#Frankie morales x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 12 days ago

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OH HONEY, HONEY, I COULD BE YOUR KEVLAR || FRANKIE MORALES

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｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 4.6k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, smoking, some spanish dialogue cutely sprinkled in, reader is ex-special forces, established relationship, implied age gap, insecurity, semi-jealous frankie mmmh, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, more brief allusions to a foot fetish whoopsies, p in v, public sex (bar bathroom RAAAHHH), creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT'S NOTE: finally got off my ass watched triple frontier and i’m a changed woman. i mean it was kind of a snooze fest but pedro pascal in a slutty little baseball hat saying “come on, baby” for like three minutes? that’s pure cinema. i’m praying that my spanish isn’t absolute dog shit, i’m still not a hundred percent fluent and dirty talk is such a struggle so please give me some grace if it’s ass and maybe some pointers! that would be very very helpful thank you love you. title from beyonce's 'BODYGUARD' because it's a beyonce summer in this house. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune! extra special shoutout to angel @daydreamingmiller for the wonderful gif!

you and the boys go out...

The bar is buzzing, alive with easy laughter and the sharp crack of billiard balls meeting in the center of pool tables.

It's a dive in every sense of the word, a real shithole. The kind of place where you can smoke indoors because the owner doesn't give a damn. The walls are littered in old road signs and vintage rock band posters.

The floor is sticky and all the booths have tears in the bright red leather cushions. Neon signs are hung sporadically, each one lit up with a phrase more vulgar than the last, drowning everything in different hues of red and blue.

It’s perfect.

It’s familiar, safe in the only way a shithole can be when you’re surrounded by people who’d take a bullet for you. Who’ve taken bullets for you, just like you have for them.

You’re not drunk. You’re not even tipsy.

You’re a couple drinks in and resting on the perfect knife's edge of pleasantly buzzed. You’re warm, a tingly kind of warmth that seeps into your skin all the way down to your bones and loosens your limbs.

The cigarette you bummed from Will only adds to it, smoke flooding your lungs and curling in wispy grey loops around your head like a halo on every exhale.

Music floats in the space all around you, a beat up jukebox is shoved in the corner spitting out song after song.

Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Guns N’ Roses. The Doors. Aerosmith.

Fleetwood Mac when that quarter you spent thirty minutes ago finally gets put to good use.

You’re standing near the same booth the five of you always pack yourselves in, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and some beat up darts in your hand. Benny goaded you into a game of 501 after his third beer made him feel cocky enough.

You’re sitting at 113. Ben’s only at 326.

He’s at the throw line, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up his aims for what feels like the hundredth time. Going Mobile kicks on as you wait for your turn with dwindling patience.

"You gonna hit the board or just warm up your wrist for later tonight?" you say over the music.

“Fuck you.” Ben doesn’t let his gaze stray from the board, flipping you off with his free hand. He finally takes his shot, but his dart hits wide—buried in cork about four inches from the bullseye. ”Damn!”

You laugh, a low, warm sound, pulled from the back of your throat. “Alright hotshot shove over, my turn.”

“Come on, Sniper.” Santiago’s voice calls from behind you. “Make it three in a row.”

Your laughter doesn’t fade as you step up to the throw line, rolling the darts in your hand to feel the weight of them. Your fingers curl around them, metal cool against your skin, the sharpness of the tips familiar. You take your stance without even thinking—weight balanced, eyes narrowed, limbs loose. It’s second nature.

The first dart hits just inside the treble thirteen. Sharp thunk. Clean.

The boys heckle you from the table, ranging from supportive—Santi and Will—to whining about the board being rigged—Ben. You don’t turn around, but you can’t fight the smug smile on your lips.

Another flick. Another hit—just right of the center. Double twelve.

“Bullshit,” Ben groans. “You said you were rusty, you goddamn liar.”

“I am rusty,” you say over your shoulder, spinning the last dart between your fingers. “If I wasn’t I would’ve beat your ass three rounds ago.”

You line up your last shot.

“Call it,” you say to no one in particular.

“Bullseye,” Will says.

You exhale slowly, wrist held high and right foot forward. You throw.

Bullseye.

The table behind you erupts. When you turn around, Ben’s groaning from where he’s leaning against Santi’s shoulder, who just gives a few approving slow claps. Will’s got that quiet, impressed smirk on his face.

You catch Frankie’s eye, he’s grinning behind the rim of his Modelo. All spread out on the left side of the booth, one leg kicked up over where you were sitting. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the dark hair scattered along his chest and the chain he bought from a street vendor in Ciudad Juárez when he was there on an assignment.

The very same one hangs around your neck, just under your collar.

You smile, a real one—small and just for him in the way it tugs your lips up. Frankie winks at you from under the brim of his hat, a look you’ve seen hundreds of times swirling through the chocolate brown of his eyes.

Later, it says. A promise.

You can't wait.

“Loser buys shots.” You make your way to the table, leaning your hip against the edge. ��Next round’s on Benny.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Kiss my ass.”

You smile down at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. “Not with aim like that, Miller.”

The laughter that surrounds the table is easy. That’s how it’s come to be with them. Even on days like this, when you all feel like ghosts, carrying sand in your shoes and shrapnel in your lungs.

It started a long time ago. You met Santi first, back in Kandahar. You weren’t officially on the books with the same unit as him back in the day—your ops were blacker than theirs—but you'd cross paths on enough shared missions to get familiar. He was cocky. You were mean. He liked that.

You pulled him out of a burning Humvee with a busted comms rig and a bullet in his thigh. He paid you back when one of your jobs got blown wide open in Girardot and saved you from bleeding out in a ditch after he dragged you two klicks to a medevac sight.

Through him came Frankie. He was quieter than you expected after all the stories, and thoughtful in a way that made you curious. It didn’t take long for something to shift there—some gravity between the two of you that pulled you closer before either of you had a chance to name it.

You still aren't sure when exactly it had changed. There hadn’t been one single moment. Just a hundred small ones. Quieter nights. Warmer looks. Shared smokes in the silence. And eventually, one drunken night back in Bogotá when he kissed you outside a safehouse, the rain dripping off his cap and into your collar.

Neither of you looked back.

Will and Benny came much later. A package deal, good on their own but great together. One couldn’t exist without the other. Ben brought the noise and a young, unshakable enthusiasm. Will brought the strategy and experience.

They all introduced you to Tom when you were back stateside. He was calculated and quiet, the only man you’ve ever seen clear a building with a heartbeat under sixty.

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

When you think back to it, it’s the smell of gunpowder and the phantom ache in your shoulder from the viscous recoil on your Barrett M82. It’s kevlar squeezed around your ribs tight enough to leave angry red lines of remembrance branded in your skin long after you took it off and the sound of bullets piercing flesh.

The six of you were never an official unit. You were all off-books more often than not. Contracts, black bag jobs, unofficial recon. Nothing that would stick. But when it went bad you called each other. Always. No matter the time zone. No matter the cost.

You’ve seen the best and worst of each other—on dirt roads, jungle trails, blacked out hallways. In safehouses and active war zones and cheap motels.

They’re your people. Your family, even if the word is slick with blood and drenched in ash.

It’s family nonetheless.

So when Santiago called about recon work in Colombia, you didn’t even let him finish the pitch.

You were in.

Now, months after everything went down—the heist, the Andes, the loss and anguish you all carried home—you’re here. In a shitty bar with your family. With Frankie.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“Alright, alright.” Ben stands from the booth, carrying five empty shot glasses. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t a man of my word, what are we drinking?”

“Surprise me,” Santi says, already on his feet. “I gotta hit the head.”

Ben nods as he walks off, turning his attention back to the table. “Surprises all around?”

You shrug, stealing a sip of Frankie’s Modelo. “Works for me.”

Will shakes his head, sliding out of the booth. “Hell no, I’m coming with. This isn't spring break, I’m not knocking back any damn tequila shots.”

You watch them go, disappearing deeper into the crowd until you can’t make out their silhouettes anymore. You turn to Frankie, resting your palms flat on the table. “You up for a game, Morales? I’ll let you win if you promise to make it worth my while back home.”

Frankie laughs. “Only if you throw it just bad enough I don’t notice,” he says, chin dipped low, voice just rough enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are fixed on yours—warm, focused, like he’s already replaying whatever making it worth your while might look like. Probably more than once.

You smirk, pushing off the table. “No promises.”

You make your way over to the board, plucking the darts out one by one. You’re alone for the first time all night, almost.

“Are you always this good, or is tonight just for show?”

The voice is unfamiliar—low and a little too close.

You glance over your shoulder. Young, younger than you–early to mid-twenties if you had to guess. He’s tall, lean and muscular in a way that screams college wrestling. Sharp jawline, white teeth.

You give him a polite smile. Nothing that invites, but nothing too rude either. You’re good at being nice. Trained for it. There’s strength in it, control.

“Used to be better,” you say, turning back to the dartboard and yanking out the last one. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Wasn’t just a compliment,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a great arm.”

He’s not the only one.

Frankie’s watching you. You can feel it before you see it. Like a hum under your skin. A pressure point at the base of your neck.

“Thanks.” It’s as dismissive as you can make it, a clear send off.

The guy doesn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink, maybe we could play a round? I’d love some pointers, I’ve never seen a girl throw like that before.”

A girl. You don’t even flinch.

“I don’t think you could keep up.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes rake up and down your body with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I’m a fast learner.”

You keep your posture relaxed, but your hand tightens a little around the dart. “Maybe, but I’m already here with someone.”

His eyes follow the way yours flick to Frankie out of habit, sizing him up unashamedly. He snorts, turning back to you with a cocky grin. “Is that your dad, or something?”

You don’t even blink, just cock your head and smile—sharp as a blade this time. “Careful,” you say, voice overly sweet and saccharine. “This girl might just lay you on your ass for that.”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not joking. Your tone is calm, flat, with that old edge you haven’t used in years. When it sinks in, his eyes narrow, mouth working like he’s deciding whether to double down or cut his losses.

Smart boy chooses the latter. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he mutters, taking a step back.

You toss the darts on a nearby table. “Then don’t,” you say, and turn your back on him.

Frankie’s standing by the time you reach the booth, he’s already got that look in his eyes. Quiet, a little withdrawn. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. You close the space between you, laying your hand on his chest.

“You mad?” It’s soft, quiet enough so only he can hear it.

He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “Of course not.”

His arm slides around your waist, big hand spreading out possessively over your stomach. He’s not lying, you know he isn't. It’s not you he’s mad at, it’s not even the jackass slinking his way back to his buddies he’s mad at.

He’s angry at himself.

You can see it still simmering under the surface, and it’s not real anger. Not entirely. It’s something else entirely—the insecurity he carries. The one that creeps in late at night when he’s lying behind you in bed, one arm slung heavy over your waist.

The kind that whispers in his ear that he’s not good enough when he sees someone younger—someone who hasn’t been through what he has, who doesn’t have a road-map of scars or night terrors or hands that still shake sometimes when they’re too still for too long. Someone without graying hair or creaking joints or the softer gut that comes with love and recovery.

Frankie still doubts himself, even after all this time. He doubts that he’s really what you want, that you’re not just stuck with him out of guilt or some fucked up version of shared trauma that ties you together.

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching up to hold the side of his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice is gruffer now, lower. The furrow of his brow makes the skin in-between crease, you rub your thumb over it a few times until he relaxes his face.

You’re always struck by how handsome he is, even in the shitty neon lights bathing you both. His round, chocolate brown eyes stare down at you with so much care and love that it makes your chest ache.

“Get in your own head. You really think I’d be out here flirting with some college guy when you’re sittin’ twenty feet away looking like this?”

Frankie shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m fine, baby. Just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s all.”

You lean into him, pressing your chest to his so there isn't an inch of space between you. “You’re the only one I want. You’re it for me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t speak, his lips pressed into a thin line as he holds your unwavering gaze. You hope he can see the look on your face, that he can hear the truth and the weight of your words.

He wraps his arms around you and he breathes you in, pressing his nose into your hair. The tension in his shoulders eases the way it always does when you’re close.

It’s nice, a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. Not yet. You can still feel the stiffness lingering in his body, the way he’s holding you more out of possessive worry than relief—like he’s still scared you’ll bolt at the last second.

You bite your lip, an idea sparking to life in your mind. It’s a risk, especially when Frankie’s feeling like this—but it also has an undeniable warmth flaring up in your stomach, phantom flames licking their way up your legs.

Besides, you’ve never been one to back down from risky situations. You made a career out of it.

You pull back, only slightly, just far enough to catch his eye. You notice the second he sees your pupils, blown out and dark as an oil spill. His brows furrow again, but it’s different than before. It’s curious, a silent question you’re more than happy to answer.

“If you want…” Your hand trails down his chest languidly until you’re toying with his belt buckle, hooking your pointer finger under the band of his jeans and tugging gently. “I could show you just how much I want you.”

Frankie’s eyes darken, his lips parting on a shocked breath. His arms twitch around you, fingertips digging into the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t even wait for him to respond, your patience fizzling out into pure, blinding need.

You grab his hand and pull him behind you, slipping into the crowd without a backward glance. You lead him down the narrow hall past the pool tables, past the jukebox playing Dream On, until you reach the dingy single-stall bathroom.

The door’s not even all the way closed before Frankie’s on you. He backs you up against the graffiti covered wall, mouth already on yours—hungry, possessive, a little desperate. You love it when he kisses you like this, like he’s staking a claim.

His tongue licks a dirty stripe over the seam of your lips, fucking into your mouth when you moan. He tastes like beer, like lime and salt and something under it all that’s just him. It’s addicting, you can’t get enough—you never can.

Your hands are greedy—yanking his hat off and letting it topple to the ground carelessly, your fingers tangle in his curls, nails scratching along his scalp.

“You’re mine,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing you again, hands skimming down your body.

He presses you into the wall harder, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him already. Hard, thick and aching through his jeans. Your pussy leaks wet and sticky into your panties, impatient and wanting.

“You really think I’d want anyone else?” you whisper against his jaw, licking the stubble, biting it. “You think anyone could fuck me the way you do?”

Frankie groans, hips jerking forward. His hands dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to ache in the best way. You hope that it takes, that your skin is bruised come morning.

You rut against each other like you’re still overseas, like there’s mortar fire behind you and you’re stealing time you don’t have.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you breathe, arching up against him. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Wanna taste you,” he says roughly, voice thick. “Muero por saborearte, princesa.”

Heat rushes through you like an electric shock, lighting up every inch of your body. “Fuck, yes–”

Frankie drops to his knees before the words leave your mouth, hurried hands not even bothering to unbutton your jeans before he’s yanking them down your hips. He groans when he sees your panties—damp and clinging to your folds, soft cotton pulled tight.

“Que cosita linda...” It whispered, soft and almost secretive—like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You brace yourself against the wall, one hand gripping the chipped edge of the sink, the other in his hair when he mouths you over the fabric. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, the hot drag of his tongue through the soaked material making your knees threaten to buckle.

“Frankie,” you gasp, hips twitching toward him. “Don’t tease—”

He hums like he likes hearing you beg, like he needs it, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one swift, greedy motion.

The moment you’re bare to him, he’s buried between your legs.

He licks up your slit, slow and obscene, tasting everything you’ve made for him. He groans like it hurts, like your pussy’s a salvation and a punishment all at once. He spreads you open with thick fingers and dives in, eating you like he’s starved.

“Fuck—Frankie,” you gasp, knees almost giving, fingers fisting tight in his curls. He only groans, the vibration making your hands twist his hair tight in your grip as his nose bumps against your clit.

It’s loud, the way he devours you. He’s always been messy with it—and soon the filthy sounds of his mouth fills the bathroom, dirty slurps and sucks bouncing off the walls. Your head thunks against the hard brick behind you when you toss it back on a broken moan, you hardly notice.

You lift your foot off the ground, not hesitating as you press it against the thick line of his cock still tenting the front of his jeans. Frankie shudders, his eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into it, chasing the pressure.

“Shit, Frankie, I—” You whimper, dizzy, aching. “Need more—need your fingers—please—”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and molten. “Show me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, teeth scraping along the delicate skin there. “Show me what you want, hermosa.”

Your hand trembles as you reach down, slipping two fingers through the wet mess of your pussy. Slick and saliva coats your skin, eases the way as you circle your clit—once, twice—before you push them into yourself with a soft moan.

Frankie watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. His hands knead the muscle of your thighs, his hips jerking up against the sole of your boot like he can’t help himself. “Mierda…look at you. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You fuck yourself slow, wrist twisting—and just as your thighs start to shake, you slip your soaked fingers out of yourself, strings of slick catching in the air, and bring them to his mouth. You don’t say anything, but there’s an unspoken order that fills the air between you.

Frankie’s a good soldier, he’d never disobey a direct order.

He looks up at you, gaze dark as he slowly parts his lips—his hot breath fans over your skin. Eyes locked on yours, he takes them in, sucks them deep, tongue curling around them lewdly. He moans at the taste, hand closing around your ankle to keep you in place as he grinds up against your foot harder.

You press your fingers against his tongue, rubbing the taste of yourself over his taste buds. Your pussy clenches weakly, pulsing with pleasure and emptiness.

Frankie pulls back, your fingers falling from between his lips with a soft pop. “Sabe como cielo.”

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he’s on his feet again, surging up like a man possessed. His hands grab your thighs, lifting you with ease, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your boots clatter against the stall wall with the motion, the dull thud-thud-thud drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right here?" he pants, rutting against your slick heat through his jeans, the zipper catching on your swollen clit. "Right here, in this filthy fucking bathroom where anyone could hear us?"

You nod frantically, arms looping around his neck. "Yes—yes, fuck, Frankie, please—"

"Say it again," he growls, teeth scraping over your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

"Please, Frankie," you whimper, biting his earlobe. "I need you to fuck me. Right now. Right here.”

That’s all it takes.

Frankie fumbles with his belt, one-handed, the other arm bracing your ass, keeping you pinned to the wall like you weigh nothing. The second his cock springs free, it slaps hot against your thigh, smearing precome across your skin. Thick and flushed, angry red at the tip.

You glance down and moan, already slick for him, already open.

He fists the base of his cock, running the head through your folds once, twice—and then he’s pushing in, slow and deep.

The stretch makes you cry out, back arching off the wall as he sinks in slow, his hips flexing forward inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re soaked and open from his tongue, but he’s still thick enough to sting just right. You feel all of him—every vein, every twitch.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist to drag him as close as you can.

"Mierda…tan apretadita," Frankie groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat already dotting his temple. “Siempre tan buena pa’ mí.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as your pussy flutters around him. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and erratic against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding up into you slow and deep. “Nobody else gets to feel this. Nobody else gets to fuck this pussy.”

“Only you,” you manage, voice thick. “Just you, Frankie—fuck, please—”

He starts to thrust, hips snapping into you with filthy, wet smacks, the obscene sound echoing in the tiny stall. The sink creaks beside you, the mirror rattling in time with every thrust. You’re soaked, dripping, cock-drunk already.

Frankie captures your lips in another dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and stealing the breath from each others mouth. “¿Que sucia, te gusta eso, eh?” He whispers against your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. “You like taking it like this, with all those people out there? Anybody could walk by and hear us, baby. They could hear how good you're taking my cock.”

You whine into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, you can feel the thin material of his shirt straining under the force. The silk is so delicate, so fragile. That much more strength and you’d tear it clean down the middle. It makes your stomach clench, the idea of Frankie walking back out into the bar with his shirt in tatters, the angry red welts your surely leaving on his skin on full display.

“Tell me,” he pants wetly against your cheek. “Dime la verdad.”

“Yes,” you whine. “I love it. Fuck—I want everyone to know. Want them to know how good you fuck me, how good you make me feel.”

Frankie groans, a deep, almost animalistic sound. He grips your thighs harder, burying his face in the sweaty column of your throat.

Your whole body jolts when he pounds into you deeper than before, the angle filthy, punishing. The dark hair around the base of his cock scrapes meanly against your sensitive clit with every thrust, teetering just on the edge of too much and just perfect.

You’re gonna come—you can feel it already coiling inside you, white-hot and snapping.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come, Frankie—” you cry, clutching his curls.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

"That’s it, baby," he pants against your throat, licking the sweat from your skin. “Dámelo. Come for me. Let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a gunshot—fast, brutal, and all-consuming. Your thighs tremble around his hips, your boots slam into the wall, and you clamp down around him so tight that Frankie lets out a raw, strangled groan.

“Dios,” he groans, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “You gonna let me fill you up?” His voice is a snarl now, hips slamming forward. “Gonna let me come inside you, baby? Gonna walk out of here dripping with it?”

“Yes,” you beg, drunk on it. “Come in me—fill me up, Frankie—want you to come inside—wanna feel it—”

“Fuck.” He slams into you one last time and stills, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he spills inside you with a rough groan. You can feel it—thick and warm, leaking down your thighs even before he pulls out.

You stay like that for a long moment—both of you panting, trembling, stuck together with sweat and come and something sticky-sweet that lingers in the silence.

When Frankie finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are soft again. Warm and full.

You reach up, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Feel better?”

He nods. Kisses you slow this time. “I love you,” he says against your lips, almost shy.

“I know,” you smile, cupping his face. “Now help me clean up before someone breaks the door down.”

“…I’m not pulling out yet.”

“Francisco—”

“I just got in a good mood, bebita. Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh into his mouth, still full of him, still dripping down your thighs, and it feels like the first time all over again.

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! i had a lot of fun with this one love you chickens <3

258 notes · View notes

berryispunk · 2 months ago

Text

Slow Motion

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: dual POV, slow burn, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, yearning, angst, all of it, longing, best friend! Frankie, feelings denial, soft! Frankie, everyone knows before they do, Santi and Benny are support actors in this, only allusions to smut with this one, the girlfriend is not the villain, idiots in love, kissing

summary: Best friends. Always there, never quite enough. He broke your heart without ever knowing he held it—until everything fell apart, and the only person he wanted was the one he pushed away.

word count: ~ 8k

read on ao3

You and Francisco Morales had been you and him for as long as anyone could remember. Not in the romantic, hand-holding, Sunday brunch kind of way—but in that soul-deep, private-joke, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. Inseparable. A pair that moved through life side by side, facing every challenge together like you were built for it.

He was your person. You were his constant. You’d both sucked at love, made terrible choices, fallen for the wrong people, gotten burned, and picked each other up off the floor more times than you wanted to count. And somewhere along the way, you’d decided Frankie just needed a little push.

So you pushed.

Blind dates, setups, meet-cutes at your yoga class—you threw him at every semi-decent woman within a 15-mile radius like some emotionally-invested Cupid. And he let you, mostly because saying no meant watching that bright-eyed hope in you fade. And he couldn’t stomach that.

But tonight?

Tonight, you could tell, something had changed.

You pulled up to the curb outside the sad little Italian place you’d sent him to, elbow resting on the open window. “Hey, hot stuff. You survived?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. He opened the door, flopped into the passenger seat like someone returning from battle, and just sat there, staring out at the glowing neon of the restaurant behind him.

You laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “That bad?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Was it the weird laugh again? Or did she talk about astrology like it was a PhD?”

Frankie exhaled hard through his nose. “Can we not do this tonight?”

Your smile faltered. “I’m just asking, Frankie. You’re the one who said you wanted to meet someone.”

“No,” he snapped, turning toward you, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who decided I should meet someone.”

You blinked. “Okay... what’s your problem?”

“My problem is I’m exhausted,” he said, his voice heavy. “Tired of these setups. Tired of pretending. Tired of you pushing me into dates I never asked for.”

You sat up straighter, your frustration rising. “Excuse me? You agreed to them. I never forced you.”

“Yeah? Because every time I say no, you look at me like I’m broken. Like you’re trying to fix me.”

Your heart twisted, his words landing on your chest. “Maybe I am trying to fix you, Frankie,” you fired back. “You’ve been stuck for years—half-living, half-dating, half-everything. You don’t even try. I’m the only one who’s been in your corner this whole time, and you’re making me out to be the bad guy?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t!” you shouted, anger flooding through you like molton. “You’re mad at me for caring? For trying to help? What is this really about?”

Frankie didn’t respond, instead clenching his jaw and gripping his thighs like he was holding back something too big to say.

“Say something!” you demanded, your voice cracking with the weight of everything that had built up between you.

He finally turned to you, eyes blazing. “You want to help? Stop trying to build me a life with someone else when you don’t even know what the hell you’re taking from me.”

And then Silence. Thick, stunned silence.

You stared at him, your throat tight, heart pounding like it may jump out of your chest. “What does that mean?”

He shook his head, suddenly looking like he regretted everything. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, you don’t get to say something like that and then shut down,” you snapped, your voice trembling now. “Why are you acting like I’ve betrayed you? Why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”

“Because you did,” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with fatigue. “And you don’t even see it.”

You looked at him—really looked—and felt something twist in your chest. A rift you couldn’t name but felt in every part of you, ugly and all consuming.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, more vulnerable than you meant to be.

Frankie stared at the windshield, his face tense. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and resigned. “You never do.”

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or rewind everything to five minutes ago when it was still just you and him. But instead, you turned the key in the ignition and said nothing in return.

And for the first time since you’re hovering in each other’s orbit, the silence between you wasn’t comfortable.

It was unbearable.

Frankie didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on his couch in the dark, the TV on mute, some old movie flickering across the screen while the same sentence looped in his head: "You don’t even know what you’re taking from me."

God. He’d said it. Almost said everything. Too much—but not enough.

He dropped his head back against the couch, eyes stinging. The fight had cracked something wide open, and now he couldn’t shove it back inside. it broke free and was hovering just nearby like a giant shadow of something even bigger than both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You never fought. Ever. You bickered, teased, got under each other’s skin, but you were a constant in each other’s lives. You knew when to push and when to pull back. You always knew.

Until now.

Now you were probably sitting in your apartment, running the argument over in your head the same way he was, wondering what the hell just happened—wondering why he was the one suddenly flipping the board when you’d only been trying to help.

He stood up and started pacing restlessly.

You didn’t deserve that. He’d lashed out like you’d hurt him on purpose, like it wasn’t killing you too, watching him drag himself through one failed connection after another. You were trying to give him something he couldn’t reach for. Because it wasn’t there.

Not in those other people. Only in you.

And he was such an ass to you, you. The only person in his life that kept up with all his bullshit and by some miracle didn’t leave.

Frankie grabbed his keys twice that night. Almost left. Almost showed up at your door to apologize, to explain—but what would he even say? “Hey, I’m sorry I lost it. Turns out I’m in love with you and watching you help me find someone else feels like dying."Yeah, No.

Instead, he stayed up until morning, slumped in his hoodie on the back steps of his building, smoking a cigarette he didn’t even want, tasting as bitter as the words he told you on his tongue and watched the sky change color. For the first time since you’d become friends, he didn’t know how to come back from this.

Didn’t know if there was a way back.

The night stretched on like an endless tournament—one exhausting round after another, only there was no prize at the end. Just pain. Like you were being tested for some higher purpose you couldn’t quite grasp, and you’d failed without knowing why.

He’d never been like this with you before. Sure, Frankie had a temper, always quick to boil over when something pissed him off—but never at you. Never like that. And now, all you were left with was confusion and this dull, aching hurt in your chest.

All you ever wanted was for him to be happy.

He deserved that. Deserved someone who saw past the sharp edges, the emotional clutter, the history he carried like a second skin. Because despite all of it—despite everything—Frankie Morales was one of the last real gentlemen. A dying breed. Being around him was like witnessing an extinction in slow motion, only you had front-row seats and the last perfect example sitting right there in front of you.

It’s not like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind—showing up to one of those dates and pretending to be his date instead. It had. More than once.

But every time, you chickened out. Too scared to ruin the one good thing in your life. The thing you’d somehow, miraculously, managed to hold onto.

The next morning, everything was too loud.

The clink of your coffee mug. The buzz of your phone. The way the silence in your apartment felt like it had grown teeth overnight.

You kept checking your messages like maybe he’d say something. A joke. A half-apology. Anything.

But nothing came.

Not even a stupid meme.

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over his name. The little photo you took of him months ago still sat there in the corner of the screen—Frankie in his kitchen, shirt inside out, pretending to argue with a toaster. You remember thinking, this is it. This is what home feels like.

And now it just felt like you’d been locked out and someone tossed the keys.

You typed a message.

“Hey. Are we okay?”

Deleted it.

Tried again.

“I didn’t mean to push. I just…”

Backspaced until the screen was empty again.

You tossed the phone onto the couch like it had personally offended you—then immediately picked it back up. Paced the apartment. Whispered test messages under your breath like they were spells you could get right if you just said them enough times.

But eventually, something clawed its way up from inside you. Something sharp and tired and aching.

And you stopped overthinking. Stopped editing. Stopped protecting both of you from the truth that was already out there, bleeding between the cracks. Lingering.

You sank onto the edge of your bed now, change of scenery, thumb trembling slightly as you typed:

“Frankie, I don’t know what happened to us last night. But I miss you.”

And this time, you hit send.

Then you sat there, phone in your lap, staring at the floor, leg nervously bouncing as you waited for a response.

You kept your phone on loud for days.

It never buzzed. Not once.

You told yourself it was fine. Frankie just needed time. You fought, and it hit hard—maybe harder than either of you expected. Maybe he was licking his wounds. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.

But Frankie always said something. Even when it was stupid. Even when it was sideways and barely made sense, he showed up. A meme, a photo, a “you good?” that carried the weight of a whole conversation.

But this time? Nothing.

And it didn’t just sting—it unraveled you.

The texts stopped. The late-night calls and with it the way you could feel him across town without a word. It was like he'd ghosted his own life, and you were collateral damage.

Until three weeks later, Santi said it like it wasn’t a big deal.

You were helping him stack chairs after a backyard cookout, trying to pretend you weren’t checking your phone every five seconds. And Santi, half-distracted, said:

“You heard Frankie’s seeing someone, right?”

You blinked. Thought maybe you misheard him over the wind chimes or the clatter of metal legs.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Santi shrugged. “Some girl he met at that dive bar on the 14th. It’s new, but… he seems into it.”

You laughed. But it came out too sharp. Too forced. “Since when does Frankie get into anything that quickly?”

Santi paused, squinting at you, like he suddenly realized you hadn’t known. That maybe he’d said too much.

“I just thought—he’s been MIA lately. Figured he told you.”

He hadn’t, not a single word.

And suddenly it all made sense. The silence. The distance. Why he never answered your message. Why it felt like you’d been cut out without ceremony, like a chapter he just skipped over.

It wasn’t like it was with you. You knew that. You felt that.

But it was something. Enough to pull him away. Enough to make him forget to look back.

And standing there with your hands clenched around a folding chair and your heart somewhere between your ribs and the dirt, you realized it: This was heartbreak.

Not the kind that happens when love ends— The kind that happens when it almost begins, and then doesn’t. Impending grief for a feeling, for a connection, for him.

You tried not to spiral after that.

Tried to be the cool, collected version of yourself—the one who let things roll off your back, who didn’t let silence crawl under your skin and nest there. But the truth was uglier than that. It curled up in your stomach, sick and sour, and stayed there. A constant pain you just learned to shoulder.

You stopped texting. Stopped staring at your screen like maybe it was broken.

He’d made his choice.

And you weren’t part of it.

Still, when the group chat lit up about drinks at the bar on Friday, you didn’t bail. Part of you wanted to—wanted to ghost the whole damn night and pretend you were busy or tired or just over it. But the other part, the louder one, needed to see. Needed proof that it wasn’t just in your head. That the silence hadn’t lied.

The bar was warm and loud and exactly the kind of place you used to end up in together, laughing over too many wings and trash-talking each other over darts. You walked in and found the usual suspects—Santi, Benny, Will—clustered near the back corner table.

And then you saw him.

Frankie.

