#and frankie was black-brained | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tieronecrush · 4 months

Text

BNBG (brand new baby girl)

frankie morales x curvy OF/cam girl f!reader

summary: frankie has been needing distractions from a hurdle in his sobriety, so he ventures to his frequented subscription service platform to take his mind off things. he sees the title of your page, intrigued immediately, and dives deep into your content. catching your attention on a livestream with his confident commands, frankie becomes infatuated with you and an avid viewer before he decides to DM you one day...and then ends up with a brand new baby girl.

wc: 11k

rating: E (very)

warnings: daddy kink!! **cover does not depict anything about the reader, simply vibes of softness**, vague descriptions of reader's body (plush, thick, curves, soft, etc. no definite descriptors used otherwise. picture her as you want but she is mid to plus size in my head 🫶), no age specified (only that reader started out of college, no specifications of when she went to school), discussions of addiction & drug use, childless frankie au, sex work, sex livestream, consumption of porn, unestablished relationship, online relationship, pet names (conejita, baby, babygirl, pequeña, bunny, etc.), gratuitous descriptions of frankie's dick, SMUT, male masturbation, female masterbation, sex toys, both frankie & reader have thoughts about the other (unprotected piv, fingering, oral, etc.), major dirty talk, d/s dynamics, some fluff sprinkled in <3, this might be lowkey problematic that frankie uses porn to cope (esp reader's porn) buuuuut hopefully it's hot

a/n: cover design & dividers by me 💋 this is an unhinged daydream of mine, hope y'all enjoy! huge thank you to my besties @kiwisbell and @northernbluess for beta-reading 💓

The time on Frankie’s phone screen turns over to well past midnight. Bedroom pitched black save for the blue light illuminating his face as he scrolls on Instagram, unable to fall asleep from thoughts stirring. He wants to scratch the itch — to pick at the scab that’s been growing in his brain for over a year. Temptation runs hot in his veins. A craving, deep in his gut. A strong inhale or the rub of his fingertip against his gums. It would be fast. And it would only last less than half an hour — he could manage it one more time, he was sober enough for that, wasn’t he? He indulges himself in other aspects now: drinking, food, lax with his once regimented workout routine.

Frankie can hear the voice of his sponsor, the one he listens to speak at his weekly meetings in the musty church hall. Sure, his sponsor’s got valuable advice for him, having been sober for decades now, but he can’t relate to Frankie. Not really. He doesn’t know the level of temptation he’s consistently faced with, doesn’t know the fucked up shit he’s seen that got him into the substance in the first place.

His sponsor tells him to get into meditation. That it helps him turn his brain off when he has a craving, redirecting the energy into himself and crushing the aching want for it. Or some spiritual bullshit that Frankie doesn’t understand.

And besides, he’s found his own means of meditation.

Exiting the social media app, he opens his browser and types in the website. The light of the phone illuminates his face enough for his saved login to work, bringing him into his plane of piety. Where he escapes at least three times a week, late nights like now and the occasional mid-afternoon or morning on his desperate days off. When the urge is too strong. When he’s formulating a plan of how to get his hands on a tiny baggie, he loses himself — distracts his brain here.

Scrolling through his usual subscriptions, nothing seems to be hitting the spot. One hand grips his phone, thumb gliding along the screen, while the other cups his hard-on through his boxers, palming himself as he searches for something to get off to.

That’s when he sees it — the perfect combination of words that draws him in by the title. Clicking the page, he’s quick to pledge his monthly amount, eager to get access to all that lies beyond the paywall. And what he’s greeted with, pulls a sigh from his lips in the quiet room, his large hand squeezing his cock through the thin fabric elasticated around his waist.

“Fuck…” he mumbles to himself when he sees that there’s a live stream happening. A cosmic intervention for him, he thinks, a sign that he’s meant to satiate his vices with this.

With you.

The screen changes to a vertical view of you in front of the camera, iPhone seemingly propped up against something while you sit on your mattress. It’s so…delicate and soft. Those are the words he can think of to describe the backdrop that he takes in quickly. Billowing white comforter on your bed, pillows surrounding you. The first thought he has is that it looks like a bed he could easily sleep in — much more inviting than his. There are touches of blush pink, sky blue, and more. A complete rainbow of desaturated colors.

It all compliments you. Centered in the frame, the next sound you make drags his eyes back to your form as you move around. Another squeeze to his cock draws a longer sigh from his lips as he combs across the view of your body, scantily clad in a thong and a bra covered in cherries. The cups of the bra push up the weight of your breasts, spilling over the edge. His tongue runs across his lips to wet them, a new craving ravaging his mouth as he wonders what you would taste like with the skin of your tits dampened by his saliva.

