something deeper in his expression made your stomach tighten.

A sudden yell broke through the music. Both of you turned just in time to see Henry at the center of the room, shouting, his movements exaggerated as he threw himself into some half-choreographed dance. A group of men circled around him, clapping, hyping him up as he mimicked the mummy dance, his hands waving stiffly in front of him.

Frankie let out a short laugh. “We have to admit, he sure knows how to have a good time.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

Your eyes stayed on Henry a second longer, watching his antics, his complete lack of self-consciousness. Then you turned to Frankie, and before you even realized you were going to say it, the words slipped out.

“I want to go home.”

Frankie didn’t question it. He just nodded. Then, with a quiet sort of care, he peeled his hands away from you, stepping back fully.

“I’ll hit the bathroom first,” he said. “Then we’ll go, okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll wait for you at our table.”

Frankie gave you one last glance before turning, disappearing into the crowd with unhurried steps. You exhaled, pressing your lips together as you turned on your heels, moving toward the table with a weight in your limbs that hadn't been there before.

When you sat down, another breath escaped you—longer this time, like you were letting the entire night spill out through your mouth. The music pulsed around you, loud, but the space beside you remained empty. Everyone else was still on the dance floor, their bodies jumping, twisting, losing themselves-

You stretched your legs out under the table, your gaze drifting to your shoes, the heels scuffed from hours of wear. Then, a shift in the air beside you caught your attention.

“Enjoying the night?”

You looked up. Harry had dropped into the seat next to you, his grin loose, his shirt untucked and rumpled. His cheeks were flushed, sweat beading along his hairline, and a pink boa hung lopsided around his neck, the feathers clinging to his skin.

“Where’s your guy?” he asked, voice warm, teasing.

“In the bathroom,” you said, a little louder than you’d intended, the alcohol softening your tongue. “We’re actually about to leave.”

Harry’s brows lifted, his expression exaggerated with the sluggish enthusiasm of someone too many drinks in.

“Already? So early?” The last word slurred slightly, stretching at the edges.

You frowned, the corners of your mouth twitching as you glanced toward the bar. What time was it?

“We have to get up early,” you answered, more for yourself than for him.

“Right, right.” He nodded as if he understood, though his heavy-lidded gaze suggested otherwise. “Well, again, thanks for coming. Honestly, I didn’t think you would. Thought it might be… awkward.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, not quite agreement. “Life goes on, I guess.”

Your eyes flicked toward the other side of the room, past the shifting bodies and flickering lights, toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Frankie was still gone.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “That’s right.”

Something about the way he said it sent a small, sharp doubt through your chest. You turned to him suddenly, searching his face, feeling the question settle at the tip of your tongue before you could stop it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Harry nodded, the movement a little loose, a little unfocused. He was drunk. You were drunk. But the question had already lodged itself in your throat, and you couldn’t swallow it back down.

“Why did you invite me?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “If you thought it might be awkward, why?”

He blinked at you, then smiled, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s all good between us, isn’t it?”

You studied his face. The same face you used to trace with your fingertips, the same eyes that once felt like home. But now, looking at him, there was nothing. No rush of warmth, no nostalgia curling in your chest. Just the vague recognition of something.

“Actually, I’m not so sure about that.”

Harry exhaled, his posture tipping forward slightly. “I know I hurt you.”

You went very still.

“You know,” you said, the words pressing out of you before you could think better of them. “How much?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question, like maybe he thought whatever damage he’d caused had been inconsequential, forgettable. But then he smiled—an old, familiar smile, the kind that had once undone you completely—and met your gaze.

“Were you in love with me?” he asked. “I think I knew.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain, not exactly. Something colder, sharper. Disappointment, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

“You invited me to your wedding.”

“I knew you’d come.”

Your breath caught, your pulse stuttering. Your expression didn’t change, but something in your body must have shifted because he tilted his head slightly, watching you too closely, like he was trying to read you.

Before he could say anything else, your gaze flickered past him, drawn by movement across the room. Frankie. He was weaving between guests, making his way back toward you, and then—he saw.

He stopped short, his dark eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but he didn’t come closer. Instead, he nodded once, a silent message. It’s fine. I’ll wait.

And something in you deflated, because no, it wasn’t fine. You wanted to tell him no, tell him to come now, to pull you out of this conversation before it unraveled any further. But Frankie just shifted his weight, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched. Giving you space.

The last thing you wanted.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Harry said, pulling your attention back to him. His voice was softer now, coaxing. “It’s not like that. Look—”

His hand slid over yours, sweaty and familiar in a way that made your stomach twist, though not in the way it used to. You glanced down at the contact, at the weight of his fingers pressing lightly against your skin, before looking back up at him.

“I know you and I are good friends,” he continued. “And you understand that these things can’t always be controlled. I love Lisa. I do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t value what you and I had.”

Your throat felt tight. “I have to go,” you said, pulling your hand back.

But Harry only smiled, unbothered, like he was already a step ahead of you.

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. If the opportunity presents itself.”

Your brows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

You turned instinctively toward Frankie, your chest tightening with something close to urgency. Was he watching? Did he understand what was happening here? Across the room, Frankie was still looking at you, his gaze steady, assessing. But from that distance, you had no idea what, if anything, he was reading from this exchange.

Harry let out a quiet laugh, tilting his head at you. “You know what I mean.”

You stared at him, your pulse drumming against your skin.

“This is your wedding,” you said, disbelieving. “Your wife is right there—” You gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where Lisa was spinning under someone’s arm, oblivious.

“I’m—I’m kidding,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “Relax.” Then, with a sigh that was just a little too performative, he leaned back in his chair. “See, this is exactly why you and I were never going to work out. You never knew how to take a joke.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Your jokes aren’t funny.”

“Oh, what, I don’t make you laugh anymore?” He teased, tilting his head at you, his smirk lazy, lopsided.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself, Harry. That’s enough.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Pf, I bet that—”

“Let’s go home.”

Frankie’s voice cut through the noise, sending a jolt of relief down your spine. When you turned, he was standing behind Harry, his expression unreadable but serious, his hand extended toward you. Without hesitation, you took it, fingers slipping into his, pushing up from your seat without so much as a glance at the man beside you.

Frankie didn’t wait. He turned toward the exit, guiding you with him, and you followed, eager to put distance between yourself and whatever this conversation had been turning into.

But before you could get far, fingers curled around your arm, halting your steps.

You spun, pulse spiking, and found Harry looking at you with that same smug amusement, like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to say something—something you were certain you didn’t want to hear—but before he could, Frankie moved.

Still holding your hand, he stepped closer to Harry, leaning in just enough that you could see the shift in his posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He murmured something low enough that you couldn’t make out the words over the thumping bass, but whatever he said, it landed.

Frankie's mouth was close to Harry’s ear, and whatever easy amusement had been stretched across Harry’s face vanished in an instant. His fingers slipped from your arm like he’d been burned.

You felt the curiosity tighten in your chest, a sharp pull. What had he said? What could have possibly warranted such an immediate shift? You barely had time to register the thought, and before you could begin to piece together an answer, Frankie was already guiding you away.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and started walking, pulling you with him.

You followed, quick-footed, your eyes fixed on the back of his neck, on the way the curls at his nape shifted as he moved. The music faded as you stepped into the wide hallway, plush and quiet. And your steps slowed, your grip in his loosening. He turned then, sensing it, looking at you. The lighting was soft, wall sconces casting a golden glow over everything, their reflection flickering in Frankie’s eyes. His expression was unreadable—brows drawn, mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Are you okay?" he asked, taking half a step closer, his hand still holding yours like he hadn't realized he was doing it. "What did he say to you?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Frankie said. "Don’t worry about it."

"Frankie."

"Yeah?"

He said it with a smirk, and just like that, the tension fractured. His attempt at seriousness was transparently bad, his lips twitching at the corners, the glint in his eyes giving him away. You tried to keep your expression flat, but it was impossible—your mouth betrayed you, stretching into a smile before a small laugh escaped.

Frankie’s restraint crumbled entirely. His smirk broke into a grin, wide and pleased, and somehow, it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Frankie gave your hand a light squeeze, tilting his head toward the exit. A quiet gesture, like a nudge in the right direction.

"Come on," he said, shifting his weight, already prepared to move. "Tell me on the way."

But you didn’t move. Instead, you stood there, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. You squeezed his hand in return, a subtle press of your fingers against his, before giving his arm a gentle tug—just enough to draw him in, close enough that you could see the question forming in his expression before he even voiced it.

His brows pulled together for half a second, barely noticeable. "What?"

"I have to go back inside," you said, your voice light, like the thought had just occurred to you. "Will you wait for me? Just a second."

His hesitation was immediate. “Uh… why?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, already retreating. “Call for a car. I’ll be back in a sec.” You pointed a finger at him, as if making him promise. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

And then you spun on your heels, your steps quick and light, not quite a run but close to it. You slipped back toward the entrance, ducking past a group of guests mid-conversation, their chatter faltering briefly as they registered your sudden movement.

Frankie remained where you’d left him, hands shifting to his hips, his expression unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on the doorway you had just disappeared through, his mind already flipping through possibilities.

What the hell were you up to?

Had you gone back for Harry? Lisa? Did you forget something? Your bag? No, your shoulder—your bag was still there a second ago. So not that. Your phone? No, he was pretty sure he’d seen it in your hand earlier.

Then what?

After a few seconds of standing there, arms tense at his sides, Frankie exhaled sharply and pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved over the screen, tapping through the app with an efficiency just slightly off from his usual pace.

No, he couldn’t order a car yet. What if you didn’t come out? What if he had to go back for you?

He glanced back toward the entrance. Shifted his weight. Waited.

One minute.

Two minutes.

By the third, his patience had started to thin, a restless energy creeping into his limbs. He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Then, with a newfound sense of resolve, he took a step forward, heading toward the entrance. If you weren’t back yet, he’d go in and find you himself.

But just as he neared the door, it swung open, and there you were, practically bursting through it. A grin stretched wide across your face, your steps quick, hurried—definitely running now.

Frankie barely had time to process the scene before you zipped past him, a laugh tumbling from your lips. You had a paper bag clutched tightly in your arms, held close to your chest like something precious, and when you glanced up at him, your eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and alight with mischief.

“Come on, come on,” you said breathlessly, urgency laced with amusement. Your heels clicked against the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the night.

For a beat, he just stared at you, then instinct took over.

Without a second thought, Frankie moved. His stride quickened as he took off after you, falling into step just behind. When you reached the hotel doors, he was already there, reaching forward to pull one open before you could even slow down. The doorman gave him a questioning look, but Frankie barely noticed.

Outside, you kept moving, your heels clicking against the pavement, a few hurried steps carrying you just past the hotel entrance before you finally came to a stop. Your breath came fast, your cheeks flushed, your whole body alight with the kind of exhilaration that made you feel a little untouchable.

Frankie pulled up in front of you, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t quite sure if he should be amused or concerned. His hands settled on his hips, his head tilting slightly, that familiar furrow forming between his brows.

“What exactly—”

“I stole champagne!” you blurted out, eyes shining. “And wine!”

Frankie’s mouth parted slightly before he let out a laugh, one of those short, incredulous ones that got caught in his chest. He glanced at the bag clutched against you, then back at your face, like he was still trying to understand what kind of person would be bold enough to rob an event of its alcohol supply and look this pleased about it.

“What?” he said, half-laughing. “How?”

You waved a hand like the details were unimportant.

“We’re not just leaving empty-handed. Where’s the car?” You cast a quick glance down the street, shifting on your feet, still buzzing with the thrill of it.

Frankie sighed, shaking his head, but there was something almost affectionate in it. “Jesus.”

“Come on,” you urged, already tugging at his sleeve.

Frankie didn’t move, standing there like he was still trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

“Haven't ordered yet.” Then, as if just remembering himself, he held out his hands and plucked the bag from your arms with practiced ease. He peeked inside. Four bottles.

“Damn,” he murmured, eyebrows lifting. “You’ve got fast hands.”