He was already there. Drink in hand. Hair a little neater than usual, no cap whatsoever and a button-down that wasn’t flannel. Beside was a girl perched close. Too close.

You didn’t recognize her. She wasn’t beautiful in that cinematic way, but she had this softness about her—easy to look at, easy to fall into, maybe. Her hand brushed his arm when she laughed. And Frankie—

Frankie smiled.

Not the dumb, half-smirk he used to give you when he was being a pain in the ass. Not the tired, grateful grin that came with late-night takeout and long silences that didn’t need filling. No. This smile was different. Smaller, careful. Like he was holding something back, but offering it anyway.

And that’s when you knew.

He brought her.

To this.

To your table, your friends. The little circle that had always been you and him and everyone else orbiting around the mess you made of each other. You didn’t walk over right away. You hovered by the bar too long, pretending to wait for your drink, pretending your heart wasn’t jackhammering in your chest, pretending you hadn’t just been sucker punched without warning.

When you finally made your way over, Santi gave you a look—one part apology, two parts brace yourself—and pulled out a chair for you to sit.

Frankie’s eyes met yours for half a second. Not a word. Not a smile. Just a blink, a shift in his jaw almost unrecognizable, and then he turned back to her.

That was it.

No hey. No you good? No flicker of the person who used to make space for you without even thinking.

And you sat there, surrounded by laughter and the hum of conversation, with the hollow roar of grief in your ears. Because now you knew what it looked like—what it felt like—when someone moved on and left you behind. Frankie hadn’t just found someone new. He’d brought her into your world like you were never part of it.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t even blame him, because you were the one who told him to try. You were the one who pushed him. And now he was gone. Gone in the way that matters most—not out of your life, but out of reach.

You made it thirty-two minutes.

Thirty-two minutes of nodding along, sipping watered-down vodka, laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny, and pretending like your entire chest wasn’t about to collapse every time she touched him.

Every time he let her.

You didn’t even know her name until Will leaned over and said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t feel like a knife being twisted right under your ribs.

“Mira seems sweet, huh?”

You smiled. A tight, practiced thing. “Sure. Sweet.”

Mira.

The name tasted wrong in your mouth.

And maybe it would’ve stayed quiet—maybe you would’ve kept swallowing it all down like poison you could survive—if Mira hadn’t looked at Frankie, all wide-eyed and innocent, and asked, “How come you’ve never brought me here before?”

Before.

You heard it before he even answered. Before implied history. Ritual. Something that existed long before she did. Frankie paused, just a second. But it was enough.

“This used to be our spot,” he said, voice casual, not looking at you. Giving the words no meaning at all. “It’s been a while.”

Our.

As in you and him.

You swallowed hard and stood up too fast, chair scraping against the floor like a siren. “I need some air.”

Nobody stopped you. Not even him.

The night was warm and loud, headlights dragging down the street like slow thoughts. You didn’t make it to the curb before you heard footsteps behind you, you didn’t need to look to know it’s him.

Frankie.

“Hey,” he said. Not urgent, not guilty. “You good?”

You turned, eyes narrowed. “Do I look good?”

His jaw tightened. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say anything,” you snapped. “Anything real. Because for the past three weeks, you’ve been radio silent and now you show up with her—like I’m just some extra in your new life?”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d take it like this.”

“Like what?” Your voice rose, sharp and brittle. “Like I’m hurt? Like maybe you bringing your rebound into our space like it means nothing would actually mean something to me?”

Frankie’s eyes flashed. “It’s not a rebound.”

“Oh, right. Of course not. It’s serious, huh? That’s why you brought her here—to mark your territory?”

“Stop,” he said. Quiet, but there was power in it. This voice meant no bullshit. “You don’t get to make this ugly.”

“You made it ugly the second you ghosted me.”

That shut him up.

You pushed forward, voice trembling. “You always text back. Always. Even when you’re drunk or pissed or halfway asleep. You always showed up. And now what? I’m just gone?”

Frankie’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to say something, then didn’t. Which pissed you off even more.

“You owe me, Frankie,” you said, stepping in close now, eyes wet but your voice firm. “You owe me honesty. Because I was there. Every time you fell apart, every time you doubted yourself, every time you needed someone—I was there. And the second you get a maybe-kind-of-working-something, I’m just background noise?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And it cracked something in both of you.

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, raw and low. “After what I said. After how I said it. I was pissed, and I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” you whispered,brows furrowed deep. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and ugly.

Then you added, “And now you’ve got her. So I guess I was just... convenient enough”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him.

“You were never convenient,” he said, almost a whisper. “You were the constant.”

You stared at him, heart clawing at your ribs, and for one stupid second, you wanted to kiss him just to make it all go away.

But then Mira opened the bar door behind you and called out, “Hey, babe, everything okay?” her voice was so sickeningly sweet, it made your stomach turn. You didn’t look at her, didn’t need to. Frankie looked back once at her, then down at the ground like it was suddenly the only thing that made sense. He didn’t even look at you.

You stepped back, more stumbling than walking. Shaky steps, as unsafe as you felt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice steady now. Cold. “Everything’s crystal fucking clear.”

And then you walked away.

Frankie tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, counted sheep. It wasn’t because of the heat or the creaking pipes in his apartment or Mira breathing soft and even beside him—but because your voice kept replaying in his head like a broken record.

“I was just… convenient enough.”

He’d heard a lot of things in his life. Screaming commanders. Crying civilians. Doors slamming, hearts breaking, all kinds of silence. The one that makes your ears ring and the one that makes your chest tight. But your voice cracking like that?

That was new, brutal.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The digital clock blinked 3:47 a.m in an alarming red light. Mira shifted behind him, half-asleep.

“You okay, babe?” she mumbled, barely conscious.

“Yeah,” he said. Automatically. Out of habit, out of guilt. “Just need some water.”

He got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and stood there in the dark, palms braced on the countertop like it was the only thing holding him up.

There was a photo stuck to the fridge—one you’d taken. Him and Santi arm-wrestling at your place, stupid grins on their faces, half a beer spilled in the corner of the frame. He remembered you laughing behind the camera, saying “Act natural, idiots.”

He hadn’t taken it down, he couldn’t.

He grabbed a glass but didn’t fill it. Just stood there, staring into vast nothingness, thinking of you. How you didn’t yell until the end. How you didn’t cry until he turned away. How you said “crystal fucking clear” like you meant it.

And for the first time, it hit him:

You weren’t mad because he was dating someone. You were mad because he’d shut you out. You were hurt because he made you feel replaceable.

But you weren’t. God, you weren’t, you never could be.

You were the one person who saw through all his bullshit and still stuck around. You were the reason he even considered fixing himself. Not for you—but because when you believed in him, he started thinking maybe he could believe in himself too.

He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into his eye sockets like he could rub the image of you out of his head. Didn’t work. You were everywhere.

In the mug you left once and he never returned. In the hoodie Mira kept asking about—"Whose is this?" your scent still clinging to it. In the way he couldn’t laugh at dumb memes anymore without checking if you’d seen them too.

Frankie Morales was in a relationship, sure.

But he was in love with someone who wouldn’t even look at him now.

And he only had himself to blame.

The next morning, he made breakfast. French toast, Strawberries on the side, just how Mira liked them. He kissed her shoulder while she sipped her coffee and made her laugh hard enough to snort. He was attentive. Present. Trying his best to silence the ghost in the room that only he could feel.

And when she asked, softly, cautiously, “You okay? You’ve been a little... distant,”

He smiled and lied. “I’m good. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

She lit up. Actually lit up. And the worst part? She bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

And Frankie hated himself for how easy the lie slipped out.

It was supposed to be game night. You showed up late on purpose—half hoping maybe he wouldn't be there, half terrified that he would. But the second you walked in and saw him sitting on the couch, hand resting on the back of her chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Your heart dropped.

You tried not to stare. Tried not to see it. The way her laugh came easy. The way Frankie leaned in to say something just for her, close enough to catch the scent of her hair. How she reached for his knee when she laughed too hard at something Benny said. He’d never brought girls to this. Not game nights. Not Sunday barbecues. Not this space—the one sacred little pocket of your friendship he used to keep just for the people who knew him best.

For you.

Your chest tightened like someone was wringing out your lungs.

He glanced at you once, a flick of the eyes, and then quickly away like it burned. No smile. No wave. Just... nothing. Like he hadn’t spent the last few years orbiting your every step. Like you weren’t the one who held him through half of his worst nights. Like that fight didn’t leave a crater between you big enough to swallow this whole damn room.

Santi handed you a beer. You didn’t even remember asking for one.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah, fine.”

But your hand shook when you took a sip, and you hoped no one noticed.

Mira laughed again. Loud, beautiful, perfect. And Frankie ? He laughed with her. Not that half-hearted chuckle he used to do when dates didn’t land. This one was full. Real.

You excused yourself to the kitchen before you could break down in front of everyone.

You barely made it in there before the tears started.

Silent at first—just a sting in your eyes, a tightness in your throat. You braced your hands against the counter, trying to breathe through it, trying not to fall apart like some cliché in a movie. But it wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the kind of grief that comes when someone doesn’t die, they just stop being yours.

And then you heard footsteps.

Santi.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just came up beside you, leaned his hip against the counter, and cracked open a beer like he hadn’t just walked in on a silent breakdown.

Then, quietly, observed like he always was. “Yeah... I figured this would happen.”

Your lip trembled, and you shook your head, wiping under your eyes quickly like it might hide the mess.

“I’m fine,” you lied even if your voice betrayed you in its thinness.

“You’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

That broke something. A small, shattering sound in your chest. You let out a breath that turned into a sob and folded into him before you could stop yourself. Santi pulled you in without hesitation. No questions. no pressure. Just arms that held tight and steady while your shoulders shook, his hand on the back of your head.

“I didn’t think he’d really...” you started, but the rest dissolved into his shirt.

Santi rubbed slow circles on your back. “I know. None of us did.”

You stayed like that for a moment, tucked against him, letting his steady presence fade out some of the noise when another voice cut through the quiet.

“Jesus,” Benny muttered from the doorway. “He’s a goddamn idiot.”

You laughed against Santi’s shoulder, the sound more broken than amused. “Don’t say that. She’s not the problem.”

“I’m not talking about her,” Benny said, stepping inside. “I’m talking about him. He’s sitting out there like you never existed. That’s not Frankie. Not the one I know at least.”

Santi nodded. “He’s... stuck. Pretending so hard he forgot he’s not that good at it.”

And they didn’t say it—no one said it—but you all knew exactly who Frankie used to be good at pretending with. You. He never had to.

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, trying to pull yourself together. “I don’t want to ruin the night.”

“You’re not,” Santi said firmly.

“You showing up tonight?” Benny asked. “That made the night.”

You offered a shaky smile, grateful even if you couldn’t quite show it yet.

Out in the living room, you could still hear Mira’s laugh. Still hear Frankie’s voice, low and warm and not at all the boy who used to show up at your door at 2 a.m., asking if you had Pop-Tarts and time. And maybe everyone thought he’d moved on. Maybe he thought he had, too. But if he had even glanced toward the kitchen just once—he would’ve seen the other two important people in his life holding up the one person he’d forgotten how to hold.

Nobody prepares you for the call you get late at night when you were supposed to sleep, telling you that your dad is in the hospital because of a heart attack, his condition critical.

Frankie sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his hair, breathing like he’d forgotten how. Mira stirred beside him, mumbled something soft and half-asleep, but it barely registered. The words from the phone call were still ringing in his ears like a fire alarm.

Chest pain. Ambulance. Unresponsive for two minutes.

His first instinct wasn’t to shake Mira awake.It wasn’t to call his mom, or Benny, or even Santi. It was you.

His hand moved before his brain could stop it—phone unlocked, your name already pulled up in the recents even though it had been weeks. His thumb hovered over the call button like it had muscle memory. Because in every other version of this moment—in every other emergency, every broken-down car, every fight, every loss—it had always been you.

He didn’t call. Not right away. He just stared at your name, and the photo next to it—blurry, laughing, eyes shining from that road trip last year when the AC broke and you threatened to abandon him on the side of the highway.

And that’s when it hit him, hard, fast and cold:

This isn’t a best friend anymore. This is the first person I think of when my world ends.

His hand recoiled from the phone, like it bit him.

Mira was sitting up now, rubbing her eyes. “Frankie? What’s going on?”

“My dad,” he said, voice as hollow as he felt. “He’s in the hospital.”

She was by his side in a second, hands on his shoulders, asking the right things, offering to come with him. She said all the things a good girlfriend should say, but they didn’t land.

Because all he could think about was you. Not just because you would’ve been there in a heartbeat—but because you’d know what to say. Because you’d reach for his hand before he asked. Because you’d sit beside him in that sterile waiting room and not talk unless he needed you to. Because with you, he wouldn’t have to explain what this felt like. You just… would.

And that’s when it shifted. In a way that couldn’t be undone. It wasn’t about dating, or jealousy, or the fight, or Mira. It wasn’t even about the timing anymore.

It was about truth and for the first time in weeks, it crushed him.

The fluorescent lights in the waiting room buzzed low, mechanical. Too bright for a place this heavy with dread. Frankie sat hunched over in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the tiled floor like it owed him something—answers, maybe. A break. Mira had gone to grab coffee, or air, or space. She hadn’t specified and he hadn’t asked.

And then he heard your voice.

Soft, tentative.

“Frankie?”

He didn’t look up at first. Thought maybe his brain had conjured you again—just like it had when he’d scrolled past your name in his phone and nearly called you on instinct, like some kind of survival response. But then you were closer and right in front of him.

There, not just an imagination. Real.

Hair in this messy bun you always did when you couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. Eyes wide and red-rimmed like you’d cried in the car before coming in. Like the thought of him hurting still cracked you open even if he hurt you first.

“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “Santi told me. I just— I needed to be here.”

His breath caught. Not because you were there. Not even because you showed up without needing to be asked. But because part of him had known you would. Even now. Even after everything.

“You didn’t have to come,” he muttered, but it came out hoarse. Hollow, useless.

“I know.” You sat down beside him anyway. Close, but not touching. “But I wanted to.”

Frankie didn’t know what to say. His hands shook. He dug his nails into his palms like that could stop the ache building under his ribs. But it was too much, everything was too much.

“I can’t lose him,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.

And that’s when you moved. No hesitation. Just reached for him, pulled him in like you’d done a hundred times before. Only this time it broke him.

His arms wrapped around your waist and he buried his face in your shoulder and for the first time since he got that call, Frankie cried. Not loud, not dramatic. Just silent, shaking tears against the only person who ever made him feel like he was allowed to fall apart.

You held him, steady and firm. Holding his broken pieces together like you always did. Your hand in his hair, your breath steady and close. No questions, no anger, no I-told-you-so.

Just you, the one constant that always has been there and it all made it worse. Because this wasn’t Mira. This wasn’t temporary comfort, this was home. And he’d spent weeks pretending it wasn’t.

You were still holding him when Mira walked back in. Frankie’s face hidden in your neck. His hands clutching the back of your sweatshirt like he’d sink without you. His entire body folded into yours in that desperate, wordless way that doesn’t look like friendship. It looks like gravity.

She stopped mid-step.

You didn’t see her at first. You just whispered, “I’m here, okay?” and brushed your fingers through his hair the way you always did when things got bad.

But Frankie did see her and lifted his head. Eyes glassy, face streaked with silent tears, breathing uneven. His gaze locked on Mira—and in that instant, everything in the room went still. Her expression didn’t crack. Not really,not yet. But her eyes said enough.

This wasn’t the grief of a girlfriend who’d been left out. It was the grief of a woman realizing she’d never been in.

“I brought you coffee,” she said, voice tight, like she was reading a script someone handed her last minute. Frankie stood up too fast. Swiped at his face like he could erase what she saw. “Mira, it’s not—”

She held up her hand. Calm, composed. Kind.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “You don’t owe me a performance.”

You stepped back instinctively, putting space between you and Frankie like that might fix it. Like that might soften the blow. But Mira wasn’t stupid, she wasn’t cruel, either. She just nodded, a silent resignation and set the coffee on the table beside him, looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“You should’ve called her first,” she said. “I think we both know that.”

Then she left.

No big scene. No yelling. Just the hollow echo of her footsteps down the hallway and the sound of a door swinging closed behind her. Frankie didn’t move.He just stood there, looking at the coffee, shoulders stiff like they were holding the rest of him. And you?

You didn’t say I told you so or she deserved more or what are you doing even if you had every right to. You just picked up the damn coffee, pressed it into his hands, and whispered, “Drink, you’re shaking.”

And he did, even in the wreckage, in the fallout of his silence, you stayed.

It was sometime after 2 a.m. when you finally convinced Frankie to sit down again.

The ICU floor had gone still, lights dimmed, nurses moving in hushed, practiced rhythm behind sliding glass. No updates. Just waiting. You were still there. So was Santi—sitting cross-legged on the floor with a vending machine coffee and a million-miles-away stare. Benny had shown up with tacos no one asked for, claiming ‘grief makes you hungry’ and refused to leave since.

Nobody asked questions. Not about Mira, not about crying. Not even about the way Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand since you laced your fingers through his hours ago.

Santi finally passed him a coffee. “Still hot. Miracle of science.”

Frankie took it with both hands. “Thanks.” His soft brown eyes full of sorrow.

Benny threw an arm around the back of the chair beside him, stretching like he owned the room. Typical. “Listen, Morales, I know it’s not a great time, but if your old man pulls through and you don’t tell him we all waited like a bunch of loyal golden retrievers, I’m gonna start charging emotional support fees.”

That pulled the smallest breath of a laugh out of Frankie, which was the point. You gave Benny a grateful look over Frankie’s shoulder. He winked and shoved a half-eaten taco into his mouth like it was his life’s mission.

Santi leaned forward, arms on his knees. “You good on food? Water? Want me to harass a nurse?”

Frankie shook his head, lips pressed tight. Then softer, “Thanks, man.”

“You don’t have to thank us,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly against his. “This is what we do.”

Frankie didn’t answer. But his grip tightened. Because he felt it—the thing that held him upright. It wasn’t Mira. It wasn’t some illusion of romance or a picture-perfect fix.

It was this. You, Santi and Benny.

People who’d sit with him in fluorescent hallways all night long. Who didn’t flinch at his mess. Who knew him and stayed anyway. Chosen family. And for the first time since he got that call, Frankie felt the sharp edge of loneliness dull just enough to breathe.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the nurse smiled.

“He’s stable,” she said gently, as if the words might shatter in the air. “It’ll be a long road, but he made it through the worst.”

Frankie didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at the tiles like he hadn’t heard her. Then something in his shoulders sagged. His whole body exhaled. Like the fear that had been coiled so tightly in him all night finally let go.

You touched his arm. Lightly. Carefully. “He’s okay,” you said. And the words felt like a blessing.

Santi clapped him on the back, eyes tired but warm. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest if you can.”

Benny stood, stretched like a lazy cat, then leaned down and pressed his knuckles into Frankie’s shoulder. “Try not to emotionally combust while we’re gone. I’ve bonded with your old man now—I’m personally invested.”

They left without needing to be told. That’s what family does.

The quiet that followed was heavy. It settled over the waiting room in soft waves—early sunlight through the blinds, the hum of machines, the lingering tension that hadn’t quite disappeared with the good news. Frankie hadn’t let go of your hand all night, it’s been sweaty and uncomfortable at times but you wouldn’t say anything. But suddenly he let loose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on the floor.

“You didn’t have to come.” You swallowed hard.

“Don’t say that.”

He didn’t look at you. “I called her first.”

Your heart twisted, but you kept your voice steady. “Of course you did.”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to call you.”

He said it like it was a confession. Like it cost him something to get it out.

“I started dialing,” he went on, “but I hung up. I told myself it wasn’t fair. That I couldn’t ask you to show up again—not after everything I’ve already taken.”

You stayed quiet, let him speak.

“I tried,” he said, voice breaking. “I tried so fucking hard to move on. To convince myself that Mira was good, that she made sense. That she could be the person I needed.”

He finally looked at you and it took all your air out of your lungs.

“And she’s not you, she’ll never be.”

The words slammed into you. Hard and simple and impossible to miss.

“I thought I could keep it buried. That if I never said it out loud, I could live with it. But when I got the call about my dad, when I thought I might lose him—I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. The only person I wanted was you.”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t think.

Frankie scrubbed a hand over his face, tears in his eyes he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “I don’t expect anything. I know I wrecked it. I just… I needed you to know. Because if I lost him and never told you the truth, I don’t think I could’ve carried that.”

You reached out before your brain caught up, threading your fingers through his again, lifting it up to your lips and kissed his knuckles.

He looked smaller like this. Not weak, just real. Raw. All things he never let anyone see except you. You didn’t say anything. Because some truths didn’t need answers right away—they just needed air. And this one, between you and him, was finally breathing.

It didn’t happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic speech, no fireworks. No declarations in the rain.

Just… quiet.

The kind that came with knowing someone inside and out. The kind that had always lived between you.

A few days after the hospital, you showed up at his door with two coffees and a bag of something warm, and he didn’t question it. Just stepped aside and let you in like you’d never left. You curled up on the couch, tucked your legs under you like you always did, and when your fingers brushed reaching for the remote, you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

After that, it was movie nights again. Grocery runs together. Your hoodie hanging off the back of his kitchen chair. Your hair in his sink. He never asked you to stay, but you did.Until one day, you just… were. A part of his , his rhythm, his everything, like you always were, just without holding back now. Frankie wasn’t afraid to name it anymore.

No one asked questions. Not Benny, not Santi. Maybe because they’d all seen it before he had. Maybe because it was written all over both your faces the second the storm passed.

You were all at Benny’s one night—barbecue smoke thick in the air, beers half-drunk, someone playing music off an old speaker—and you were curled into his side like gravity had always meant for it. Your head on his shoulder, a small gesture but so monumental to him.

And Santi, mouth full of ribs, just grinned and muttered, “Finally.”

Frankie looked over at him. “What?”

“You two. Took you long enough. Benny and I had a whole betting pool.”

Benny snorted. “I lost, by the way. Thought it’d take ‘till Christmas.”

You laughed into his shoulder. Warm and soft and unmistakably you. Frankie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smile pulling at his mouth. “Real supportive friends I’ve got.”

Benny raised his bottle. “We’re rooting for you, Morales. Doesn’t mean we can’t roast you while we do it.”

Later, after the sun dipped low and the night got quieter, you tugged him out onto Benny’s balcony. Just the two of you. The city stretched out in front of you, all hazy lights and faraway sounds. You leaned on the railing beside him, arms brushing against each other.

“I know you were a bit slow at times,” you said, eyes on the skyline. “But this… this was slow motion.”

He huffed out a laugh. “I had a lot of shit in my head, okay?”

“I know,” you said, voice softer now. “But I was right there.”

He turned to you. Took in your face, lit by the dim glow of porch light and stars above you. That expression he’d always known but only just let himself hold onto.

“You’ve always been there,” he echoed.

And then he kissed you.

Not like the end of something, not even like the start. His hands in your hair, your mouth meeting his like it already knew the shape of him. Slow, sure and welcoming.

The sun eased into the room slowly and quiet, like it knew better than to speak after the kind of night that changed everything.

You lay on your side, tangled in sheets that still smelled like him—like heat and skin and something you’d waited years to have. Frankie was asleep beside you, one arm stretched toward where your body had just been, hand curled loose on the pillow as if even in sleep he couldn’t let you go too far.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder, then trailing down his arm like you were retracing last night’s map.

It played like a movie behind your eyes. His hands, his mouth, the way he said your name like it broke something open inside him every time. The first kiss, not rushed but anchored, like he’d known exactly what he was doing—like he’d been dreaming about it and was just finally awake. Your lips tingled at the memory of where he’d kissed you. Where he lingered. Your skin still hummed in the places his hands had claimed, like he’d memorized you with his fingertips.

You pressed your fingers to your own mouth, not to stop a smile, but to feel him again. To remember how it felt when he whispered things you never thought you’d hear from him—need you, been dreaming about this, can’t believe it’s real.

Your breath caught. Not from lust, but from how right it all had felt.

The mattress dipped behind you and suddenly, there he was—still half-asleep, hair a disheveled mess, voice low and rough as he murmured, ‘Where’d you go?’ Only one eye open, just enough to peek at you.

You smiled, settling back into the warmth of him as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like you belonged there.

“Was just thinking.”

Frankie pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, slow and warm and so him, it made your throat go tight.

“’Bout what?” he mumbled.

You smiled. “When it happened for me.”

He went still behind you. “What?”

“When I fell for you.”

His breath hitched, just slightly, and his hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah?” he whispered. “When was it?”

You let out a soft laugh. “That day you showed up at my apartment soaking wet ‘cause your car broke down and you needed to borrow a charger. You were dripping water on my rug and swearing in Spanish under your breath like the world personally offended you. I made you tea, remember?”

He groaned. “I do. I was a mess.”

“And I just… looked at you. And felt it.”

Frankie was quiet for a second, then leaned in, lips brushing the back of your neck. “You know when it happened for me?”

You turned your head slightly. “Tell me.”

“That night we crashed at my place after the bar. You passed out on the couch, and I tried to sleep. I thought I’d be fine, but I had one of the nightmares. Bad one.”

Your breath held in your chest.

“I woke up sweating, choking on my own damn breath, and before I could even sit up, you were there. Not scared, not freaked out. Just there. Sat beside me, hand on my back. Let me breathe. Didn’t say anything stupid. And most importantly you didn’t run.”

Your heart clenched.

“That was it,” he said quietly. “That’s when I knew.”

You turned in his arms, met his eyes, your hands cupping his face like he might disappear if you blinked too fast, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

He looked at you with those warm, deep brown eyes—like melted earth after rain and it felt like he’d never seen anything more certain. More beautiful. The same way he looked at you that night on his couch, when you didn’t flinch at the worst parts of him. When you just held him, no questions asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe love had already happened and neither of you had realized it yet.

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t wild or desperate—it was soft. Full of all the things neither of you had said for years. The things you didn’t need to say anymore.

Because you knew.

You both knew.

thank you so much for reading <3

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iamasaddie · 4 days ago

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CHALLENGES

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fic-girlie · 12 hours ago

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Pls, pls, pls, pls! Can you do a Y/n whose never been in a relationship before and is close with Frankie to the point that they can do cuddles for warmth in one of them is freezing? Y/n is lying on top of Frankie on the coach whilst her fingers are combing through his locks, dosen’t say anything, staring at him. And Frankie knows that something is on their mind. Y/n slowly asks if he thinks that maybe she'll get married to somebody one day, maybe even find love. She's never had anybody look at her before, so can't help but to feel that she isn't good enough for love and anything.

You're enough

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Summary: While resting on Frankie, you quietly admit your fear of never being loved — and he tenderly assures you that you’re more than enough and always have been. Warnings: slight angst, insecure reader, reassuring Frankie

The old couch creaks slightly under the weight of two bodies, though neither of you move. The blanket draped over the both of you has slipped down a little from your shoulders, but you’re too warm now to care. Not from the fabric — that had barely taken the edge off when you came inside shaking from the cold — but from the solid, steady heat of Frankie beneath you. His body long and relaxed, stretched out across the couch, and yours draped over him, lying fully on top, your cheek resting on his chest.

His arms had come around you the second you’d curled into him. No hesitation, no comment. Just warmth. Just Frankie.

You can feel the slow, unbothered rise and fall of his breathing beneath your ribs, the quiet scratch of his hoodie fabric under your cheek. It’s one of his older ones — soft and worn — and smells faintly like laundry detergent and something a little woodsy. Him. His fingers had rubbed slow circles against your back for a while, your shivering spine slowly relaxing against him, your muscles unwinding, the tension in your jaw unclenching. Now, he just holds you there. Steady. Warm. Home.

Your hand is in his hair.

You don’t remember when that started. Maybe a few minutes ago. Maybe longer. It’s soft, messier today, those dark curls a little mussed from when he’d pulled his baseball cap off. You’d buried your cold hands into the strands at first, needing the heat of his scalp. But now you’re just... playing. Stroking gently through the curls with the pads of your fingers, letting a few twist around your knuckles before you smooth them back.

He hasn’t said a word.

He’s just letting you lie on him, letting you touch him like that, one arm still anchored around your waist, the other draped lazily along your thigh. Like he knows what you need without asking. Like he always does.

And yet…

He knows.

You can feel it. He hasn’t said a word, but you can feel the way his thumb brushes your side just a little more deliberately now, the way his breathing has shifted from relaxed to a quieter sort of attentive. Frankie Morales knows when something is pressing against your chest like a weight. You can’t hide things from someone who’s memorized the shape of your silence.

Your fingers keep moving through his hair. Slow. Gentle. As if it helps you keep the thoughts from pouring out too quickly.

The heat from the moment is sinking deeper into your bones, but that cold ache is still somewhere inside you. Not physical anymore. Something lonelier than that.

He shifts beneath you slightly, just enough to angle his head so he can look at you, but not enough to break the hold around your waist.

You don’t meet his eyes.

You’re still staring at him — but not really. Your gaze is a little distant, lips parted like there’s something on the tip of your tongue, but it’s too heavy to let go.

“…You ever think I’ll get married?”

Your voice is so soft you almost don’t recognize it. Raw around the edges. Like something inside of you has cracked just enough for the question to slip through.

Frankie doesn’t say anything right away. You feel his thumb trace a slower path against your back, patient. Grounding.

You swallow.

“Not like I’m planning it or anything,” you murmur quickly, fingers twitching against his scalp before continuing their absent path through his hair. “I just… I’ve never had anybody look at me like that. Like they’d want me like that. Not once. Not even close.”

You draw in a shallow breath, and your throat feels tight.

“I know I’m not… I’m not exactly the kind of girl people notice. Not the one who turns heads when she walks in a room, or makes guys stumble over themselves to get her attention. I’ve never had someone want me. Or love me. Or even ask me out, not seriously. So sometimes I just… wonder.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“If maybe I’m just not the kind of person love happens to.”

Frankie’s fingers press a little more firmly at your back — not hard, not urgent. Just steady. Reassuring. Like he’s anchoring you to this moment, to him, while you tremble your way through it.

You can feel your face burn, ashamed of how childish it must sound. You’re not a teenager anymore. You shouldn’t be crying over this. But it still hurts — that ache of never being seen the way you so desperately wish you could be. Like someone worth choosing. Someone worth loving.

You finally look up at him.

Your fingers are still tangled loosely in his hair, but now your eyes are on his. Really on his. And he’s already watching you.

Not pitying. Not surprised.

Just seeing you.

There’s a quiet sort of gravity to his gaze, those warm brown eyes holding yours like they’re not going to let go. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t rush his words.

“Hey.”

Just that, soft and solid. A sound that grounds you.

Then his hand comes up, slow and careful, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone. Not wiping away a tear — not yet — but as if getting ready to, just in case.

“You’re not the kind of person love happens to,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting the weight of it.

Then, his voice lowers.

“You’re the kind of person someone stays in love with.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re the kind of person someone would fight for. Someone they’d build a life around. I don’t know who told you different, or if it’s just the silence making you believe that, but I need you to hear me right now, okay?”

He shifts just enough to prop himself a little, so your face is closer, the space between you almost nothing.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. Not one thing. You’re not too quiet. You’re not too strange. You’re not invisible. You’re… you. And anyone who doesn’t see what I see when I look at you…” He exhales, voice thick. “They’re just not looking close enough.”

Your chest stings. And when you blink, your eyes are damp. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

His fingers are in your hair now, mirroring you. Brushing slowly through the strands at the back of your head. And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You’ll get married if you want to. You’ll fall in love. You’ll be loved. I believe that.”

He smiles a little, crooked and real.

“And if they’re lucky… they’ll get to fall asleep with you lying on top of them like this every night.”

You huff something between a laugh and a sob, your forehead pressing gently into his chest, your shoulders trembling.