The rest of your body is as softly lined and curving as your chest, waist swooping into your hips as you sit on your knees in front of the camera. Thick thighs spread with the press of your calves into the back of them, the inside of them meeting at the apex and providing cover for what he so badly wants to be shown. There’s a line of your stomach above the waist of your panties, supple skin glistening. Delicious, is all he can think to himself. You look so fucking delicious that it floods his mouth with saliva, enough that he feels the overwhelming need to push his boxers down, freeing his hard cock to rest against his stomach until he’s spitting into his palm and starting a slow, languid pace.

The grain of his palm drags against the length of his cock as he keeps a steady flick of his wrist. Not too fast, but not achingly slow. Enough to start stoking the burning coals in the pit of his stomach as he watches you on the small rectangular screen. Puffs of hot air leave his mouth, his jaw hanging open while he watches you shift to reach for something out of frame, the first look at your ass gifted to him. Rounded swell of curves with the fabric of your thong dipping between them. The slight jiggle of your cheeks makes Frankie moan quietly, taking the briefest moment to picture that same ripple in your skin from him fucking you from behind.

“Shit…” he grumbles under his breath, minorly increasing the pressure of his grip to squeeze his cock as his hand moves, desperate to mimic the feeling of someone — apparently you, despite not knowing anything close to your name.

Skin on skin catches on the base of his dick and he exhales sharply with his teeth bared, opening his palm to spit once again. It’s not enough, but he continues the slide of his wrist as he sets his phone down on the mattress briefly, reaching over to his nightstand, pausing once again to dispense a pump of lotion into the palm of his right hand. Wrapping the moistened hand around his cock again, he starts a faster pace before slowing down to drag out his pleasure longer.

Returning into the frame fully, he sees your face for the first time and coughs as his open-mouthed inhale seizes in his throat. His fingers circle the base of his cock, squeezing hard as he takes in your face. Perfectly primped with a layer of makeup, but he can tell you’ve got the kind of beauty that wouldn’t ever need changing or enhancing — effortless. Velvety skin, as silky as the rest of your body but with an added glow. Bright eyes that are shining with mischief and want, and a smirk that’s as playful; he finds himself shutting his eyes again, for a few lazy strokes as he pictures that face, and your plush, pliable body, on your knees in front of him. Eagerly awaiting his cock to fill your mouth.

Fuck, you’re really doing a number on him tonight. He needed this. His desperation for a high of any kind coats his open mouth with each labored breath.

Focused back on his phone, you show off the treasure that you dug for off-camera. A lilac vibrator, one that fits the length of your hand, with a swell of size rounded off at the tip and tapered in at the end. Leaning closer to your camera, Frankie groans when your tits bounce, spilling out of your bra with a tiny nip slip that he catches immediately. And it only makes him want to see more.

“Mm, c’mon, pretty girl, show me something here. M’fuckin’ dying…Necesito la distracción (I need the distraction),” Frankie speaks toward the screen, feeling pathetic as he barters with you in the one-way system.

As if you heard his pleas, you adjust your position, laying back on the mountain of pillows to prop yourself up and letting one leg fall open. Even in the lowered lighting of the room you’re in, presumably your bedroom, he can make out the wet patch covering your folds. He finds himself wondering if the act of getting off in front of a camera, in front of people watching live, is what gets you wet. Or if you have a fluffer like he’s heard they do in porn.

He’d wanna be your fluffer.

Or maybe he’d want to be the one to fuck you in the porno. At least both of you’d get to finish then.

“Think I need someone who knows better than me to tell me what they wanna see.” Your voice is saccharine, the slight fry in your voice jolts his hips into his hand, mumbles of curses slipping from his lips. “Anybody have any suggestions for me, chat?”

A low hum starts when you press the button of the vibrator in your hand, spreading your knees further to open your core to the view of the camera completely. Your opposite hand to the toy hooks into the crotch of your thong, pulling the small bit of fabric, practically a string with the amount it’s covering.

Frankie’s mouth waters as the speed of his hand picks up, the grip of his fingers not nearly as satisfying as the clench of a pussy, but he’ll make do. He has been for a year; you know what they say, no relationships for the first year sober. That, and he couldn’t find anyone that could take his mind off of coke long enough for him to get it up. So eventually he just let it be.