You giggled, the kind of breathless, slightly manic laughter that only came from getting away with something you absolutely should not have. A cool breeze swept over your bare arms, and a shiver ran through you just as—

“Hey! Come back here!”

The shout made you freeze. Your head snapped toward the hotel entrance, where Henry stood pointing an accusatory finger at you, his expression an almost comical mix of outrage and disbelief. Two other men flanked him, their faces still catching up to whatever chaos had just unfolded.

Henry, however, had already reached full comprehension. His usually pristine suit was a disaster, smeared with something white and unidentifiable. His face, normally so composed, was equally streaked with whatever disaster had befallen him. His hair was wild, like someone had either yanked it or he’d been through something emotionally catastrophic.

Your eyes widened. Then, without thinking, you let out a tiny, startled squeal, grabbed Frankie’s arm, and bolted. Laughter tore out of you as your feet hit the pavement, your body moving on pure adrenaline.

Frankie barely hesitated before falling into step beside you, the bag of stolen goods bouncing in his grip.

“You can’t take my Dom Pérignon!” Henry bellowed from behind, the sound of his footfalls closing in. “Come back here, you crazy bitch!”

“I can do whatever I want, Henry, the world is free!” you called back over your shoulder, breathless and delighted.

Frankie, despite running, turned his head slightly to glance at Henry, eyebrows pinched together in amused confusion.

“Your champagne is overrated anyway!” He said, voice loud and cutting through the night air. Then, as an afterthought: “You’ll never be a Backstreet Boy!”

Henry skidded to a stop for half a second, rage visibly bubbling over. Then, with renewed fury, he surged forward, picking up speed.

"Fuck!" Frankie swore under his breath, the laugh that had been creeping up his throat breaking free as he pushed himself faster.

You stole a quick glance over your shoulder, your pulse hammering, your grin stretching so wide it made your cheeks ache.

Your feet pounded against the pavement, so quick they barely felt like they belonged to you. The rush of air lifted your hair, tugging it away from your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d run like this—maybe high school, maybe longer.

Frankie ran beside you, his stride matching yours, never overtaking. His arms were locked tightly around the bag, the muffled clink of glass bottles rattling with every step.

You turned a corner, breath coming sharp, pulse hammering in your ears. Another few steps, then you cut across the street. Behind you, Henry had slowed, swiping at the streak of cream on his face, watching you with something like exasperation. His friends skidded to a stop beside him, breathing hard, hands braced on their knees.

“There! A cab, a cab!” You pointed, laughter spilling into your voice. Across the street, a yellow car approached, its neon sign glowing FREE against the windshield.

You threw out an arm, signaling it to stop, and it did—brakes sighing as it pulled up beside you.

Henry said something, gesturing in your direction, but his voice was lost to the blood rushing in your ears. You met his gaze briefly, a teasing smile lingering at your lips, before pulling open the back door.

You motioned for Frankie to get in first, and he did, the bag still clutched against his chest. You slid in after him, shutting the door behind you.

The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror, waiting. You gave him your address, voice still uneven with breath.

Frankie tipped his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut for just a second. His chest rose and fell deeply, his face still flushed from the run. The cab lurched forward, merging into the current of traffic, city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of gold and blue.

"You almost got my ass kicked," he said, eyes closed, mouth tilted in a half-smile.

"You didn’t have to say all that to him," you shot back, laughter still catching in your breath.

"No, but if they caught up to us, who were they going to take it out on?" He cracked one eye open, looking at you like the answer was obvious.

"Fair point."

He turned his head fully now, watching you, his gaze dark and sharp, like polished obsidian.

"What the hell did Henry have on him?"

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip, knowing how ridiculous it was going to sound.

"I threw pie at him."

Frankie blinked. "Pie."

"Lemon pie," you clarified, the words tipping into laughter. "He was waiting for a drink and I came out from behind the bar. He saw me. I tried to make up some bullshit excuse, but he wasn’t buying it. So…I threw the pie at him. And then I ran."

For a second, Frankie just stared at you, and then he burst out laughing, his head tipping back against the seat. The sound rolled through his chest, deep and warm, until you felt it in yours too, something unspooling between you in the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

You pushed the door shut behind you, exhaling as the tension in your shoulders eased. The quiet hum of your apartment settled around you like a second skin. Frankie made his way into the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. One by one, he pulled out the bottles, arranging them in a neat little lineup, the glass clinking softly against the marble surface.

Mr. Darcy let out a meow, lying on the floor without moving, clearly in a relaxed state.

Bracing yourself against the wall, you slipped off your heels, letting them drop carelessly to the floor before padding barefoot toward the couch. You sank into the cushions, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut.

"I'm so tired. What time is it?"

"Twenty past twelve," Frankie said, his voice drifting closer. You cracked one eye open just as he moved past you, his legs brushing yours before he settled onto the couch beside you. He glanced at his phone, then locked it with a sigh, tilting his head back against the cushions. "I could've sworn it was like 2 am."

"Exactly," you said, stretching your arms above your head. "Which means we need a glass of wine."

Without hesitation, you pushed yourself up. Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh, watching you with something like amusement.

"I thought you didn’t want a hangover."

"I'm fine," you insisted, making your way into the kitchen. "I’m still not at the point I want to be, you know? That perfect middle ground—buzzed, happy, warm." You reached for the cupboard, fingers grazing the cool glass as you pulled out two wine glasses. "You want one, don’t you?"

"Yes, ma’am."

You set the glasses down in front of you, picking up the bottle of wine, rolling it in your hands to read the label.

"Ornellaia. Tenuta dell'Ornellaia. Bolgheri. 2002." You glanced up at him with a smirk. "Fancy, whatever that means."

You uncorked the bottle, filling each glass just enough, then lifted one to your nose, inhaling deeply. Across the room, Frankie watched you with the kind of expression that made it seem like you were amusing to him in ways he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"I'm afraid you're a criminal," he said.

You snorted, crossing the room toward him with both glasses in hand.

"As Fiona Apple put it, it’s a sad, sad, sad world."

You sank into the couch beside him, pressing a glass into his hand. His fingers brushed against yours—just a flicker of warmth, fleeting and barely there—but still, it sent a spark up your arm. You ignored it. Or pretended to.

Frankie took the glass without a word, swirling the deep red liquid in slow, practiced circles. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling, then took a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something thoughtful in the way he tilted his head, processing.

"I hate it when insufferable people have good taste," he said, face utterly serious.

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. "Look at you. Ooh la la la."

He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then leaned forward just enough to set the glass down on the coffee table. In one smooth, unhurried motion, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair nearby. Then he shifted back into the couch, settling deeper, his posture easy, unguarded—legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides.

Your gaze drifted over him without meaning to, tracing the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the relaxed angle of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to disappear completely. You let your eyes wander, cataloging every detail like you might need them later.

The white shirt clung to him in a way that felt almost unfair. It wasn’t tight, not exactly, but it fit him just right—draping over his frame like it had been tailored with only him in mind. The fabric stretched slightly across his chest, shifting with each breath, and where it met the waistband of his pants, it pulled just enough to hint at the shape beneath. His pants were much the same, fitting him comfortably, though in the way he was sitting—leaned back, legs spread, completely at ease—some things stood out more than others.

Your gaze drifted lower, to the solid line of his thighs, then up again, tracing the broad plane of his stomach. He looked… comfortable. So much so that for a second, you had the ridiculous urge to stretch out and rest your head there, let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

Instead, you said, “I like your outfit.”

Your eyes were still fixed somewhere around his torso, your body tilted subtly toward him, one arm slung over the back of the couch, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. Whether you were leaning into him consciously or unconsciously, you weren’t sure. It didn’t really matter.

Frankie glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Thanks. You gave me an excuse to wear it.”

“It looks great on you.”

He studied you for a beat, then exhaled through his nose.

“I bought it a while back. Most expensive shit I’ve ever paid for in clothes.” He stretched his arms out along the couch, grazing yours, the movement making his shirt pull ever so slightly at the seams. “So it better look good, right?” He shot you a crooked grin.

“That’s right.” You took a small sip of wine, your lips curving. “Lucky for you, I didn’t get any blood on it.”

Frankie let out a quiet laugh, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling.

Your eyes caught on the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple shifted when he swallowed.

“Do you want to see my list?” you asked, dragging your gaze back up to his face. “I’ve added a couple of things.”

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes curious. “Yeah? What?”

Without answering, you set your glass down on the coffee table and pushed yourself up, padding across the room in search of your journal. It was right where you’d left it—tucked neatly against the framed photo of Mr. Darcy and Santi on the bookshelf by the window. You grabbed it and made your way back, settling in next to Frankie again. This time, when you curled your legs beneath you, your back fit neatly into the space between his arm, stretched across the couch, and the solid warmth of his shoulder.

You held the open journal out to him. “Here. Take a look.”

Frankie hesitated, glancing at you. “May I?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like you asked last time. Yes. You can.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he took the journal from your hands, already flipped to the right page. He read through the list carefully, his gaze steady, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the paper. Maybe he was genuinely paying attention, or maybe the wine was making it harder for him to focus.

His eyes landed on one item in particular. “Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally—but less romantic?” He glanced at you, one brow lifted.

You nodded. “Less romantic. Too much pressure.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, then frowned slightly. “Who’s Sally? Is Harry—wait. Is he that Harry? Harry? The one from the wedding?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No, it’s a movie. When Harry Met Sally.” You turned your head, watching his face for recognition. There was none. “The one with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan.”

Frankie blinked at you. “Um, Tom Hanks?”

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

“The one with the bookstores?” Frankie asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, clicking your tongue. “That’s You’ve Got Mail.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile forming. “Didn’t realize I was talking to a rom-com scholar.”

“Didn't you ever see When Harry Met Sally?”

Frankie’s smile stretched wider, something lazy and amused settling in his expression. “Clearly not, sweetheart.”

He shifted, reaching down for his wine glass. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, then settled back into the couch. His gaze found yours again, dark, something unreadable flickering behind it.

“We can watch it if you want,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But not now. I don’t think I can focus on anything that lasts more than an hour.”

You tilted your head at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “You say that to all your girlfriends?”

The laugh that burst out of him was sudden, cracking through his chest. His head tipped back for a second, the sound filling the small space between you.

“Okay,” you said, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll hold you to that promise. But in the meantime—yes. A New Year’s kiss. Not much more context than that.”

Frankie nodded. “Less romantic.”

“Exactly. I don’t need it to mean anything. Just a kiss.”

“Like kissing a stranger in a club? You could kill two birds with one stone and cross kiss a stranger and New Year’s kiss off your list at the same time.”

You shook your head, lifting your glass. “No, no. Those are two completely different things, Francisco.” You took a sip, savoring the wine.

“Well, I’m no stranger. But I can help you with New Year’s.”

You blinked. “Um?”

He shrugged, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“I can kiss you on New Year’s if you want.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that it almost sounded like a business arrangement.

A smile tugged at your lips, inevitable. “You’d do that?”

“We were kissing an hour ago, weren’t we? Why wouldn’t I? I don’t see the problem.”

You hummed, nodding absently, your eyes dipping to your glass. He had a point. You took a sip, then glanced back at him.

“That’s true. But we’d have to be in the same place that night.”

“That can be arranged.”

You let out a breath, tilting your head. “Right.”

Frankie watched you. “Now, if you want to kiss a stranger, that’s as simple as a night out, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to reply but realized, suddenly, that he was closer than you’d thought. The space between you had shrunk, or maybe it had never been that wide to begin with. You shifted in your seat, tucking your knees to your chest, settling deeper into the warm space between his arm and his body.

“That’s true,” you admitted.

He tipped his head slightly. “Does it have to be any stranger?”

“Well, not any stranger,” you said, considering. “A decent stranger. Not a dangerous one.” You took another sip, then added, “I talked to Emma yesterday. She said we could go out when she comes to Austin—she has a good eye for strangers.”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “She senses vibes?”

“Exactly.” You grinned. “You can come too, if you want. I don’t know if you like those kinds of places.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, like he was actually thinking it over. “

Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” you said, too quickly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He lifted his glass, taking a sip before adding, “That way, if you need someone to pull some asshole off your back, you can use me.”