He doesn’t say anything more. He just holds you.

Your hand finds his hair again and stays there, and his thumb draws lazy, slow circles against your spine like a quiet promise.

And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest feels a little less lonely. A little more understood. A little more loved.

Even if he hasn’t said it aloud.

Not yet.

But something in the way he looks at you — the way he always has — makes you start to believe that maybe, just maybe, he already does.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #frankiemorales #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal x reader #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fic #frankie morales angst #pedro pascal fandom

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ak-vintage · 6 days ago

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This is Personal

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Prompts: Frankie Morales | Established Relationship | As Quiet as Possible | Orgasm Denial | Talk Them Through It

Summary: While on vacation with his friends, you can’t resist the temptation to test Frankie’s limits. Written for the PPCU Smut Writing Challenge hosted by @mushgloomz. (I know I am a week late to this party, but I hope you enjoy anyway!)

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Post-canon. Established relationship. Dual POV. Second-person POV. No use of Y/N. Guest appearances by Will, Benny, Santiago, and Yovanna. Definitely a PWP – the framework of the plot exists only to enable the smut (teasing, mild exhibitionism, semi-public acts, getting caught, orgasm denial, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, P in V sex, filthy dirty talk, pussy pronouns, trying to stay quiet, switch-y vibes from both Frankie and Reader).

Word Count: 11.6K

Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist

“Thought you’d be in the shower by now.”

You glance up from your nook in the hot tub where you have been lounging, half-asleep behind your sunglasses in the late afternoon warmth. A broad-shouldered shape has blocked out your sunlight, sending flares of gold around tanned, freckled skin, leaving you in shadow. The form crosses its arms, shifts its weight to one leg, leaving the opposite knee to bend, the stance full of attitude, refusing to be ignored. Bringing one hand up to shield against the glare, you meet its eyes, finding the dark, squinting gaze of your boyfriend staring down at you.

Offering him a lazy smile, you drop your head back on your neck, letting the bowl of your skull rest against the edge of the bubbling, foaming jacuzzi. “In a bit,” you reply easily. “Too relaxed right now to move.”

And you are. It’s been a long time coming, this trip to Key West with Frankie and his close-knit group of friends. It isn’t the first time you’ve met them; on the contrary, even in the relatively short amount of time that you and Frankie have been together, you have already spent a significant amount of time in their presence. Nights at their favorite local dive bar, barbecues at Santiago and Yovanna’s house, beers shared ringside at Benny’s fights – it hadn’t taken Frankie long to start inviting you, folding you into his life as easily as if you had always been there. You could see how someone else in your position might have found it intimidating, but in truth, it brought you nothing but comfort. It told you Frankie was serious about you, about your relationship, and fuck, you were serious about him, too.

Frankie is the best thing that’s come into your life in a long time, so when he first broached the topic of taking you away for a week to an oceanfront, beach house rental – fully equipped with a stretch of private beach, a pool, a hot tub, and more bedrooms than you would need even as a group of six – you hadn’t been able to say yes fast enough. Today had been your first full day here, having arrived here yesterday afternoon after a lengthy drive from Tampa, and you can already feel all of the tension melting from your bones and muscles after a day in the sun and sand.

“It’s a good look on you,” Frankie says, his voice low and rasping, worn after spending most of the afternoon shouting back and forth with the other guys over a game of beach volleyball. His eyes sweep the exposed length of your neck, across your collarbones, down to the soft pillow of your breasts bobbing gently just below the frothing surface of the water, and you feel his stare like a physical thing against your skin.

Unlike you, he holds himself rigidly. Even from your sunken vantage point in the hot tub, you can see the tightly-strung pull of his traps, keeping his wide shoulders near his ears. Your eyes follow the clench of his jaw, the feathering of the tendons there, the way his prominent brow knits and furrows beneath the brim of his Standard Oil Company baseball cap. It’s as you expected. He has been strung out since you left his apartment early yesterday morning, the stress rolling off him in waves like those crashing against the shore. At first, you had thought that perhaps the travel was wearing on him. Now that you have been at your destination for a full day now, able to enjoy all of the distractions and amenities the Keys have to offer, you aren’t so sure.

“Yeah? Well, maybe you should follow my example and come join me,” you prod teasingly. “You need to unwind.”

Frankie’s lips quirk upward, the corner of his mouth tucking into his cheek in an expression that reads as something between playful and accusatory. “Do I?”

Scoffing, you straighten up a bit in your seat, choosing instead to drape your arms along the edge of the sunken tub as you peer up at him. “Are you kidding? You’ve been wound tighter than a two-dollar watch since we got here.”

“Can you blame me, hermosa?” He uncrosses his arms and brings one of his thick, broad-palmed hands up to scratch at the patchy stubble of his beard. The sparse strands of silver there glint in the golden glow of the sun, catching your eye, making you smile. You catch the moment he notices your dreamy, enamored expression – he shakes his head, pressing his fingers to his lips as though to silence a chuckle. “You’re driving me crazy,” he confesses, so quiet you can barely hear him over the tub jets.

“Me?” you gasp. “What did I do?”

At that, he finally relents and approaches the edge of the hot tub, directly across from where you’ve been lounging.

“Don’t act all innocent with me,” he grumbles. Lowering himself slowly into the steaming water, step by step, one hand on the railing, he fixes you with a glare so fiery it has a wave of heat rushing up the back of your neck. He gestures vaguely in the direction of your torso and adds, “You’re the one who’s been wandering around in that piss-poor excuse for a swimsuit since we showed up.”

That startles an incredulous laugh from you, and you don’t miss the way his dark brown eyes drop almost instantly to the swell of your breasts that bounce with the sound. “It’s a bikini, Frankie! It’s supposed to be a little skimpy.”

With a sigh, he settles himself onto the bench that runs along the outer perimeter of the tub, and you feel the firm, hairy warmth of his shin brush against the tips of your toes. At first, you attempt to draw your legs in, not wanting to encroach on his space if he really is serious about relaxing here with you, but you don’t make it very far before one of his hands darts below the surface of the water, snags itself around your ankle, and hauls you bodily out of your seat and across the narrow diameter of the tub.

You squeal and let out a shrill giggle, the sound deadened only mildly by the roar of the jacuzzi jets. “Francisco!” you yelp as your hands fly out to steady you, to keep you from capsizing like a dingy in the surf and toppling under.

But your boyfriend is immune to your protests, turning a blind eye to your struggle to stay afloat as he grips your thighs, your hips, your waist, pulling you limb by limb onto the bench next to him, tangling his legs with yours beneath the water.

“And yesterday,” he continues, uninterrupted, as though the kicking and splashing and giggling of the last few minutes had been less than a blip on his radar, “on the drive down, sunning your bare legs on the dashboard of my truck like you didn’t know what that would do to me? Could barely keep my eyes on the road.”

“That’s what that was?” Laughter in your voice, sugar on your tongue, you keep up your squirming, fighting to get out of his clutches even as you tease and taunt. “I just thought you were tired!”

Quick as lightning, those special forces reflexes make themselves known once more as Frankie ensnares one of your flailing hands, dunks it beneath the roiling surface of the water, and molds the meat of your palm to the seam of his swim trunks. You gasp at what you feel there in spite of yourself, the sound ripped from your throat as if you hadn’t expected exactly this reaction from him, as if you hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t spent all day thinking about it as you lazed beneath the summer sun. He was straining there, the heat of him detectable even in the swelter of the hot tub, thick and throbbing and growing more insistent by the minute.

“This feel like ‘tired’ to you?” he groans. His voice is hoarse, his jaw tight as his words grit out from between his teeth. Under the water, unseen but still so very present, his cock pushes against you, seeking your touch even through the layers of fabric that separate your skin from his.

God, but you love him like this – a little raw, a little desperate, strung out and needing you in a way that speaks directly to that deep, low, hollow place inside you that never quite stops craving him. It’s delicious, and it sends a bloom of heat to the apex of your thighs just thinking about it.

“No, Frankie,” you reply, all sweetness and false contrition with your wide eyes, your teeth sunk into the pillow of your lower lip.

He nods, and the brim of his ballcap casts a shadow across his dark eyes with the motion. “No, it fucking does not. This is all your fault, and you know it. You been teasing me.”

Under your hand, you feel his hips shift, arching up off the bench to grind into your touch. His eyelids flutter as the thick, spongy head passes over the heel of your palm, distinguishable even through his trunks, and you feel answering goosebumps erupt across your skin in spite of the heat.

“I’m sorry.” The response comes automatically, thoughtlessly, and the quickness of it has Frankie huffing a laugh under his breath.

“I don’t think you are,” he counters. “I think you been doing it on purpose.”

Pulling your gaze from his, you glance down, the faintest hint of self-consciousness starting swell in your chest at the intensity of his stare, his words, his touch. “…maybe just a little,” you admit bashfully.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Frankie’s grim, set mouth softens and morphs instead into a knowing smirk. His free hand, dripping with pool water, tucks itself under your chin, gripping the tip of it gently between his thumb and forefinger. The pad of his thumb leaves a damp trail across your skin as he strokes you there, and you are overwhelmed by the scents of the beach – salt, sand, sunscreen, man.

“Just a little, huh?” he rasps. “You like knowing how fucked up I get for you, hermosa? How I can’t stop thinking about you, watching you?”

His words are taunting, almost angry, but the crinkles at the corners of his eyes bely his amusement as he watches you squirm in his grip. You know he can feel you beneath the water, shifting in your seat, squeezing your bare thighs together, brushing your knees against his in evidence of what his words do to you. Beneath your palm, still held fast by his other hand, his cock pulses and twitches in sympathy. You tighten your grip on him all on your own, no encouragement from his hand needed.

“Mm hm.” Your response, nothing more than a hum, comes out soft and closer to a whine than a word.

Frankie’s dark eyes are sharklike in the shade of his cap, black and hot and predatory as he smells blood in the water, senses the tides turning in his favor as your heartrate picks up behind your ribs. “You like knowing I been half hard since you rolled up to the truck yesterday wearing my hoodie and those little shorts?”

Nodding, you can only reply, “Yeah.”

“What about when we got here, and you couldn’t get out fast enough?”

That question takes you aback, and you instinctively try to pull your hand out from under his grip as your eyebrows reach your hairline. “What do you mean?”

“You let every single one of my friends put their hands all over you,” he continues, as if he hadn’t heard your question, felt your protest. He grips your hand harder under the surface of the water and spreads his thighs wider so he can move your hand further down to cup his balls. The feel of them under your fingers, delicate and so warm, has heat rising in your cheeks. “Don’t you remember? All of them hugging you, kissing your cheeks? How do you think that felt, watching Benny swinging you around like that? Or Pope putting his mouth on you?”

For the first time, you feel the lightness of the easy flirtation, the soft arousal begin to falter in your belly. Instead, it is eclipsed by swelling intimidation. “I-It was all innocent, Frankie. Just friendly,” you insist.

Had you truly upset him? Was this perhaps a side of Frankie you hadn’t seen before? You had thought that your antics were all in good fun, and yet –

“And then last night, when I’d been climbing the walls all day, and I was ready to put you through the mattress, what do I find when I come to bed?” The hold he has on your chin tightens, drawing you closer. His breath is hot on your cheeks, and your eyelids flutter in overwhelm as he growls, “You were already asleep.”

His voice rolling over your skin like thunder, the deepest parts of you throb at the sound. You can feel yourself starting to leak wetness into the gusset of your swimsuit, slick and warm and entirely different than the heat of the hot tub.

Frankie has always been so tender with you, so gentle and kind. In the past, when Will or Santiago accused Frankie of being a bit of a hothead, you had rolled your eyes and brushed it off as simply friends giving each other a hard time. In the months that you had been together, you had never once witnessed anything even remotely resembling a temper out of him.

Now, trapped in this jacuzzi with him in broad daylight, the stifling heat already starting to make you a bit lightheaded, you find yourself trying not to swoon at this sudden display of jealousy, of possessiveness. You don’t know what it says about you that it turns you on to have such an effect on him, but you do know that you’re finding it difficult to hold his eye contact now.

You want his mouth on yours. You want his big, rough hands on more of your exposed skin. You want his thick, throbbing cock between your legs.

You want him to fuck his frustration out on you while you simply…let it happen.

“Nothing to say for yourself? Eh? Mírame.”

You startle out of your reverie, eyes flying wide as you scramble to reply. “I was tired. From the trip,” you explain lamely.

“Uh huh.” Frankie doesn’t buy it, but he lets it slide, instead allowing his mouth to drift closer to yours. You swear you can feel the soft brush of his pouty lower lip against yours, and your pussy trembles and clenches at the tease. He tastes like the ocean, savory on your skin. “But you’re not tired anymore, are you, nena?”

Breath short and gasping, heart beating thickly against your sternum, you shake your head, and then his lips are on yours, and you couldn’t stifle the whimper that burst from your mouth if you tried.

It’s been less than a handful of days since he last had you, and yet the hunger with which Frankie devours you has you feeling like it’s been months. He’s always been a passionate kisser – eager to be close to you, to taste you, to feel any part of you he could with his lips and tongue – but there is a fierceness to the way he dives in, the way his hands fly to the dip of your waist, the way the curve of his prominent nose digs into your cheek as he presses you close. The grit of his facial hair scrapes across the delicate skin of your chin, and the hard brim of his beloved ballcap knocks into your temple as he deepens the angle of the kiss. It takes mere seconds for his tongue to beg entrance, hot and slick against the seam of your lips, and you eagerly surrender to the onslaught. You’re his – every secret and tender part of you is his to enjoy, his to claim; you couldn’t even think to resist.

So lost are you in your surrender that you hardly notice his hands traveling from your waist to your hips to the swell of your ass under the bubbling surface of the water. When he seizes you there, wrapping his fingers under your cheeks and hauling you into his lap, you pull away from his kiss with a breathless gasp of his name.

“Frankie!”

He does not deign to reply with words; instead, he settles your knees on the bench on either side of him and uses his grip on the meat of your ass to press you down onto him, driving his clothed cock into the soft cradle of your core.

“Oh, my god,” you moan, eyes falling shut once again, head lolling on your neck as though suddenly too heavy to hold up on your own. Fuck, he is so hard. You had known he was, had felt it swell beneath your hand as he teased himself with your touch, but feeling it in your palm and feeling it hot and thick against your aching pussy are entirely different experiences, even through both of your swimsuits.

“That what you wanted?” Frankie asks. The strain in his voice has you opening your eyes and meeting his gaze once more, and the wrecked look on his face inspires a fresh swell of confidence and satisfaction even as he grinds you down onto his lap. “That what you been after this whole time?”

The press of your suit against you keeps you wet, keeps your slick from being washed away by the tumultuous water as you slide against him again, again, again, the length of him nestled between your lips, the tip of him catching the swell of your clit on every downward stroke. You’re gone for him – you have been since he first put his hands on you – and yet the power of driving him to this kind of desperation is like a drug, overtaking your own need, bringing a sly, breathless little smile to your lips. Dragging your hands up to toy with the damp curls poking out of the bottom of his hat, resting your forearms along his shoulders, you nod your agreement.

This is exactly what you wanted. And he is giving it to you beautifully.

Your insolence earns you a growl from deep in his chest, and you barely have enough time to gulp a breath into your lungs before he is grabbing onto the side of your face and pulling your mouth back against his.

Thumb wedged into the sensitive muscles of your jaw, Frankie opens you up, his tongue delving behind your teeth with an eagerness you match. Beneath the water, his other hand creeps to the edge of your bottoms, his fingers tucking under the flimsy elastic waistband, seeking your skin. You let loose a soft moan into his mouth at the feel of that calloused palm against your softness. He touches you with such attentiveness, such urgency. It would be enough to make anyone swoon to be touched like this by a man like him – competent, steadfast, and strong.

Breaking the kiss, you trail your lips along the scruff of his jaw and run the tip of your nose against that soft, vulnerable patch of skin just beneath his ear. “You’re so hard for me,” you whisper sweetly, and you watch as goosebumps flood his damp skin.

Beneath you, Captain Francisco Morales trembles.

“Damn right,” he admits. The words sound like they have been pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and ragged and gasping. “You’re k-killing me, baby. Me vuelves loco.”

You smother a smirk against the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. His skin is hot there, darkened by the day in the sun. “Think that’s your fault.” Your fingers tug at his hair as you plant kisses where you’ve landed, soft and wet and gentle against each and every freckle in your path. “Could have had me anytime you wanted. You know that.”

He hisses when your tongue darts out to trace a delicate line along his collarbone. “Too many people around,” he grits out, jaw tight, fingers digging hard enough into the flesh of your ass to threaten bruises.

Making your way back up his neck, you draw the soft lobe of his ear between your teeth and nibble on it gently. Beneath you, Frankie’s hips stutter, pulling a whine from you. You speed up the drag of your hips in response, the edges of your control beginning to fray.

“Not right now,” you pant. Your fingers tighten in his hair, every thrust of your hips sending bolts of white-hot pleasure down your spine. The sensation pools in the low cradle of your hips, slick and molten and pulsing as it winds itself deeper, hotter, tighter. “We’re all alone out here, aren’t we? Let me help.”

The former special forces pilot lets out a hiss and drops his head back, his fucked-out gaze pointed toward the sky as though seeking divine intervention. “Help?” he echoes weakly. The sharp bite of his ferocity is beginning to calm, and it is leaving only throbbing, desperate need in its wake.

So you do not reply with words. Instead, you allow your hands to slip below the surface of the water and wedge themselves between your two bodies.

You keep your eyes on his face as you work the drawstring of his swim trunks loose, as you pull the elastic of the waistband out away from his body, as you carefully drag that waistband down to tuck underneath his balls. From the surface, your view is so obscured that the shape of his cock bobbing in the narrow gap between you could be anything. But you don’t need to be able to see him to make him feel good – your body knows your way around his by now. With gentle fingers, you take hold of the length of him and set a slow, steady pace.

Frankie’s eyes slam shut at the sensation, and you watch as his throat bobs thickly against the sound of a groan threatening to burst from his chest. “Fuuuuuck,” he whispers, hoarse and low, the sound drowned almost immediately by the persistent noise of the tub jets.

Leaning forward on your knees, you continue to stroke him as you drop a soft, wet kiss to the hollow of his throat. The plush, swollen head of him bumps against your stomach, and you feel a shudder pass through every muscle and fiber of his body. His hips hitch, the move frantic and uncoordinated, dragging the tip of his cock against your soft skin again, and you can’t help but smile.

“You feel so good, Frankie,” you say as you allow your thumb to brush against the sensitive underside, catching droplets of precum before they are quickly washed away by the water.

Your praise has him finally abandoning his grip on your ass, instead cupping your head in both palms and dragging your mouth to meet his. The kiss is wet and needy, tinged with desperation in place of the fury of just a few minutes prior, and goddamn it, you love him like this. You’ve always been of the opinion that there is nothing hotter than a man who needs, and Frankie needs like no one you’ve ever met before. Beneath the cover of the water, in between the tight press of your bodies, you speed up your strokes, taking him harder, faster, twisting your wrist on the down stroke, playing with the head on the upstroke. He twitches in your grip, unable to hold his hips still, and you absorb his every tremor with the meat of your thighs.

Around you, the steaming hot tub water churns with more than just the power of the jets, splashing up onto your heaving chest, your neck, the patio around you. So lost are you in one another, neither of you catches the sound of the back door opening and closing, nor the rhythm of approaching footsteps on the concrete.

“Fish? Hey, Fish!” A pause, the sound of low conversing, and then, “Well, well. What do we have here?”

The sound of Benny’s smug, taunting voice might as well have been lightning with the way it strikes you both, and you are quick to yank yourself away from Frankie’s kiss as a wave of mortification rips through you. You still your hand under the water, ducking to press your forehead against his shoulder to hide your burning face. Beneath you, your boyfriend hisses a string of curses, a seamless blend of English and Spanish, and while he wraps one arm around your back protectively, the other he uses to cover his eyes.

“The fuck do you want, Benny?” he barks. You can feel his body growing stiff and rigid again against you, all the comfort and ease of moments before evaporating like chlorine-scented steam.

But instead of Ben’s hearty baritone, it’s Santiago’s voice that answers. “At ease, Catfish. Not our fault you and your lady can’t keep it confined to your room like the rest of us.” You can hear his smarmy grin even over the sounds of the hot tub, and you resist the urge to curl yourself into an even smaller ball. “Just wanted to see if you’re good to be one of the drivers tonight.”

Frankie groans, and you echo the sound of exasperation. That was all this was about? That was the question that couldn’t have waited another 15 minutes for the two of you to make your way inside? The group of you weren’t due to leave the house for your dinner reservation for at least another 45 minutes.

“Sure.” His voice is flat, unenthused. “Me and who else?”

“Will volunteered,” Pope replies.

Ben chuckles deviously, sounding to you like a boy who has managed to sneak an extra piece of dessert. “We broke out the tequila a little early.”

“No kidding,” Frankie scoffs.

“Hey, we’re on vacation, man!”

Pope interjects before an argument can ensue. “Be ready at 1900 hours,” he says, directing his instruction to Frankie.

“Understood.” You feel certain that if he hadn’t been effectively pinned beneath you, he would have sent his friend a mocking salute. “Now, get the fuck out.”

That earns a laugh from Santi, good-natured and warm. “Fine, but only if you promise not to contaminate the hot tub. It’s the only one we’ve got, and I am not calling the property owner out here to treat the water because you jizzed in it.”

“Pope, I swear to god – ”

The sound of both Benny and Santi’s raucous laughter echoes off the walls of the house, momentarily drowning out both the sound of the tub and the racing thud of your heartbeat in your ears.

“All right, all right, keep your shorts on.”

“1900, Fish!” Ben repeats, and one of Frankie’s arms flies out, flinging water up onto the patio as he flips the younger man the bird.

“Fuck off, Benjamin!”

Laughter continues to reverberate around you until the sound of the opening patio door reaches your ears. You wait until you hear it swing closed and latch into place once again before you risk pulling your face out of Frankie’s flushed neck. Sitting back on his thighs, you pull yourself upright to lock eyes with him, finding his face and chest to be just as heated as your own. You hold his gaze for a beat, the both of you catching your breath as your mouths twist into flustered grins.

Knocking your forehead gently against the brim of his cap, you snicker, “That was a close one.” You have let go of his dick at this point, but the way it bobs in the gap between your bodies tells you that, in spite of the interruption, Frankie’s arousal has not dimmed.

Still, he groans in complaint, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Couldn’t have been any closer,” he admits, and you stifle a giggle behind your lips. You really shouldn’t laugh, you know, but you can’t help it. You may not have planned for Santi and the younger Miller brother to barge in during the middle of your first moment of alone time since you arrived, but regardless of the heartbeat-synched throb in the depths of your core, hollow and aching and frustrated, you can’t say that you are too disappointed by it.

There’s just something about the way that your boyfriend gets when you make him wait.

When you draw it out a little. When you make him work for it. His eyes go all soft and hot and unfocused, and sweat gathers in the dark brown hair at his temples, in the dip at the base of his throat, in the dimples in the small of his back. You love the sounds he makes, how fucking desperate he gets for you. Just the thought of it has you squirming in his lap, unintentionally dragging the skin of your lower stomach against the underside of his cock.

Frankie lets out a soft whine, low in pitch but edging into neediness regardless, and then his hands are on you again, hooking around the swell of your hips and urging you against him once more. “Now, where were we?” he pants, leaning back into your space, eyes slipping shut, seeking your mouth with his.

Before his lips can connect with yours, you draw back and instead brace both of your palms against his bare chest.

“Actually, you know what,” you say, watching with no small amount of amusement as his eyes pop open and he stares at you incredulously, “I really should go start getting ready for dinner. And so should you, Mr. Designated Driver.”

Frankie blinks back at you, deep brown eyes like a baby cow’s, all wide and disbelieving. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You slip off of his lap and adjust your bikini bottoms discretely below the surface of the water. “I don’t want us to make everybody late. We could miss our reservation.”

He stares at you for another second or two then seems to come to a decision. Reaching beneath the frothy water to tuck himself back into his trunks, he gets to his feet, suddenly all business. “Fine. We’ll finish in the shower,” he says matter-of-factly.

You’re halfway out of the hot tub by the time you process his words. Once you do, you turn back around, peeking at him coyly over the curve of your shoulder as you hover on the steps. “No way. I have to shave.”

Frankie’s dark, prominent brows disappear into the shadow of his Standard Oil cap, and the sheen in his eyes takes on a naughty glimmer as he smirks. “Shave? Shave what, muñequita?” He reaches for you, fingertips catching on the edge of your suit, dancing around the swell of your hip to seek your heat through the fabric. “Maybe I could help.”

Arching a single eyebrow, you hit him with a pointed stare. Your voice is firm, uncompromising as you reply, “No. I’ll let you know when the shower’s free.”

“You’re really going to leave me like this?” His incredulity returns, swift and shocked, and you are unable to stop yourself from glancing down at the thick, hard, unmistakable swell of his cock straining against the front of his trunks, visible just above the waterline now as he stands. The sight draws the corner of your lips into a smirk.

“It’s like you said, you’ve been holding out for a couple days already, right?” Flicking your gaze back up to meet his, you send him a teasing wink. “What’s a few more hours?”

The heat of Frankie’s stare as you step out of the hot tub is like a physical thing, scorching your skin with more ferocity than the sun had managed even after hours of exposure. You feel it tracing from the back of your neck, to the space between your shoulder blades, to the tie of your bikini top, to the plush of your ass, and down the length of your legs as you collect your towel from a nearby lounge chair. And it follows you even as you make your way across the patio and into the house.

You’re going to pay for leaving him unsatisfied.

You can’t wait.

Frankie is going insane.

He has to be, he’s sure of it. Either that, or he has fallen ill, come down with some manner of virus that makes his blood boil and his hands tremble and his brain pulse behind his eyes. All he knows for certain is that whatever ails him, it must have originated with you.

Taking you away had been a big step. Your first trip together was a relationship milestone, one that he had been eager to share. He has wanted so badly to get it right – to take care of you the way you deserve, to give you an experience you would remember, to show you off to all of his closest friends in a way that felt permanent, felt real. After all, this is the kind of thing people only do with a serious partner, someone they saw a real future with. And that is certainly how Frankie sees you.

But then you had rolled out of bed on the morning of the trip, looking all soft and warm and delicious, tugged on a pair of sandals and your favorite hoodie (which had once belonged to him, of course), and sat yourself in the front seat of his truck looking like a goddamn angel, and suddenly that anticipation morphed into torture.

Had you meant to tease him with the way you slowly shed your layers to get more comfortable throughout the course of the drive? Had you intended to draw his gaze away from the road and onto your soft, supple, perfect legs as you propped your feet up on the dashboard, skin gleaming in the summer sun, little manicured toes bouncing to the beat of the radio? Surely you must have been doing it on purpose. No one could be that tempting, that seductive and have no intention behind it.

From where Frankie had sat, white-knuckling the steering wheel with sweaty palms, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, throat dry and jeans tight and blood hot and rushing through his veins, it had felt as though you had designed the entire trip down to the Keys as an exercise in restraint. Then the two of you had arrived at the beach house, and just as he thought he might finally get a bit of relief, you had to go and exacerbate the issue by springing out of the truck cab, eagerly darting over his friends, and throwing your arms around every. single. one of them.

Even now, a full day later, the images remain burned into the backs of his retinas, refusing to grant him any reprieve. Ironhead’s thick arms crushing you to his chest, heavy hands molding to your spine. Benny snatching you out of his brother’s grasp and quite literally sweeping you off your feet to spin you around with a boyish laugh. Pope pressing his shadowed cheek to yours, dropping kisses to each one…

Even Yovanna, Pope’s girlfriend, who you had only met once before, hadn’t been able to resist your magnetism. In particular, the way she had toyed with your hair, commenting something or other about the color or the style, had made Frankie’s vision blur red at the edges.

There had been a moment when he thought he might finally be able to satiate this need, this hunger – in the hot tub, the two of you finally alone, finally in each other’s arms again after so many excruciating hours of teasing, tempting, inviting. But even that had been thwarted, and then you had gone so far as to deny him, and that…

Well. That was when Frankie had felt something within himself snap and fray, and now he is certain that he must have left his sanity behind in that steamy jacuzzi tub.

Dinner is torture. The soft scent of your hair catching in the breeze on the restaurant patio. The glisten of your wet, pink tongue darting out to lick away the salt from the rim of your drink. The teasing flash of your gaze each time you glanced his way or laughed at one of his jokes. The flutter of your delicate, flowy dress brushing against his legs as you tucked up close to him during dessert. He has been throbbing behind the oppressive zipper of his khakis all night.

When Pope suggests heading back to the beach house for a nightcap around the firepit, Frankie gets to his feet so quickly its dizzying. With any luck, he will be able to get away with only finishing a beer or two before he is able to make his escape with you.

If you happen notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tension of his hands, the twitching of his brow on the drive back to the rental house, you make no comment on it. To Frankie, it seems like you are lost in your own world as you bask in the balmy breeze floating through the open windows. You keep your eyes fixed on the ruddy sheen of the sunset throughout the short journey, a gentle smile softening the curve of your lips, and although he cannot deny how enchanting you look painted in streaks of rose and gold, the fury simmering just below the surface cannot help but thrum with resentment.

How are you so…calm? So unbothered by everything you have put him through over the last two days? How are you not ready to burst out of your skin at the slightest provocation?

Somehow, Frankie manages to navigate back to the beach house without incident, Will pulling up in his extended cab truck just behind his.

“I’m gonna go change into something more comfortable,” you say as you swing open the passenger door. “Would you mind grabbing me a Modelo when you go sit down? I’ll be there in just a minute.”

You don’t really even wait for his response before you slip out of the truck, the delicate skirt of your dress flouncing behind you as you go. A gust of wind picks up a waft of your perfume, and he has to press the heel of his hand over his mouth to smother a groan at the fragrance. Amber and musk, something deep and warm and ever-so-lightly spiced. Hints of sweetness offset by the salt of sweat, unavoidable in the Florida heat.

You smell like sex, and it makes him want to die.

When you finally arrive at the firepit, mere minutes later but an eternity to Frankie, you have swept your hair up on top of your head and traded your elegant dress for a pair of cotton shorts and a soft, open-knit sweater. The neckline of that sweater droops casually off of one shoulder and leaves miles of soft neck and collarbone on display, and he could swear that you glow in the flicker of the firelight. You take the open bottle of Modelo from his hand wordlessly, offering him only a grateful smile in return, but still, your fingers brush against his, and even that meaningless touch is enough when he is on a hair trigger like this. Goosebumps break out along his arm, and he suppresses a full-body shiver.

Frankie goes somewhere else as you settle in beside him, your well-cushioned patio chair angled toward his, the sound of your laughter melding and harmonizing with Yovanna’s, Pope’s, Benny’s. This was everything he had wanted when he invited you to come along – his friends adore you and you them. You fit so seamlessly into his life, like a puzzle piece that he hadn’t realized had been missing, and it’s never been more apparent than it has over the last two days that you are exactly what he has been needing. He hopes you feel the same, hopes you feel this ease and this sense of rightness that vibrates all the way down to the marrow of his bones. But even as his heart clenches behind his ribs at the perfection of his moment, the gentle softness and the love he feels for you do nothing to drown out the soul-deep hunger that he swears is going to eat him alive.

If anything, the tender sentiments only make his appetite sharper.

Frankie is going insane, and with every hour that passes, he becomes more and more convinced that the only cure is your skin under his tongue.

“All good over there, Catfish?”

It’s Ironhead’s voice that finally pulls Frankie out of his own mind, and with a subtle blink, he realizes that he somehow has nothing but a single swallow left in the beer bottle clutched in his hand. As for you, you have long since finished yours; the Modelo bottle sits abandoned on the concrete surface of the patio at your feet, bone-dry.