Now, though, he’s painfully hard. The quick movements of his hand send a shock of pleasure up to his brain, veins contracting with the extra effort to keep the blood supply to his cock. Thumb brushes over his tip, mixing in his precum with the other lubrication, a hiss from behind his teeth shot out from the stimulation. His gaze is glued onto his rectangular screen, huffing out deep breaths while you press the vibrator against your clit. There’s a quiver in your thighs that he notices, as if this is your first touch after teasing yourself, or someone else teasing you. Sensitive already.

Biting your lip, your eyes scan the screen as you read aloud, “FiveFingersAtFreddys said ‘Take your bra off please.’ Well, actually he said ‘Take your tits out’ but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, dude, and say that you actually do have good manners.”

He laughs, and it’s a first for him. Laughing at someone’s jokes as he jerks off, alone.

You comply with the request, taking the vibrator away from your clit to reach around and unclasp your bra. Tossing the material aside, you lean back into the pillows again and the next sight nearly makes Frankie come right then and there until he takes his hand away completely. Laid out, legs open and fingers pulling your panties aside, vibrator pushing into your clit and driving a high-pitched moan from your lips. All while you're bare from the waist up, cushioned torso melting into your heavy tits, pert nipples bringing them to a point. The form of a Greek classics statue, one with fleshy outlines carved impeccably from marble.

“La obra maestra (A masterpiece)…” Frankie whispers to himself, the squelch of his lotioned hand working his hard length bringing him back into his body, a moan slipping from his mouth.

“I think I need someone else to tell me how I should play with myself. M’so wet, jus’ wanna touch myself but I don’t know where to start. All seems like—like it’s going to feel so good,” you stutter out when your hips buck against the vibrator, a whimper echoing from your chest as you turn your attention to the chat again, awaiting intriguing instructions.

Maybe it’s sexual frustration, maybe it’s pathetic. Maybe it’s the intense fucking craving to replace his need for coke high with a need for an orgasm, but for whatever reason chosen, Frankie finds himself clicking on the comment box with his thumb, typing wildly with one finger. He takes a second to read it for spelling errors before he presses send. Too lost in it all now to care.

Your eyes perk up, smirk growing on your face when you read the influx of chat replies. One must have caught your eye because the vibrator is being left to the side again. Fingers hook into the waist of your panties, slowly pulling them off as you read aloud the comment that caught your attention.

“There’s a new name I see here…Maybe we should do what you want, Mr. FlyingFish. Consider it a welcome gift from me to you.” His heart is pounding in his chest, hand gripping tighter and twisting around his dick as he fucks his fist, mumbles of curses spilling out as he listens to you repeat what he desperately typed not a minute prior. It sounds dirtier coming from you, despite his best efforts at politeness, “You said ‘Please show off how many of your little fingers fit into your pretty pussy. Think a pretty girl like you deserves to fuck her fingers…’ Alright, FlyingFish, you’ve got me blushin’ from that request and that is difficult to do, sir. Thank you for calling me a pretty girl. I promise I’m smart, too. I’ll be sure to count ‘em for you.”

One finger slips into your dripping entrance easily, the other hand reaching for the vibrator and replacing it at your clit while your finger starts to fuck shallowly, “One finger…”

Whines of frustration crack over his small speakers before a bigger moan falls from your lips, a second finger slid into you alongside the first, “Oh, fuck…That’s two. Mm, how am I doin’? FlyingFish, d’you think I can get another?”

Frankie’s wrist flicks rapidly now, the direct address to him driving him mad as the sounds of his arm slapping against his stomach and thigh clap in his room and cut into the sounds your pussy is making as you get yourself off. He types as quickly as he can, strings of curses flowing from his mouth as the heat of his desire burns red hot inside of him. He’s so fucking close but he wants to watch you fall apart at the same time. Wants to be the reason you come.

“Oh, shit—you’ve got a mouth, FlyingFish. ‘I’d hope you can take another, otherwise, you couldn’t take my cock.’ Is that a promise, Fish? You saying you got a big dick for me to take?”

You whimper and he’s edging himself, squeezing hard to stay together when you inadvertently use his call sign. The closest thing you have to his name, and all he can think about is you screaming it while he’s fucking you. He wants to tell you it’s a promise only if you follow through, indulging in the fantasy of actually getting to touch you only for a moment. But instead, his attention is completely drawn to a third finger stretching your cunt in full view of the camera, your wanton moans popping in his speakers and driving his forearm to burn with the strain of muscle as he attempts to fist his cock even harder.

“Fuckfuckfuck…Come for me, baby, please fucking come on those fingers,” he begs no one but himself, a blinding white heat licking the entire inside of his body as he balances on the edge. Waiting for you to fall first.