You laughed, softer this time, warmth pooling in your chest. “I'd like that.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, the kind that settled easily between two people with no urgency to fill it. Your eyes lingered on the page in your lap, the list of things you’d scrawled down, while Frankie lifted his glass to his lips again, tilting his head back slightly as he drank.

After a moment, he asked, “Why is it so important to kiss a stranger, though?”

You let out a breath, shifting your legs, stretching them out a little more comfortably.

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s some grand, life-changing thing. It’s just one of those little experiences I’ve never had. I’ve never felt confident enough to just—go up to someone and kiss them. I think I’m too much of a romantic for it.” You laughed, shaking your head at yourself.

“Ah, I get it. Like an act of liberation or something, right?”

“You could call it that.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

He hummed in response, a low, quiet sound, and for some reason, the warmth of it lingered in your ear.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mr. Darcy stir from his spot on the floor, stretching lazily before padding off toward his food bowl in the kitchen. You watched him go for a few seconds, then exhaled, a thought tugging at the edges of your mind.

“Actually,” you said, breaking the quiet, “I almost did it. A couple of years ago.”

Frankie’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“Kissing a stranger,” you clarified.

“Oh, when?”

“A few years ago. Emma and I went with another friend to a Halloween party downtown. It was a great night, mostly. But at some point, I lost them in the crowd and spent forever trying to find them.” You let out a quiet laugh, the memory coming back to you in pieces, hazy at the edges. “I was drunk, obviously. Somehow, I ended up going through a door, thinking it led to a patio or something. And then the door shut behind me, and I realized it didn’t open from the outside.”

Frankie tipped his glass toward his mouth, watching you over the rim.

“I panicked. And then this guy scared the shit out of me.” You shake your head, remembering the jolt of it, the way your breath had caught. “Turns out he’d come up earlier and wedged something in the door to keep it from locking. And I—totally oblivious, completely useless—ruined his plan.”

Frankie laughed, setting his drink down.

“It was actually a terrace,” you went on, “not a patio or anything. And my friends were nowhere to be found. I tried calling them. No answer. He tried calling his friends too, I think.” You exhaled another laugh, quieter this time. “He was dressed as Zorro.”

He smirked. “Sexy.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but no hat.”

“He can be forgiven.”

“We were stuck there for at least an hour and a half. Maybe longer. Just talking. Flirting.” Your voice had softened, slowed. “I told him a lot about my life. And I wanted to kiss him. Really badly.” You hesitated, then admitted, “But I didn’t.”

Frankie’s eyes flickered over you. His voice was quieter now. “Why didn’t you?”

Your hand drifted to Frankie’s torso, fingertips tracing absent-minded patterns over the fabric of his shirt. You toyed with one of the buttons, turning it between your fingers as if the movement might help pull the memory into sharper focus. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed content to let you linger there.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I didn’t. And before I could even think about it, a security guard showed up and—well, that was it. He told us we had to leave. And then he asked for my number.” You exhaled. “And I panicked. I was tipsy, nervous, trying to process the whole situation, and then out of nowhere, Emma came barreling toward me, screaming my name. So I ran.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched at the corner. “You ran.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Full-on ran. Didn’t even ask his name. Didn’t give him mine. Nothing.” You pressed your lips together, the weight of the ridiculousness settling in. “So, somewhere out there, there’s a guy who knows way too much about my life but has no idea what to call me.”

“You should’ve looked him up. Put up a sign or something. ‘El Zorro Wanted.’”

You laughed. “Right. And what, just hope he rides in on a horse to claim me?”

Frankie grinned. “Would’ve been romantic.”

“Yes, if somewhat unrealistic.” You pressed a finger against his belly, just lightly. “But I know I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

Frankie laughed, tipping his head back slightly. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Before he could respond, Mr. Darcy meowed from the kitchen, his voice sharp and insistent. You glanced over and saw him sitting upright next to his water dish, his eyes wide with the kind of urgency you had come to recognize immediately.

You sighed, detangling yourself from Frankie’s warmth and standing up. He watched you go, and when you reached for your empty glass, he handed you his without a word. You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a brief second before you turned and walked toward the kitchen.

There, you placed the glasses on the counter and crouched down beside Darcy, who was still stationed by his dishes, staring at you with clear disapproval. Floating in his water bowl was a single, tragic piece of food—utterly unacceptable, in his opinion. You already knew what he wanted before he so much as twitched an ear.

“Okay, okay,” you murmured, swapping out the water for fresh. When you set the dish back down, he inspected it briefly before brushing his head against your hand. You smoothed your fingers over the soft fur between his ears, a silent apology for the offense.

From the living room, the sound of the television clicking on drew your attention. You glanced back to see Frankie, remote in hand as he navigated YouTube. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen while his thumb moved over the buttons at a measured pace.

A few moments later, the speakers crackled to life. First, the sound of voices and laughter. Then, a melody—light and happy.

This Must Be the Place, by Talking Heads.

Frankie moved first. His shoulders bounced to the rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in exaggerated concentration, like he was feeling the music with his whole body. You laughed at the sight of him, the unabashed joy of it, the way he gave himself over so completely. Before you could react, he reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours as he pulled you into a messy twirl. The movement sent a dizzy sort of delight through you, spinning your balance just enough to make you stumble forward with a breathless laugh.

His hands found your waist, feather-light at first, just a teasing brush that made you squirm as he tickled at your sides.

“Francisco!” you yelped, half laughing, half breathless, trying to swat him away, but he only grinned, pulling you closer, setting the rhythm for you both.

It took only seconds for your body to sync with his. Bare feet against the floor, moving in tandem, your laughter tangling with the music as you mirrored his steps. He danced like a drunk man at a party—goofy and unselfconscious, his hips swaying exaggeratedly, arms lifting at just the right moments. And you, tipsy and delighted, couldn’t help but match his energy, your body light and free, your head tilting back as giggles tumbled out of you.

He spun you again, this time with a little more flair, his grip firm as he turned you effortlessly, sending a rush of dizziness through your limbs. The music swelled, bright and glittering, filling the space like drops of color spilling onto the floor.

Frankie laughed—really laughed—before pulling you back into him, your body colliding softly with his, breath warm against your temple. His hands settled at your waist, grounding you, his chest rising and falling against your back as the song played on, wrapping you both in its golden haze.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, your hands drifted up his chest, fingers trailing over the fabric stretched across his shoulders. Your arms looped around his neck, fingertips slipping into the curls at his nape, twisting there, just slightly, just enough to make him shiver. His breath hitched—so faint you might have imagined it.

He was watching you, his mouth curved at one side, that lazy, knowing smile playing at his lips, and maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the warmth of the room, or the hum still alive in your body from dancing—but you didn’t think too much about it.

You rose onto the tip of your feet and kissed him.

It surprised him—you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught—but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hesitate. If anything, he reacted in the opposite direction entirely. His hands locked around you, one gripping your waist, the other pressing firm against the small of your back, dragging you in until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the sharp, electric rush of contact.

His mouth opened under yours, the kiss deepening so effortlessly it made your head spin. You tilted your chin, parting your lips just slightly, and then his tongue was there, teasing the seam of your mouth. The first taste of him sent a spark up your spine, something hot and liquid pooling low in your stomach. A sound slipped from your throat—small, needy, completely unintentional.

That seemed to tip something over the edge.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his hands gripping harder, his kiss turning feverish, hungry. He moved forward, walking you back step by step until your shoulders hit the wall, his body pressing into yours. His fingers dragged down your spine, lower, lower—until his palm cupped your ass, his grip firm, hard, his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip.

You gasped against his mouth, your pulse hammering, your skin burning everywhere he touched you. It wasn’t enough. It was suddenly, overwhelmingly not enough. The need was blooming fast inside you, hot and insistent, demanding more.

Frankie’s mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, his lips brushing over sensitive skin before he latched onto the curve of your neck. His kisses were warm, wet, his breath hot as he worked his way down, open-mouthed and eager, sucking just enough to make you shudder, biting just enough to make your pulse spike.

Your breathing turned ragged, uneven, and when you reached for him, your hands trembled slightly, fingers slipping into his hair like you’d been aching to do all night. The curls twisted between your fingers, thick and soft, and when you tugged, just a little, Frankie let out a sound against your throat, something rough and needy that sent heat flooding through your limbs.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—were darker than you’d ever seen them, blown-out with something raw and desperate, something barely held together. He looked wrecked.

You barely had time to take him in before he was kissing you again, fast, consuming, like he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer. His tongue slid against yours, stroking deep, and you gasped into his mouth, the sensation making your stomach twist tight with heat.

His grip on you was unrelenting. One hand still cupped your ass, kneading as he pulled you closer, while the other squeezed your waist, fingers digging into your skin as if to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Then, with a slow, agonizing drag, his hand moved higher, following the curve of your body, grazing over your ribs before settling at your shoulder.

And then—without a word, without warning—he hooked his fingers under the thin strap of your dress and pulled it down.

The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your waist in a whisper of movement, leaving you exposed, bare against him. Your breath caught as your breasts brushed against his shirt, the contrast of heat and fabric making you shiver. Frankie groaned, his head dipping back to your throat, mouth trailing lower, lips skimming over your collarbone as his fingers drifted down to your cleavage.

A moan spilled from you before you could stop it, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard. Frankie exhaled sharply at the sensation, his hands moving over you with something just short of desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

Frankie’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass as his other hand slid to your hip. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he lifted you, pressing you against the wall with his body, holding you there with nothing but strength and urgency. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, your dress riding up over your thighs as you moved.

And then—you felt him. Hard, unyielding beneath you, pressing against the thin barrier of your underwear, sending a pulse of heat through you so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your hands found his face, fingers splayed along his jaw, tracing the shape of him before dragging him back to you. You kissed him like you needed it to live, mouths crashing together, breathless and messy, all tongue and heat and want.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and then suddenly, he was peeling you away from the wall, holding you effortlessly as he walked. The motion sent a fresh wave of friction between your legs, a sensation so deliciously torturous that a sigh slipped from you.

Your mind swam—desire and alcohol tangling together, clouding your senses, making everything feel heightened, electric. Every inch of you was aware of him, of his hands gripping you firmly, of the way his breath came ragged against your skin, of the sheer heat radiating off his body.

You didn’t realize where he’d taken you until your eyes blinked open and your mouth broke from his. The room was dark, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen. Frankie nudged the door shut with his foot before carrying you to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress with a care that sent something hot and unbearable curling in your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths, your skin buzzing, your nipples pebbling as a shiver passed through you. Above you, he stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze heavy, raking over you like he was committing you to memory. His lips were parted, his hair a mess from where your fingers had been, his entire body taut with restraint.

The light in your bedroom was soft, a muted glow spilling through the window, casting everything in pale blue and silver. Frankie lingered above you, his gaze locked onto yours, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something heavier.

But then you sat up, just slightly, your body tilting toward him, pulling back just enough to give him space, to show him he could reach for you again.

And he did.

His hands found your hips first, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. Then, as if drawn by gravity, you fell back against the mattress, offering yourself up like an invitation.

Frankie moved, positioning himself over you, his weight settling between your legs as his mouth descended to your neck. His lips were warm, teasing, a soft drag over your pulse before opening against your skin, kissing, tasting. You gasped when his teeth scraped along your collarbone, a gentle bite soothed by the heat of his tongue as he moved lower.

Lower.

Your breath hitched when he reached your chest, his mouth ghosting over the swell of your breast before closing around your nipple. His lips sealed over you, sucking with just enough pressure to send a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through your stomach. A quiet, aching sound slipped from your throat, and when his tongue flicked against you, a fresh wave of heat shot between your legs.

Frankie groaned, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you felt the way his body reacted—the way his grip on you tightened, the way his fingers curled against your ribs as he sucked harder, the way his hips rolled just slightly against yours, pressing, teasing.

And then—his leg.

One of his thighs slotted between yours, the fabric rough against the thin lace of your underwear, pressing exactly where you needed him most. Your back arched instinctively, a shudder ripping through you as you moved against him, chasing the friction, chasing him.