Thank fuck.

“Actually,” he replies, “think it’s about time I turned in.”

He gets to his feet amid a chorus of protests, ribbing from his Delta Force brothers and a playful whine from Yovanna, but he pays them no mind. Instead, he tosses his bottle and yours into the nearest trash can, dusts of his palms against his pant legs, and then holds out a hand to you.

“Hermosa?”

He can tell that at first, you think he’s joking with you, that he isn’t serious about taking the both of you to bed so uncharacteristically early. It’s dark outside now but only barely, the summer sunset long and late, and Frankie watches as your gaze darts from his hand to his eyes then to his friends, all of whom are staring at the two of you with bemused smiles. Once it becomes clear that he is, indeed, waiting for you to take his hand, your lashes flutter demurely, and you let out a breathy chuckle.

“Ooookay,” you sigh, slipping your hand into his and allowing Frankie to pull you to your feet. “Guess I’m going, too. Night, guys.”

Just outside of his field of vision, Yovanna snickers. Her tone is warm and knowing as she says, “Sleep well.”

He doesn’t allow the two of you to stick around long enough to hear any of the guys’ comments. Instead, fingers wrapped tightly around yours, the pilot tugs you along behind him as he retreats to the beach house and your shared bedroom within.

So focused is he on his destination that he makes it about as far as the stairwell before the sounds of your laughter and your protests finally reach his ears.

“Frankie. Frankie!” Your exclamations come in short bursts, breathless and happy and deeply incredulous, like you cannot believe what is happening and yet cannot bring yourself to do anything to stop it. “Slow down! What’s gotten into you?”

He pauses on the stairway landing and turns to face you, meeting your gaze in the dim lighting, hitting you a hard stare. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?” he snaps, short-tempered, nostrils flaring with the heaving breaths surging through his lungs.

A look of realization descends over your features, and Frankie watches as the laughter leaves your eyes, as your mouth takes on a twist of contrition even as you draw your lower lip between your teeth. “I guess not.” Your voice is quiet, tinged with remorse even though he thinks he sees a faint glimmer of satisfaction lingering in the dimples of your cheeks.

The soft, full pillow of your lip shines in the low light, and before he can think better of it, he closes the scant distance between you and takes hold of your jaw, firm but not unkind. Pulling that lip loose from where you have bitten it, he watches with dark intensity as it springs free – plump, lush, ripe for tasting with his tongue. Instead, he swallows thickly and asks, “You know what’s about to happen?”

Within his grip, you nod. “Yes, Frankie.” You’re all sweetness now, syrupy and pliant under his touch, and the shift in your demeanor seeps into his pores like a balm, like a drug, hot and heady and soothing.

“You know why?” His voice is low and rasping now, intimidating even to his own ears, but you do not flinch away from it. Instead, you receive it with a blown-pupil gaze and a subtle nod.

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Good girl,” he groans, and he drops a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now, get upstairs.”

You take the remaining stairs two at a time, Frankie close on your heels as you dart down the narrow hallway to your shared bedroom. He doesn’t touch you, but you feel his presence just the same – impossibly broad and looming, the heat of his skin, his need emanating off of his body like a mirage on asphalt in the middle of summer. A part of you wishes that you could pause this moment just so you could bask in that warmth, luxuriate in it like a cat in a beam of sunlight, but the heavy, swollen ache between your thighs has become too great for you to ignore. You’ve been gathering wetness in your panties for hours now; the thrill of knowing precisely what you had done – were doing – to your boyfriend was simply too delicious.

Because you knew what all of your teasing would get you in the end. You knew what delectable torture you had been incurring for yourself all evening, since he had first drug your hand across his bulge beneath the obscuring surface of the hot tub. You had been counting on it.

For all his steadiness, all his softness, all his introversion, there is something deep inside of Frankie that burns. Something a bit angry, something a bit vengeful. You haven’t had the opportunity to see it often, but on the few rare instances where something managed to provoke the beast within him to the surface, it had been…enthralling. It spoke to a primal part of your own psyche that had rarely been acknowledged, and god, now that you had tasted what it could be like with him – when you drove him to that place, when you pushed him just the barest measure over the edge – you couldn’t seem to stop craving it.

You know precisely what you are in for tonight, and the mere thought of it has you soaking your shorts before he can even slam the bedroom door shut behind you.

The lock sliding into place is barely audible over the sound of your own thundering pulse, your own panting breath, but it hardly matters. You won’t be disturbed here; Frankie won’t allow it. Giving no thought to the presence of your friends, still just outside on the patio, you melt the moment his hands touch your skin.

His mouth is on yours in an instant, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your face as the other slinks around your waist, to your hip, to the swell of your ass. He grips you tightly there, tongue hot and slick and begging for entrance as he hauls your hips up against his own, and fuck, you can feel him already – even through his khakis, even though you’ve hardly touched him. Hard. Warm. Unbearably thick. You swear you can feel him pulse at the friction, at the drag of your body against his, and the sensation pulls a faint whimper from your throat.

His tongue tastes like beer as his hands attack your clothes, stripping your sweater and your well-worn cotton bralette over your head in a single swipe. Groans of satisfaction reverberating through his mouth into yours, he goes for your shorts next, and you nearly trip over the bundle of fabric as he bears you back toward the bed. The last remaining scrap of fabric on your body as you collapse onto the crisp, white sheets is the pink lace thong you wore to dinner, flimsy in the best of circumstances but now visibly sheered through by the drip of your arousal.

“Frankie,” you gasp breathlessly, your head spinning as you fumble with the deep brown leather of his belt, the only bit of him you can reach as you lay on the mattress. Thankfully, he seems to understand exactly what you want in spite of your inarticulate protests. Brushing your trembling hands aside effortlessly, Frankie unbuckles his belt with quick, economic movements. He leaves it threaded through his belt loops, instead shucking his belt, his pants, and his charcoal gray boxer briefs all in one clean jerk.

A low, eager sound escapes you as you watch his cock spring forward, deep red and glistening with precum, the tip of him brushing just along the hem of his button-down shirt and leaving a streak of dampness in its wake. You watch as a shiver trips down his spine at the sensation, and then he is lifting one hand to the back of his shirt collar and ripping the offending thing off over his head in a single swoop.

Goddamn it, he is so beautiful. Wide, sturdy shoulders, long limbs, strong arms and thick thighs and a soft give to his belly that never fails to make you blush. Tanned skin made even deeper by a day in the sun, with delightful freckles sprayed across his chest and a dusting of dark hair leading down from his bellybutton to his groin. His cock stands at attention, familiar and yet perfect – thick, curved, temptingly heavy. You imagine that you can feel the stretch of him just by looking at him, the way he will fill you so completely, the way he will press so perfectly against all of the places that long for the weight and the drag of him. Your deepest muscles clench at the thought, and without any further consideration, you reach for him, all soft palms and open lips.

However, just as you are about to wrap your fingers around his length, he steps back and meets your doe-eyed gaze with one that is almost scolding.

“You think I’m gonna give you my cock that easily?” he growls, a dark, prominent brow arched. “Uh uh. You’re gonna have to earn it, nena.”

Frankie drops to his knees, the thud of it muffled slightly by the pale blue area rug that decorates your bedroom floor, and then his hands come up to wrap around your ankles, just as they had in the tub earlier that evening. With a swift yank, he drags you across the surface of the bed, hooks the soft bend of your knees over his shoulders, and buries his face in your cunt.

“Oh, fuck me,” you whine, hands flying to the back of Frankie’s head, fingers threading through his loose, dark brown curls, so rarely available to your touch without the scratch of his well-loved ballcap. Your nails trail along his scalp, and he practically purrs at the sensation, the vibration traveling through his lips and tongue into your tender wetness in a way that has you squirming.

That purr turns into a muffled chuckle as he processes your exclamation, and he pulls just far enough away from you to quip, “That’s the plan.”

He’s back at it again in no time, though, his fingers spreading your lips apart so his tongue can access every inch of you. He is thorough, soft and wet and perfectly firm in his exploration, and like he has since the very first night you ever spent together, he knows precisely how to take you apart. No partner has ever eaten you the way Frankie does – with such single-minded focus, with such eagerness to please, as though he got just as much enjoyment out of tasting you as he did fucking you. Frankie sinks into the act like he wants to get lost in it, to get lost in you, and the thrust of his tongue and the drag of his hard, hooked nose against your clit is enough to make you want to let him.

“Goddamn,” he groans, his lips still pressed to your folds, his warm breath dancing across your wetness and drawing a shiver across your nerves. He sounds like he’s in pain, and when you glance down at him, you can see his brows drawn tight, his eyes squeezed shut as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Best thing I ever tasted. Pussy’s so fucking sweet.”

His words have you throbbing, and you feel those same muscles deep inside you tremble and clench, begging for more. “Frankie, please don’t stop,” you whimper, hips writhing in his grasp, thrusting, seeking more of his tongue. “I need – ah! Please!”

The low rumble of a chuckle buzzes through your nerve endings, skating across your clit like a livewire. “Sé lo que necesitas, hermosa.” Dancing the very tip of his tongue around your quivering entrance, he teases as though about to thrust it deep inside you where you need him most. You arch up into him on instinct as your fingers clutch onto his hair, and though you’re certain you’re hurting his scalp by now, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“She needs something inside, doesn’t she?” Frankie murmurs. His nose traces across your swollen bundle of nerves as he speaks. “Something to bear down on when she comes. Isn’t that right?”

Delirious, you’re nodding before he can even finish the question.

“Ask nicely, baby.” Soft, wet lips seal gently around your aching clit, and he suckles at you so gently that your back bows up off the surface of the bed. “Ask me to stretch this tight little pussy out with my fingers.”

A wave of heat rises up the back of your neck at his words, the sound of his voice, gritty and raw and yet gentle, patient, as if he suddenly has all the time in the world now that he has the taste of you on his lips. With weak and wobbly arms, you bring yourself up onto your elbows and risk a glance down at him. A pair of deep brown eyes meets yours from between your spread thighs, and you feel your mouth drop open involuntarily as you take in the curl of his disheveled hair, the shine of his lips and chin, the way the tip of his nose disappears into your damp curls as though scenting a bouquet of flowers. He looks drunk, loose and fuzzy but somehow determined, and the sight is enough to have you nodding once more.

“Please, Frankie,” you beg. “Please give me your fingers. Let me come on them. I need it so bad, please.”

Between your legs, your boyfriend smiles with deep satisfaction. “Why didn’t you say so?” he taunts, and before your hackles even have the chance to raise, his middle and ring fingers sink all the way into you, all at once, and your protest dies on the back of a moan.

“Thaaaaat’s my girl.” The pads of his fingers press deep inside you, seeking that soft, spongy spot he knows so well, the one he found so quickly the first time you were together, it stole the breath from your lungs. You melt beneath his touch, his other arm coming up to brace across the span of your hips as he holds you in place. You’ve started to buck against him, but you get nowhere with that band across your belly. “Let me feel you come for me, and then I’ll give you my cock. How’s that sound, huh? That what you’ve been after this whole time?”

“F-Frankie – ” You can hardly speak, can hardly think, the press and the thrust and the stretch of his fingers driving you so quickly toward the edge that you can’t seem to string any more words together besides his name.

And then his tongue descends on your clit, and even his name is too much for your frayed mind to hang onto. It doesn’t take long after that.

When you fall, it’s with a long, whimpering shout. Your belly floods with heat as the coil that has been winding tighter and tighter within you suddenly springs free, and you swear you are launched out of your body and into the stratosphere as your cunt throbs and clenches around his fingers, as your clit pulses beneath his tongue. Your whole body shakes with the force of it, your hands pressing down on the back of his head to keep him in place as you ride out your high, then to quickly push him away the moment it becomes too much for your tender nerve endings to bear. Sweat breaks out along the insides of your thighs, the backs of your knees, the base of your spine, and while you are still too weak to protest it, you feel him dragging his tongue along your skin to collect the salt of you on his tastebuds.

“Fuck,” you sigh, joints loosening, muscles melting into the bed. “God, Frankie, that was – ”

But you do not get to finish your sentence, for one moment you are basking in the afterglow of a spine-melting orgasm, and the next, Frankie is surging to his feet, taking hold of your hips, and flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Scoot up the bed, muñequita,”he commands. “Hands and knees.”

You’re so tight like this, Frankie swears it’s going to make him go cross-eyed one of these days.

Hotter than that damned jacuzzi out on the patio, absolutely melting around the length of him, your wetness has gone thick and creamy with your pleasure. It’s sticky and lewd and so fucking sexy he could die as he watches it gather at the base of his cock, watches it slick the dark, dense hair there with every thrust. He’s got one hand open wide, splayed across your lower back, the other molded against your spine as you arch deeply into him. Your arms gave out beneath you after less than a minute of this, and now they fold beneath your head like a cushion as you present yourself to him.

The way you bend, ass high in the air, knees spread enough for him to kneel between… The swell of your hips, the small of your waist, the miles of soft, irresistible skin all on display, all just for him… It’s like art, like poetry. He is hypnotized by the way you meet him there, elegant and smooth, like it’s easy, the most natural think in the world. He’s captivated by the soft, generous ripple of your ass cheeks every time he sinks into you. He could watch the way your pussy spreads for him, the way your body gives way to him for an eternity, and he would never tire of it.

If you weren’t choking the life out of him with that pussy, that was.

“Ah! Ah! Frankie – ”

You’re getting loud now, forehead pressed to your forearms, hair disheveled and sticking to your sweating face as it springs from your ponytail. The sound of your pleasure takes root at the base of his spine, searing his nerves, tightening his stomach. You’re so delicious like this – hanging on by a thread, utterly wrecked, all for him, because of him. It makes that fierce, possessive part of him preen to know that he can do this to you, that he can reduce you this.

Rolling eyes. Open mouth. Dripping cunt.

But as much as he would like to continue pulling every whimper and cry from your lungs, he can’t pretend that he didn’t hear the patio door opening right as he flipped you onto your stomach. He can’t pretend that the sound of Ironhead and Pope rooting around the refrigerator for more drinks or the sound of Yovanna and Benny’s laughter hasn’t reached his ears.

For the briefest moment, he considers ignoring it. He considers allowing you to continue to plead and moan and curse regardless of his friends’ presence in the house. If he keeps going like this, they will surely hear you eventually – if they haven’t already – and Frankie would be lying if he said there wasn’t a certain appeal to that. Then everyone would know how hot you sound, how well you take him, how perfectly he gives it to you. The idea sends a molten shiver across his nerve endings, has hot coals settling in the pit of his stomach.

But no. This is for him. The clap of your ass, the pitch of your whines, it’s all his. No one else gets to experience you like this. He’s so greedy when it comes to you. He’s not ready to share.

So instead of speeding up, of tugging your hips harder, faster into his, he pulls out and bears you down onto the mattress. You whine at the loss of him, one of your hands flying back to grip onto his hip. Nails digging into his flesh, you pull ineffectually, trying to coax his cock back into the clutch of your body, but he ignores your pleas. With soft, gentle shushes, he widens the spread of your legs and settles into the plush cradle of your ass.

Slipping the head of his cock down between your lips, seeking the heat and the wetness of you once again, Frankie braces himself over you and drops a kiss to your shoulder blade.

“Can’t have you making all that noise, nena,” he murmurs against your skin, tongue darting out to taste the sheen of sweat coating your back. “Everybody will hear.”

Beneath him, he feels you shiver, your muscles trembling as you tilt your face to the side. Your hair obscures your eyes, but he can still catch a glimpse of your puffy, open lips. You’re panting, breathless, but you nod your acknowledgment all the same.

“Think you can be nice and quiet for me?” he asks. His hips tuck down and then up, dragging his swollen tip across your entrance, a torturous tease for both of you after he had just been so deep inside you. “Think you can hide all your pretty noises in the mattress?”

Weakly, you nod again. “Mm hm.” You’re so quiet now, your voice high and quavering. Completely fucked out.

Frankie feels a grin, salacious and slow, pull at the corners of his mouth. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he drops his hand down between your legs to guide his cock back where it belongs.

He pushes until he bottoms out – one smooth, slow thrust until he reaches the root of you – and then you’re letting out a gasping moan, and Frankie hears the distant commotion from the floor below pause, suddenly silent.

So he does the only thing he can do given the circumstances. He threads his fingers into your tangled hair and turns your head himself, forcing your face into the cushion of the mattress.

He might as well have poured liquid fire down your spine. Beneath him, you melt, all of your muscles loose and pliant in your surrender as you release a series of muffled whimpers and curses into bed. You tilt your hips up as much as you can, pinned down as you are, and the deepened angle has Frankie growling into the back of your neck. It’s so much – almost too much. He can feel your pussy fluttering around him, drawing him deeper, sucking him in.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your ear, soft and low, his hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles go pale. “Feel so good – like she’s trying to milk me dry.”

Plastering himself against your back, he revels in the heat of your body, in the slick slide of your skin against his as he pounds into you. He can feel you panting, your lungs struggling to expand beneath the weight of him, beneath the force of his thrusts, but you take it all, never once asking him to stop, never once attempting to throw him off. He babbles about just that into the bend of your neck, his head spinning as he growls a whispered take it, take it, take it, as he drags his teeth across the tendons there, as he presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades.

All you can do is sigh and moan into the mattress, the sounds coming out weak and thready, near-silent as you bury your face deeper into the padding.

When you start to squirm beneath him, when the walls of your pussy begin to tighten down around him, he lets out a huff of a laugh. His hot breath stirs the hairs clinging to your sweaty neck as he taunts, “You getting close, huh? Gonna come for me, muñequita?”

You attempt a nod, forehead scrubbing against the sheets, and as quickly as he can manage, Frankie shoves one of his hands between your hips and the mattress. His fingers quickly find the apex of your thighs, a sticky wet patch evident there on the bed against the back of his hand, but he pays that no mind. Instead, the tips of his fingers dip down to seek your slick, swollen clit, and he circles you there, fast and focused.

A squeal forces its way out of your throat, deadened by the softness of the mattress, and for the first time, you buck your hips as though to fight off his touch. But Frankie simply digs in harder, driving you into the bed with his full body weight and every ounce of army-honed strength.

And that’s all it takes. One more swipe of his fingers over your clit, one more devastatingly deep thrust of his cock, and you’re gone. Utterly silent, too overcome to make any noise now, you shudder and shake and writhe beneath the press of his body, a fresh wave of wetness dripping down the length of him as your cunt squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, a rhythm that has become so familiar to him over the last few months, it’s almost comforting.

But still, just as it always does, it pulls him right to the edge of his own pleasure, and just as you’re beginning to soften and soothe, the tight coil of heat at the base of Frankie’s spine springs loose, and over the edge he falls. Hips losing their rhythm, fingers gripping your hip, your shoulder, your hair, he spills himself within the hot clutch of your body with a smothered grunt.

After, you are both utterly spent.

Boneless, sweating, and trembling, Frankie collapses onto your back at first, then eventually works up the strength to roll off of you. You remain on your stomach, feeling like a pile of gelatine as you breathe shakily into the mattress. Between your legs, your slick mixes with his cum, dripping from your body onto the sheets, and you make a mental note to check the hallway closet for extra linens. You have a feeling now that the tension between the two of you has broken, this won’t be the only set of sheets you and Frankie ruin on this trip.

Downstairs, the night continues on as you would expect from this group – someone is digging around in the fridge again, and someone else has hooked their phone up a Bluetooth speaker, the distinct rhythm of reggaeton drifting up the stairwell telling you it’s either Yovanna or Santiago. The sound of laugher accompanies it all, and you find yourself grinning. If any of them are aware of the debauchery that just happened one floor above them, they make no indication of it. Instead, you hear the clack of pool balls and cues, and you know that you have at least an hour or two before any of them start filtering upstairs for bed.

Turning onto your side, you take in Frankie’s silhouette – long, loose, and completely at ease, head sunken into the downy pillows, arms thrown up toward the headboard. His dark eyes are closed, but you can tell by the cadence of his chest rising and falling with each breath that he is still awake, just basking, luxuriating. Like you. Your gaze traces the outline of his profile, his unruly curls, prominent brow, hooked nose, strong jaw. His scruffy cheeks are flushed, and sweat cools on his hairline. He’s so fucking pretty, you could die.

Brushing your hair out of your eyes and folding your arms beneath your head, you offer him a soft smile and murmur, “Feel better?”

“Depends.” Frankie grins, eyes still closed. “You gonna keep wearing that fucking bikini?”

You snort a laugh and shake your head fondly. “Oh, Francisco. I brought a whole suitcase full of them.”

Tagging a few friends who expressed an interest:

@half-moon16 @sunshinehaze1 @peepawispunk @80ssong

#PPCUSmutChallenge #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #ppcu #ppcu fandom #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu fics #ppcu smut

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luxurychristmaspudding · 1 year ago

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On Call | Masterlist

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: there are many things frankie morales used to laugh at in romcoms. falling in love with the girl next door, the babysitter, your best friend. and then he met you.

pairing: neighbour!frankie x f!babysitter!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. dual pov. best buds to lovers, idiots in love, reader is good with kids. a little canon divergent. reader and frankie are both bi and have same sex exes. mentions of experiencing biphobia and heartbreak. talk of dead/absent parents. frankie fixin' stuff, competency kink, makin' a man some lunch (in a neighbourly way). mutual pining, f&m masturbation, drinking and smoking. tooth rotting fluff and then eventual devious post-bedtime activity (smut).

reader is a teacher and has hair, but she is otherwise a blank slate :)

an: howdy, y'all. in an effort to write something like a normal length fic, i've split this one shot in three lol. excited for you to meet these guys <3

pt i - arizona

pt ii - on call

pt iii - mi amigo

pt iv - you and i

epilogue - birthday

extras

weightless

super graphic ultra modern girl

the immortals

frankie and bug’s whisky night playlist

frankie grey sweats drabble

read on ao3

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic

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gothcsz · 3 months ago

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First Sight | Frankie Morales x F!Reader | ~3.5k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Two strangers discover they’ve been swapping movies through a communal space, each leaving a note in return until curiosity forces a meeting.

Tags: meet cute kinda i think, drug use (smoking weed), the movie swap box is definitely inspired by little free library, pwp, smut, lust at first sight vibes, thigh fucking!, spanking, unprotected p in v, face riding, lil bit of dirty talk, pull out method strikes again, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: helloooo this is my submission for @jolapeno's dear-uary challenge (i know i'm late pls...) so thank you jo for hosting! such a fun idea! 🖤 okay so i'm not usually a meet cute person but i wanted to challenge myself by writing it, which is why this took me forever to finish! i'm still a little iffy about the results and frankie's characterization—but fuck it, we ball! gotta start somewhere! shoutout to @mandaloriankait for reading over this as well when it was still in its early stages lmfao ummm i hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you think! 🖤

Francisco stands at the edge of his uncle’s property, staring at the house he now owns. The old man had lived like a ghost in his final years—ex-military (like himself), a recluse, barely seen except for maybe an occasional grocery run.

Now that he’s passed, the place is Frankie’s problem.

He planned to sell it, take the cash, and move on. But after really assessing it, taking in the sturdy bones of its structure, covered in grime and dust but still holding strong, he changed his mind. Maybe fixing it up would be good for him.

Lord fuckin’ knows he needs something to get his mind right after all the shit he’s been through.

So that’s what he devotes his time to. He takes many trips to the local hardware store, flips through home improvement magazines to find tricks to make the process easier. On occasion, one of the guys will drop by to lend a hand, but for the most part it’s just been him.

It also helps that the neighborhood is quiet, houses spaced out just enough to offer privacy but close enough that it isn’t completely isolated. A large pond stretches out, shared by the community, and it’s the kind of place that could feel like home, if he lets it.

Needing a break from the endless cleaning and repairs, he decides to go for a walk. The nicotine-laced weed dulls the edge of old cravings, a quiet battle he fights every day, choosing this over the harsher habits he’s trying to kick.

He wanders without aim, hands tucked in his pockets, the low hum of insects filling the gaps in silence. Something catches his eye as he approaches the end of the street—a small structure, half-concealed beneath the spill of a streetlamp.

Curious, he ambles closer. The old newspaper stand has been given new life, converted into a makeshift movie and book swap. Inside, a careful arrangement of DVDs and dog-eared paperbacks wait to be discovered. His fingers trace over the spines, skimming titles until he stops on one—Blade Runner.

As he pulls it out, a green post-it note, scrawled in neat, looping handwriting, flutters to the ground.

Always a bittersweet watch (I cried this last time) but it’s a comfort movie of mine. Also helps that Harrison Ford is a hunk!

His brows raise in amusement, as if weighing the personality behind the words. He pockets the note and takes the movie home.

Later that night, he’s sprawled on his couch, half-buried in old blankets, takeout on the coffee table as the film plays. He watches as Deckard moves through the neon-drenched streets, the melancholic score settling into his bones.

He doesn’t cry, obviously, but he does walk away from this viewing with something different than when he had watched it back on base years ago with the rest of the other lost twenty something year olds in his cohort.

By morning, he’s still thinking about the movie and the note along with it. On impulse, he plucks one of the carpenter pencils from his toolbelt, tapping it against the counter before messily scrawling his reply on the corner of a random sheet of his notepad.

The movie/book trade idea had been something you created back in high school—before the cynicism of adulthood had shattered your rose colored glasses.

Now, after financial setbacks had dragged you back to your childhood home, bringing it back felt like the kind of mindless distraction you needed. Something to keep your hands busy (even if temporarily) when your brain wouldn’t shut up about how shitty things have been lately.

Most people just stream whatever they want now, so this is pretty useless, but you don’t get hung up on that.

There is something nice about the physicality of it. Of leaving something you enjoy behind for a stranger to find and potentially be into as well. So, you revamped the idea and set it up in a spot where it wouldn’t be totally ignored, hoping maybe someone out there would get as much out of it as you used to.

You check in on it one afternoon, expecting to see everything exactly where you left it. Instead, you find empty spaces where movies had been. A book was gone too.

Your heart skips, just a little. For the first time in a while, something doesn’t feel like a total waste of time.

You spot a note haphazardly taped to the cover of the Blade Runner DVD case.

Didn’t cry, but I respect the existential crisis. Also think I agree with the Harrison Ford statement.

A grin pulls at your lips, eyeing the messy handwriting. Someone was actually playing along.

Over the next few days, the exchanges continue. Each time the stranger returns a movie, they leave a note and a film of their own. It is exhilarating for no reason, getting to know someone in this way.

Disagree with your take, bad movie all around, but I see where you’re coming from.

At least you aren’t an asshole about it like everyone else…

…Didn’t expect to be into period dramas, but this hit different. You have decent taste.

I do have decent taste, thanks for noticing!

It became an obsession—checking the box first thing in the morning, wondering what he’d taken next, what he’d written.

Who was he? What did he look like? Most of the neighborhood was made up of older residents, so the idea of someone more your age participating in this felt strangely intimate, almost like a secret conversation no one else knew about.

You never ask for a name or anything, neither does he. It’s more fun this way. The animosity of it, but still, you can’t help but wonder what he is really like. Was it possible to crush on someone like this? Were you actually down this bad?

You finally meet him one night.

Movie in hand, he stands beneath the golden hue of the streetlight. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips that look almost too pretty for someone as rugged as him, framed by a patchy beard. His worn t-shirt clings to his broad chest and toned arms, the fabric stretched just right, hinting at the solid muscle beneath.

His cap sits low, his dark curls peeking out along the edges.

Your gaze drags over him, drinking him in. His eyes meet yours and the lust you feel in that moment threatens to disorient you.

“Hello,” his raspy voice breaks the silence first, also shameless in the way he checks you out.

“Hey.”

For a moment, neither of you move as the tension simmers, absentmindedly taking a step towards each other.

He shifts, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “You the one leaving those notes?”

“Depends,” you tease, tilting your head. “You the one writing back?”

His grin widens just slightly, a lopsided thing that sends the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. “Guilty.”

You cross your arms, attempting to play it cool. “I was starting to think I was talking to old man Paul or something.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle at the fact that you’ve named his now dead uncle. “Close enough. I’m his nephew, Francisco—call me Frankie.” He extends his hand to shake yours and you feel yourself getting hot all over from the simple, normal fucking interaction, giving him your name in return.

His hands are so big.

“Nephew? I didn’t know he had family.”

“Not really a family man. He passed away a few weeks ago and I was the lucky one he left his house to.”

You’re about to express your condolences, but it’s like he can feel it coming before the words even form on your lips. “Don’t—it’s fine. I hate that pity shit.”

You laugh, a little nervously, though his brown eyes seem to settle your nerves.

“Well, Frankie,” you say his name, as if testing it out, familiarizing your mouth with it. “Thanks for playing along with this,” you motion vaguely to the swap box.

“I like it. Keeps me entertained while I fix up the place...” He exhales, glancing at the smaller structure before looking back at you. “It’s weird, though. Feels like I already know you.”

You nod, feeling the same. It should be strange, standing here at night flirting with a man you really don’t know… but it isn’t.

He lifts the DVD in his hand. Heat—classic crime thriller. “I was gonna watch this tonight.”

The invitation hovers, your tongue flicking over your lips in anticipation.

“You in?”

A smarter version of you might have hesitated. Might have thought about the risks, the potential awkwardness. But standing here with Frankie watching you like he already knows what your answer is, hesitation isn’t an option.

You grin. “Sure, why not.”

Things escalate fast.

You’re sitting on the couch, the low hum of the movie playing in the background, the two of you exchanging quiet comments between drags of the joint he so effortlessly rolled.

The space between you shrinks. His fingers graze your thigh, intentional but unhurried.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. But your bodies are pressed together, mouths hungry, hands wandering. His cap gets flicked off, curls spilling into your fingers as you tug him closer, inhaling the scent of smoke and tasting the candy he’d been snacking on.

The movie is forgotten. The joint smolders in the ashtray. You straddle his lap, rolling your hips down, and he groans against your mouth, gripping your waist.

Somewhere between deep drags of each other’s kisses and the slow, filthy grind of your pussy against bulge, he requests, “Let me taste you...” Biting at your lower lip, kneading your ass.

You’re not about to object to a man willingly wanting to go down on you. Nodding, you both quickly undress each other, your want for him only increasing with each layer that gets shed.

Now you’re here. Your thighs bracket his jaw, the arm of the couch supporting you as you sink down into the urgent heat of his mouth. The first slow, wet drag of his tongue at your slit makes you moan pathetically.

His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down like he wants this—like he needs this.

The scratch of his scruff against your sensitive skin makes it all the better. He’s not gentle—he’s messy, hungry, eating you out like it’s all he’s been thinking about since laying his eyes on you. His tongue flicks, circles, then flattens as he drags it up through your slick folds, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking just right.

Your head tips back, a broken cry slipping out.

“God, you’re so good at this,” you gasp, rolling your hips against his talented mouth.

Frankie groans in response, the vibration of it sending sparks up your spine. His nose presses right where you need it, and you swear you see stars when he starts moving his head with you, matching your rhythm, letting you ride his face.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, tugging hard. He grunts as one of his hands slides lower, wrapping around his leaking cock. He strokes himself in time with his tongue working you over, his other hand gripping your ass, spreading you wider to get a better taste of all of you.

You don’t even realize how desperate you sound, whimpering… pleading. Your grinding then shifts as his tongue goes taut and you start bouncing softly against his jaw, your hips swiveling in ways you didn’t even know you could move, your body instinctively chasing after his mouth.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets more into it as you do, his tongue fucking into you before moving back to your clit, his swollen lips working magic, sucking, teasing, wrecking you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Your words melt into a strangled whine as your orgasm crashes into you, your whole body shaking while you come apart on his tongue. Frankie doesn’t stop—he eats you through it, his grip on your hips tightening as you ride out every last wave of your orgasm.