“Oh my god, fuck…” The last word is drawn out, pitching up at the end as your fingers fuck faster, squelching sounds of your wetness flooding his mouth as his brain pleads for a taste of your cunt. “I don’t think—I don’t think I can get a fourth. M’gonna fucking come—ah! Oh, fuck me, Fish…”

You barely whisper his name, or at least what is his name to you, but it’s singlehandedly what punches out his guttural moan, ropes of warm, sticking spend coating his hand as he keeps moving and spilling onto his stomach. It’s prolonged, the tension in his calves relaxing after he spills the most come he has in a while.

Airy, light, a rush of blood back to his head has his whole body tingling with a high. Satiating his cravings from earlier, dissolving the want, the need, for anything of the sort. Instead, it’s replaced with thoughts of you — the image of you laying fucked out on his phone, adding his own touch of imagination when he closes his eyes to see you as you are but covered with his come the same way he is. Normally, this is when the smallest bit of shame crawls up his spine and sits at the nape of his neck, but instead, he melts into warmth. Faced with your smile as you sit up and lean over toward the camera again, laughing to yourself as you end the live.

“Um, if you’re still here, thanks for that FlyingFish. Felt fucking good…And to everyone else, I’ll stream again on Monday night, same time as always. Night, everyone. Have a good weekend.” All he hears before the sound cuts out is your excited giggles, the brightness of your post-orgasm joy stretching a smile across your face. He’s faced with a black screen, staring back at himself in the reflection with the shit-eating, smug grin he has on his face.

Now he’s got plans for Monday night.

Frankie hasn’t been able to get you out of his head. He’s hooked. Images of your sloping curves flash behind his eyes on the days when you’re not available to watch, his hips fucking his fist in bed, the shower, even on his couch with the blinds all open because he was that needy. Thoughts of you replaced his thoughts of the white powder, chasing after the different high he’s gifted by your voice, your body — all through a screen.

He’s caught himself rasping affections as he pictures you, hissed compliments as he comes and imagining what he’d say if you were in front of him. Letting him use your mouth or your cunt. He’s even gotten into a habit of imagining his head between your legs; the hardest he came is the one time he pictured you sitting on his face and all of the pretty sounds you’d make for him. Fuck, cariño, that’s so good. Mm, bonita, you’re such a good girl. Love doin’ what you’re told, don’t you, baby?

The fact that he doesn’t even know your name but is this infatuated isn’t lost on him. He knows he has an addictive personality, but this feels different. Like he was meant to find you for some reason. His sponsor would tell him it’s a call from the universe that this is all part of his ‘journey to sobriety’, but really, he just thinks that you’re fucking hot. And the tiniest part of him thinks you might like him watching too, even though you have no idea who he is.

Each time he watches you live, his thumb taps across the keyboard, responding to your requests and even adding in some encouragement. Virtually having conversations with you, he quickly became a frequent flyer (your joke, not his). You listen to him. Like the sweet girl that you are. Taking his suggestions — his demands when you beg — and showing off for him, a whimpering mess when he’s done with you.

At times, it feels like he’s the only one watching, or at least the only one that matters to you. With the amount of times his username falls from your lips, it’s easy to fall into a bubble of you and him. You’ve picked up the habit of referring to him as ‘Fish’ and it’s driven him mad, the closest thing to his name that he’ll hear you say. You give him material to think back about for days after. I love a man that knows what he wants, Fish. You can boss me around, Fishie. I always know what you tell me to do is gonna feel so fucking good.

All of this over the last few weeks has built up his courage, which is why he finds himself sitting on his couch with your profile open, the sun barely set outside. A random baseball game plays on his TV, but his focus is completely on his phone, writing and deleting a DM to you about ten times.

It has to be right. Friendly, but not stalker-ish. Flirty, but not creepy. Commanding enough to get your attention among what he imagines are countless messages in your inbox.

After another good ten minutes drafting a message, his thumb hovers over the ‘Send’ button for a few seconds. Squeezing his eyes closed, he lowers his finger and hits the button, anxiety washing over him as he opens his eyes to stare at the blue bubble.

No going back now.

Standing at the stove, water boils over the side of the pot while you pour in the uncooked pasta noodles. A few drops hit your skin, mumbles of curses leaving your lips, “Fucking shit!”

You stir the pasta before reaching for the nearest kitchen towel to wipe the once-scalding water off of your hand. A deep sigh exhales, relaxing your shoulders as the ding of a notification draws your attention to your phone lying on the marble countertop next to you.

What you find on your lock screen sends a shock of excitement down your spine, the warmth of anticipation radiating around your body to tingle your fingers and toes.