His mouth never left you, his hands never stopped mapping you out, like he was determined to unravel you completely.

The hunger in you was unbearable. It twisted deep in your stomach, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of your heart. For a fleeting, ridiculous moment, you thought it might break free from your chest entirely.

And then you snapped.

Your hands found Frankie’s shoulders, fingers digging in, pushing him back with a force that surprised even you. A soft, wet pop sounded as his mouth pulled away from your skin, his lips flushed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale.

You didn’t give either of you a moment to think. You pressed harder, guiding him onto his back until he was lying beneath you, sprawled out on your bed, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His eyes flickered up to yours and before he could say a word, you climbed over him, knees settling on either side of his hips, palms pressed flat against his chest.

He was firm beneath you—solid, unrelenting, there—and for a second, you just felt it, the heat of him seeping through layers of fabric, the pressure of his body beneath yours.

Frankie let his head tip back slightly, his throat exposed, his breath catching in his chest. And your gaze dropped, drawn to the place you’d been watching all night, the place that had tempted you again and again.

Without hesitation, you leaned down and latched your mouth onto his neck.

You bit—just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at your waist. You kissed him there, tongue dragging over the mark you left, mouth moving against his skin like you wanted to devour him whole, like you could eat him alive and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And then, as if possessed by something outside of yourself, your hips moved.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was both. But the moment you felt him—hard beneath you, pressing exactly where you needed him—it became impossible to stop.

You rocked against him, chasing the friction, the feeling, the unbearable, pulsing ache. And Frankie watched you, his eyes locked onto the place where your bodies met, his fingers gripping your waist, urging you on, helping you, pressing you harder against him.

His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but then—he sat up.

One hand braced against the mattress behind him, the other sliding up your side. His lips found your chest again, hungry, impatient, and he took your breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, dragging his tongue across sensitive skin as your movements turned frantic, desperate.

Heat built between you, unbearable and intoxicating, a tension so thick it felt like you might shatter under the weight of it. And god, you wanted to shatter.

“Francisco,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as the air between you seemed to crackle.

He pulled back, his face raw, his expression one of devastation. His eyes locked with yours, something passing between you—something unspoken, heavy, like a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal, or a confession that had slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and then his hands—those hands that had been so sure, so confident before—settled on your hips as if trying to keep you from moving. Trying to stop something that neither of you were sure you wanted to stop.

“Baby,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a murmur that almost didn’t reach your ears. “No.”

You froze, your body stilling, confusion rising in you. Your chest ached, your pulse fluttering unsteadily as you tried to understand what he meant. Had you even heard him? His words felt distant, muffled by the weight of everything else that pressed down on you.

And then, before you could gather yourself, his hands lifted you—effortlessly, as if you were nothing more than a feather in his grasp—and pulled you off of him, placing you beside him on the bed.

You blinked, disoriented, vulnerable, your heart thundering against your ribcage. You tried to focus, to find words, but all you could manage was his name, your voice thin, fragile, barely more than a breath.

“Frankie,” you said, a quiet plea.

He turned his face toward you, and the look in his eyes made something cold and painful twist in your stomach.

“We can't,” he said, almost too softly, his voice cracking like a broken thing.

He leaned in closer, but then, just as quickly, he pulled away, retreating to the edge of the bed, his back to you.

Your body felt like it was on fire as you sat up, knees pressing into the bed, hands reaching out for him, desperate to bridge the space that had grown between you. You touched his back, fingertips brushing his skin.

He jerked away like your touch had scorched him, a visible flinch, like he couldn’t bear the heat of your skin against his.

“Frankie.”

“We can't,” he repeated, his words barely audible.

“Why?”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his head just enough for his gaze to meet yours. There was something in his eyes—something deeper than confusion, maybe regret, maybe guilt. His jaw tightened, and the words seemed to choke him. “I-I can’t.”

"That's not—"

"I shouldn't. We shouldn't."

"Why?" The question slipped from you, quieter than you'd intended, almost lost in the space between the two of you. But it rang in your ears, your breath stilling as you waited for him to answer. You were stunned by the sudden distance, the barrier he'd just put up between you.

He exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on something you couldn't see, something distant. When he finally turned back to you, there was an edge in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite regret but more like hesitation, like he was struggling to keep his thoughts in order.

"We're drunk, baby. You're going to regret it in the morning."

"That's not true," you said, but the words felt fragile, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. Your heart was beating erratically, a mix of frustration and desire coiling tightly in your chest.

"It is."

"Are you going to regret it in the morning?" you pressed, your voice thinner now.

He looked at you for a beat, silent, like he was trying to decide whether to lie, whether to say something easier. Then, almost reluctantly, he shook his head.

"No."

Your hand moved instinctively, reaching for him again, your fingers brushing his back. He didn’t pull away this time.

"Frankie—"

"You don’t really want this."

"I do."

He shook his head again, his brow furrowing as he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

"No. It’s been a complicated night, and we’ve had too much wine."

"This has nothing to do with the night, or the wedding, or anything."

He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound, and closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, there was a kind of resignation in them.

"You’re Santi’s sister," he blurted, and as soon as the words left his mouth, you felt something inside you snap—an illusion.

Frankie’s eyes locked with yours, but there was something pained in his gaze now, something that made your chest tighten. The way he looked at you—it was as if your mere presence in that moment, sitting in front of him, bare and vulnerable, hurt him more than it should have.

"That didn’t seem to bother you before," you said, your voice firm, holding steady despite the twist of anger in your stomach. "You’ve done worse things to me than this. You never cared that Santiago was my brother."

"This is different."

You stared at the ground, your heart sinking as the words echoed in your mind. Different. It wasn’t a word you wanted to hear. It didn’t make any of this easier to understand.

"Okay," you whispered finally, your voice soft, resigned. You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed yourself.

“I should go,” he said, turning away from you, pressing the heels of his hands against his face like he could wipe away whatever had just passed between you.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but one escaped anyway—something caught between a sigh and a whimper. Frankie turned at once, his gaze finding yours and holding it, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something written there in a language he half-understood. For a moment, he just looked. And then he moved.

He stepped toward you, reaching for your dress. His fingers pulled the strap back over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric into place like it mattered, like it made a difference. Like it wasn’t already too late for that.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you saw the way they landed.

Maybe it was just exhaustion, or the alcohol swimming in both your systems, making everything feel softer and sadder than it really was.

After a beat, he nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. “Okay.”

He took a step back, then another, eyes still on you as he pulled off his shoes and let them drop to the floor. You sat up, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity, the crease between your brows deepening. And then you understood.

You exhaled, sinking back onto the bed, shifting just enough to make space. A moment later, the mattress dipped under his weight.

You turned your head, finding him beside you, his face illuminated only by the faint glow filtering through the window. He was looking at you the way he always did—like he saw something you didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You swallowed. “I like being with you.”

His lips parted, just slightly. “I like being with you too.”

For a second, you hesitated. Then, spurred by the lingering hum of wine in your blood, you reached out, your fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

You let your eyes slip shut.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy

#capuccinodoll #the boyfriend act #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #francisco morales fanfiction #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction

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umadosedepascal · 1 day ago

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WHAT CAN I SAY? Please help me… 🤤

#pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x f!reader #frankie catfish morales #joel miller #pedro pascal imagine #frankie morales #dieter bravo #dbf joel miller #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #marcus acacius #pedropascaledit #joel miller x reader #pascalispunk #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #pedro x reader

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cosmicaura7 · 3 days ago

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WHOLE PACKAGE BABE, I LIKE THE WAY YOU FIT

Pairings : pedro pascal (francisco morales) x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, size kink, size difference, unprotected sex, creampie

Synopsis : In where Francisco Morales is still a virgin because of his rather large size. That was until you came along.

Word Count : 2.7k (my first time writing smut! Hope you guys enjoy.)

Taglist : none yet

Francisco Morales had never thought of himself as unlucky when it came to women, but after years of failed attempts at getting laid, he was starting to think otherwise. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He had been with plenty of women, beautiful, smart, interested. They liked him, heck even wanted him. But the moment things got intimate, they took one look at what he was packing and suddenly had an excuse to leave. Some were polite about it, some not so much, but the end result was always the same.

It had gotten bad enough that his so-called brothers in arms had decided to intervene.

Which was how Frankie found himself sitting at a dive bar with Will, Benny, and Pope, all of them nursing beers and conspiring about how to finally get him laid.

“I’m just saying…” Benny started, leaning forward with his usual shit-eating grin. “...we need to find you a woman who can handle what you’re working with, man.”

“Jesus Christ, Benny.” Frankie groaned, rubbing his face in frustration as he’s not really in the mood to discuss it any further.

“I’m serious!” Benny gestures wildly with his beer bottle. “We gotta think strategy here. We can’t just throw you at any random woman and hope for the best.” He then started strategizing like the topic of Frankie’s virginity was some sort of football game.

“Benny, we’re not hunting for a damn prize mare. Frankie’s not some freak, he just hasn’t found the right person yet.” Will, ever the rational one, sighed to himself.

Frankie sighed, slumping in his chair. “Thank you, Will.” He then grabs a hold of his beer to take another big gulp.

Santiago, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly smirked. “You know… I might actually know someone.” He couldn’t help but laugh in amusement at the three pairs of eyes turning towards him in confusion and interest.

“Who?” Benny asked, intrigued.

Pope took a slow sip of his beer, as if considering. Then he grinned widely at his brothers. “She’s a friend of mine. Someone I trust. And I think she might just be exactly what Frankie needs.” He couldn’t help but contain the excitement bubbling inside his chest at the thought of setting his best friend up with one of his best friends as well.

“I don’t need a damn setup!” Frankie frowned in annoyance, taking another sip of his beer.

“Yes you do.” Bennyl cuts in, slightly flinching at the sight of Frankie glaring at him as he decides to keep his mouth shut for now.

Pope ignored his protest and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call her.” He was already searching through his contacts to look for his best friend’s phone number to immediately dial her and see if she’s available.

Frankie groaned again, but deep down, curiosity stirred. Because if Pope was suggesting someone, it meant she wasn’t just a random woman. It meant she was different. And God help him, maybe different was exactly what he needed.

-----

You had no idea what to expect when Pope called you. You’d known him for years, had run in the same circles, and trusted him more than most people. So when he told you he had a friend who needed a woman’s… expertise, you were instantly intrigued. And when you met Francisco Morales for the first time, you were absolutely sold. The man was gorgeous. Tall, broad, rough around the edges but with soft brown eyes that made your stomach flip. He was shy, almost awkward, but there was something about him that pulled you in.

And when Pope, not so subtly, filled you in on why you were here, you nearly laughed. Because this poor man had been struggling all this time over something most women would kill for.

So, after a night of drinks and quiet conversation, you leaned in, tracing a finger over the rim of your glass, and said. “You wanna get out of here, Frankie?” And you couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction.

His eyes widened slightly. “You… you sure?” He couldn’t help but tighten his grip around his beer bottle to ground himself and make sure that he wasn’t dreaming.

You smiled. “I think you’ll find I’m not so easily intimidated.” And when you finally got him alone, when you got your hands on him, got to see exactly what had scared off so many women before you, you grinned.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. “Those poor girls had no idea what they were missing.” And as Francisco Morales let you pull him onto the bed, he had a feeling that, for the first time in his life, he had finally met his match.

-----

Francisco Morales had never felt like this before, like he was drowning, overwhelmed, consumed. You were everywhere, wrapped around him, pulling him in deeper, moaning his name like it was the only thing you could remember. And the way you looked at him, like you couldn’t get enough, like you were obsessed with how he felt inside you, it was almost too much to handle.

“Fuck…” You gasped, nails digging into his back as he thrust into you again, slow and deep, stretching you open in a way that had you shaking. “You’re so…fuck. Frankie. you’re so big.” Jesus, even the way you moan was like angels singing in his damn ears.