Then—smack.

Your eyes fly open as his palm connects with your ass, the sting mixing with the aftershocks in the best way possible. He does it again, harder this time, a smirk tugging at his lips when you jolt.

The sting of each spank feels so fucking good that you start sobbing, damn near pulling the hair out of his scalp when he harshly sucks on your clit.

He’s been holding himself back from finishing in his fist, but suffocating between your thighs while hearing your pretty noises nearly undoes him.

Continuing to stave off his own release, he grips the girthy base of cock tightly. He needs more. Needs to feel the walls of your pussy squelching around him, pulling him in deeper.

And from the way you’re looking down at him, mouth parted, eyes shining with satisfaction, he knows you need the same damn thing.

He maneuvers out from under you quickly and efficiently, his dexterous training being put to use, pushing your upper half flat into the old couch while your hips remain in the air, thighs pressed together.

Francisco slides the fat tip of his cock through the swollen lips of your pussy, getting himself wet, groaning deep in his chest before pressing his heated dick at your silky thighs, the lubrication of your juices making it easy for him to slip between them, the pressure against his cock having him curse beneath his breath.

“So fuckin’ soft.”

His left hand crosses at your lower back to grab at your right hip while the other lands a harsh smack to your ass. You whimper, but the sound is muffled from how your face is buried into the cushions.

He soothes over the sting with his palm before gripping tight again, using the leverage to thrust between your thighs, the thick weight of his cock teasing you with every stroke, your clit puffy and dripping, needing to feel him inside you.

“Put in, Frankie, please,” you whimper, the squeeze at your thighs causing your cunt to clench around nothing, pushing more of your slick out, pussy drooling for him.

He grunts, pressing a firm hand to your lower back, arching you deeper, adjusting the angle. He spreads you enough to give himself room to line himself up.

“So eager for this dick,” he taunts, swirling the head of his cock at your clit before tapping it repeatedly, the evidence of your horniness clinging to him in a sticky web with every smack.

Frankie teases you by running it up the seam of your pussy, notching it at your fluttering and needy hole before pulling out and repeating the action, driving you crazy. “You always put out this fast?”

You grind back against him, pushing onto your elbows, voice breathy but flirty. “Could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t reply, a smug smile on his lips as he finally gives it to you, sinking into the wet cavern of your cunt, groaning out a Fuuuuuck as your pussy stretches around the intrusion of his cock.

You try to moan, to say something, but no sound comes out—just a desperate gasp, eyes falling shut, fingers clawing at the rough couch fabric as he fills you completely.

He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, savoring every squeeze, every tremble. His thrusts start slow, deep, rolling his hips just right, pulling out almost entirely before pressing back in, making you feel every thick inch.

“Fuck, you feel so goddamn good.”

The heat of his body blankets yours as he lowers himself, his weight pressing you deeper into the couch. His mouth is everywhere—kissing up your spine, nipping at your shoulder, his mustache scraping against your oversensitive skin. When he bites down you whine, your cunt clenching tight around him.

His thrusts speed up a notch, somehow getting deeper and harder—grinding into you just right, making your breath stutter.

“Yes—yes—right there,” you sob, turning your head to look at him… or well, try to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over with thick tears of euphoria, barely able to make anything out but you can feel him everywhere. His breath fanning against your face, a small amount of spit stuttering out as he grunts, burying himself over and over inside your tight, wet pussy.

Your nails dig into the old, tacky couch, trying to keep yourself somewhat grounded as he screws the thoughts right out of your brain.

It’s everything you’ve needed. Life has been fucking you over relentlessly as of late, it’s about damn time you finally get a pounding that’s actually worth it.

Frankie groans against your ear as he keeps up the brutal pace. “Pretty movie girl likes it deep, huh?” You could honestly get off by just the sound of his raspy voice. “Shit, never had it like this before, have you?”

You shake your head—not out of denial, but because fuck, he’s right. Nothing has ever felt this good.

His lips brush over your cheek and then he’s kissing you sloppily, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. You moan into his mouth as the pleasure at your pussy blooms again, your second orgasm creeping up fast under the weight of his praise, his cock hitting all the right spots, stretching you wide.

Frankie growls into the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch your face as he ruins you.

“Gonna make you come on my dick,” he mutters, gripping your chin, making sure you’re looking at him while he fucks into that one spot that devistates you. “And you’re gonna take every fuckin’ bit of it.”

And God—you will. You want to.

Because you already know this is the type of sex you’ll be feeling for days.

A few more relentless thrusts, and you’re done for. Your body shakes beneath him, muscles seizing, wails and sobs absorbed by the cushion your cheek is pressed into.

“Shhh just like that, doin’ so good—shit this pussy is amazing.”

Frankie holds you down, his weight keeping you exactly where he wants you. His grip shifts to the armrest, fingers curling tight, using the leverage to piston into you rougher. The couch jerks across the hardwood floor with each thrust, the force of it sending shockwaves up your spine.

The end credits song plays somewhere in the background, barely audible over the obscene sounds of your fucking.

His breathing gets ragged, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own high. He pulls out abruptly, chest heaving, and licks the tips of his fingers before spreading your pussy open, angling his cock right at your slick, swollen cunt.

Hot ropes of cum spill from his slit, milky and thick, painting your used flesh, dripping down onto the couch beneath you. The sight is filthy, so fucking erotic it makes his cock throb in his fist.

He groans at the mess, at the way his release pools against the cleft of your clit. He pushes inside again before either of you can think, his cum and yours mixing as he fucks into you, more fervently this time, dragging out the pleasure until his cock begins to soften.

You’re too spent to do anything but take it, too blissed out to care. All you know is that you want this again. Over and over and over...

“Damn,” Frankie chuckles, still breathless, his curls damp with sweat. His hands move lazily over your body, tracing the curve of your spine, your waist, your thighs, before he leans over to grab his discarded gray tee.

He doesn’t think twice before using it to clean you up, wiping between your legs with a casual ease.

You hum in response, floating somewhere between the high of the weed and the sex. You could crash right here, stretched out on his couch, and be perfectly content.

“You good?” The hot edge of lust has barely cooled when he’s touching you again, stroking his big, warm hand up and down your back.

You don’t nod, just manage a lazy, “Mhm… just need a second.”

He smirks and a wink is thrown in your direction before he stands, sliding his sweatpants on and fixing the couch to its original position before disappearing into the halfway renovated kitchen.

You stretch your limbs, pulling your clothes back on with no real rush. Your body is warm, loose. When Frankie returns, he hands you a glass of water, and you thank him softly, realizing how parched you are when you down the whole thing in one go.

“We didn’t finish the movie,” he muses, lounging back on the couch like he hadn’t just given you the best sex of your life.

“Bummer,” you tease, looking at him over your shoulder.

His gaze flickers from the screen to you, a glint in his dark eyes catching in the glow of the TV.

“You could stay the night,” he offers smoothly. “We could watch somethin’ else… maybe fuck some more too.”

His head tilts slightly, curls messy and inviting. The broad expanse of his naked chest gleams, rising and falling with steady, easy breaths. And then there’s the soft bulge in his sweats, evidence that he’s not nearly as spent as he looks.

Your mouth damn near waters.

You narrow your gaze at him, playful, challenging. Frankie mirrors the expression, watching, waiting…

You both move at the same time.

#jolapenosdearuary #frankie morales smut #frankie morales fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfic #kat's writing.

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flawssy-227 · 22 hours ago

Text

Truly obsessed with them. The way they've developed??? Top tier.

The boyfriend act, part 15: "The one with the cabin and the river" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The weekend arrives quietly at Will and Benny’s cabin. Good weather, beautiful views, and you and Frankie doing your best to stay under the radar. At least, you try. WC: 16k

A/N: Hii, just wanted to quickly clarify one thing. I noticed a few confused comments about a specific moment, so here’s a quick explanation: When Frankie asks reader, during an intimate scene, "Are you sure you want to do it?" what he’s asking is whether she’s sure she wants to do it without protection, NOT whether she’s on birth control. She is, and he has no doubts about that. I mean she's not lying, he trust her. He’s just asking out of respect, to make sure she’s really okay with doing it unprotected. Oh, and about pregnancy theories… I love them! Lol If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

You were curled up on the couch in the living room, legs tucked under yourself, half-listening to whatever the guys had been saying before their conversation drifted into silence. You weren’t reading or scrolling or even thinking all that hard. Mostly just sitting there, letting the quiet settle into your body like it belonged there.

Then Will stood up with that familiar restlessness of his and walked toward the front door.

“Fish, about time!” He said, already pulling it open. He didn’t wait. Just stepped outside like he knew exactly what would happen next.

You sat a little straighter, leaning just enough to see through the front window. Headlights still on, engine ticking quietly in the dark, Frankie was climbing out of the car. It was a few minutes past nine. The sky was ink black now. Only the porch light and a slice of moon above the trees gave shape to anything beyond the glass.

Santi had picked you up from the apartment a little after five-thirty, even though Frankie had offered to take you himself once you’d closed the bookstore. He’d said it casually, almost too casually, leaning against the doorframe with his keys dangling from one hand. But you’d told him no. Not unkindly. You had already arranged everything with your brother, and more than anything, you didn’t feel like being interrogated by Santi later.

So you’d stuck to the plan. You got to the cabin around six-thirty, maybe a little earlier. The sun had still been visible then, hanging low and golden over the trees as Will met you outside, launched straight into a guided tour like it was your first time at summer camp.

Which, in a way, it was. Everyone else had been here before—plenty of times. You were the only new element in a place so soaked in familiarity.

The cabin was charming, in that nostalgic, heavy-with-memory kind of way. It had belonged to their parents. You could tell by how solid everything felt, like the furniture had grown into the floorboards. Three bedrooms—two doubles and one with three twin beds pushed against the walls. Will said their cousins used to come during the summer holidays, that the house would be full of voices and towels and sunscreen. That was decades ago. But the sheets were clean, the air smelled faintly of cedar and something citrusy Benny must’ve used to mop the floors. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt cared for.

Frankie, though, hadn’t shown up when he said he would. He’d mentioned something vague about stopping by the grocery store on the way, picking up a few things. That was around six. Then nothing. Just the waiting.

Will came back in first, a gust of cold air following him.

“You hungry?” he asked, glancing back toward the open door. “We ate a little while ago.”

“I’m good,” Frankie’s voice replied, a little rough around the edges. He stepped into the room with a backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes found yours for no more than a heartbeat—two seconds, maybe three—but it was enough. You looked away, down at your phone, even though there was nothing new on the screen. Your thumb hovered like you might scroll, but you didn’t.

Then Benny’s voice carried down the stairs. Something about being late, but it didn’t sound angry. Just loud.

Santi clapped a hand on Frankie’s shoulder and asked about Henry, his tone lighter than the question deserved. Frankie shrugged, said he was fine, but that he was tired. Said he’d explain later. Benny was already motioning him upstairs, and Frankie followed without a word.

You stayed where you were, eyes on the glow of your phone, ears tuned sharply to the movement in the house. You weren’t sure why your chest felt heavier than it had when you’d first sat down—but there it was. A quiet weight. Just there.

Figuring out the sleeping arrangements hadn’t taken much discussion. It was late and no one had the energy for negotiation. Santi and Yov naturally claimed one of the double beds—there hadn’t been any doubt about that. And Will, with his usual unspoken authority, had declared that you’d take the other.

“It just makes sense,” he said, already turning away as if that settled it. And it did.

Benny, Frankie, and Will would take the room with the single beds, and no one questioned it. Frankie hadn’t said a word either way, just nodded slightly when Benny pointed toward the stairs. You wondered if it mattered to him at all, if any of it did.

Half an hour later, the house was quiet. People peeled off one by one, murmuring goodnights and stretching out aching limbs from a day that had felt too long. The plan was to wake up early and explore the trails behind the cabin, maybe head down to the lake before the sun got too high.

But you and Santi stayed outside. The others faded into bedrooms and darkness, and the porch lights hummed above your heads, attracting moths and casting long shadows on the wooden floorboards. You were sitting side by side in the hammock, careful not to shift too much and tip the balance.

“I don’t know,” Santi was saying, voice low. “I’m just saying… you could call her.”

You sighed, pulling your knees up closer to your chest. “But she doesn’t call me. She calls you. Maybe that’s the answer right there. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

You crossed your arms, like the words had left a mark on your skin and you needed to shield the spot.

“Mom calls me because I call her,” Santi replied, not unkindly. He tilted his head back, eyes on the stars. “Last time we talked she asked what was going on with you.”

“She could ask me that,” you said. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.”

He exhaled, slow and frustrated. “Did you guys fight or something?”

You shook your head. Not really. Not in the traditional sense. There hadn’t been yelling or dramatic exits or anything you could point to and say this is where it all cracked.

What had happened was quieter. A slow shift. A strange, weightless sort of distance that crept in when you weren’t looking. She had become harder to read. Her answers to simple questions—how are you, how’s your day—sounded like rehearsals, like they were meant to steer the conversation somewhere safer. Somewhere away from herself.

Then one afternoon, she had said something. A comment dressed up like advice. You needed to start living your life, she'd said. You needed to stop being so hesitant, so afraid of stepping into yourself.

And it had hurt. Not because it wasn’t true, but because of who it was coming from.

You’d snapped, in that quiet way you sometimes did—no shouting, just words that cut because they were too honest. You reminded her that she had left Austin. That she had chosen not to live in the same house where your father’s absence still lived in every room. You asked how she could tell you to be brave when she couldn’t bear to exist in her own memories.

It wasn’t a fight. But it wasn’t nothing either.

You hadn’t spoken properly since. A few messages. Nothing with weight.

“It’s complicated,” you finally said, voice low.

Santi stayed next to you for a little while longer. The air had gone heavier after the conversation about your mother, but he had this way of knowing when to shift gears. He was good at that—distracting you without making it obvious. Redirecting your thoughts like it was something casual, not a rescue.

“So,” he said after a few moments of silence, his voice light again, as if nothing complicated had ever been said, “how’s everything going with Bill?”

His eyes were bright with amusement.

“It’s almost done,” you replied, stretching your legs out in front of you, “it’s looking really nice. Why? Thinking about stopping by again? Bill said you could go whenever—”

“That’s not what I asked.” He cut in, laughing, clearly pleased with himself.

You paused. “Oh,” you said, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Then… what exactly did you ask?”

Santi pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Play dumb.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He gave you a knowing look. “I know you’re seeing him.”

You tilted your head. “I’m not.”

“Oh no?” he said, sitting up straighter now, emboldened. “Then who are you talking to every night?”

You froze, not dramatically, just enough for your shoulders to go still. But you didn’t stop smiling.

“What?”

“When I was at your place last week, you got a phone call and practically blushed. You were all, ‘I’ll call you back’ in this sweet little voice. Same thing a few days later, when you came home—you literally got up from the table mid-sentence.”

“Right,” you said, drawing the word out a little, like you were buying time. “That was Emma.”

Santi laughed, short and loud. “Emma?”

“Yes,” you said, more confidently now, folding your arms like a period at the end of a sentence. “It was Emma. Who else would it be? You thought it was Bill?”

“I don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe. I thought I heard a man’s voice through the speaker.”

You shook your head, gently but with emphasis. “Nope. Definitely Emma.”

The words hung in the air between you for a second, and just then, your phone vibrated softly in your hand. The screen lit up. You looked.

[Frankie🍾]: Are u in bed yet?

You didn’t answer. You just locked the phone quickly, turned it over in your lap so the screen faced down, and pretended nothing had happened.

When you glanced back up, Santi was already watching you.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, and then, like he was giving you space to lie one more time, he said, “Well. If it’s not Bill, it’s not Bill. I believe you. It's someone else, then.”

You said nothing. You held his gaze. The smile was still there, barely.

He looked away then, exhaled through his nose.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, pushing his palms against his thighs and standing in one easy motion. “Don’t stay up too late talking to your friend.”

You didn’t respond. You just watched him walk inside, the screen door creaking once behind him. Then you looked down at your phone again, still facedown in your lap. You didn’t move. Not yet.

As soon as Santi closed the door behind him, you reached for your phone.

There it was. You read the message again.

[Frankie🍾]: are u in bed yet?

Your fingers moved instinctively across the screen, barely a pause between thought and action.

[You]: No, I’m outside, Santi just went in

Read.

You watched the three dots appear, vanish, then reappear again—like they were thinking. Or like he was.

[Frankie🍾]: Will and Benny are knocked out. Are u going to stay outside?

You hesitated just long enough.

[You]: I’m going in now

[You]: why?

You stood, brushing imaginary dust from your legs. The porch creaked under your feet as you moved to the door, screen still glowing in your hand. You didn’t look away. Not even as you turned the lock behind you. Inside, the house was dim.

You made your way upstairs, each step sounding louder than it should have. Halfway up, your phone vibrated again.

[Frankie🍾]: Can I see u?

You didn’t hesitate this time.

[You]: sure

[You]: in my room.

[You]: be careful, don’t make noise

There was a pause. A longer one.

Then:

[Frankie🍾]: do you think Santi will take too long to fall asleep?

You pushed open your bedroom door but didn’t shut it all the way. The air inside felt cooler, or maybe that was just your skin reacting to the shift in atmosphere. You dropped your phone on the bed, peeled off your clothes quickly—mechanically—and pulled on a soft pair of pajamas, barely registering the feel of cotton against your skin.

When you picked up your phone again, two new messages blinked back at you.

[Frankie🍾]: I’ll wait ten minutes

[Frankie🍾]: don’t fall asleep

You rolled your eyes, lips curving into a quiet smile that no one saw.

Then you slid under the covers, not bothering with the sheets, settling instead on top of the comforter like it would be temporary.

[You]: I won’t 🙄🙄

You left the phone beside you on the pillow, screen lit, waiting.

About thirty minutes had passed when a weight landed gently on your shoulder—waking you up.

Your eyes opened with a soft, confused flutter, and there he was. Frankie. Standing beside your bed, mouth curved into a smile.

“What happened?” he whispered, voice low and rough at the edges. “Did you fall asleep?”

You blinked at him, propping yourself up on your elbows, your brain still wading through the haze of sleep.

“Hey,” you said, automatically glancing toward the door. “No. I just closed my eyes for a second.”

He gave a small, disbelieving scoff and sat down beside you, settling at the edge of the mattress near your legs.

“I texted you,” he said. “Like twenty minutes ago.”

You sat all the way up now, folding your legs beneath you, studying him in the faint light that came from the hallway.

“Shit, sorry.”

His expression was softer than usual—he looked a little tired, a little resigned. The kind of tired that comes from something heavier than lack of sleep.

“It's okay. I wasn’t going to come in, but I went to the bathroom,” he continued, leaning back slightly, his palms flat against the comforter behind him. “And your door was cracked open and... you were just lying there. Asleep.”

You let out a small groan, rubbing your face. “Sorry. It’s been a long day, okay?”

“No shit,” he murmured, eyes falling shut for a second. You looked at him, then at the floor, the silence between you stretching comfortably for a beat.

Then, quieter, you asked: “Did something happen? Are you alright?”

When he looked at you again, his face shifted—barely, just a flicker—but you noticed it. A crack in the armor. You reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. His skin was warm, the gesture familiar in a way that made your chest ache a little. You scratched lightly, your touch barely there.

He exhaled slowly, and when he met your gaze again, the exhaustion in his eyes had deepened, no longer tucked away.

“I saw Rachel today,” he said.

You went still, your hand frozen at the base of his neck. Something in your chest tightened—sharp and unexpected, like you’d swallowed something bitter before realizing it was poison.

“What?” you asked, softly. “Where?”

“At the grocery store,” he said, eyes still focused somewhere below you, like he was replaying the moment. “I left the house late. Was on the phone with Luna for a while, and stopped at this place, sort of out of the way—outside downtown. She lives near there, but I didn’t think about it. Honestly, she hadn’t even crossed my mind.”

He swallowed hard, eyes narrowing at the memory. “I was heading to the checkout, and then suddenly—she was there. Just there. She grabbed my arm and said my name like it was some kind of... reunion or something.”

You pressed your hand more firmly against his back now, not sure if it was comfort or instinct or something more selfish.

“Frankie,” you murmured. “Are you okay?”

He gave a little nod, like it didn’t mean much.

“Yeah,” he said. Then looked at you. “I mean... I didn’t expect it. That’s all.”

You searched his face, unsure what exactly you were looking for. “What did she say to you?”

“She asked how I was doing,” he said, voice quieter now. “Said it was nice to see me again. Then she asked about my family, and right around then, the cashier finished ringing me up. So I just—left.”

You looked down, your gaze settling on the soft folds of the blanket beneath you. You didn’t respond. Not because you were trying to be evasive, but because nothing coherent came to mind. There was just the pressure of your hand still resting against his back and the quiet awareness of how warm his body felt under your fingertips. Solid. Present.

“She looked different,” Frankie added after a few seconds. You glanced up, catching the distant expression on his face. He wasn’t really here anymore—he was somewhere else entirely, tucked into a version of the past only he could see. “But I can’t figure out what changed.”

You exhaled. “Time’s passed. You’ve changed. The way you see her probably has too.”

He turned his head toward you, and for a moment he just looked at you like he was trying to decide if that explanation made him feel better or worse.

“Maybe,” he said. Then he shifted, lying on his back. “Anyway. I left. That was it. I was really late coming over. Sorry.”

You smiled—barely—and then moved in closer, your body folding into the space beside his. You lay down beside him, your legs extended off the side of the mattress just as his were. It wasn’t a natural sleeping position. It felt temporary. Like neither of you was fully ready to commit to comfort.

“I was thinking about you,” you murmured. “Before you came in.”

Frankie turned his head slightly, looking down at you as you rolled onto your side, your cheek resting against the curve of his chest. His hand found its way to your back, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

“I was starting to think maybe you wouldn’t come,” you added, quieter now.

“I wouldn’t miss this weekend,” he said, simply.

You made a soft sound in your throat—half acknowledgment, half something else—and closed your eyes. Your fingers moved over his chest in absent strokes, like muscle memory.

There was a smile on your lips. Soft. Unforced. But under it, lodged somewhere in the hollow of your chest, was that same bitter pang from earlier. Faint but persistent. And you couldn’t quite name it.

When your alarm buzzed at seven, it felt like it cut through a dream.

You stirred, barely awake, and instinctively pulled Frankie closer, tucking your body against his. Your cheek pressed against the warm rise and fall of his chest. He made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half exhale—but didn’t wake, not really. His arm tightened faintly around your waist in response, like his body understood your presence before his mind did.

Then your eyes fluttered open and the weight of what had happened landed all at once. You pushed yourself upright.

“We fell asleep,” you said, pressing your palm to Frankie’s stomach as if that might somehow help. “Shit. We actually fell asleep.”

You ran your hand over his ribs in a distracted motion, trying to rouse him. His face barely shifted at first, his brows knit together as if you were intruding on something sacred.

“Frankie,” you said more urgently, your fingers closing gently around his arm. “Wake up.”

He blinked, one eye then the other, and squinted at you, disoriented. “What?”

“We fell asleep,” you hissed.

That got through to him. In an instant, he sat up, the covers slipping off his bare chest. His eyes widened.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck. What time is it?”

“Seven am.”

He ran both hands through his hair and then sat there for a second, unmoving, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he held up one finger, a gesture for silence, and tilted his head. You listened too.

There were voices now, faint but distinct. A laugh. The creak of a floorboard. Footsteps moving across the wooden floor of the cabin.

They were awake.

Frankie dropped his face into his hands. “Will and Benny saw my empty bed.”

You closed your eyes and sighed. “But no one knows where you were. They didn’t see you here.”

He turned to you. “Where else would I be?”

You looked at him, his wide eyes, his tousled hair, the shape of him still imprinted in your sheets. Then, absurdly, a laugh bubbled up in your throat and you covered your face to muffle it.

Frankie gave you a withering look, but then his mouth twitched. He tried to fight it, but a crooked smile formed anyway.

“Don’t laugh,” he said.

You dropped your hands and sat upright, taking charge. “You need to leave. I’ll check the hallway.”

You climbed out of bed, your bare feet pressing against the cool floor as you padded to the door. Frankie stayed seated, still shirtless, clearly trying to recalibrate his entire nervous system.

“And what am I supposed to say if someone asks where I was?” he called softly behind you.

You shrugged without turning. “Tell them you went for an early walk. You needed air. That sounds plausible.”

He paused. You could tell he was running the script in his head. Eventually, he gave a faint nod, convinced.

You cracked open the door and peered down both sides of the hall.

“All clear,” you said. Then you turned back and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on. Quiet.”

His steps were quick but soundless. He reached you at the door. Just before he slipped past, he paused and turned back to you.

He reached out, his hand sliding gently along your jaw before pulling you in. You were already smiling when he kissed you—soft, unhurried. Your hand came up to his face, your thumb brushing his cheek. The other rested on the doorframe.

Then you pulled apart. Your eyes met and lingered.

But then his smile faltered.

His eyes flicked to something over your shoulder, and you turned.

“Shit,” Frankie said, turning to look at you again. There was no one there.

You let your backpack slip from your shoulder, the weight of it landing softly on the dry ground. A sigh escaped you before you could think about it, drawn out and exhausted, like your body had finally caught up to the heat pressing against your skin. The Texas sun had a way of making everything feel heavier, like it wasn’t just light, but something dense and physical settling on your shoulders.

Ahead of you, the river shimmered like a gift. Cool, blue, the kind of blue that doesn’t exist anywhere else except in water. It twisted gently, reflecting the same sun that had turned your cheeks pink and your shirt damp against your back.

You watched the water for a moment, letting yourself believe it was a prize, a quiet reward for keeping pace with everyone this morning.

Behind you, the group had already started to scatter, finding patches of shade beneath an oak tree, tossing down their bags, laughing softly about the hike. You didn’t join them right away. You turned your head and watched them from a distance, caught somewhere between the relief of arrival and the residue of everything.

You’d left the cabin early. Not too long after you and Frankie had gotten up.

When you came downstairs, Santi and Yov were already in the kitchen, eating toast and eggs and talking around bites. Will had just walked in from outside, his voice carrying that wide-open tone he used in the mornings, saying something about how perfect the weather was. He passed you with a smile, disappearing into the living room.

You slid into the chair beside your brother, careful not to draw attention to yourself, especially not to the fact that Frankie wasn’t there.

“Where’s Ben?” you asked, reaching for a piece of toast, trying to sound casual.

Santi shrugged without looking up. “He went to grab something upstairs.”

You weren’t usually hungry this early—it made your stomach feel strange—but you forced yourself to eat anyway. Just enough to get through the day. Yov placed a plate in front of you, scrambled eggs and toast, and you thanked her with a quiet smile. You poured yourself coffee despite Santi’s insistence that you’d want juice.

You had just lifted the mug to your lips when Benny appeared beside you, already dressed. He sat down next to you, tugging his cap into place, and studied you for a moment before speaking.

“Do you have something for your head?” he asked.

You nodded, swallowing before answering. “Yeah. A cap.”

“Good,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting. He nodded, like he was proud of you for remembering something so obvious, even though you’d lived in Texas long enough to know better than to forget it.

“Where’s Fish?” he asked, his voice light.

“I thought he was still upstairs,” Santi said through a mouthful of food. “Didn’t see him come down.”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “He wasn’t in bed when I woke up.”

Your eyes dropped to your plate. The toast there became infinitely interesting, as if your life depended on inspecting its edges, its uneven crust. You could feel the warmth rising in your cheeks.

Santi’s gaze lingered on you. “Did you see him?”

“What?” Your response came too fast, the pitch of it sharp. “No. Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, the beginning of a smirk playing at his lips.

“Just thought maybe. Maybe you knew, I dunno.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t look up.

“I think I heard someone leave earlier,” Yov offered, her tone gentle. She glanced at you. “Maybe around an hour ago.”

Will came into the kitchen then. He didn’t look at anyone, just went to the sink and turned on the tap.

“Who?” he asked as he rinsed his hands.

“Frankie,” Santi said.

Will nodded. “Yeah, I saw him outside a moment ago.”

It hit you then, how your throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

Frankie walked in a few minutes later, dressed for the hike, or whatever it was they were calling this. White T-shirt, cargo shorts, grey cap.

You didn’t look at him for long. Just enough to say, “Morning.” Barely louder than a whisper.

Then you turned back to your food. Pretending you hadn’t just been thinking about him the entire time.

Two hours had passed. Now you stood with your arms folded across your chest, watching the river from where you’d stopped. The air felt heavier now, dense with heat and dried sweat, but there was something calming about the slow, steady movement of the water. It had that look of invitation. Blue and soft, like it knew how badly your body ached and was promising relief. You didn’t move. You just stared.

Then, without needing to hear him, you felt him.

“Looks like a good spot to jump in,” Frankie said.

You turned your head, only slightly. He was right next to you, hands braced on his hips, his gaze focused straight ahead. The corners of his eyes were pulled tight against the light, his jaw set in that way you were beginning to recognize, calm, thoughtful, like he was already weighing what it would feel like to fall into the river.

The sun lit up the back of his neck, catching on the damp curls that had slipped free from under his cap. His hair glowed in shades of brown and something warmer, like honey or amber, though you weren’t sure how much of that was the actual color and how much was the way you were looking at him now.

His skin shimmered under the light, a thin sheen of sweat painting it gold. You felt something low in your stomach twist. You could see the fine lines where his shoulder met his neck, the kind of lines that made your mouth feel heavy with want. You wondered, almost absently, what he’d taste like—salt and heat, skin soft and warm against your tongue, his pulse thudding steady beneath your lips.

You knew you’d spent most of the morning watching him.

At the beginning of the hike, he’d been just ahead of you, walking with long, purposeful strides that made it hard not to notice the lines of his body. His legs, the rhythm of them. The way his back shifted every time he adjusted his pack, the way his arms caught the light. Even the way he turned his head to talk to Santi or Will—just his profile. It was all you could see.

And all you could think about was how much you wanted to be alone with him. Just the two of you, without all the others, without the space between your bodies feeling like something you weren’t allowed to cross.

Later, after someone had insisted on taking photos—of the trees, the group, a blurry attempt at capturing the light through the leaves—he’d fallen behind. Your personal viewing window had closed. He and Benny stayed at the back, talking in low voices.

Now, he was here again.

Your eyes dipped to his forearms—folded now, skin taut over muscle—and then back up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah,” you said. “I like it. It’s not that high.”

He glanced sideways at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Spoken like someone who’s jumped out of a plane.”

You shrugged, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth like it was no big deal.

“I’ve jumped off a rock before.”

“A cliff?” he asked, tilting his head, intrigued.

“This isn’t a cliff,” you said, glancing down at the water. It looked cooler than before. Or maybe your body had just gotten warmer. “It’s like... a few feet. Barely.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. When you turned to look at him, he was already watching you, head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to figure something out.

“Would you ever want to jump off a cliff?” he asked, voice casual, but his gaze a little too direct to be casual at all.

A smile spread across your lips before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to add something else to my list?”

He frowned, just a flicker between his brows, and then shrugged. “Just throwing it out there.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “The list is officially closed.”

“God, Shortcake, you’re boring,” he murmured.

Then he nudged your hip with his, barely a touch, a quiet kind of teasing. It made you laugh, without thinking.

But the laughter died on your lips when a hand curled gently around the back of your neck.

Santi.

You hadn’t noticed him walking up behind you. His hand was firm but affectionate, his other hand landing on the back of Frankie’s neck like you were both kids caught whispering during class.

“What kind of trouble are you two trying to cook up now?” he asked, smiling.

“For now?” you replied, matching his tone. “Nothing at all.”

Santi gave a short, skeptical laugh and let you both go, already shifting into a new conversation with Frankie that you didn’t really catch. You took the moment to drift away, feet finding the shaded patch of ground where Yov was already sitting with a water bottle in one hand, her legs stretched out. She had her face turned up slightly to the breeze, her expression open and peaceful in the way yours wasn’t.