He groaned, burying his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Too much?” He rasped, already prepared to stop, to pull back, to give you time to adjust…

But you only clenched tighter around him, dragging him closer, your legs locking around his waist. “No…” You whimpered pathetically, rolling your hips up to meet his. Feeling absolutely desperate and needy for more. “Never too much.” You sigh out, feeling your brain soon turn into mush just like how Frankie was turning your insides into mush as well and making a complete mess out of you.

Frankie swore under his breath. He had never had this before, not just the pleasure, not just the sex, but this. The way you wanted him, all of him. His size had scared every other woman off. But not you.

You loved it.

You needed it.

“More.” You begged so prettily for him. “I want to feel all of you.” Your hands slid down his back, gripping his ass, urging him to move.

Frankie groaned, lifting his head to look at you, and damn near lost it. You were completely wrecked, lips swollen, eyes glassy with pleasure and body shaking in ecstasy. Your nails dragged down his skin, leaving marks, as if you needed proof that he was real, that this was all real.

“You’re perfect. So fucking thick, made to ruin me.” You whispered, biting your lip as he pushed in deeper, the stretch almost too much but exactly what you wanted.

Frankie cursed, his control slipping. He grabbed your hips, pinning you down as he thrust into you harder and deeper. You moaned, arching under him as your body shudders around him. “This what you want, hermosa?” He rasped, voice thick with arousal. “Want me to stretch you open? Fill you up?” His thrusts slowly increase its pace as his grip on the beautiful woman beneath him tightens.

“Yes, yes! Fuck!” Your head fell back against the pillows with your body trembling beneath him. “Yes…” You whined.

Frankie growled, his lips capturing yours in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your moans. He had never felt wanted like this before. And he was never letting you go.

Frankie was losing himself in you. He had never felt anything like this before, never felt anyone like this before. The way you took him, the way you needed him, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. And the way you clenched around him, so hot, so tight, so perfect, made it impossible to stop. He should stop. He should pull out. He knew he should. But he couldn’t.

Because you felt too good.

Because you wanted it.

Because he was obsessed with the way you swallowed him whole, with the way your body craved his, with the way you moaned when he filled you up. And right now, with you writhing beneath him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your breath hot against his ear as you whimpered. “Frankie, please…please don’t stop. Need you so bad…”

How the fuck was he supposed to stop?

Frankie groaned, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he thrust into you, slow and deep, burying himself to the hilt. He felt you tremble, felt your nails rake down his back, and fuck, it only made him want you more. “You feel so fucking good.” He rasped against your lips, his voice thick with need. “So tight, so perfect, taking me so well.”

“Don’t pull out.” You moaned, your back arching, your legs wrapping tighter around him, locking him inside you. “Wanna feel you. Wanna be full of you.” You breathed, your lips brushing against his.

Frankie swore, something breaking inside him. His hips snapped against yours, his movements turning rougher, more desperate, more needy. “Fuck. You want it, hermosa? Want me to fill you up?” He gritted out.

“Yes! Please…” You nodded frantically, clinging to him, your walls fluttering around him.

That was all he needed.

Frankie buried himself as deep as he could, his body shaking as he spilled inside you, his release filling you up, making you gasp as you felt him flood you.

“So fucking good.” You whimpered, your legs tightening around him, holding him close, not letting him go. “So good…” You whispered to yourself, your lips brushing against his temple.

Frankie groaned, his body still trembling, his breath uneven as he pressed a lazy kiss to your collarbone. He knew he should move. He should pull out. He should clean you up. But instead, he stayed inside you, letting himself sink into your warmth, into the way you held him, into the way you fit around him.

Because fuck, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

And maybe… he never would.

-----

The room was still heavy with the scent of sex, the air thick with warmth as you and Frankie lay tangled together in the sheets. His broad chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heartbeat still erratic from the way he had just wrecked you. You traced lazy patterns over his skin, reveling in the way he still pulsed inside you, not yet willing to pull away. His arm was wrapped securely around you, holding you against him like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Frankie let out a long, satisfied sigh, his fingers dragging through your hair as he pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. “That was…” He trailed off, searching for words.

“Yeah?” You grinned, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

“Yeah…” He murmured. “Fucking perfect.” His brown eyes were soft, a little dazed, a little wrecked.

You preened under his praise, nuzzling against his chest, feeling impossibly warm and full in every way.

And then…

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Frankie groaned as the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand shattered the peaceful silence. He ignored it at first, nuzzling deeper into your hair, but when it went off again, he let out a reluctant sigh.

“You should get that.” You couldn’t help but teased, lazily pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“I really don’t want to.” He muttered, squeezing your hip.

Out of curiosity, you peeked over his shoulder and caught the name flashing on the screen. Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” You smirked.

Frankie shot you a suspicious look before finally grabbing his phone and answering. “What?” He grumbled, voice hoarse from exhaustion. There was a beat of silence before Pope’s voice rang through the speaker, way too fucking amused.

“So…” Pope drawled. “Did she finally pop your cherry, or what?”

Your eyes went wide, and then you lost it. A surprised snort escaped you, quickly turning into full-blown laughter as you buried your face in Frankie’s chest, your body shaking with amusement.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pope.” Frankie groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“What?” Pope said innocently. “We had a bet going. Benny swore you’d chicken out last minute.”

“I fuckin’ knew he had it in him! Pay up, Garcia!” You could hear Benny’s distant voice in the background.

“I hate all of you.” Frankie clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Fish.” Pope teased. “We’re proud of you, man. You finally got your dick wet.”

You howled with laughter, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as Frankie groaned again, looking absolutely fucking done. “Okay bye.” Frankie gritted out before hanging up and tossing his phone onto the nightstand.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” Still laughing, you pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Frankie grumbled something under his breath before finally sighing and shaking his head, his lips twitching.

“Maybe a little.” You grinned.

“Think it’s time I wipe that smug look off your face.” Frankie rolled onto his side, pinning you beneath him, his large hands sliding down your waist.

“Yeah?” Your breath hitched, your body already responding to him again.

“Yeah.” He smirked, pressing his hips against yours, already hard again.

And as Frankie Morales sank back into you, filling you up all over again, you decided that his friends could wait. Because there was no fucking way you were done with him yet.

-----

Francisco Morales had it bad. It had only been a few days since that first night, but in that short time, you had completely taken over his life. Every thought, every free moment, his head is just filled with you. You were insatiable, always pulling him back into bed, always wrapping yourself around him like you couldn’t get enough. And Frankie? Frankie was just as bad. If you so much as looked at him a certain way, he was done for. If you so much as brushed your fingers over his thigh, whispered something soft against his ear, he was fucking gone.

And his friends noticed.

Which was why, four days later, when the team met up at their usual bar, Frankie found himself the target of relentless teasing.

Benny was the first to start. “So Fish…” He drawled, leaning back in his seat, a shit eating grin on his face. “Haven’t seen much of you these last few days. Wonder why that is.”

“I’ve been busy.” Frankie ignored his teasing, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“Busy, huh?” Will smirked, exchanging a look with Pope.

“I think he means he’s been buried between…” Benny grinned, nudging Pope as well.

“Don’t.” Frankie shot him a glare.

But Pope was already laughing. “Oh, come on, hermano. We all see it. You look like a man who hasn’t left his girl’s bed since the second he got a taste.” Despite him and the others giggling like middle school boys and making fun of Frankie, there was no denying that they were happy for him for finally finding someone he wants to spend his life with.

Frankie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are the fucking worst.” He then takes a long sip of the beer in his hands in an attempt to hide the love sick grin on his face.

“You do know we’re happy for you, right?” Benny chuckled, leaning forward.

“Yeah, yeah.” Frankie sighed, rolling his eyes.

“But we’re still gonna give you shit.” Pope smirked, clapping his hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

“Just don’t forget to hydrate, man.” Will chuckled, shaking his head.

Frankie flipped them all off. That was when his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, and his stomach did a little flip when he saw your name pop up.

[Hermosa]: Miss you. Come over?

Frankie couldn’t help the way his lips twitched.

Oh my God, you’re so smitten.” Benny caught the look immediately and groaned. “

“I gotta go.” Frankie ignored him, already standing and reaching for his keys to get ready to leave and return back home.

“Yeah, we know.” Pope snorted at him.

“Give her our love!” Benny called after him.

“Give her some water after you’re done!” Will added, laughing.

Frankie just shook his head, but he didn’t stop walking. Because, fuck, they were right, he was smitten. And he had every intention of showing you exactly how much.

#chat and chill #x fem!reader #x female reader #x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x reader #francisco morales #triple frontier #frankie morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction

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81gb · 2 days ago

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pedro pascal as francisco ' catfish ' morales , triple frontier .

#pedro pascal #francisco morales #frankie morales #frankie morales gif #francisco morales gif #triple frontier #pocedit #dailypoc #dilfgifs #gaybuckybarnes #movieedits #moviegifs #movie gifs #film gifs #filmedits #pedro pascal gif

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 3 days ago

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kiss between friends - Frankie Morales

900 Followers Milestone Celebration - kissing prompts

bio : This story is part of the 900 Followers Milestone Celebration - kissing prompts.

person ordering: one sweet anon

warnings : fluff, friends don't do that, some beer, one pushy guy, some angst; Pope, Will and Benny are mentioned

[my masterlist]

They were different kinds of kisses. And Frankie thought they were all innocent and natural, because after all, you were friends.

A quick kiss on his cheek as you got out of his car when he dropped you off at home. He could feel the place burning him for a while afterwards.

A kiss he placed on your temple when you were at an amusement park and you really wanted to see if you could hit the target with your air rifle. Frankie won you that teddy bear you dreamed of later.

A kiss placed on the back of your hand during a long car ride, when music was playing on the radio and you were singing one of the songs you both liked so much.

A kiss on the forehead that you didn't know about because you were asleep cuddled up to him on the couch, even though you really wanted to see that movie with him.

Pope and Will mocked him, and Benny teased him every time you were out of sight. “You should ask her out eventually. Fuck, how long are you going to wait? For someone else to do it?” they said.

But Frankie always had one answer to that - you were friends. And even though he felt like it wasn't just friendship anymore, he still didn't have the courage to ask for more. The possibility of rejection terrified him. He'd rather spend time by your side as a friend than live without you because his feelings for you could scare you.

What if you didn't want him? What if you only saw him as a friend?

"A penny for your thoughts." You sat down next to him, lightly bumping your shoulder against his. Frankie smiled and shook his head.

"Naah. They're not worth that much." He replied. "Are you having a good time?"

You glanced around the bar and all the guests, then back at him. "I am now."

It was nice to have Frankie by your side. Even though he was sometimes withdrawn, you felt like there was someone else around you - more honest, cheerful, open. When you had to show up somewhere and you knew he would be there, you didn't even hesitate. You always answered his phone, you wrote back to him immediately after reading the messages. He was your friend, and even someone much more important.

But that evening something was wrong. Frankie seemed more tense, lost in his own thoughts, and even your presence couldn't wake him up.

How could you have known that before you showed up here Santiago and Benny had mocked him for his indecisiveness towards you.

“Goddamn it, dude!” Benny groaned, smacking him in the chest. “You’ve been making puppy eyes at her for so long, it’s just pathetic. Do you have balls or not? Go tell me how you feel before some dick comes along who wants her all to himself.”

And unfortunately for Frankie, such a guy stood next to you a moment later. Morales noticed the quick look you gave him when the other guy asked you to dance "Will you do something about it?", but he just took a sip of his beer, looking down.

He watched as you disappeared into the crowd of people, and he was left alone with his thoughts again.

This guy was nice, at least until he downed two more beers. You tried to ignore his hungry gaze that wandered over your body, and once or twice you shook off his hand that landed on your hip.

"Let's dance," he suggested, pulling you towards the dancing people. You tried to find Frankie with your eyes, but you lost him somewhere. Was he angry at you? Maybe you said or did something that offended him? You couldn't remember anything like that though.

"Come closer, sweetie."

Your companion pulled you closer, you smelled beer or cheap cologne. you wanted to protest, but your voice died in your throat as his hand unexpectedly squeezed your ass.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, you’re cute,” he mumbled with a smile right into your ear.

"Thanks." you replied, placing your hand on his shoulder. "You know, you're a little too close."