You peeled off your t-shirt. The air kissed your skin immediately, fresh and clean, and the faint scents of sunscreen and fabric softener rose up from your body. You folded the shirt, setting it on your backpack, and pushed your shorts down too, leaving them in a heap on top. It felt good to be lighter, closer to the air, the river.

“This place is so pretty,” Yov said, tying her hair up without looking at you. “I’m surprised it’s not more crowded.”

You nodded, opening your water bottle, the plastic clicking softly between your fingers.

“Will said it’s the location. This part’s kind of tucked away.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “There were way more people back near that ranch we passed.”

“Yeah, totally.” You popped the bottle cap with your teeth, then took a long sip, cold water trickling down your throat.

Yov was digging through her purse, eyes focused, fingers moving.

“By the way… I’m glad you and Frankie are getting along better.”

Your head turned toward her too fast, voice higher than you meant it to be.

“Yeah? I mean—yeah. Me too. It’s not bad. It’s—”

“He’s sweet with you,” Yov said, cutting in softly. Her smile didn’t fade. “And you two look good together.”

Heat bloomed across your face, impossible to ignore.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not like that,” you said, too quickly. “I mean, yeah, we’re finally... getting along. That’s all.”

Yov looked up then, eyes calm, her expression unreadable but kind.

“I didn’t say it was like anything,” she said, voice light. “Just an observation. Santi told me you’ve gotten close. I think it’s nice. Honestly? I always thought you had chemistry.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely. I mean, it takes a lot of chemistry to argue the way you two used to. It was like watching a play. Perfect timing, every time. Very entertaining.”

You huffed, laughing a little despite yourself. “Don’t worry. We’ll probably still argue at some point. It’s kind of our thing.”

Yov stood and brushed off the back of her legs. She gave you a small, satisfied glance over her shoulder as she made her way toward the riverbank, a few steps from the large rock you had been standing on a moment ago, like the conversation hadn’t meant much. But you stayed frozen there for a second, her words echoing somewhere you couldn’t reach just yet.

You looked toward the river, where Frankie was now stepping into the shallows with the guys, water glittering around his ankles.

Eventually, you waded into the water too. It reached your waist, cool and patient against your skin, tugging softly at your limbs like it had all the time in the world. You didn’t say anything to the others. Just walked past them toward a more secluded stretch, still within earshot but distant enough to let your thoughts unfold without interruption.

The current brushed along your sides, steady and alive. You lifted your arms, letting your fingers drift beneath the surface as you leaned back a little, shifting your weight into the water’s quiet resistance. It moved around you like silk, circling your body with something that felt startlingly close to affection.

You closed your eyes.

Behind you, their voices lifted and fell in pieces. They were planning dinner. Something about starting a fire out back. Benny was lobbying for something delicious and meaty, “a real meal.” Will wanted to order something instead. Santi mentioned needing a nap. Yov told him to get over it. And then Frankie added a few quiet remarks.

You stood there, eyes closed, chest light.

For a moment, you thought of Mr. Darcy—curled in your apartment, probably asleep on the windowsill, or just now waking up to the sound of Ester opening the door. You trusted her. She was a nice old lady that lived alone in the building next door and liked to send you pictures of him while you were away. Once, she texted a photo with the caption your prince is inconsolable. And you’d stared at the image for longer than you should’ve—his expression, the vague misery in his posture, like he was punishing you with silence. Poor guy.

You tipped your head back into the water. It ran over your scalp and into your hair, cool and comforting. It was so quiet inside your own body you almost didn’t recognize it. Nothing pressing in your chest, nothing unspoken straining against the cage of your ribs. Just this stillness. This softness.

The sun filtered down in loose golden streaks. The trees framed the sky above you like something from a picture book. You could hear the others laughing again. Someone had said something funny, and you could tell by the way Frankie’s laugh cut through the others.

It curled its way toward you across the water.

And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you weren’t thinking about what came next. There was only this: your body buoyed gently by the river, your fingertips grazing the current, the sound of their voices threading through the distance like a string tying you to something solid.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been floating there. But when you opened your eyes again, it felt like coming up for air after a dream. The world looked soft-edged and brighter somehow, voices drifting faintly from the shore like the low hum of a radio in another room.

You turned in the water and began to swim back. The conversation came into focus as you got closer.

“What are you guys talking about?” you asked.

“Santi wants to set Fish up with someone,” he said, half-laughing.

You reached them and tilted your head. “Yeah?”

You looked at Frankie then. His eyes dropped to the surface of the water, and he gave a sheepish shake of his head. Color had climbed high on his cheekbones, blooming across his face. You caught yourself smiling before you meant to.

“Cass,” Santi answered, grinning. “You remember Cass, right?”

“Your neighbor?” you asked, brows arching.

“That’s the one,” he nodded. “Frankie already knows her. He thinks she’s nice.”

Frankie groaned and threw a handful of water in your brother’s direction. “I said she was cute one time, Santi. Four years ago.”

Santi wiped his face and laughed. “Still counts. And since you’ve been so open to new experiences lately, I figured, why not?”

Frankie made a noise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Santi didn’t answer right away. He looked at Frankie for a moment too long, like he was waiting for something to register. Frankie just blinked at him, brow furrowed.

“The bar,” Santi said finally. “The other night?”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re like a tabloid.”

Benny perked up immediately. “What happened at the bar?”

You weren’t sure what expression to wear. You tried for neutral but it felt like your face might betray you at any second. You looked around, feigning curiosity, hoping someone else would speak first.

“Fish didn’t go home alone,” Santi said, smug as hell,.

Will turned to Frankie, arms crossed. “You told him about that?”

You frowned, confused. Frankie clicked his tongue, like the sound could cancel out whatever was happening around him. His gaze dropped again, feigning indifference—but when he looked back up, it landed squarely on you. Just two seconds, maybe less, but his eyes said it all: what the fuck.

Will let out a low laugh, tilting his head. “Okay, so I’m not the only one who was confused?”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Benny asked, eyes narrowed behind the glint of sunlight on water.

Yovanna exhaled like she’d seen this show before. She leaned back into the river, elbows skimming the surface as she looked up at the sky. You caught her eye; she gave a tiny shake of her head.

“They’re just bored,” Frankie said. “And nosy.”

“I went to see him the other day, Sunday,” Santiago offered, lifting his hands and splashing water between them like punctuation. “And he wasn’t alone.”

You felt your throat tighten, a constriction that came on too fast, like your body was bracing for impact before you could stop it.

“I don’t know who he was with,” Santi added casually, and just like that, your breath returned. “But this asshole let me ramble on about a lawnmower for two full minutes before even mentioning he had company.”

Will blinked, processing.

“Oh, wait, I thought that...” he started, then cut himself off with a short laugh. “Wait, that’s why you texted me at, like, seven in the morning too?”

Benny snorted and tilted his face toward the sun.

“You’re all ridiculous,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “This is embarrassing. Can we not?”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, jaw tense.

“I’m not trying to meet anyone else,” he said, and this time his voice held a different kind of weight.

You noticed how his gaze shifted—glanced near you, past you, never landing.

He turned to Santiago, eyes narrowed, and hurled another splash of water at him. “And you are the nosiest motherfucker I know.”

Santiago just laughed, shaking his head as the water dripped down his cheeks. “Yeah, well. Sorry.”

You stepped back a little, your movement gentle, instinctive. You caught Will watching you—eyes squinting against the sun, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he smiled.

“Anyone else?” Benny repeated, with a smirk. “Who’ve you been hanging around with, Fish?”

You looked away instinctively. Your eyes shut tightly.

“I thought you didn’t care, Ben,” Frankie cut in, his voice light but unmistakably pointed.

“Yeah, well, you're not exactly making it easy,” Benny shot back, laughing.

“Leave him alone,” Yov interrupted, already holding up her phone. “And stand closer. I want a picture.”

You opened your eyes just in time to catch Frankie glancing at you. His cheeks were flushed a deep, unmistakable red, like he’d just stepped out of the sun.

Time moved oddly after that. An hour maybe, or something near it. You weren’t keeping track. You were sitting under the wide arms of a tree with a book resting in your lap: The Dangers of Smoking in Bed. But your eyes were only pretending to read. The words blurred at the edges. You kept glancing up at the others, who were lying in the sun, limbs tangled with ease, sunglasses perched lazily, passing around sandwiches and sweating bottles of soda and beer cans.

Frankie turned his head and looked at you. No shirt, his swim shorts clinging to him, and the cap he’d soaked in the river was still damp, now resting on his head. Thin beads of water traced slow, quiet paths down the slope of his neck and spine.

He stood, stretched, walked toward you without a word. Then he sat down next to you, the shade folding around the both of you like a loose blanket. No one else seemed to notice.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay? Hungry?”

He held out a sandwich. You took it from his hand.

“I’m fine. You?”

Frankie sighed. “I’m okay. Santi’s been on my case a little, don’t you think?”

“On you about what?”

Frankie shrugged, his eyes drifting out toward the river.

“I dunno. He doesn’t know anything, right? You haven’t said anything?”

“No,” you said, your fingers brushing a page you weren’t reading. “Why?”

He lifted one shoulder again, casual but not quite. “Just had a weird feeling.”

“Benny told him this morning you weren’t in bed when he woke up,” you added, still not looking at him. “But that was all.”

“I climbed out the window this morning,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, then looked at him fully, mouth parted in disbelief. “Frankie. We were on the second floor.”

“I know.”

“You jumped?”

“No,” he said, like the idea insulted him. “There’s a tree right next to it. I climbed down.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, quiet and stunned. “You’re unbelievable. Sneaking around like some teenager.”

“Me sneaking?” He turned to you with mock offense, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight—we’re sneaking. Don’t go pinning this all on me, gorgeous. This takes two.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth twitched at the corners.

He watched you for a second or two, then dug into his backpack and pulled out his phone.

“Can I take a picture of you?” he said, and his voice had dropped, quieter than it needed to be.

You blinked. “What?”

“Just look at me,” he said, holding up his phone. “Please.”

You felt the heat rising to your cheeks. “I look awful.”

“No, you don’t. Smile.”

He snapped a few pictures, fast, before you could duck or turn away. You sat there, trying to look normal while every inch of you buzzed with self-awareness. No one else seemed to be watching, and yet you felt exposed.

Frankie lowered the phone, still looking at the screen. He smiled—small, crooked, a little amused.

You didn’t ask to see the photos. He didn’t offer to show them.

Frankie sat slouched in a folding chair, facing the fire, his elbows resting loosely on his knees, the weight of the day clinging to him like something physical. He exhaled—long, worn out, the kind of breath that came after too much sun. Around him, the guys lounged with beers in their hands, half-laughing, half-exhausted, their faces soft in the amber light of the fire. The air had cooled just enough to make the heat from the flames feel nice.

To his right, you sat—one chair over, with Will in between. Will looked content, his long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back slightly, like he could fall asleep right there if no one spoke to him for five minutes.

The day had dragged in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, just thick. Long. Saturated with too much sun, too much heat, too much of you.

That morning, by the river, Frankie had been doing everything in his power not to look at you. Or at least, not to stare. Which, honestly, felt impossible. You had appeared in that damn black bikini like you didn’t know what it did to people. To him. And maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you really were just running your fingers through your wet hair and stepping in and out of the water because you liked the way it felt on your skin.

Or maybe you did know. And if you did, you were dangerous in a way he wasn’t equipped to handle.

Water had dripped down your body in small, glinting rivulets, catching the sunlight as they moved over the lines of your stomach, your arms, the curve behind your knee. And every now and then, Frankie caught himself watching, tracking those drops as if all his military training culminated in that action. He’d looked away, swallowed hard, pretended to be focused on a conversation that didn’t exist.

On the walk back to the cabin, you'd sighed, soft and barely audible, pressing your hand to the back of your neck as if the weight of the day had suddenly caught up with you. Your eyes were closed, and there was something so unconsciously sensual about the gesture that it had lodged itself under Frankie’s skin. You were wearing a soaked t-shirt over your bikini, and it clung in places it shouldn’t have. And your shorts—God. They barely covered anything. He’d walked behind you most of the way back, jaw clenched, stomach tight, hyper-aware of the memory of his hand on the exact place where your thigh met your hip.

He reminded himself, over and over, that he was a grown man. A rational man. That whatever this was, whatever pull you had over him, he had to control it. He had to. But that didn’t change how much effort it took not to reach for you.

When you finally made it back to the cabin, you disappeared into the bathroom without saying a word. He heard the shower come on and stood still for a moment, hand on the back of his neck, the same way you’d done earlier. The guys, of course, decided it was the perfect time to go into town and pick up groceries for dinner. It should’ve been quick. In and out.

But then Will saw a car he liked outside a dusty mechanic’s shop just past the store, and that was it—they’d been there for over an hour, poking around under the hood, talking to the owner like they were going to make a deal. Frankie had stood there half-listening, half-simmering, his mind tracing its way back to the cabin again and again.

When they got back, the sun was lower. The living room was dim, save for the flicker of the TV. Yov was on the couch with you, and you were practically curled into yourself, eyes fluttering closed, head leaning against the backrest like you hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but couldn’t stop it from happening.

The afternoon had passed with an easy weight to it. Santi offered to help Benny with dinner, and no one really objected. The rest of you wandered around the cabin, some settling on the porch with drinks, others inside pretending to be helpful. There was music playing low from someone’s speaker, and the kitchen filled with the scent of grilled vegetables and meat, a later with the sound of clinking silverware and opened beer bottles.

By the time everyone sat down to eat, there was a kind of collective exhaustion in the air. Plates were scraped clean. Jokes became quieter. At least one of you sighed audibly after finishing their second helping. The energy didn’t fizzle out; it softened.

And then Will, eyes bright, insisted on making use of the night.

“You can’t just go to bed with the sky looking like that,” he said, gesturing up with his beer. “Come on. It’s perfect out.”

So someone grabbed wood, and someone else lit the fire, and chairs were pulled around the growing flame. The sky stretched above you; clear and velvet-black, scattered with stars, while the trees rustled gently. The fire cracked steadily, its soft amber glow dancing on the faces around you.

Frankie noticed you had your phone in your hand. So he reached for his own, brightness dimmed almost to nothing. Opened the chat.

[Frankie]: I’ll go see u when everyone’s asleep

[Frankie]: DO NOT fall asleep

He looked up. You glanced down at your screen, then back at him, just briefly. No one noticed.

His phone buzzed quietly.

[🍓]: YOU don’t fall asleep, you’re too old to be climbing out windows

[🍓]: and you’re impatient. did something happen?

Frankie took a sip of his beer. He started typing.

[Frankie]: nothing

[Frankie]: just want to be alone with u

He wrote another message, stared at it for a second, erased it.

Then, typed again.

[Frankie]: I want to see that bikini again

A beat later, he saw the shape of your mouth lift—something involuntary, too small for anyone else to catch, but not for him. Not when he knew what had caused it.

Then you stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, casually, to no one in particular.

Frankie didn’t track you with his eyes. Instead, he glanced toward Yov, who was laughing hard now, explaining something to Will with wide hand gestures. Benny and Santi were in their own world.

Two minutes passed. Maybe three.

Then you were back, settling quietly into your chair again. Not saying anything. Not looking at him.

He kept his eyes forward, mouth resting against the lip of his beer bottle. The fire popped quietly between you. The others kept talking.

Then his phone vibrated again. A tiny sound, barely noticeable. He raised the bottle to his lips and, without really thinking about it, unlocked the screen with one hand.

The chat was still open.

A new message. From you.

It happened in an instant.

One second, Frankie was lifting the bottle to his lips. The next, he was choking on it—actually choking. A sudden, involuntary cough broke in his chest, and he leaned forward with a hand pressed tightly to his mouth, trying to contain the sound, the sputter, the mess of it all.

The bottle clinked against the leg of his chair as he set it down, coughing into his fist. His other hand moved fast, locking his phone and flipping it face-down in his lap like it had burned him.

“Jesus, Frank,” Santi said, half-laughing, half-concerned, as he reached across to tap him between the shoulder blades. “You alright?”

Frankie nodded without lifting his head, his eyes watering slightly. He couldn’t answer yet. Air was caught in his throat, and he could still taste beer where it didn’t belong.

“I’m fine,” he managed, voice hoarse but steady.

The others laughed, murmurs of concern already shifting back to amusement. But Frankie wasn’t laughing.

He could still feel the image burned behind his eyelids.

After a moment, he turned his phone over again. Unlocked it. Looked.

Your face wasn’t in it. You’d been careful. The angle was soft, almost casual. It looked like you were lying down. One hand lifting your shirt, along with your bra. Skin exposed. The gentle curve of your breasts in dim light. Nipples tight.

Frankie locked the phone again.

He looked over at you.

You were saying something to Will, smiling like you hadn’t just lit him on fire. You didn’t glance in his direction once.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the fire now, pretending to care about the conversation he couldn’t hear. Pretending his body wasn’t suddenly too warm in the night air.

He wasn’t going to survive this. Not tonight.

You were lying on your back, half-buried beneath the covers, your phone balanced against your knee, the screen casting a faint blue glow across your face. The only other light in the room came from the small warm lamp on the nightstand.

The knock was soft—three taps. You blinked, then turned your head toward the door, your pulse lifting slightly without permission.

You got up without speaking, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor. When you opened the door, Frankie stepped inside, shirtless, his hair soft and tousled, one hand raised like a warning.

“Shh, be quiet,” he whispered, his voice low but not sharp. “Just—listen.”

You paused. In the silence, you heard it—someone snoring faintly down the hall.

“Dead asleep,” he confirmed, his mouth curving with amusement as he moved past you.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. Watching him sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good,” you said under your breath, still smiling. “But we can’t fall asleep tonight.”

He leaned back on his palms, spine loose, legs apart. “I don’t plan on sleeping.”

You joined him, sitting just close enough that your knees brushed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So what are you planning?”

Frankie squinted, skeptical and amused. “Me? What are you planning?”

“Me?”

“All innocent,” he said, scoffing lightly. “M' not buying it.”

Your lips parted with a soft, guilty smile you didn’t bother to hide.

You reached up and touched the side of his neck, just under his ear. His body responded almost instantly, his frame inching closer to yours like you’d flipped some invisible switch.

You kissed him gently, without rush, your mouth brushing his tenderly. Your hand slipped down the line of his chest, pausing where skin met waistband.

When you pulled back, the kiss lingered in the air between you, a warm and breathy echo.

Frankie exhaled slowly through his nose. His eyes were on you now—serious, weighted, hungry.

"I nearly died out there, just so you know."

You turned to look at him, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

“Oh, right. My bad.”

Frankie’s lips twitched, a crooked grin appearing as he leaned a little closer.

“Your brother was right next to me. I mean—right there.”

You tilted your head, amused. “I don’t think he was that close. No way he saw your phone screen.”

“It was excruciating.”

You gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Did you like it?”

And as you asked, you reached for the waistband of his pajama pants, your fingers curling under the elastic.

Frankie’s smile shifted. Something about it softened, like the quiet that follows a long day. He looked warm in the low light, a little wrecked from tiredness, eyes heavy-lidded but intent on you. That exhaustion only made you want him closer.

“Of course I did,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I'd make it my lockscreen.”

You laughed, the sound low and easy, and he went on, grinning now. “Or print it out. Stick it to my fridge like a motivational quote.”

“That’s absurd,” you said, nudging his shoulder.

“I could frame it. Put it right on my nightstand,” he added. “So it’s the first thing I see in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as your chest tightened with affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

Frankie chuckled and leaned in, his hand cupping your cheek with unexpected tenderness, while his other arm anchored him against the mattress. Your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed you, and then—slowly, unhurried but wanting—and his hand left your face, slid down, and slipped beneath your shirt like it had been waiting there all night. When he reached your chest, his touch was careful, fingers shaping to your skin. He found your nipple and pressed just hard enough to make your breath catch and your mouth open against his.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing your cheek. “Shh. You have to be quiet, okay?”

You nodded, dazed, already giving in to the way his mouth began to explore your neck, his breath catching every time you made a tiny sound. But still, you held yourself back—barely. You just let your hand wander down his stomach, pausing, and then kept going. Deeper, slower, until you felt him—hot and hard under your touch, his body reacting to you instantly.

Frankie exhaled against your skin, almost a gasp, his hand still curled beneath your shirt. His thumb brushed softly over you, teasing, while his eyes found your face again. He watched you closely, something wild and reverent flickering behind his expression as your hand moved beneath his waistband. His gaze was steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second of you.

And all the while, you kept touching him. Just like that.

You shifted your hips back, just enough to give yourself space, and tugged his pajama pants down with both hands. His cock sprang up, pressing against his abdomen for a second or two—heavy, flushed, impossibly warm-looking—before you reached for him again.

You glanced up at him once, your lips parting, and then you leaned in, letting your mouth hover just above him. You licked your bottom lip without thinking, some reflex of want and anticipation, and then brought your mouth to him, starting with the head, soft and sensitive, your tongue circling the tip in gentle, wet passes. His hips flexed, just barely, like he was trying not to move.

You took him in little by little, your lips stretching, adjusting. The weight of him on your tongue felt somehow both foreign and familiar. Each inch you pulled him deeper, your throat relaxed, focused entirely on the way he felt, the sound of his breath.

Frankie’s hand slid down your spine, pausing at the small of your back. His fingers splayed out and then moved up, over your shoulder blades, until he reached the back of your neck. He didn’t push, didn’t guide—he just touched you, his palm resting there like he needed the anchor. His breath had gone rough around the edges, ragged but restrained, like he was holding himself back for your sake.

You lifted your head slightly, then sank back down. You began to move—repeating the motion, letting your mouth glide over him with increasing confidence, your tongue shifting and shaping around him inside the heat of your mouth. It didn’t take long to find a rhythm you liked, one that made your thighs press together and your hand grip firmer at the base, thumb smoothing over a spot you knew he liked to have touched.

Your own breath was coming in shorter bursts now, warm against his skin, but you barely noticed. You liked the feel of him like this. Hot and full in your mouth, your lips stretched wide, the taste of salt and skin and something entirely him coating your tongue. You felt possessed by it. Content.

Frankie’s fingers wandered again, skimming the line of your spine like he was memorizing it. Then they tangled in your hair, gentle, his touch reverent. He brushed the strands away from your face and tucked one behind your ear with a kind of care that made your chest ache.

You pulled back slowly, letting him slip free from your mouth with a soft, wet sound that made both of you inhale at the same time. Your hand wrapped around him, still moving, still giving. You looked up.

His eyes were fixed on you, wide and dark and glazed with heat. His mouth was parted slightly, like he was halfway to saying something but forgot how.

And when he smiled—crooked, dazed—you smiled back.

He guided you back with one hand at your shoulder.

“Lock the door,” you whispered, barely audible.

Frankie didn’t hesitate. He stood abruptly, his pajama pants and boxers dropping in a tangle at his feet. He stepped out of them in a single movement, already crossing the room. You watched his back as he reached for the latch, his muscles shifting under his skin.

While he moved, you leaned back and slid your pajama shorts down your legs, folding them and setting them aside like it mattered where they ended up. Then you shifted to the center of the bed, body alert, waiting.

The frame creaked as Frankie returned and climbed back beside you. The noise was louder than you expected in the quiet, and you flinched.

“The bed,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

He smiled against your skin. “I know.”

His hands planted firmly on either side of you, bracing himself. Then he bent down to kiss you. You felt the full weight of it—the pressure of his mouth, the wet insistence of his tongue slipping past your lips. You moaned without meaning to, the sound escaping from somewhere deep in your chest.

Frankie pulled back, lips brushing yours. “Quiet.”

His hand moved to the hem of your shirt, and he leaned back, kneeling between your legs. You sat up, wordless, lifting your arms as he peeled the fabric over your head.

He didn’t hesitate. Your panties were gone a breath later, your legs parted easily beneath his touch. He held your thighs in place for a moment, looking at you like he was trying to memorize the exact way your body curved beneath him.

Your whole body was buzzing, tense and wanting. You’d been feeling it for hours, ever since he'd looked at you that morning, with that unreadable expression. The way he’d watched you with his jaw tight, his hands fisted casually at his sides. You’d known then. And now, right here, in a darkened room where noise wasn’t allowed, the want had sharpened into something more unbearable. Something thrilling.

He dipped his head to your neck and bit down, not harsh, but enough to make you twitch. Then his mouth started its path downward, grazing your collarbone, the slope of your chest. When he reached your breast, he opened his mouth and took your nipple between his lips. His tongue moved in small, greedy strokes, and your back arched without permission, a gasp caught in your throat.

He pulled away, his mouth wet, his eyes bright with mischief and something rawer.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Your fingers found his hair, the other hand cupping his jaw. “Yeah?”

“That damn black bikini,” he muttered, his tone husky. “You don’t even know what you were doing to me. I wanted to tear it off with my teeth.”

A shaky laugh bubbled from your chest. You tugged gently at his hair. “You’re a mess.”

Frankie laughed quietly, the sound low in his throat, and brought his fingers to his lips. Then, without another word, his hand slid down between your legs, fingers brushing over the wet heat of you like he already knew exactly what he’d find.

You inhaled sharply, your hips bucking toward his hand almost instinctively, your body answering him before your mind could catch up.

He dipped his head to your neck, pressing a kiss there—open-mouthed, breath warm—just as his fingers began to explore, working you open with a steady rhythm that made your legs tense and your pulse scatter.

Then, without warning, one finger slipped inside you.

You gasped, but it was soundless, your mouth parting like you wanted to cry out and forgot how. The only thing you could hear was the wet, unmistakable sound of his hand working against you, obscene and quiet at once in the dim room.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice gravelled and close to your ear, like a secret. “Fucking dripping for me.”

Something inside you clenched at the sound of him—the gritted warmth in his voice, the weight of his breath against your skin. You shivered, not from cold but from the ache of it, from the way your body lit up when he spoke like that.

“Show me,” he said, “how quiet you can be with a full house.”

Your hips started to move again, grinding into the pressure of his hand, your eyes fluttering shut. Frankie didn’t stop you, he only pushed another finger inside, filling you deeper this time, curving them just right until they found that place that made you unravel. Your mouth opened on a moan you couldn’t release, your breath stuttering as your head dropped back against the pillows. The muscles in your stomach tightened. You felt out of control.

Frankie lifted his head, and you could feel the weight of his gaze. When you opened your eyes, his face was hovering above yours, eyes dark and locked on you, watching every twitch, every shudder.

Then his thumb pressed against your clit and began to circle, light at first, then firmer, with intent.

It was too much. Everything was hot and electric. Your body felt like it could crack open. Your chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. You gripped his forearm without realizing.

He murmured, “So damn beautiful,” like he was speaking to himself more than to you.

And then—everything stopped.

His fingers stilled. The heat between your legs cooled into confusion.

Your eyes flew open.

He was watching you like he’d forgotten his own name. His chest rising, flushed from collarbone to cheekbone. He looked... wrecked. Beautiful. And totally gone for you.

His hand drifted from between your thighs to the curve of your waist, then higher, stroking across your stomach with featherlight reverence.

“I need you to do something for me,” he murmured.

You blinked. Your breath still hadn’t evened out.

“Frankie…”

He lay down beside you without speaking, shifting onto his back. The pillow beneath his head was tossed carelessly to the floor. Then he propped himself on his elbows, eyes already scanning your face. You pushed yourself upright, the sheets rustling around your thighs. His hand found your hip first—fingertips brushing your skin, grounding you. He rolled onto his side and slid his palm to your waist.

“Sit on my face,” he said into your ear, the words rough-edged and close. “Come on, baby.”

It made you laugh—quietly, nervously. Your mouth twitched into a smile before you could suppress it.

“Frankie,” you whispered, placing a hand on his chest, the heat of his skin spreading beneath your palm.

He was already lying flat, arms outstretched, looking up at you like he’d been waiting.

“I’ve never—” you started, shaking your head, voice catching like you’d run out of air. “God.”

“You’ve never done it before?”

You shook your head again, a little embarrassed, feeling your face go hot.

“That’s okay,” he said softly, tapping two fingers against his mouth like an invitation. “You want to try? If you don’t like it, we stop. No questions asked.”

The tension in your chest unraveled, just a little. He always said things like that—as if your pleasure was just as interesting to him as his own. Maybe more.

You bit your lip and nodded. The nerves didn’t vanish, but something steadier took over. Wanting.

You straddled him, knees on either side of his ribs, heart thudding. He gripped your thighs immediately, guiding you higher on his body, closer to where he wanted you, where you now felt almost dizzy with anticipation. You braced your hands on the headboard behind him, catching your breath, your stomach twisting like you were standing at the edge of something enormous.

Frankie’s hands tightened at your thighs. Then he pulled you toward his mouth, gently but insistently. And when his tongue met you—just a soft, almost reverent touch—you let your eyes fall closed.

He groaned beneath you, not loudly, but enough that you felt it vibrate straight through your core.

“Sit down, baby,” he murmured into your skin.

You looked down at him, your fingers brushing through his hair. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth already open.

“I’m gonna crush you,” you whispered, voice tinged with breathless laughter.

He clicked his tongue, grinning faintly.

“You won’t.” His grip tightened. “Come on. Sit.”

And so you did.

You let your body go, easing your weight onto him, feeling the warm, slick press of his mouth between your thighs. He didn’t hesitate—his hands firm on your hips, holding you there, anchoring you. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes—no, not deliberate, more like he was savoring you. Like he’d waited all day for this.

The feeling was overwhelming. All-consuming. You gripped the headboard tighter, eyes fluttering shut as you rocked gently against his mouth, your stomach coiling with heat and need.

You didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. You couldn't, anyway. Just his hands, your body, the impossible tension building, the tender chaos of it.

Frankie held you tighter, groaning into you again, and you wondered how you’d ever gone this long without knowing what this felt like.

His mouth moved with intention, his tongue tracing the shape of you like he already knew exactly how you liked to be touched there. He sucked, not too hard, just enough to make your hips jerk forward instinctively, but every time they did, his hands pushed you gently back into place, grounding you. Holding you where he wanted you.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut, head tipping back as if you couldn’t quite bear the intensity. Your breath came out in broken fragments, shallow and fast, your body rising and falling with every pass of his tongue.

And then it happened—unexpected, sudden, like being pulled under by a wave you didn’t see coming. Your orgasm hit before you could prepare for it, the muscles in your stomach tightening so fast it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes, you were almost sure of it.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard, trying to silence the noise you felt building in your throat. It took everything in you not to cry out. Not to let him hear just how good he was making you feel.

But he didn’t stop.

The sounds he made—wet, insistent—echoed in the space between your legs. It was obscene, and it made everything inside you clench tighter, made your whole body feel like it was overheating.

It became too much. Your hand flew down to his head and you pulled back, your thighs twitching with aftershocks as his mouth slipped from you with a soft, wet sound.

You stayed where you were, breath coming in ragged pulls, your chest rising like you’d just run full speed down a street. Your entire body felt like it was burning, but you didn’t even think to move off him.

Frankie didn’t ask you to.

He read the moment with perfect clarity, even through the haze. His voice came next: “On your side.”

You obeyed without thinking, without a word. Rolled onto your side and slid backward until your body found his, your ass pressing against the hard length of him. He groaned at the contact, the sound dark and close behind you.

One of his arms slipped underneath your body, curling around your waist, pulling you tighter. The other found its way between your thighs, his fingers slick with your arousal. And then, without hesitation, he pushed inside.

You gasped, just air this time, and your lips parted as the stretch filled you up. He didn’t wait. His hips began to move at once, rhythm urgent, the sound of your bodies meeting soft and rhythmic in the silence of the room.