“The closer the better, right?”

"I'm not like that..."

“Hands off, asshole.” Someone yanked the arm that was holding you and in a second you were pushed away from your companion.

"Frankie..."

"Hey, dude! We're just dancing!" the other protested, but Frankie had fire in his eyes, his jaw was tense and he seemed taller than usual. You instinctively grabbed his arm.

"She didn't seem thrilled with the dance." He replied, pointing a finger at him. "Stay away from her, you son of a bitch!"

"Frankie, let's get out of here." You groaned, pulling him towards the exit as more and more people were paying attention to you. A fight wasn't necessary, not for something like this.

With considerable difficulty, you led Frankie towards the exit and after a moment you felt the cold air, and the sounds of music and conversations faded away as the doors closed behind you.

"What was that?" You asked, folding your hands over your chest. You weren't angry, more scared and confused. Frankie, on the other hand, took deep breaths, took off his hat and ruffled his hair with his hand, then pushed it back on his head.

"That guy shouldn't touch you like that." he grumbled "He's lucky I didn't break his fucking arm or..."

"Frankie!"

"I’m sorry." he mumbled, looking down "I just... Sorry."

You were both silent for a moment. A few people left the pub, but no one paid any attention to you. Finally, you were the first to speak.

"Will you tell me what's going on? You've been so... angry with me all evening. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, hermosa. Please, this doesn't concern you." he replied quickly.

"Really? I get a different impression."

Frankie sighed. Suddenly he felt your hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle, like it always was when you touched him. You stood close, looking at him with concern written on your face.

"Tell me what's going on, Frankie." you said quietly "We're friends and I... I worry about you, about us."

He cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was calm. "I don't want to be your friend anymore." a small wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows "I don't want to be just a friend, hermosa. I want more. I've wanted more for a long time. I want you. Not just these little touches..." he looked at your hand still holding him, you quickly pulled it away "Not just friendly kisses and time spent together. I want more. I want you, all of you."

You stared at him, clearly confused. What he said overwhelmed you in an instant and it took a moment for your brain to process it. But you finally let out the air you had been holding in your lungs unconsciously. "I don't understand, Frankie..."

"Then let me show you."

And before you knew it, his large hands cupped your face. A quick glance of brown eyes, and you felt his lips on yours.

Frankie was kissing you, gently and with a feeling like he was afraid you would fall apart. But when your hands grabbed his wrists, when he felt you start to kiss him back, nothing could stop him anymore.

He ran his tongue over your lips, and you parted them, allowing him to sneak inside. He played with you, extracting quiet sighs from your throat, unconsciously moving you towards the wall and soon you were trapped between Frankie's solid body and the cold building.

Your lips tore apart for a moment. When you opened your eyes, you saw Frankie's scared face in front of you. Brown eyes stared at you, full of emotions that neither of you could name.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, "I shouldn't."

"I don't think that's how friends kiss..." you replied, the corners of your lips twitching, "But I like it."

"Really? Sweet Jesus, I've wanted to do this for a long time." he smiled radiantly as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart.

You both smiled at each other like crazy for a few seconds until you were the first to speak up. "Will you do it again?"

"Definitely." he breathed out and your lips crashed together again.

"Finally!" Benny's loud voice came from the doorway. "Pope, man! You owe me fifty bucks!"

#pedro pascal #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier #900 followers milestone celebration

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clubsoft · 1 day ago

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for no particular reason at all, here's frankie morales chewing gum while stuck in the middle of nowhere!

men with oral fixations are overpowered because they'll always want their mouth on you cuz what else is better than having the taste of you on their tongue, the texture of your skin between their teeth

and what's better than being relentlessly consumed by the one you love

#frankie morales

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mushgloomz · 2 days ago

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The PPCU Smut Writing Challenge

this is my little nod to the very reason i reinstalled tumblr after nearly ten years of not using it; the reason why so many of us have converged on this cesspit of a site - the love of smut. in homage to such a genre, i'm excited to share that i will be hosting a PPCU smut writing challenge for anyone that would like to get involved!

The Rules:

This challenge will be strictly 18+ for obvious reasons. Minors will not be able to participate.

The deadline for this challenge is the 24th of May 2025 - if anyone would like an extension, just lemme know!

To participate, please send me (@mushgloomz ) an ask - that way, I can keep track of entries and make sure everyone's work gets reblogged and compiled into a masterlist after the event <3

Please post all entries under the tag #PPCUSmutChallenge

The Challenge:

Now for the juicy stuff - the challenge itself. I have three wheels at my disposal - one with most of the PPCU boys, another with typical smut fanfiction tropes, and a third wheel that I have aptly named 'Add a little spice'.

When you send me an ask, I will spin for your Pedro boy and your trope - if you're feeling frisky/want a little more of a challenge, please add a flame emoji (🔥) and a number between 1 and 3. I will then spin that number of times on the third wheel, which will give you some specific details for you to incorporate. I have included the full list of additional themes at the end of this post; please specify in your ask if there are any themes that you are uncomfortable with, and I will re-spin if you get any of those!

You can write as much or as little as you would like; drabbles, blurbs or oneshots, all are perfect!

I'm so excited to see if a) this flops and b) hopefully getting a fresh wave of smut on my timeline! <3

Full list of additional smut themes (third wheel):

Affair/Cheating

Age Gap

As Quiet as Possible

Blindfolded

Bondage

Breeding Kink

Choking

CNC

Cowgirl

Daddy Kink

Dark!Character

Degradation

Doggy Style

Edging

Exhibitionism

Face Sitting

Free Use

Knife/Sharps Play

Loud

Mating Press

Missionary

Mutual Masturbation

Oral

Orgasm Denial

Overstimulation

Pet Play

Phone/Video Sex

Praise

Reverse Cowgirl

Roleplay

Size Kink

Somnophilia

Spanking/Slapping

Speedbump

Talk Them Through It

Uniform

Voyeurism

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berryispunk · 3 days ago

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Blurred Lines

pairing: Frankie Morales x gn! reader

tags: friends with benefits, wet Frankie (yes, that's important), confined space, friends to lovers, allusions to smut, some angst, kissing, swearing, love confession (kind of), communication is hard, mutual pining, yearning

summary: You’re stranded in the middle of nowhere during a storm, and there’s no escaping your feelings now.

word count: 2,4 k

also readable here

The rain was pouring, the thunder rolling through the sky like a warning you had ignored for too long. Frankie gripped the steering wheel of his old truck, his knuckles white against the leather as he cursed under his breath. The headlights barely cut through the wand of rain.

You shifted in the passenger seat, trying to find some comfort in the cramped space, your knees bumping against the glove compartment. Your usual banter with Frankie was gone, replaced by the quiet hum of the engine and the pounding of rain on the roof. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere with him, in a car, miles from civilization… it felt like a pressure building up between you two, something you hadn’t fully addressed yet.

“Should’ve listened to you,” Frankie muttered, glancing over at you, his jaw tight. “Guess you were right about the storm.”

You smiled faintly, knowing exactly what he meant. The storm wasn’t the real issue though. No, it was the fact that for months now, your relationship had been nothing more than a series of stolen moments—no strings attached, just two people who knew exactly what they wanted from each other: easy satisfaction. Friends with benefits, the arrangement was simple. No responsibilities whatsoever, him coming and going like a stray cat whenever he pleased. But being stuck here in this situation, the two of you alone with nowhere to go felt different.

The silence between you thickened, more charged than the heavy air outside. You could feel it in the way Frankie kept glancing at you, the weight of his gaze lingering just a little too long. “Guess we’re gonna be here for a while,” you said, trying to break the tension, but the words felt forced.

Frankie gave a short laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah… guess so.” He hesitated, fingers tapping on the wheel nervously. “You cold?”

“Not really,” you replied, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. The tension between you was the quiet kind of tension, one that made you second-guess the lines you’d drawn between friendship and something more. Something you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about until now.

He shifted in his seat, his gaze flickering between you and the outside world. The storm outside raging, the only thing keeping you safe the vehicle you sat in. He moved the car off the road, the rain still heavily patting on the hood of the truck. Of course you started to get cold but you didn’t dare to say anything. You stared out of the window, chin resting in your palm, elbow wedged against the car door watching the outside. Letting the rain soothe your troubled mind. Finding peace in it when your thoughts were a mess. Rain always had that effect on you.

“Fuck it,” he finally said next to you and the next thing you knew was the door getting slammed and his warmth gone. You turned around to see where he went but the rain was so heavy and thick against the car windows you couldn’t make out where he was. You were about to grab the door handle to look for him but just in that moment the driver door opened and Frankie slumped back into the seat. Soaking wet and with a blanket in hand, which was not as wet as he was.

You just stared at him in disbelief, his clothes were so wet they were dripping. The little droplets heard falling down. His tousled locks stuck to his temples, some water drops even falling down from his strong nose, his plush lips glistening wet making you stare at him for longer than what would be considered decent. He wordlessly handed you the blanket and you shook your head.

“Frankie, what—?”

“Don’t ask,” Frankie cut you off, his voice rough, his teeth chattering slightly from the cold. He glanced over at you, his eyes bright but tired, and then focused on the road ahead. His clothes were soaked, clinging to him in all the wrong ways, but he didn’t seem to care.

You took the blanket from him, still too stunned to speak. The weight of the moment was heavy, too heavy, and you found it hard to breathe. There was something unsettling about seeing him like this—vulnerable in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to think about before.

He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm up, and the noise of the storm outside seemed to grow louder, pressing in on you both. The truck was small, the space cramped, but there was something about it now that felt even more suffocating. Like you were both trapped in a moment neither of you knew how to escape.

“Why’d you go out there?” you finally asked, your voice quieter now, the words barely escaping your lips.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his wet locks before meeting your gaze. “I don’t know. I just… I had to move. Had to do something, you know?” He paused, clearly trying to put his thoughts into words. “I’m not good at sitting still when things start to feel… off.”

You shifted in your seat, pulling the blanket around your shoulders, but it barely made a difference against the cold that had settled deep inside you. It wasn’t the temperature. It was the tension, the sudden awareness that you were both in a place you hadn’t planned on being. Frankie turned to face you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen. The edges of his usual cocky confidence seemed to have worn down, leaving a raw honesty in its place.

“I didn’t want to sit here with you, pretending like nothing’s changed.” His voice dropped lower. “I’m not sure if I’m even capable of pretending anymore.” You stared at him, unsure how to respond. There it was—the thing you’d been avoiding, the truth neither of you had wanted to face. For months, it had been easy to keep things light, easy to convince yourselves that this thing, whatever it was, didn’t have to be anything more. But now, stuck here in his truck, you could feel it. The shift between you, lines blurring between what you are feeling and what you really were for each other.

Frankie shifted closer, the movement so subtle it was barely noticeable, but you felt the pull of it—the closeness, the heat of his body against yours made your head spin, like it always does.

“What do you mean by that ? I thought…"

“I thought so too. But, fuck, I—“ he stopped mid sentence, his brown eyes now almost confused on you. Your pulse quickened, a knot forming in your stomach as you looked at him. The storm outside had nothing on the storm inside of you. You could feel the words on the tip of your tongue, but they wouldn’t come. You didn’t know what you wanted to say. Or maybe, you didn’t want to say it at all, too afraid of the aftermath of them.

The tension simmered between you and Frankie was now so close, you could feel his breath on your skin, the warmth of him seeping through the layers of clothing, even if he started to shiver.

“You really have to get rid of your clothes, Frankie. You’re gonna get sick,” you reasoned with him, the words almost feeling too big in the small space. Too unimportant in their meaning.

He scoffed sarcastically. “That's what you’re worried about right now? Me getting sick ?” You had to chuckle to yourself about the absurdity. Here you were, stuck in the middle of nowhere, the tension between you both thicker than the rain pounding on the truck, and Frankie was still being his stubborn, sarcastic self.

Ultimately his gaze softened for a moment, the sarcasm falling away, leaving a raw vulnerability behind. “You’re probably right,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, the earlier bravado gone. “I should probably get out of these wet clothes before I turn into an icicle.”