He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His body was everywhere—behind you, around you, inside you—and the only thing you could do was feel it all. Every thrust. Every soft exhale. Every little tremor that said he was holding back, but barely.

“Oh, my God, Francisco—yes,” you gasped, your eyes shut.

His hand reached your mouth, fingers broad and warm, pressing over your lips. Not roughly. Just enough to muffle the sounds that kept trying to escape you as his hips worked harder, each movement more forceful, more certain than the last. His other hand slid over your stomach, fingertips finding that tender spot just above where you were joined, stroking you in quick, perfect circles.

The bed barely made a sound. Everything felt quiet except the wet hush of his body moving against yours and the jagged rhythm of his breathing right beside your ear. Like the whole world had shrunk to just this room, this bed, the breath and pressure and heat between your bodies.

It overwhelmed you. The depth of him inside you. The weight of his hand covering your mouth. The sensation of his fingers coaxing pleasure from you with such effortless precision. His voice wasn’t speaking anymore, but you could still feel it all over you.

You whimpered beneath his palm, and your body gave in. Your eyes stung. Your ears buzzed. The orgasm crashed into you without warning, without buildup, folding your body in half from the inside out. It was swift, sharp, all-consuming. You didn’t even recognize the sounds leaving your throat, but it didn’t matter. He had you covered. He had all of you.

And still, he didn’t stop. He moved through the aftershocks, chasing his own release, until finally his hand left your mouth and traveled up your stomach, wrapping around your middle, dragging you back into him. His arm held you tight as he came, a low, guttural sound rattling through his chest, so quiet, and yet so visceral. You felt it against your back like thunder under the skin.

You lay there like that, pressed together, tangled in sweat and heat and breath, until the edges of your awareness started to return.

He leaned in, kissed the slope of your shoulder with such aching softness it made your eyes flutter closed again. Your hand reached back instinctively, your fingers slipping through his hair, resting there.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved. Your bodies remained pressed together, your skin still warm, the rhythm of your breathing gradually settling into something calm and even.

Your eyes were shut, lashes brushing the pillow, and your cheek rested against the curve of his bicep. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips, and it almost lulled you into sleep.

Frankie gave you a soft pat on your butt. “Don’t fall asleep,” he murmured, voice rough and barely audible.

You let out a small click of your tongue and turned slowly until you were facing him. The room was dim, the outlines of his face just visible in the warm dark. You watched him for a few seconds, unsure what to say, or if anything even needed to be said.

“No one’s ever made me feel like that before,” you said eventually. It came out quiet, not as a compliment or a confession, but just the truth.

He reached up and touched your cheek, brushing your skin with the back of his fingers.

“That’s unfair,” he said. “We’ll do it again when we’re home. Then you can be as loud as you want.”

A breath of laughter escaped you as you rolled your eyes.

“You’re so cocky.”

He laughed, too—low and sleepy. He blinked slowly, his gaze heavy-lidded and content.

“You’re tired,” you murmured. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m not tempted, to be honest.”

“No?”

“A cold bed, small and empty... or a warm one with you in it,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Not much of a choice.”

You shook your head, laughing again, but quieter this time. “Okay, but you have to leave before it's too late. We really can’t fall asleep again.”

“I’ll set an alarm,” he said. “I’ll leave before anyone wakes up. Promise.”

You pretended to hesitate, your finger drawing an invisible shape on his chest. “Hmm. Okay. Deal.”

He kissed your forehead, and neither of you said anything else for a long while.

When you woke, the space beside you was empty. The sheets were still warm, but Frankie was gone. The indentation of his body remained on the mattress, a quiet reminder that he had, for a time, been curled up there, next to you.

You stretched, arms above your head, a yawn tugging out of you without effort. The clock on your phone glowed 9:03 a.m. You had slept deeply—without interruption, without dreams. The kind of sleep you hadn’t realized your body had been craving.

The air in the room was soft and still. You gathered your clothes and padded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a gentle click. The shower hissed to life, warm water cascading down your shoulders, and you leaned into the sensation. As you ran the soap along your arms, your mind replayed the night before in quiet, vivid flashes: skin against skin, his hands at your waist, the breathless sound of your name in the dark.

Every place your fingers touched now felt like a memory. Like he’d left a map of himself on your body. You smiled, a private smile, one that rose uninvited and uncontainable. Something lodged itself in your chest, unfamiliar and too big to name. You didn't try.

Downstairs, the house buzzed with movement. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with toast and fabric softener and whatever someone was frying on the stove. You felt groomed, refreshed, and ravenously hungry. Everyone was already halfway through breakfast, laughing in fragments, stacking plates, mapping out plans for the rest of the day.

Will and Ben would be leaving in a couple of hours. Santi mentioned that he and Yov were planning to head out after lunch. You took a sip of coffee, the mug warm in your hands, and said, with what you hoped was casual ease, “I’ll go with Francisco.”

Your brother barely glanced up. “Sure,” he replied, like it was the most unremarkable thing in the world.

Across the table, Frankie looked at you. No words, just a glance that lasted a fraction longer than necessary. His hair was slightly damp, and there was a cup of coffee in front of him. And something inside you twisted, in a way that felt strangely comforting. You smiled.

You weren’t sure what it was, this new thing blooming in your chest, but it was there. Undeniable. Present. And it buzzed quietly at the thought of being alone in a car with him again. Just the two of you, nowhere to be but next to each other.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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#frankie morales x reader

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drugsorgasmsandcheese · 7 months ago

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my blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters by the way so if you voted trump or just lick his ass unfollow me thank you kindly

#joel miller x reader #frank castle x reader #logan howlett x reader #bucky barnes x reader #tommy miller x reader #ellie williams x reader #abby anderson x reader #frankie morales x reader #i am not american but my heart breaks for all who are impacted by this

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berryispunk · 12 hours ago

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More Than This

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: friends to lovers, (mutual) pining, failed date trope, Frankie being the consent king, car sex, unprotected PiV, Frankie talks you through, no physical description of reader despite having hair and wearing a dress, kissing, first time, swearing, banter

summary: Two longtime almost-somethings finally cross the line in the front seat of a truck, laughter still on their lips and feelings too big to name.

word count: 4,1 k

You bought a dress for that date—maybe that was your first mistake. You hate dresses. You’ve never felt comfortable in one. The last time you wore one was to a friend’s wedding, and your best friend Frankie had joked, “Geez, hermosa. You look like someone stuffed you into a suit made of glass.”

You shot him a venomous look, so he added, “You look really beautiful, though.”

And you hated how that made your cheeks burn.

Now you’re standing in front of the mirror. The way-too-expensive dress hugs you in all the right places, the color flattering your skin and eyes perfectly—and yet, you’ve never felt more costumed than you do right now.

You sigh at your reflection and mutter, “What am I even doing?” before swiping on some lip gloss—not just pretty, but one that actually tastes good. You wanted to play it safe. You wore the dress, put on the light makeup you rarely touch, even tamed your wild waves into a half-up, half-down situation.

And for a fleeting moment, when you really look at yourself—setting aside the years of low self-esteem and doubt—you think you might actually look… decent.

You give yourself a final, uncertain nod before grabbing your purse and heading out, the apartment door clicking shut behind you.

An Uber ride later, you’re standing in front of the Italian restaurant he picked. Fancy outdoor seating, cozy fairy lights, the kind of place where the pasta costs more than your weekly paycheck. One look at the menu outside tells you he either wasn’t messing around—or he thought spending big would guarantee he’d get you into bed.

It’s already dark. The city hums around you. Every time the restaurant door opens, you catch laughter and the clink of glasses.

Ten minutes pass. You check your phone. No message.

Twenty minutes. You call him. Straight to voicemail.

Thirty minutes. That’s when it sinks in.

You’ve been ditched and your shoulders slump in defeat. Of fucking course this happened.

Like the universe saw you trying and decided to point and laugh.

Almost on instinct, you dial Frankie's number.

It’s Friday night—his usual night out with the guys—and you’re not even sure he’ll pick up. But he does, after just three rings.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm through the speaker. There’s muffled chatter in the background.

“Hey, sorry. I know it’s your night with the boys… I just—” You exhale. “I got ditched.”

There’s a pause. Then he mutters, “What an ass. I’m sorry, hermosa.” And it’s sincere. You can picture his brown eyes soft with sympathy, his brows furrowed.

“Well… it is what it is, I guess. It’s just… I’m standing in front of this way-too-fancy Italian place, all dolled up and totally stood up.”

“You got dressed up for a guy who didn’t even show? Didn’t even have the balls to cancel?”

“Guess so,” you say with a shrug he can’t see.

He scoffs. “Where’s this fancy place?”

“Downtown. You know—the neighborhood with all those restaurants that are way out of our league. It’s next to that sushi spot where you order everything on a tablet.”

“Oh!” He laughs. “Are you sure you’re not in a parallel universe?”

You smile despite yourself. “I don’t know… are you still a pilot?”

That earns a deep, rumbling laugh—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. That sound alone fills your chest with something warm and familiar.

“Guess I am. You want me to come pick you up in the chopper, or is my truck good enough?”

“Betsy’s more than good enough,” you say, your mood already lighter.

“Give me twenty. You have a jacket?”

“Yes,” you lie.

“I’ll spot you easily. You’ll be the one in the dress,” he teases. “Can’t miss you.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He whistles low. “A dress, even? Damn. You really went all in.”

“Shut up.”

“Nah, no bad words now or I’ll make you call another Uber,” he threatens playfully.

You grin. “Drive safe.”

“See you soon,” he says, and the line goes dead.

For a moment, you press your phone to your chest, eyes closed, letting that feeling settle inside you—just for this little fragment of time.

It takes just under twenty minutes like he promised, and when his truck pulls up to the curb, the window rolls down and Frankie leans across the seat.

“Damn,” he whistles low, eyes trailing from your heels to your half-done hair. “You clean up scary good, hermosa.”

You shoot him a look as you climb in. “Don’t start.”

He grins but dials it back, sensing the edge in your voice even if you’re trying to hide it. His truck smells like leather, old cologne, and the gum he always chews when he’s trying not to smoke.

“You wanna just head home?” he asks after a beat, voice gentler. “Or… we can still go in. Use the reservation. What’s the guy’s name?”

You blink at him. “You’d go in there like that?”

Frankie looks down at his faded pale blue t-shirt—the one you love, the one stretched snug over his broad chest and shoulders like it was made for him. His jeans are dark, casual, ripped at the knee. His old cap sits low over his curls. Sneakers just a little dirty from god knows what.

He shrugs. “I look like money, baby,” he says, smug. “Just… not in the wallet.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself.

“His name’s Ethan,” you mutter.

“Ethan,” Frankie repeats, exaggerated and dramatic. “Yeah, no way that guy wouldn’t ghost someone. Let’s go ruin his night by enjoying his reservation.”

You snort as he hops out and jogs around to open your door. He offers a hand with an exaggerated bow and a ridiculous accent. “Madam.”

“Stop,” you laugh, slapping his hand lightly, but he just grins and tugs you out anyway, hand lingering at the small of your back as he guides you toward the host stand.

Inside the fairy-lit patio, Frankie squares his shoulders. “Reservation for Ethan,” he says with a deadpan face that makes your lips twitch.

The hostess glances down at her list, then smiles. “Right this way.”

You both follow her to a small table tucked under a string of lights. Frankie steps ahead and—without missing a beat—pulls out your chair and gestures with a grand flourish. “After you, my lady.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you sit. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot tonight.”

He settles across from you, slouching just a little, his cap still on like this is some burger joint. You’re surrounded by people in collared shirts, dresses with price tags that probably have commas. And yet somehow, Frankie is the one you’d bet on if things went south.

The menus arrive. You both open them—and his eyebrows immediately shoot up.

“Thirty dollars,” he says in disbelief, leaning across the table, voice lowered like he’s sharing government secrets. “For garlic bread. What’s it made with? Gold?”

You snort, covering your mouth, and suddenly the ache in your chest feels a little lighter.

You murmur, “It’s probably infused with unicorn tears or something.”

He nods sagely. “That tracks. Comes with a side of pretension and a tiny napkin you’re afraid to use.”

You’re smiling before you realize it, teeth and all. He catches it, and something shifts—just for a second—in the way he looks at you. His eyes linger. Not just at your face, but at you. At all of you. And for a breath too long, it’s quiet.

Then he clears his throat and leans back, casually flipping the menu like he didn’t just undo your whole night in a single glance.

“Alright, what’s the cheapest thing on here that won’t make me regret being born poor?”

By the time the plates are cleared, your shoes are kicked off under the table and Frankie’s halfway into a story about one of his army buddies who tried to use a drone to deliver flowers to his long-distance girlfriend and nearly took out a neighbor’s cat.

You’re wheezing, head in your hand, tears prickling your eyes from laughing. “Stop, stop—I can’t breathe.”

Frankie just grins, legs stretched out lazily under the table, wine glass in hand. “I swear on Betsy’s rusty tailpipe. Dude duct-taped a bouquet to the drone. Thing went rogue. Looked like an airborne threat. The girl screamed and hit it with a broom.”

You lean back, the last laugh still stuck in your throat, and you shake your head with a sigh. “God. Why do I always feel better after talking to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches you. And it’s not playful now—it’s quiet. Steady.

You glance away quickly, your skin heating under his gaze, needing to shift the air between you.

“Alright, change of subject,” you say, reaching for your water like it might save you. “When was your last fancy date?”

Frankie leans back, sipping the last of his wine. He takes his time answering, eyes drifting somewhere just past you, like he’s thinking about it.

Then, without looking away, he says simply, “This one.”

Your fingers freeze around the glass.

You blink. “This—Frankie, this isn’t a date.”

He shrugs, casual. “Pretty much is one. Look around.”

And you do. The candlelight. The wine. The faint hum of music and laughter around you. The tiny table you’re leaning across like it’s just the two of you in the world.

You shake your head, trying to fight the grin creeping up. “You got me there.”

His answering smile is slow, a little smug, all charm with a flicker of something else underneath.

He tilts his head. “You think there’s a chance for a second one?”

You inhale too fast and almost choke on your drink. Frankie reaches across the table immediately, laughing as you sputter and wave him off, your face burning hotter than ever.

“Oh my god,” you manage once you’ve recovered, wiping at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just watches you with that same look—the one that sees more than you want to admit. Warm and focused, like he’s waiting.

And suddenly, your heart won’t stop pounding.

The ride back is quieter than usual.

Not awkward—never awkward with Frankie—but different. The kind of quiet that hums with unsaid things, like the air’s tuned to a frequency only your heart can hear.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, other draped over the center console, fingers tapping softly to some old Eagles track playing low from the speakers. You’ve ridden shotgun in his truck more times than you can count, but tonight—even barefoot and with your heels kicked off in the footwell—something about the way your knees brush when he turns, the way the city lights catch the profile of his face, it all feels sharper.

Like you’re suddenly aware of everything.

He pulls up in front of your place, kills the engine, and for a moment, neither of you move. The sudden silence makes the air feel heavy. Dense.

“Thanks,” you say, soft, fingers curling around the strap of your purse but not moving to open the door yet.

He nods, eyes on the windshield. “Course.”

Another second passes. Then another.

And then he turns to look at you—and it’s different than before.

No grin. No teasing smirk. Just that steady, unreadable look that pins you in place. His eyes flick down, just once, to your lips, then back up. And something in your stomach flips so hard it feels like free fall.

You swallow, suddenly unsure where to look. “You okay?”

His voice is low, almost rough. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect this night to feel like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, then shakes his head. “Like I don’t wanna say goodnight.”

Your pulse trips. He’s still looking at you—calm, unhurried, but there’s something behind his gaze. Intent.

“Frankie…” you start, but you don’t even know what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly, enough that you can smell the hint of wine on his breath, see the way his eyes search yours.

“Can I…” he pauses, and his voice drops even softer, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

You freeze.

Not because you don’t want it.

Because you do.

And that terrifies you a little more than being ditched in front of a five-star restaurant ever did.

But you nod, just once.

And that’s all it takes.

His lips brush yours first—barely there, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. A whisper of warmth. A test. But when you don’t pull back, when you lean into it instead, the kiss deepens—slow, searching. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like this isn’t the first time he’s thought about it.

You feel the heat of his palm as it lifts to your jaw, thumb grazing the line of your cheek. The rasp of stubble on his face against your skin. The warmth that blooms in your chest, low and deep, and spreads like fire in your veins.

And then the kiss shifts—gentle becomes hungry, careful becomes aching. His breath catches when your fingers twist into the front of his shirt. You feel the hitch of his chest under your palm, the subtle tension in every muscle of his body.

That’s when it hits you.

That pang of fear—sharp, cold, and sudden. Like a crack down the middle of something you didn’t know was fragile.

You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing his. “I don’t… I don’t want this to mean nothing.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the space between you like glass. “You’re too important to me for that.”

His eyes flicker open, dark and burning, but there’s something wrecked and tender there too—like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“It could never mean nothing,” he says, voice tight with restraint, “not when it’s you.”

And before the moment can shatter under the weight of what’s unspoken, you’re already moving. Climbing into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, your dress hiking up around your thighs. His hands go instinctively to your hips—hot and sure—steadying you as your mouth finds his again, desperate and deep.

You grind down without thinking, seeking friction, seeking him, and the groan that tears out of his throat nearly undoes you.

“Fuck…” he hisses, jaw tight as your hips roll again. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the soft curve of your sides through the thin fabric. You can feel everything—the hardness beneath you, the heat between you, the way his self-control is hanging on by a thread.

“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with…” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, voice thick with restraint and want.

But then his hands slide up, just slightly, thumbs brushing the edge of your panties. He swallows hard, eyes searching yours with something devastatingly tender.

“Do you really want this?”

You cradle his face between your hands, feel the roughness of his jaw, the tension in his throat, the question caught in his breath.

“Yes,” you breathe, sure now, all fear swallowed by the way he’s looking at you.

And that’s what breaks him.

His mouth is on yours again, all hunger and heat, and the next moment, his hands are under your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t stand a single inch of distance between you. Your hips move in rhythm, desperate and dizzying, your moans muffled by his mouth, and it’s not soft anymore.

Your fingers fumble impatiently at the zipper of his jeans, and he lets out a low breath as he lifts his hips to help, the moment messy and rushed but needed. You manage to drag the denim and his boxers down just enough to free him, and then—

slap—his cock springs up, thick and flushed, hitting against the flat of his stomach just below the soft trail of hair leading down his torso.

Your breath catches. Eyes going wide.

“Where were you hiding this?” you laugh, half breathless, half shy, and more than a little dazed.

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, grinning in that way that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you for real right now?” he laughs, incredulous, but there’s something in his tone—relief, maybe, or just the sheer sweetness of the way your wonder makes the moment lighter. Less about desperation, more about this. You and him. Real and present.

Your hand wraps around him and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips twitching under you. He’s hot in your palm, heavy and pulsing with need as you stroke him slowly, dragging your fingers down his length and then back up again.

His other hand slides down to your thigh, then under, gripping the soft swell of your ass like he’s grounding himself. You shift above him, and your soaked panties brush against his tip, dragging a choked sound from his throat.

“Fuuuck…” he groans, low and raw, head tipping back against the headrest as his grip tightens. “You’re killing me…”

But it’s you who feels undone—your whole body humming, skin oversensitive, panties damp and clinging between your thighs. You grind again without meaning to, searching for the friction, and he meets you there, hips bucking up with a groan, one hand guiding you, the other gripping your ass like he never wants to let go.

You can feel the heat of him against your soaked center now—barely held back by the thin fabric. The way he twitches under your touch. The way your own body aches to take him in.

And still, even in all of it, the need, the panting want, there’s something tender under it—his eyes locked on yours, wide and wanting, asking silently even now:

Are you sure? Are we really doing this?

Your answer is a kiss—slow, deep, reassuring. And the way he sighs into your mouth, the way his body melts just a little even in his tension, tells you everything.

You lift your hips just enough to reach between you, pushing your soaked panties to the side, and you both shudder at the touch—his head falling back for a moment again, jaw tight, eyes nearly fluttering shut.

"Jesus," he murmurs, voice barely there, breath hot against your cheek. "You’re—mierda, you’re so wet."

Your hand guides him, the thick head of him slipping through your slick folds, not quite inside yet. You’re both holding back. Just for a beat.

And then, slowly, you sink down onto him.

The stretch pulls a gasp from your lips—burning and full, inch by inch, your body molding to fit him, claiming him. His fingers dig into your hips, breath caught in his throat like he’s trying not to come undone too fast.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, shaky, already trembling around him as he fills you completely. You feel split open, raw, but not in a way that hurts—in a way that feels real. Like nothing else has ever quite touched you like this.

He exhales your name like a prayer. Like maybe he’s been saying it in his sleep.

“You okay?” he breathes, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, unable to speak at first. The only sound you can make is a soft whimper when your hips shift and he grinds up into you. You're so full it makes your thighs quake, your pulse hammer in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your back to pull you closer, his other hand cradling your jaw like something precious. “You feel—shit, baby, you feel so good.”

It nearly unravels you the second his baby hits the air. It’s not like he’s never said it before—he has, usually with a smirk or in some over-the-top teasing way. But not like this. Not in that breathless, low voice that sends a flush up your neck and down your spine. You never thought you’d hear him sound like that—raw, wrecked—and more than that, you never thought you’d see him like this.

You start to move again, slow and searching. Your hips roll in a rhythm that’s less about pace and more about feeling—chasing heat, chasing closeness. Each motion builds something between you, heat coiling low in your belly, the drag of him inside you sending flickers of pleasure that grow brighter with every pass. He meets each shift of your hips with a steady thrust of his own, syncing to your rhythm like second nature—like there’s no space left between you, like you’ve both forgotten where one ends and the other begins.

You tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, breathing his name, and he groans into the skin of your throat, lips ghosting kisses over every inch he can reach. So soft and loving it makes your heart ache.

The car creaks faintly with every shift of your bodies, and the windows are fogged up completely now—your own little world, sealed off from everything but the heat between you.

He’s panting by now and when he thrusts up just a little harder, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch and your nails dig into his shoulders, he mutters, “That’s it… just like that, hermosa, ride me just like that. You’re so beautiful like this.”

It’s not just sex—it’s something else, something deeper. It’s the way he watches you like you hung the stars. The way your body responds to his like it’s been waiting all this time. The way you already know what each other needs.

As the pressure starts to crest in your core, your moans grow more desperate, head falling back, hips moving faster—he grips your ass tighter, guiding you, grounding you even as you fall apart. “Frankie—” you gasp, the way his name sounds half like a sob, half like something sacred.

“I know, baby, I know,” he groans. “Let go. I’ve got you, promise.”

And you do—coming with a cry, pulsing and clenching around him, and the feeling of you unraveling is what finally tips him over the edge too. He buries his face in your neck and lets go, warmth spreading deep inside you as he spills, every muscle taut, breath coming in short, reverent gasps, holding you tight.

The only sound left in the car is the soft panting of your shared breaths, the thudding echo of your hearts trying to slow down.

After a few steadying breaths, you lift your head and look at him—really look at him. His cheeks are flushed, beautifully pink, his hair wild and damp with sweat, a few strands stuck to his forehead. You’re sure you’ve never seen anything more devastatingly handsome. He’s watching you too, eyes gentle and searching. One of his hands rises to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

Then—just a beat later—he laughs. Soft. Unfiltered. And it startles you a little, the sound tugging a smile from your lips that quickly grows into a laugh of your own. You're still joined, and the movement makes everything shift, drawing a shared breathless sound between you. It’s ridiculous. Intimate. Familiar in a way that makes something tight in your chest loosen.

You’ve laughed together a thousand times before. But this? This feels different. Like the echo of something that matters.

“Well…” he murmurs, his hands sliding back to your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into your skin, “that wasn’t exactly how I pictured our first time.”

You smirk, still a little shaky. “You pictured having sex with me before?”

He grins, all faux innocence and flushed cheeks. “Maybe…”

You raise a brow, clearly not buying it, and he catches your look, chuckling as he adds—almost sheepish—“Think next time we could do this at mine or yours? Might be a bit more comfortable than Betsy.”

You nod, no hesitation. “Next time,” you say, “I want you to take me out first. But not to a fancy place like tonight. Something more us. Okay?”

His whole face lights up like you just gave him the best news of his life. “Okay,” he says, beaming.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

tags: @speaktothehandpeasants @kungfucapslock @felix-enthusiast @bergamote-catsandbooks @kakiki3 @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @capuccinodoll @almostfoxglove @whirlwindrider29 @jolapeno @cuteanimalmama @christinamadsen @sheepdogchick3 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @brittmb115 @greenwitchfromthewoods @diabaroxa @glycerinrivers @biapascal @copperhalfcent @beaniebailey @thepilatesprincess @axshadows @kirsteng42 @joelsgoodgirl @ellenmunn @matchalov3 @canadianfangirl-95 @picketniffler @hotforpedro @tuquoquebrute @noovaarq @warmdragonfly @theanothersherlockian @littleluc @76bookworm76 @inept-the-magnificent @confusedpuffin @wheatmaze @rav3n-pascal22 @picketniffler @lostinmyownmaze @misstokyo7love @pascalispunkczechia @pasc4lfuzz @cheekychaos28

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lackofhonor · 2 days ago

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Me: 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 I love this. So good!

Come Softly

Frankie Morales x nonbinary!reader

Masterlist : Triple Frontier Masterlist

Summary: At Will's wedding, Frankie noticed your back pain.

Warnings: Chronic back and neck pain and feelings around that. Ablism. Misgendering.

Immersivity: Reader uses they/them pronouns. Reader dresses more fem for the wedding (dress, talks about heels), reader has chronic back/neck pain.

Written for @mani-pedro I had this idea in my head for a while but I saw you were in pain rn and needed comfort so I decided NOW IS THE TIME

Written also for Disability Visibility! Theres one more technical day left as it goes through May, BUT I have a few who reached out about extensions so if you need one just hmu!!!

1.4k Words

A/N: Yes this is a version on my LAL universe you'll recognize the names Alice and Lorelei okay I just like using them in other stories!!

The night had been going well, honestly. Frankie had convinced you it was okay to wear your flats, the ones with doctor Scholl's support built in to help the body pains, and although it did upset you that your body couldn’t handle the sexy heels you used to rock back in the day, you do feel more comfortable.

Only Benny’s girlfriend, Alice, had made a comment about the shoes, but you didn't feel like a fight tonight. You didn’t know what Ben saw in her, especially when it was clear to everyone but Ben that Santi was in love with him. Ben was a mystery to everyone, including Will. Despite the outgoing personality, he kept his secrets to himself.

You danced slow to Come Softly To Me by the Fleetwoods, Frankie’s arms wrapped around you. Frankie looked handsome as ever, his little tuxedo and bowtie, grinning like an idiot the whole time he stood to the right of Will for his wedding. Frankie loved his friends dearly, and seeing them happy made him happy. You thumb at your engagement ring. You and him were next.

He rubs at the known sore spots, the backless dress allowing open access. “How are you feeling? I notice you’ve been sitting a lot.”

You want to lie and say fine, but you knew you needed to trust Frankie with your pain, love him enough to share it.

“My back hurts…” You mumble into the crisp, starched dress clothes.

“Usual spots, or more whole back?”

“Whole upper back and then that spot lower right. By my ribs.”

Frankie hums, starts rubbing at that spot to ease it. Frankie knows all your usual pain points, the pain and him long enemies. You once joked that him and your back were enemies, but Frankie insisted it wasn’t your back that was the problem, but the pain. You know he doesn’t want to issue the blame to your body, but sometimes it’s like you can’t separate the two. Your body and pain were one most days, it was just a matter or how much. You never could medicate to pain free, only manageable.

🎶‘I want, want you to know

I love, I love you so

Please hold, hold me so tight

All through, all through the night’🎶

“Feels nice…” You love how he touches you, whether for pleasure or to ease the pain, sometimes both. His longer fingers knew intimately the ways in which you hurt, the ways you tingled and aches and thrummed. He knew how to take so much of the pain away. Never all of it, but much of it. He was a pilot, an engineer. You body was like a plane to him, something his hands were capable of bringing to their highest performance.

In the early days of dating him, it was a rare fight, but his attentiveness did, in fact, cause one. You were tired of chasing a cure. While you tried new things to ease the pain, you gave up searching to cure pain that had been with you for so long. Your neck and back were fucked, they always would be. Frankie hadn’t given up on you, and you found it sweet… but sometimes you had wondered if he was trying to cure his way into a partner who could sit at barstools without a backrest, who could go on long hikes, who didn’t need a heating pad packed every vacation and a medicine cabinet full of remedies.

You wondered if he wished he had a partner who could wear heels.

It had caused a fight, and you tried to break up with him, tried to free him… but Frankie never let you go.

“No.”

That was his response to the break up. He didn’t mean it in a possessive way, in the way of ‘you are never allowed to leave me’ but in the way of ‘I know what you’re doing, and I won’t allow it.’

Since then he’d made you feel like it was his pleasure to care for you, that it was something he enjoyed, something he’d do whether or not you were disabled.

Dum-dum, dum-doo-dum, dooby-doo

Dum-dum, dum-doo-dum, dooby-doo...

The song fades away, and Frankie pulls you towards the bathroom. “Come on, I got some icey hot patches.”

In the family bathroom, you try to protest. “I don’t need it… I’ll be fine.”

Frankie turns you around, using the open back to access the two pain spots. Your heart clenched, realizing he’d packed icy hot for you in his wallet, just in case…

The relief was damn near immediate.

“There we go.” Once again you are maneuvered, this time to him where he gave your lips a peck.

You frown at him. “But I can’t cover up the patches…”

He looks at you with a question. “So?”

“People will see…”

“Baby…” Frankie grabs your shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re in pain, this is a treatment. Don’t be embarrassed. I got your back, always.”

You knew he did. You smile at him. He always did.

Frankie was talking to Ben, Santi, and Alice although that last part was not voluntary. You were over by the snacks talking to Will’s new wife, Lorelei, and he was waiting for a chance to go rejoin you… but you two seemed to be getting on so well. It was nice when their partners got along; no one liked Alice, and it made an issue.

“Well, they have back pain.” Ben starts explaining why your neck and back hurt all the time, which snapped Frankie back to reality.

“Hm?” He turns back to his friends (and Alice.)

Alice speaks quick to deflect, “It’s nothing! Just saying she looks very pretty with those shoes.” She gestures to you.

“They” Santiago correct. “And no, you fucking weren’t, you were being a bitch.”

Frankie’s eyes widened. It takes a lot for Santi to call a woman a bitch; his mother would kill him.

Ben turns to Santi. “Jesus Pope! Relax”

“No!” Pope points at Ben. “Your girlfriend is a bitch and she’s rude to everyone, including you! Everyone sees it but you’re so blind you can’t see you deserve to be treated-!”

“Hey!” Frankie stepped in between his two friends, veins thrumming because he knew she said something about you but there was another matter to deal with. His hands kept the men apart. “We are not doing this at Will’s wedding.” He turned to Alice. “Are you going to tell me what you said?”

Alice hesitated for a moment, then her face settled, dropping the mask of innocence. She is about to stand on her shit. “She- they or whatever, is making a scene at someone else’s wedding. It’s embarrassing to watch.”

He turns to look at Ben as Ben looks at his girlfriend, confused. He’s seeing her for the first time exactly as she is. “Why would you say that… They’re in pain…”

Alice tried to refute that you were just looking for attention.

Frankie turned back to Alice. “Do not. Ever. Speak about my fiance like that. Ever.”

She glares right back. “You can’t tell me what to-”

“Get out.” Ben’s voice from beside Frankie. When she looked shocked, he insisted. “I mean it. We’re fucking done, Alice.”

She took a step forward, and when Benny flinched Santi stepped between them. When he was angry, Santi was a fearful sight.