He moved to unbutton his soaked shirt, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Let me,” you said softly. You didn’t quite know why you said it—it was just instinct, a need to do something, to help, to close the distance between you both despite the closeness of the space you were stuck in.

Frankie hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering between your face and the damp, clingy fabric of his shirt. Then, with a deep breath, he gave a small nod and let you help him. As you carefully slid the shirt off his shoulders, you couldn’t ignore the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly. It was strange—intimate, even in the way you were touching him, in the way his body was bare to you now, vulnerable in a way he’d never been before.

You paused for a moment, fingers lingering on his chest, and something shifted between you. The storm outside no longer felt like the most overwhelming thing. You searched for his eyes, but he was already looking at you, all the different emotions you felt yourself so visible in his warm brown eyes.

Without another word, he leaned in, slowly, giving you the space to pull away if you needed to. But you didn’t. You closed the gap between you, and when your lips finally met, it was slow at first, hesitant. But soon, the kiss deepened, the warmth of his lips and the heat of his body surrounding you, pulling you into something that felt bigger than both of you. You wanted to say so much but the words died in your throat, all the feelings you so desperately tried to ignore bubbling up all at once, threatening to suffocate you in their intensity. Frankie’s hands wandered all over you, exploring the body he had mapped out in the countless hours you spent tangled into each other. But something was different. Your heart was beating fast in your chest and when he leaned further in, his mouth latching onto the delicate skin of your neck you were sure he could clearly feel your fluttering pulse underneath it. His fingertips brushed your sides, leaving nothing but goosebumps behind as he pulled your shirt over your head and for the first time since you were in this kind of relationship that wasn’t really one, you felt vulnerable too. It wasn’t only the fact you were naked from the waist up, it was the way his eyes danced over your skin, he looked right through you. The weight of his gaze was heavy and for a fragment, it felt like everything had paused. Words had no place, no meaning right now, only actions spoke. Your breath caught in your throat as his fingertips brushed along your shoulder, tracing the curve of your collarbone.

But there was something about the way he looked at you, something that went beyond desire, something deeper, more unsettling. It wasn’t just hunger. It was like he could see every part of you—the things you weren’t ready to admit, the things you’d been hiding even from yourself and it scared you immensely. Your skin was burning hot, prickling wherever his fingers touched your skin. It felt like your chest could no longer contain the weight of your own feelings. You should have pulled away, should have said something but all you could do was stare back at him, feeling both terrified and drawn to him in a way that was impossible to ignore anymore.

He was so close, so all consuming the heat from his body radiating against yours and all you could hear was the steady rhythm of your pulse, matching his, quick and frantic.

“Say something,” Frankie finally whispered, his voice strained, raw with something you couldn’t quite place. “Anything.” he almost pleaded.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. How could you explain this? How could you explain what had shifted so suddenly between you two, when you’d spent months convincing yourself this was nothing more than a casual arrangement?

But it was something more now, wasn’t it? You could feel it in the way your chest tightened, in the way your hands trembled as they rested on his bare skin. You’d crossed the line you fought so hard to uphold and now you couldn’t go back.

“Frankie…” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, sounding way more desperate than you anticipated. He got the cue, the way his eyes softened on you and it was all the answer you needed. He was just as lost in this as you were.

His lips brushed against your forehead before trailing down to your temple, each kiss a silent promise. You could feel him unraveling in the same way you were unraveling, piece by piece. The walls you’d built between you, the boundaries you had insisted on, were crumbling under the weight of something more, something you were too afraid to speak out loud.

His hands cupped your face, tilting it up to meet his gaze once more, and this time, you didn’t shy away. There was nothing left to hide now. No walls to protect you, no distance between you to keep the ache at bay.

“I don't only want you like this,” he confessed, his voice low and more real than the sarcasm and bravado he’d always used as armor. You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest. “Neither do I,” you whispered, the words finally spilling out, the truth you’d been denying yourself for so long. You could no longer pretend it didn’t hurt, this pull between you two that had been there all along, hidden beneath the surface. Something much more powerful and raw than carnal desire.

Frankie leaned in, his lips capturing yours once again, this time with more urgency, more need. The kiss was frenzied, desperate, as though you both knew the gravity of the moment as you climbed into his lap and straddled him. There was no going back now. Whatever it was that finally was freed in this moment in time, in the midst of a storm, had changed everything.

And as the rain continued to pour outside, you both lost yourselves in each other, in the weight of what had been unspoken for too long, until there was nothing left but the sound of your moans, the warmth of his skin underneath your hands and your bodies moving in sync, seeking this new found connection between you.

The windows were fogged up from your body's heat, the storm only fleeting background noise now. You were finally facing the truth—whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it was something worth holding onto.

thank your for reading <3

my masterlist

#kissing #yearning #swearing #idiots in love #frankie morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier #fanfiction writer #berryfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #friends to lovers #my fic writing #gn reader #mutual pining #x reader fanfiction

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amyleepascal · 2 days ago

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Baby P. dancing

#pedropascal #pascalispunk #casillero del diablo #the red viper #the last of us #frankie morales #the unbearable weight of massive talent #dieter bravo #strange way of life #gladiator 2

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thebookbutterfly · 8 months ago

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fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

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pascalispimp · 2 months ago

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Damp, Dirty, His

Summary: Joel’s been through a lot, but mysteriously damp flannels? That’s a new one. When he sneaks home to investigate, but what he finds is far filthier than he imagined. His housemate’s got a thing for his shirts… and from the way she’s moaning into one, she’s got a thing for him too. And Joel’s got every intention of making it worse.

Warnings: 18+ afab and fem reader, p in v sex, alludes to curvy reader, unspecified age gap, no description of reader but has big boobs and ass, some dubcon but she’s into it, dirty talk, no use of y/n, unsafe sex, oral (m! receiving), fingering, finger sucking, creampie, degradation, praise kink, ass play

Word count: 4.3k

Joel Miller wasn’t a man who jumped to conclusions. He was a man of patience, of careful observation. Years of surviving had drilled that into him. But something wasn’t sitting right.

For the past few weeks, his flannels had been turning up… different. Damp in places they shouldn’t be. Not rain-soaked, not sweat-stained—just wet. He’d pick one up from where he left it, and the fabric would cling to his fingers, the scent of something faint but unmistakable lingering in the fibers. Something warm. Something intimate.

At first, he thought maybe the laundry had been left out too long. Maybe it was just one of those things. But it kept happening. And every time, it was one of his favorites. The ones he wore most. The ones she seemed to watch him in. His housemate.

She wasn’t careless. Wasn’t the type to spill something and not say a word. But Joel had noticed the way she lingered when he pulled on one of those flannels, how her gaze dragged over him, how she hesitated just a little too long when handing one back. He already had a feeling. And today, he was going to confirm it.

So instead of heading out on patrol like he was supposed to, Joel doubled back, moving quiet, careful. The snow crunched beneath his boots, but he knew the sounds of Jackson well enough to weave between them, to slip into his own home without so much as a whisper.

The house was still. The kind of stillness that came with someone who thought they were alone. He gently turned the knob and pushed the door open, the hinges whispering a soft protest. The warmth of the house enveloped him like a lover's embrace. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and his gaze fell upon a sight that made his blood boil with desire and possessiveness.

And the moment he heard it—soft, breathy, a sound that hit him low in his stomach—he knew.

Her.

His flannel—his—draped over her frame, too big, the sleeves bunched around her wrists, the hem riding up as she moved. She was bent over the kitchen table, the flannel riding up to expose her round, bare ass. The shirt was too large for her, but it clung to her in all the right places, revealing her voluptuous figure, hips rolling into her own hand, her face turned into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to this moment.

And Christ, if that wasn’t a sight that damn near knocked the air from his lungs.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and deep. He should leave. Should turn around, pretend he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

But instead, he stepped closer, the floorboards groaning a little under his heavy boots. She gasped, spinning around with a start, her cheeks flushing a deep red. The flannel was open, and she had been using his shirt to muffle her moans. The sight of her, so vulnerable and caught in the act, only served to fuel his desire. He set the rifle against the wall, his eyes never leaving hers, and strode purposefully across the room.

"That why my flannels keep turnin’ up damp, darlin’?"

"Joel," she stuttered, her voice a mix of shock and arousal. "I-I can explain."

He didn't wait for her excuses. The sight of her flustered and exposed only added to the power he felt surging through him. "I don't want explanations," he said gruffly, his voice a low rumble. "I want to know why you're using my things for... that."

Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating as she took in the look on his face. It was a mix of anger and something else, something darker and more primal. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his muscles flexed under his shirt. Joel was never one to mince words, and his directness only served to turn her on even more.

"I-I just..." she stuttered again, trying to find the words, but they were lost in the thick haze of lust that had settled over the room. The flannel fell open further, revealing her naked chest, her nipples hard with arousal. She reached for it instinctively, but Joel's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and stopping her.

"You like wearing my shirts, huh?" he said, his voice thick with a challenge. "Let's see how you like the real thing."

With that, Joel closed the distance between them, pulling the flannel from her body. She didn't resist, instead letting out a shaky breath as his calloused hands grazed her bare skin. He tossed the fabric aside, his gaze raking over her nakedness. The sight of her made him want to conquer and claim, to show her who was in charge here.

He grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her closer until their lips almost touched. "You're playing with fire, darling," he murmured, his voice a warning and a promise. He felt her pulse racing under his fingers, her body trembling with anticipation.

Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills, but Joel knew he'd already won. She was his for the taking, and she knew it. With a smirk that barely touched his lips, he claimed her mouth with a bruising kiss. His tongue pushed past her teeth, tasting the sweetness of her mouth as his hands roamed over her curves, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She moaned into the kiss, her body melting into his, and he knew he had her.

Breaking away, Joel stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. "On your knees," he ordered, his voice low and demanding. She obeyed without hesitation, the submissive side of her bubbling to the surface, eager to please the dominant man before her. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor. His erection sprang free, thick and proud, pointing straight at her plump, parted lips.

"Open," he said, and she did, her eyes never leaving his. He took a fistful of her hair, guiding his length into her mouth. She gagged slightly, but took him deeper, her eyes watering with the effort. Joel's hand tightened in her hair, controlling her movements as he began to fuck her face. He watched with a mix of pleasure and possession as she struggled to keep up with his rhythm, her cheeks hollowing with each thrust.

He could feel her submission, the way she eagerly took him in, and it only made him harder. "You like that?" he growled, his voice thick with lust. She nodded, unable to speak around his cock, and he chuckled darkly. "Good girl." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, the gesture oddly tender amidst the aggression.

Joel pulled out of her mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening with her saliva. "You've been a bad girl, using my things," he said, his voice a teasing purr. "But I'm going to show you how to use them properly." He stepped back, grabbing a chair from the nearby table and spinning it around. He sat down, his erection still standing proud, and gestured for her to straddle him.

With trembling legs, she obeyed, her pussy wet and aching as she settled over his lap. He reached between them, stroking her clit with a rough thumb before plunging two fingers into her heat. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as he began to pump them in and out, his eyes never leaving hers. The way he touched her, so rough and yet so precise, made her feel alive, like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff and only he could save her from the fall.

"Beg for it," he demanded, his voice a dark whisper that sent shivers down her spine. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to give in, but the pleasure was too much. "Please, Joel," she whimpered, her voice barely a breath. "Fuck me."

The words hung in the air, heavy with need, and Joel's control snapped like a twig under a boot. He yanked her onto his lap, the chair groaning under their combined weight. He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance, feeling her wetness and heat against his skin. With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her, making her cry out.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her body tightening around him like a vice. Joel's eyes rolled back in his head as he savored the sensation of her warmth. He began to move, his hips rocking into hers, each thrust punctuated by a guttural grunt. She met him stroke for stroke, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body.

He leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he whispered filthy words, degrading her in the most delicious way. "That's it, take it," he growled, his breath hot against her skin. "You're such a slut for me, aren't you?" She whimpered, her body responding to his words, her walls clenching around him. He liked it when she played the brat, but now she was all his, all submission.