Alice stormed off. Ben, anxiety over finally breaking up ran off in another direction, Santi taking off after him. Frankie wandered his way back to you.

On a long bench outside, you lay on Frankie’s lap while he rubbed your neck. Only a few straggles from the wedding party and those not ready to end the night remained. You watched Will and Lorelei dance their last dance. Santi and Ben danced in the corner.

“What was all that about? Earlier?” You asked, eyes on the others.

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“I thought a fight was about to break out. I tried to keep Lorelei distracted, didn’t want her to see a fight at her wedding.”

Of course you’d noticed. You always did.

Frankie sighed. “Alice said something shitty, Ben decided it was his last straw.”

“OOOHHHH! That’s why Santi and Benny are finally dancing together. Did you stop the fight?”

Frankie thought back. Usually, he was the peacemaker. But he wasn’t sure he was the calmest person in the room that moment. Definitely calmer than Santi and his anger issues though.

“We got it figured out. I think she’s gone now.”

He rubbed your neck, getting right at that spot right where your scalp ended.

“Thank you for taking care of me, baby.”

“Always gonna take care of you. Always.”

THANKS FOR READING ILYYYY

So happy with so many great submissions to my event!

and thank yall so much for all the support while i struggle with my anxiety. it has not been easy <3

Please consider reblogging to support artists and writers

tagging usually plus thos whove expressed chronic neck/back pain to me as well. I suffer from it pretty bad so this was near and dear to me.

@my-secret-shame @missdictatorme @sunshineispunk @pedge-page @miraclesabound @clawdee @max--phillips @kewwrites

appriciate y'all. Wen to the doctor, got back on anti anxiety and anti depressants. Hopefully will be feeling better soon.

Other piece written for event is Joel x deaf!reader

#frankie morales x reader #Francisco morales x reader #francisco morales #triple frontier #frankie catfish morales #Francisco catfish morales #benpope #nonbinary reader #soft frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #x reader #triple frontier fanfiction

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flightlessangelwings · 2 years ago

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Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.

Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.

Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!

And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!

And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!

We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.

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salingers · 3 months ago

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@clubsoft, aka dulsè.

↓ REC.

CLINT. GOT MUSCLE? DIETER. STARSTRUCK. JAVIER. LOVE NOTES. REED. OVER THE MOON.

↓ TBR.

JAVIER. BLUSH. JOEL. 2D.

@cosmicaura7, aka tubbie.

↓ TBR.

FRANKIE. WHOLE PACKAGE, BABE, I LIKE THE WAY YOU FIT.

@cxrsed-angel, aka angel.

↓ TBR.

JAVIER. NEVER HAVE I EVER. JOEL. OVERTIME.

@damneddamsy, aka dams.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. FALLING.

@fakeplasticlovers, aka mia.

↓ REC.

JOEL. HOTEL CALIFORNIA.

@flawssy-227, aka flawssy.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. ALL I DO. ASK ME NICELY. CORN. LATE.

@flordeamatista, aka ali.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. A SWEETER PLACE.

@gothcsz, aka kat.

↓ REC.

FRANKIE. FIRST SIGHT. JAVIER. BLOCKED & BEGGING. DARK ROOM. EL CUMPLEAÑERO. VISITATION. MARCUS. FLESH & GOLD. THE HEAT OF THE THERMAE. III. ONE OF THE GIRLS. SAFETY NET. YOUR FAVORITE PEDRO BOY. FLEX.

↓ TBR.

JAVIER. HANDS TO MYSELF. WANDERING HANDS. JOEL. DUSK.

@inklore, aka lauren.

↓ REC.

FRANKIE. EYES ON ME. JAVIER. LITTLE BLACK DRESS. JOEL. ROADSIDE DELIGHT.

↓ TBR.

DIN. SAFE HAVEN. JAVIER. PARTY FAVOR. JOEL. FOOL ME TWICE. IMPETUOUS.

@joelsdagger, aka noelle.

↓ REC.

JOEL. A LOVE SO FINE. THAT’S THE WAY ROAD DOGS DO IT. WALK THE LINE.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. ALL THE THINGS I WOULD DO. ‘TIS THE SEASON.

@joeloverture, aka vetty.

↓ REC.

JOEL. BENEATH THE WINDOW. DEADFALL. FLESH CURRENCY. HOOK ‘EM. SNOWBOUND.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. COMEUPPANCE. FAIR’S FAIR.

@juletheghoul, aka jules.

↓ REC.

CLINT. FATHER FIGURE. FRANKIE. CHORES.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. GROWN. TEASE.

@kedsandtubesocks, aka erika.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. GAME CHANGER. LUCIEN. THIS HIGH OF YOU AND ME.

@letsgobarbs, aka loops.

↓ REC.

DAVE. HOMECOMING.

↓ TBR.

PERO. A GROOM ON A BRIDE TRAIN.

@liltangerineart, aka raquel.

↓ REC.

JOEL. CONSEQUENCES.

↓ TBR.

DIN. KEEP UP WITH ME. JAVIER. OLD HABITS DIE HARD.

@mari-positas, aka vee.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. A SAFE HAVEN.

@moonlight-prose, aka ms. witch.

↓ TBR.

FRANKIE. BREAKFAST. GIVE ME ALL OF YOU. JAVIER. CARNAL DESIRE. JOEL. FROM EDEN, LOVE GROWS. SAFE HAVEN. SWEETENED BREATH & TONGUE SO MEAN.

@mybvalentine, aka valeria.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. BURNING DESIRE. SHOW ME. SWEET FOR YOU. TEXAS MORNING.

@nathanbatemanfucker, aka arson.

↓ REC.

JOEL. SET THE TABLE.

↓ TBR.

DIN. AMBROSIAL. CLINT. THE LITTLE BLUE COTTAGE. JAVIER. GIVE ME MORE.

@ovaryacted, aka nic.

↓ REC.

CLINT. LEVERAGE. JOEL. JAGGED EDGE. MARCUS. SAFETY NET.

↓ TBR.

JOEL. HEADRUSH. TIME CRUNCH. MARCUS. REPRIEVE.

@pedroscurls, aka jamie.

↓ REC.

JOEL. LET ME SHOW YOU. STRANDED.

↓ TBR.

JAVIER. ALL WE ARE. INNOCENT EYES.

@penvisions, aka dev.

↓ REC.

FRANKIE. ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING.

↓ TBR.

FRANKIE. COFFEE & CANDOR. STEP BY STEP.

@stargirlfics, aka amalia.

↓ REC.

JOEL. MISBEHAVIOR. STANDING IN THE EYE OF THE STORM.

@superhoeva, aka simone.

↓ TBR.

FRANKIE. THE STUDY.

@sweetercalypso, aka elaine.

↓ REC.

JOEL. SOBER. WHAT TAKES THE EDGE OFF.

↓ TBR.

FRANKIE. SOMETHING RIGHT.

@thundermartini, aka dana.

↓ TBR.

DAVE. KEEP DRIVING. JAVIER. TOUCH TANK.

@yxtkiwiyxt, aka kiwi.

↓ TBR.

JAVIER. BLURRED LINES. LAP DANCE.

587 notes · View notes

sunshinehaze1 · 3 months ago

Text

Sizzlin’

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Your friend convinces you to attend a BBQ at her boyfriend’s friend’s house. The last thing you expected was meeting Frankie.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. meet-cute, drinking (beers), slight dubcon (both reader and Frankie have had 2 beers, Frankie checks in), f!oral (it is Frankie, duh!), protected PiV, no use of Y/N

a/n: This was written for @yxtkiwiyxt’s NHIE Challenge. I received the prompt, “Never have I ever slept in someone else’s bed.” I LOVED this challenge and this was so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy! Thank you to my beautiful beta reader @80ssong 🥰

word count: 5,176

ao3 | ml

"Come on, his friends are really hot!"

Sabrina has been bugging you to attend a BBQ with her boyfriend's friends this weekend. They've been dating for over a year, and you've hung out with him a few times, but his golden retriever puppy energy can be overwhelming. He's a great guy, though, and he makes her happy. You're thrilled your closest friend has found someone who treats her right.

You roll your eyes. "I'm not looking to date right now."

"Who said anything about dating?" your friend counters. "You could just have some fun."

You brush her off at the suggestion. "Please, will you just come? His friends are a lot of fun."

Finally, you relent. "Ok, fine, I'll go. It's not like I had any plans this weekend anyway."

Sabrina lets out a delighted squeal and wraps you in a bear hug. "Perfect, I'll send you the address and meet you there at 3."

"Should I bring anything?" you ask as you walk your friend to the door.

"They're simple guys. Beer will do just fine." Sabrina waves goodbye and closes the door behind her.

—

With the address in the GPS and a couple of six packs in the passenger seat, you begin your drive. You're nervous about being in a new place and meeting new people, especially those who are "really hot." It's early fall in Florida, so you can still get away with wearing a sundress. The heat won't take a break for at least another two months, so you wear your favorite one to boost your confidence. "Fake it til you make it," right?

You pull into a quiet neighborhood. The streets are lined with older homes shaded with mature trees, dripping in Spanish moss. The GPS pings as you approach your final destination, and you park on the street in front of a one-story brick home with a driveway full of pickup trucks and Jeeps.

Before you exit the car, you take a final look in the rearview mirror to adjust your hair and ensure your makeup hasn't melted off. Taking a deep breath, you grab a six-pack in each hand and head toward the house.

—

"Pope, for fuck's sake!" A broad-shouldered man, who fills the entire door frame, swings the front door open just as you reach for the doorbell. Your arms flail in surprise, and you fumble to keep the beer from crashing onto the pavement.

"Oh, shit." the man startles. "Sorry about that; I was just going out to get something from my truck. Here, let me help you with those." His calloused hands brush over yours to grab the cartons from your hands.

"Um," you stammer. "Thank you." Sabrina definitely wasn't exaggerating. Benny's friends are hot—at least this one is.

You take him in, starting with broad shoulders covered in a washed-out maroon t-shirt underneath a chambray button-up. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his sinewy forearms. You notice a small bullseye tattoo on his hand resting between his thumb and index finger. A ballcap with an unfamiliar logo sits atop a mop of brown curls, which peek out in the back. His eyes are a rich brown; crinkles form at the corners when he smiles wide, dimpling his right cheek.

You follow him inside the house. He sets down the beers and extends his hand to greet you. "I'm Frankie. You must be Sabrina's friend."

"It's nice to meet you, Frankie." His strong hand wraps around yours, and you introduce yourself.

Frankie quickly excuses himself and heads back outside to his truck.

—

"HEEYYYYYYYY!!!" you hear Sabrina sing-song as she walks into the house from the backyard. "You made it!" She greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a warm hug. She whispers in your ear teasingly, "So, I see you've met Frankie."

Shyly, "Yeah, we met. Almost lost a few beers in the process."

"I'm so glad you made it!" She drags you behind her toward the backyard. "Let me introduce you to everyone else."

You were surprised to see only Benny and two other men outside. This was a more intimate gathering than you had realized, immediately putting you at ease.

Sabrina introduces you to your host, Santiago, or "Pope," as you soon learn. Benny is two for two on the handsome friend count. He's shorter than Frankie, has dark hair and features, a broad smile, and a gregarious personality.

Next, you meet Benny's older brother, Will. Blonde hair, blue eyes, much more reserved than his brother. A strong, silent type. He seems content to be in his own world while he attends the grill.

You hear the grind of the sliding glass door behind you. Frankie walks through the threshold, waving a stack of folders in the air. "Got 'em!"

"My man!" Santiago slaps him on the back, "Thank you."

With his mission accomplished, Frankie finally has a chance to take you in fully. His gaze travels the length of your body, taking in your soft features and plush curves and admiring the cut of your dress, which perfectly accentuates your breasts, hips, and ass. The short length leaves your bare legs on full display.

—

The backyard is beautifully appointed with sable palms, hibiscus bushes, and a well-manicured lawn. There is a jacuzzi to the right of the grill, which doesn't surprise you; Santiago seems like a lady's man. No bachelor pad would be complete without a jacuzzi. Adirondack chairs encircle a small fire pit in the back corner of the yard. You reckon it only gets used during the short window when it is cold enough in Florida to have a fire and not melt.

"Food's almost ready," you hear Will call out.

Sabrina looks to you. "Come help me get the sides?"

You follow her back inside to the kitchen.

"What did I tell you?" Her eyes widened. "They're all hot, aren't they?"

You respond with a shy smile, "Yeah, you weren't lying."

She nudges her elbow against your arm while holding a bowl of potato salad. "I saw Frankie checking you out."

"You…" stammering out skeptically, "…no way?!"

"Yes, way! You look hot in that dress; why wouldn't he check you out?!"

You attempt to conceal your smile by focusing on the tiled floor. "He does seem nice."

"Oh, honey, he's not just nice! He's sweet, funny, and gorgeous," she whispers conspiratorially, "And it looks like he's packing some serious heat."

"Sabrina!" you scoff, playfully smacking her. "You're not supposed to be checking out your boyfriend's friend's package!"

"Says who? I can look, and you can touch to prove me right." She leaves you speechless, holding a tray of crudites, as she walks back outside, cooing to the boys that it's time to eat.

You make your way to the table with bench seats on either side. After you set the tray on the table, you take a moment to contemplate how to sit without exposing yourself in your short dress. Slowly, you lift your leg to straddle the bench, but your sandal catches, and you're thrown off balance. You brace yourself for an embarrassing fall until you feel strong forearms wrap around your waist to hold you steady. Frankie walking by at just the right time.

"Whoa, you alright there?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." sheepish and embarrassed, "Thank you."

He grabs your hand and says, "Here, let me." You begin your second attempt at climbing over the bench, flattening the back of your dress underneath you before you sit down.

Frankie looks down at you. "Would you like a drink?"

"That would be great, thank you." Anything to wash down the embarrassment and cool off from the heat of Frankie's touch.

He fishes out a bottle of beer from the cooler. Out of your periphery, you ogle him as he's bent over. His shirt stretched across his back, rugged khakis taut over his ass. You're suddenly much thirstier than you thought.

He returns to the table and sets the bottle before your plate. You feel the warmth radiating from his chest against your back, his bicep less than an inch from your face. A slight turn of your head and your nose would be in his armpit. You hold your breath, afraid that if you let yourself breathe in his scent, you'd succumb to the physiological response. That and the fear of getting caught sniffing a man you just met in front of his closest friends tempers your impulse.

Frankie sits across from you while the rest of the group sits around the table. Serving platters are passed around until the plates are full.

Frankie finds himself distracted by your sweetheart-necklined dress as everyone begins to eat. The hem curving over the top of your breasts, meeting in the middle at a point, which draws his attention to the tease of cleavage. He's completely ignored the clamor of conversation around him. Suddenly, a baby carrot lands in his lap, and he's brought back to the present. "Hermano, did you hear what I said?"

Frankie stumbles a response, "What's that?"

"Malo." Santiago shakes his head and huffs a laugh, "Pretty girl in front of you, and you lose all sense."

You feel the attention of the table shift to you and quickly avert your gaze, picking at the food on your plate and fixating on the pattern that outlines the rim of the dish. Your cheeks heat from the eyes burning into you. You're cautious about looking up to gauge Frankie's reaction; you don't want to become even more flustered.

Frankie flings the carrot back at Santiago, "Shut the fuck up, man!" But he's quick enough to bat it away before it hits him. The rest of the table erupts with laughter, allowing the awkwardness of the moment to dissipate, and you and Frankie join in.

Will asks, "So, how long have you and Sabrina been friends?"

You're thankful for the segue. "We lived on the same street growing up in Orlando. She followed when I moved to Tampa a few years ago for work."

Sabrina chimes in, "Yeah, you wouldn't make it here without me!" You both giggle.

"Sabrina tells me you all served together in the Army?" the men nod in unison.

They briefly share how Frankie, Santiago, and Will met in basic training. Benny joined their unit a couple of years later. They share minimal details about their deployments, not wanting to dredge up too many memories of that time, especially with new company present.

They've all retired from the Army and returned to civilian life. Will tours the state, speaking with personnel considering retirement from service. Santiago runs a security firm where Benny works. Benny is also an amateur MMA fighter, which Sabrina isn't fond of, but even she can admit he's really good. She's even told you that watching him fight does turn her on.

Lastly, you learn that Frankie has transitioned to civilian piloting and leads helicopter tours of the Bay. He has a four-year-old daughter, Lila. When he talks about her, his eyes sparkle. Clearly, she is the light of his life.

You hesitantly ask about her mom. You're nervous that this guy you've developed a crush on in a short period isn't single. "We split up over a year ago. It wasn't working, and we can be better parents to Lila this way."

You're impressed with Frankie's maturity and self-awareness, which enable him to have an amenable relationship with his ex. As a child of divorce with parents who were unable to put their grievances aside, you know how vital co-parenting is for a child. "I'm glad you could figure out what works best for you both and Lila."

Frankie nods before he takes a swig of beer. You watch as his thick fingers wrap around the bottle's neck. You're fixated on his throat; his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows the bitter IPA—the prominent vein on the side of his neck, with moles that dot along his tanned skin.

You and Frankie have been in a bubble. The friends surrounding you have been long forgotten as your conversation flows naturally. He has a calming presence that makes you feel comfortable and at ease. He's confident and funny, with a raspy laugh that takes over his whole face and radiates through him and a smile so broad that his eyes disappear.

Subtle flirting has become more overt. Your hands brush against his when you reach for the bowl of chips at the same time. You accidentally bump into him when you stretch your legs in front of you underneath the table. But he doesn't pull away, the rough sole of his shoe brushing gently against your bare leg. You glance at him with a sheepish grin, and he returns with a toothy smile. Fuck, he is handsome. Your eyes remain locked on each other, heat coiling within your body, and you sense the same in Frankie.

"I'm going to grab more ice for the cooler from the garage." Frankie stands up from the table, his eyes silently communicating to follow his lead.

As you get up from the table, you take his cue and ask, "Do you need any help?"

"Yeah, that would be great." A sly grin emerges. "Thanks!"

Frankie follows you through the door, his hand brushing softly against the small of your back. The contact sends shivers down your spine, and your pulse quickens as you feel his warm palm against the thin material of your dress.

"Garage is this way." Frankie guides you down the hall to the right of the kitchen.

When you turn the corner, Frankie is immediately on you. He is unable to hold back a second longer. He has you pinned against the wall, his arms bracketing you above your shoulders. Hunger swirls in his eyes, and you feel his breath against your cheek. He's so close to you that you're sure he can hear your heart beating.

"You are so god damn pretty." his finger trails along the strap of your dress and loops underneath, "And you're fucking killing me with this dress. I needed to get you alone."

A sigh escapes your lips, overwhelmed by his closeness and his touch on your bare shoulder. Unable to speak, Frankie fills the silence. "Can I kiss you?"

All you can manage is a nod, your bottom lip held between your teeth in anticipation.

He leans forward until his plush lips connect with yours. A moan escapes you both at the contact. What begins as a sweet, chaste kiss quickly becomes more intense.

He licks at the seam of your lips, seeking permission to enter. The bill of his hat hinders him, but he quickly flips it around to devour your mouth fully. It's a flurry of tangled tongues as he licks into your mouth. A groan escapes him when you grab his bottom lip between your teeth. A gentle nibble quickly soothed by the swipe of your tongue.

With his arm around your waist, he pulls you closer to him, the weight of his bulge pressing against your thigh. You feel wobbly even though you're sandwiched between Frankie's solid frame and the wall, forced to grip his shoulders for purchase to remain upright. Your fingers map the sinew of muscle along his traps and deltoids as he dives in for another kiss. Which somehow leaves you even more breathless than the last one.

The feverish kiss continues as he pulls you further down the hall. Twisted limbs tripping over each other, bumping into the walls, leaving picture frames askew. Spurts of laughter echo through the hallway as you fumble around, fingers tangled in the fabric of each other's clothes. His wide palms rest against your hips before snaking around to grip your ass cheeks. You can feel the slick arousal pool in your panties.

Emboldened by the drinks you had earlier and Frankie's attention, you suggest finding somewhere more private.

Frankie growls and grips your wrist, taking you further down the hall until you reach a threshold with a closed door. His arm reaches behind you to turn the knob, and you both fall into the dimly lit room. Dark curtains are draped in front of large windows, and the setting sun peeks through the gap in the fabric where they meet. You and Frankie stumble your way further into the room, hands groping manically over each other's bodies.

You slide Frankie's button-up shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Then, you tug the T-shirt underneath from the waistband of his pants. His hands travel under the hem of your dress, his fingers dimpling into the supple flesh. He shuffles you toward the bed and tosses you against it, giggling as you flail backward onto the soft mattress.

"Fuck, I could get used to that sound." he huffs.

Propped up on your elbows with one leg crossed over the other, you give him a coy smile. Frankie's eyes burn with lust as his gaze trails up your bare legs to your core. "I'm going to need you to open up, baby."

You slowly uncross your legs and spread them into a wide v. Frankie watches you intently, eyes focused on the pull of your dress up your thighs exposing the gusset of your panties, enraptured by the blooming wet spot caused by your arousal.

He hums as he falls to his knees. Leaning into your center with a deep inhale. "Fuck!" His palms warm on your thighs, his eyes pleading, "Can I?"

"Can you what, Frankie?" you tease.

"Can I taste you?" a desperate tone to his voice, "Please?"

You nod, and he's on you within seconds. His fingers slip into the sides of your panties, and you lift your hips so he can pull them off. Your slick folds glisten in the soft light of the room. "Fucking gorgeous cunt."

"Frankie, please."

"I got you. I got you."

The swipe of his tongue through your folds emphasizes his reassurance, and you cry out with relief. The whiskers of his beard brush against the sensitive skin. Frankie moans into your core as the sweet, musky taste of your arousal dances across his tongue. A sample is not nearly enough to satisfy him; he dives in for more.

Desperate for better access, he spreads your thighs further apart, pushing your legs up until your thighs meet your stomach. He holds you down with his palms flat against the back of your thighs. He leaves a wet trail along your skin as his arousal-soaked lips slowly kiss up and down your thighs. A gentle bite on your ass cheek sends a jolt of surprise through your body that you can't help but squeak out a laugh.

You can't even recover before the tip of his tongue journeys across your outer folds, looping around to the other side before sliding through your seam again. Up, up, up until he reaches your clit. His lips wrap around your sensitive nub. Sucking it into his mouth, lapping kitten licks with the tip of his tongue. Your body writhes below him, pulsating need coursing through your veins.

You reach between your legs, eager to feel any part of him, and yank the hat off his head. You fling it behind you, where it lands on the floor with a thud. His gorgeous hair is now unencumbered, your fingers free to roam through his soft curls. You grip the brown locks between your fingers and pull him further into your pussy, his nose bumps against your clit as he eats at you. "Fuck, frankie, you're incredible."

And he is. He really is. The best head you've ever experienced. Somebody who was a stranger just a few hours ago. You can't recall the last time you've been with such an enthusiastic lover. Especially one that is so wanton, eating at you, bringing you intense pleasure, and not making you feel like its a chore or an obligation.

You practically had to beg your ex to go down on you, and when he did, he expected you to return the favor. It never was about your pleasure. Frankie is different. He eats at you like it's his only way of survival, as if he'll die if you don't come by his tongue.

He groans into your cunt, shockwaves pulse through your body, at the precipice of your orgasm, "I'm so close."

Frankie, seeking relief from his painfully hard cock, reaches down to unfasten his pants. He releases his cock from his boxer briefs with a sigh. With a swipe of his hand, he gathers the precum that has leaked from his tip to coat his cock before he begins slow strokes up and down his length while he continues to devour your pussy, suckling at your clit. You're near the edge, ready to tumble forward as your legs shudder, the grip on his locks tighten. Your pussy begins to flutter around his tongue as you tumble over the edge, coating it in your release. "Frankie. Holy shit." you try to catch your breath. "Oh my god."

You lift his head from between your legs, and he reluctantly pulls away with a disappointed whimper. "Too much." you pant, "You're too fucking good at that."

Between your thighs, a crooked smile appears through his slick lips and his glossy eyes connect with yours, "Fuckin hell, you taste good."

Frankie moves from the floor and crawls up your body. The weight of his cock resting against your worn out pussy. He leans down to kiss you, leaving a trail of nibbles along your jawline until he reaches that soft spot behind your ear. Licking and sucking down the column of your neck to where it meets your shoulder. His tongue swipes along your collarbone as he slips the straps of your dress down your shoulders to reveal the lacy cups of your bra.

His lips traverse the plane of your chest, hot breath hovers over the supple skin spilling out of the cups. He grips the fabric of your bra between his teeth and pulls down one cup and then the other to release your tits. He lathes over each nipple, pulling the hardened buds between his lips, flicking them with the tip of his tongue before a gentle bite and releasing with a pop.

You emit a low moan at the combination of his mouth on your tits and his dick sliding through your soaked folds, the tip brushing against your sensitive clit.

"You're so beautiful." Frankie shakes his head in disbelief. "Do you want to keep going?"

As if it were even a question. Of course, you want to keep going, but you appreciate Frankie's check-in. You grabbed his head between your palms and brought him closer, eyes locked on his, sealing your enthusiastic "yes!" with a feverish kiss.

With that, Frankie sits back on his haunches and searches the room. He knows he doesn't have a condom in his wallet. He hasn't needed one in a while. Even if he did have one, it would have expired anyway. As he becomes more acquainted with his surroundings, he slowly realizes where you are and breathes out, "Fuck!"

You sit up in bed, holding the top of your dress against your chest. "What's wrong?"

"We ended up in Pope's room." he runs his palm over his face, scratching the whiskers of his chin. "And I don't have a condom."

You push aside the inevitable embarrassment you'll face for fucking in your host's bed and suggest with a mischievous grin, "Surely, Santiago has condoms."

The distraught look on Frankie's face disappears with a broad smile, and he shifts on the bed to open the nightstand drawer. When he opens the drawer, a Costco-sized box of condoms greets him. Relief washes over him, and he's grateful he doesn't have to cut things short with you.

He reaches into the box and pulls out a foil pocket. You lean back, propped up on your forearms to admire Frankie as he tears open the package between his teeth while stroking his cock with his other hand. Sabrina will be happy to know she was right. His cock is beautiful. Thick, long, and uncut. Your mouth hangs open as you watch him roll the condom down his length. His eyes never leave yours.

"Don't worry. It'll fit; I'll go slow." He reaches up to the neckline of his shirt, gripping its back and pulling it off in one smooth motion. "Lay back, baby."

He positions himself back over you. The broad expanse of his tan chest blocks the view of your surroundings. Not that it matters anyway; all of your attention is on Frankie. Captivated by his gorgeous face and the moles that scatter along his neck and sternum. You've already forgotten you're in Santiago's room, about to fuck this beautiful man, on his bed. He leans down to press a chaste kiss against your lips as he notches his tip at your entrance.

"You ready?" You nod, eager to feel him inside you.

It's been so long since you've had sex and you've never had a dick as large as Frankie's. As promised, he took things slow, feeding his cock inch by inch. Allowing time for your body to adjust before going further. There's a pleasurable stretch as your walls accommodate his girth and length as he reaches the hilt, kissing your cervix. "Pussy is just swallowing my cock, baby."

"It feels so good."

"Yeah?" He searches your face for any sign of discomfort. "You ready for me?"

"Yes! Fuck me, Frankie!"

Frankie pulls out until just the tip rests at your entrance. You whimper at the loss of him inside you, but he quickly soothes you with a thrust of his hips into you, pushing you further up the bed. He pulls out slowly, repeating the motion a few more times before he lands on a steady pace that has you seeing stars. "Hnngh, she's so tight." he moans, "Fuckin hell!"

"Harder, Frankie." you pant louder than you anticipated, "I can take it! Please, fuck me harder!"

Frankie slows his thrusts and quickly closes his palm over your mouth, "Shh. Shh. You gotta be quiet."

You hear the din and laughter from the backyard. You had been so distracted by Frankie's dick, you forgot you weren't entirely alone. "If I move my hand, can you be quiet?"

You nod. Frankie reignites his pace with more fervor this time. The tension built up over the afternoon finally comes to a head. Low moans rumble through you with each thrust. Your legs wrap around his hips.

"That's a good fucking girl." He reaches between your bodies to thumb at your clit. "I feel you squeezing me. Need you to come for me."

You scramble to reach the pillow behind you and hold it over your face to muffle your scream as you begin to pulse around his cock. Frankie continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his own imminent. It only takes a few more thrusts before he's spilling into the condom before he collapses onto you, breathless.

Your fingertips trail along the plane of his back and shoulders as his cock softens inside you. He peppers feather light kisses along your cheek before he reaches your lips and seals it with a searing kiss.

He pulls away to scan your face. "How are you feeling?"

"Perfect. Fucking incredible, Frankie"

—

You and Frankie sit together at the edge of the bed in your half-dressed, disheveled, fucked out state. The two of you savoring the afterglow of an incredible fuck and also delay the inevitable for as long as possible. You rest your head on Frankie's bare shoulder and express your embarrassment at a whopper of a first impression with his friends.

Frankie reassures you that it isn't that big of a deal. He kisses you gently on the temple and encourages you to get up so you both can rip off the bandaid. He scoops your dress up off the floor, and you flit around looking for your panties and bra while stealing glances at Frankie as he gets dressed.

When you're finally presentable, Frankie opens the bedroom door, motioning for you to go before him. As you head down the hallway, you're greeted with a chorus of cheers and slow claps.

"So, where's the ice?" You hear Benny boom out.

The group erupts in laughter, and you bury your face into Frankie's bicep. Standing next to Benny, Sabrina catches your eyes. With her palms facing each other, she subtly moves them closer and further apart, eyebrows quirking up. You avert your eyes to avoid her silent inquisition. You won't be able to handle her smugness over being correct about Frankie's size right now.

Frankie turns bright red while he stomachs pats on the back from his friends. Santi grips Frankie's shoulders from behind with a shake. "'Bout time you cleared out those cobwebs, hermano. But did it have to be on my fucking bed?"

—

You head back outside with the group for one last drink. Sabrina approaches you with a smile and wraps her arm over your shoulder to follow the guys. Another round of drinks is passed around, and fortunately, the topic of conversation has shifted quickly from your dalliance with Frankie.

Frankie sits next to you at the table, his thigh pressed against your bare skin.. He rests his hand just above your knee, offering a gentle squeeze. When you look up at him, his gaze focuses on you, and he smiles warmly.

The sun set a few hours ago, ushering in chillier air. Frankie notices you shiver. He pulls off his button-up and places it over your shoulders, returning his hand to your bare leg. You lean into him, savoring his warmth.

A few hours pass before you decide to call it a night, and Frankie offers to walk you to your car.

"It was really nice meeting you." You catch him nervously rubbing his hand against the back of his neck.

You grab his hand and squeeze, "You too, Frankie. I had a great time."

He smiles at this. "I'd love to see you again. Take you to dinner."

"I would love that!"

When you reach your car, you exchange numbers. With your back pressed against the door, Frankie's arm propped against the frame, he leans in for one last kiss. He squeezes your hip before he pulls away to open the door for you and as you turn to enter your car, he teasingly smacks your ass.

Before he shuts the car door, he offers, "Drive home safe. Let me know when you get home."

"I will." You nod. "I'll see you soon, Frankie!"

Frankie waits until you drive off before he turns to go back inside. A wide smile stretched across his face. A smile that won't be going anywhere any time soon. He's excited to find out what the future has in store for him, especially if that future includes you.

Thank you so much for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏼

tagging some folks who engaged in my WIP posts on this fic: @peepawispunk @burntheedges @joelmillerisapunk @baronessvonglitter @ak-vintage @probablyreadinsmut @goodwithcheese @almostempty (please let me know if you’d like to be removed)

#nhie2025 #frankie morales #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #pedro pascal character fiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal #sizzlin’

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