He could feel her climbing closer to the edge, her breaths coming in ragged pants. He reached up, grabbing one of her breasts, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pinch sent a bolt of pleasure through her, making her moan around his cock. He smirked, knowing he had her right where he wanted her.

Joel's other hand slid down to her ass, giving it a firm squeeze before his fingers delved between her cheeks. She gasped as he found her tight hole, teasing it with a single digit. "You're mine," he murmured, pushing into her untouched entrance. "All of you."

The sudden intrusion made her jolt, her eyes flying open. But instead of pulling away, she pushed back into his hand, eager for more. He chuckled darkly, his grip on her hip tightening as he began to fuck her with his finger, the dual sensation making her pussy clench around his cock. "So greedy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You're going to take everything I give you, aren't you?"

Her only response was a muffled moan, her voice lost in the fabric of his shirt. Joel could feel her orgasm building, her walls fluttering around him like a caged bird desperate to fly. He leaned back, watching her face contort with pleasure, his own climax approaching like a storm on the horizon. His strokes grew faster, his hips snapping into her with a ferocity that left them both gasping for air.

He withdrew his finger from her ass, reaching around to pinch her clit as he fucked her harder. She bucked wildly, her nails raking down his back as the first wave of her climax washed over her. He felt her pussy clench, her juices flooding his cock as she screamed into the fabric of his shirt. The sound sent him over the edge, and with a roar, he emptied himself inside her, filling her to the brim.

Her orgasm was a symphony of sounds, her moans and gasps echoing through the small house. Joel held her hips firmly, ensuring she took every last inch of his release. He watched as she rode the peak of pleasure, her body shaking with the intensity of it all. When she finally collapsed against him, panting and sated, he couldn't help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction.

He kissed her neck, his breath warm and ragged against her skin. "You're mine now," he murmured, his voice thick with possessiveness. "And you're going to wear my cum as a reminder." He felt her shiver in his arms, the dirty talk only serving to excite her further.

Joel's thumb continued to circle her clit lazily, keeping her on the edge. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice a dark promise. "You liked being caught, didn't you?" She nodded, unable to form words, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure.

He pulled out of her with a wet sound, the head of his cock glistening with their combined juices. He stood, lifting her off his lap, and spun her around to face the kitchen counter. "Bend over," he ordered, his voice still commanding. She complied, her knees wobbly from the intense orgasm.

The cool countertop sent a shiver up her spine, and she gripped the edge, her knuckles white with the effort. Joel stepped behind her, his eyes feasting on her reddened, swollen pussy. He grabbed her hips, positioning himself again. With one swift movement, he plunged back into her, making her gasp. He was still hard, still insatiable. He began to fuck her from behind, his thrusts deep and powerful, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the room.

Her breasts bounced with each impact, the painful pleasure sending her spiraling back towards the edge. She could feel his grip tighten, his hands leaving bruises on her hips, and she loved it. He was claiming her, marking her as his own, and she reveled in the feeling of submission. She pushed back into him, taking him deeper, her walls clenching around his length.

"You want more?" he growled, his hand reaching around to pinch her clit again. She moaned, the sensation too much, too intense. He chuckled darkly, his teeth grazing her ear. "That's my girl." He pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into her, the suddenness of it making her cry out.

The kitchen counter was slick with their sweat and desire, their bodies moving in a dance of passion and dominance. Joel's hand reached up, wrapping around her neck, his thumb pressing lightly against her throat. The subtle hint of control sent a thrill through her, making her pussy clench around him. She pushed back, eager for the pain, for the feeling of him owning her completely.

He groaned, his hips pistoning into her with renewed vigor. The angle was perfect, hitting her g-spot with every thrust. She could feel another orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. "Beg for it," he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "Tell me you want it, tell me you need it."

Her voice was a desperate whine as she pleaded, "Please, Joel, please let me cum again." He tightened his grip, his thumb pressing slightly harder on her clit. "Not until I say so," he said, his voice a dark command. She whimpered, her body writhing under his control. He knew exactly how to play her, how to tease and taunt until she was begging for release.

He slowed his pace, drawing out each thrust, savoring the feel of her tightness around him. The anticipation was intoxicating, a sweet torment that made his balls ache with need. He watched in the flickering candlelight as her ass cheeks clenched with each movement, her pussy gripping his cock like a vice. The room was a cacophony of their harsh breaths and the wet sounds of their bodies colliding.

"Please," she moaned, her voice desperate. "I need it."

Joel's hand slid from her throat to her clit, his thumb circling it with the perfect amount of pressure. "You're going to come for me," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "But not yet." He watched her body tense, her muscles tightening around him, desperate for release. The power was intoxicating, the way she trembled under his touch.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back. "You're going to take it all," he breathed into her ear, his voice a seductive growl. "Every inch of me, until I say you can come." She whimpered, her head dropping forward as she tried to push back against him, her hips moving in a silent plea for more.

The room was a blur of sensation, the smell of sex and sweat mixing with the faint scent of burning wood from the fireplace. The candles cast shadows across their bodies, flickering with each thrust. Joel's hand slid down to her ass, his fingers tracing the line between her cheeks before pushing into her again. The feeling of fullness was almost too much, but she craved it, her body begging for the painful pleasure that only he could provide.

"You're so fucking tight," he murmured, his voice strained with his own climax approaching. "I'm going to fill you up until you can't take anymore."

Her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth opening in a silent scream as she felt his thumb push past the tight ring of muscle, invading her ass. The pain was sharp, but it only served to heighten the pleasure. She was lost in a whirlwind of sensations, her body no longer her own as he controlled her every movement. Joel's other hand wrapped around her hip, guiding her to move back onto him, her pussy clenching around his shaft as he pushed deeper into her.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice harsh. She opened her eyes, her vision swimming with lust. Their gazes locked, the intensity of his stare piercing through the fog of pleasure. "You're going to come for me," he said, his thumb moving in time with his cock, pushing her closer and closer to the precipice. "Now."

Her body obeyed, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. She screamed his name, her nails digging into the wood as she came apart in his arms. Joel's own climax followed swiftly, his cock pulsing inside her as he filled her up with his seed. He groaned, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself completely.

For a moment, they remained like that, panting and spent. Then Joel pulled out, his cock slipping from her with a wet sound that made her shiver. He stepped back, watching her with hooded eyes as she slowly straightened, her legs shaking. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his hand.

"You're mine now," he said, his voice low and possessive. "Every inch of you." She nodded, her cheeks still flushed, her breaths coming in shallow pants. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me you're mine."

Her eyes searched his, a mix of shock and awe at the intensity of what had just transpired. "I'm... I'm yours," she finally managed to whisper, the words thick with desire. He leaned in, his mouth claiming hers in a brutal kiss, his tongue demanding entry. She melted into him, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her climax.

Breaking the kiss, Joel grabbed her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "And don't you ever forget it," he warned, his voice a low rumble. "You wear my shirts, you take my cum. You're going to be walking around with a constant reminder of who's in charge." He smirked, watching the way her pupils dilated at his words.

Withdrawing his cock from her, Joel reached down, his thumb sliding through their mixed juices, and then back to her pussy. He pushed two fingers inside her, her walls still spasming from the aftershocks of her orgasm. She whimpered, the sensation overwhelmingly intense. He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made her knees buckle, and began to pump his cum back into her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body jolting with each thrust of his digits.

"Look at me," he ordered again, his voice a gravelly whisper. She forced her eyes open, meeting his fiery gaze. "You're going to wear this," he said, pulling his fingers out and holding them up, glistening with their combined release. "Every drop." He brought his hand to her mouth, and she obeyed without question, licking and sucking her taste from his skin. He watched with a dark satisfaction as she swallowed, her eyes never leaving his.

With a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, Joel leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek. "Now, tell me how much you liked being caught," he said, his voice a sinful purr. She blushed, but the brat in her couldn't resist a little sass. "I liked it," she admitted, her voice a mix of defiance and arousal. "But maybe next time, you could be a bit more... creative with your punishments."

Joel's eyebrow shot up, and he stepped back, his cock still semi-hard and glistening. "Is that a challenge, darling?" He grabbed the flannel she'd been wearing earlier, now discarded on the floor, and wrapped it around her trembling body. "Because I've got plenty of creative ways to keep you in line."

Her heart skipped a beat at the promise in his words. "Maybe," she replied with a smirk, her voice still breathless from her recent climax. "But I'm not promising to be good."

Joel chuckled darkly. "That's what makes it fun," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. He pulled her closer, his cock brushing against her stomach. She could feel it thickening again, a testament to his insatiable desire. "But for now," he murmured, "we should clean up before I have to be back out on patrol."

The water was cold when Joel turned on the faucet, but it did nothing to cool the heat that still lingered between them. He grabbed a cloth, soaking it before gently cleaning her up. The tender act was a stark contrast to the raw passion they'd just shared, and she found herself leaning into his touch, craving the comfort he offered. When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside and picked her up, carrying her to the bedroom.

He laid her down on the bed, his eyes raking over her naked body. He was still dressed, a stark reminder of the power dynamic they'd just established. "You're going to be the death of me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. She couldn't help but giggle, the sound light and airy in the tension-filled room.

The bed dipped as he climbed onto it, his weight pressing down on the mattress. He hovered over her, his hand sliding up her thigh, his thumb brushing against her still-sensitive clit. She gasped, her body reacting instantly. He chuckled, the sound dark and seductive. "I can see you're eager for more," he said, his voice a tease.

He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was both punishing and gentle. His tongue danced with hers, tasting the lingering flavor of their passion. When he pulled away, she was left panting, her eyes glazed with lust. "But I've got patrol," he murmured against her skin, his lips moving to her neck. He bit down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make her moan. "You're going to have to wait for it."

Her hands found his shoulders, her nails digging in as she tried to pull him closer. "Please, Joel," she begged, her voice needy and desperate. He chuckled, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "You're insatiable." He kissed her again, his hand sliding down to cup her breast, his thumb teasing the nipple until it was a hard peak. "But I like that about you."

With a final groan of protest, Joel rolled off the bed, his cock still semi-erect. "I'll be back," he said, his voice a promise. "And when I do, you'd better be ready for me." He strode to the bathroom, the muscles in his back flexing with each step. She watched him go, her body still trembling from the aftermath of their encounter.

The cold water from the sink brought Joel back to reality, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of his desire. He washed his hands, taking a deep breath to compose himself. He couldn't believe he'd just taken her like that, in the kitchen of all places. But the sight of her in his flannel, her face flushed with arousal, had driven him over the edge.

Wiping his hands on the towel, he returned to the bedroom, his eyes devouring her again. She lay there, a mess of tangled limbs and desire, the flannel barely covering her curves. He couldn't resist leaning down to kiss her, his hand caressing her cheek. "I'll be back soon," he whispered, his voice hoarse. She nodded, her eyes still glazed with passion.

Joel pulled on his patrol gear, his mind racing with thoughts of her. The way she'd looked at him, the way she'd taken him, it was all he could think about. He had to get out there, had to focus on the job at hand, but she was a siren's call he couldn't ignore.

He stepped out into the cold night, the chill air slapping him in the face, a stark contrast to the heat they'd generated in the kitchen. The patrol was quiet, his mind wandering back to her, to the way her body had responded to his every touch. He found himself smiling, a rare occurrence in this post-apocalyptic world.

Hours ticked by, the moon casting eerie shadows across the deserted town. Joel's thoughts remained fixated on her, his cock twitching at the memory of her moans and whimpers. He'd never felt such a potent mix of lust and tenderness before, and it unnerved him.

When Joel finally returned home, the house was quiet, the only sound the crackling of the dying embers in the fireplace. He shed his gear, stripping down to nothing but his skin, his cock already hard with anticipation. As he padded silently towards the bedroom, his eyes fell on her, sprawled out on the bed, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, but Joel knew the fire that burned within her, the desire that she kept hidden.

With a smirk playing on his lips, he stepped into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open to find him standing over her, naked and gleaming with sweat. He leaned down, his hand trailing up her thigh, his breath hot against her ear. "Are you ready for more, darlin'?" he whispered, his voice a dark promise.

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