[Direct Message:] FlyingFish

Quick to swipe up, the device unlocks with a scan of your face and opens a new notification when you click on it with your thumb. Subconsciously, your opposite thumb has ended up between your teeth, biting down on the skin as you hold back an eager grin while you wait for his message to load.

You’ve never had this reaction to a message before, actually, it was usually the opposite. Rolling your eyes, ignoring the men until the last moment. Only responding to keep them enticed and subscribed — all of which keeps more money in your pocket. That’s really why you started this whole thing anyway.

FlyingFish:

Hey

A puff of air exhales through your nose, a chuckle cutting the otherwise silent kitchen. Shaking your head to yourself, you can’t help but smile at your screen. Heartbeat fluttering, you internally kick yourself for having such a reaction to such a simple message. Not even knowing who this person is, you find yourself typing back a response.

Hey there Fish

Guess I never actually asked if I could call you that

You turn back to your task at hand, continuing to cook your dinner and attempting to put out of your mind all of your assumptions about this person messaging you. You’d guess it’s a guy, an educated inference based on the demographics of your audience, but everything else is a complete mystery. The one time he insinuated he had a big dick stuck in your mind, and based on his behavior, you’d like to assume he isn’t lying. An image of a man sticks out to you each time you whimper his nickname, on camera and that handful of times off camera and alone: tall, solid, and strong. Brunette, only because that’s your type. Rough hands and commanding touches. Someone to bend your stubborn will into submission. He’s confident, at least through the chat, and he seems to know what he’s talking about. Each time you see his username pop up, you can feel yourself start to get wetter. Since you started this whole gig, there hasn’t been anyone quite like him. It’s always people asking for more for them — Show us your tits. Say my name. Turn around so we can see your ass.

But with him, it’s the opposite. He asks for more for you, which you guess is what he gets off to, not that you mind. Bet one more finger would feel even better for you, baby. Curl your fingers, cariño. You reaching that special spot? Gotta get deeper for me, baby. Rub slower, drag it out. Promise it’ll be even sweeter at the end.

Always polite but stern in his demands. Never too much, mostly not enough for your taste. He’s built up an appetite in you that you haven’t had before, a desire to please and to be good for him. All of it doesn’t feel like performing when he’s telling you what to do, it feels like he’s there, deep rasp in your ears as you picture thick fingers in place of yours and tight grips on your plush curves. Fingerprint-shaped bruises left behind and sore muscles in your thighs from holding yourself up as he asks you to come for him over and over and over.

A vibration against the hard surface of the countertop refocuses your gaze from a thousand yards away. Turning to grab your cell, you rub your thighs together in hopes of relenting the ache between them from your daydreams. Wet panties get caught in your folds, discomfort only momentary before you lean over the counter and open your legs, reading the mystery man’s response.

You can call me anything you want bonita

But I will tell you that Fish is pretty close to my name

Fish is close to your name?

What is it? Bass? Salmon? Trout?

Funny

Fish is short for Catfish which was my call sign with my Special Ops team

Ahhh a military man. You know I like a man in uniform

Oh really? :)

Don’t wear it anymore but does it still count if I was once a man in uniform?

Hmm

:( please?

I wanna be liked by you

Showing your cards there Fishie

Not trying to play it cool?

Once you get to know me baby you’ll come to find out that me and cool don’t really go together.

I doubt that’s true

So Catfish is your call sign? Who came up with that?

My buddies on my team

Said I couldn’t grow a beard for shit and that it looked like I had whiskers

So Catfish

Well I don’t wanna call you Fish if it’s mean like that :(

What’s your real name? If you wanna tell me

Are you gonna sell my identity and let someone tank my credit score?

Never

It wouldn’t benefit me much if your card gets declined every month

I appreciate the honesty baby haha

My name’s Frankie

I like your name Frankie :)

It’s nearly an hour of messaging back and forth, flirting intermingled with genuine curiosity about the other’s life, history and background. Frankie learns that you were struggling to find a job straight out of university and needed to make rent, so you figured it couldn’t hurt to try out selling content. You detailed briefly the time that you grew your following, telling him about your Instagram too, which he follows in that instant. The notification makes you laugh and you follow him back despite the profile being completely empty of any information besides his name. Not even a profile picture. He learns that you don’t speak much to your parents anymore, that your siblings live across the country so you don’t get to see them much.

He tells you about his family — no siblings, parents that live in another part of the state and refuse to visit him in the city — and his chosen family, the Special Ops guys. Laughter hiccups from your chest when he recalls a few of the better stories from them, telling you about each other them as if he was preparing you to actually meet them. He has that thought, briefly, about all of you out for drinks. How they would probably like you as much as he does; your charm and sincerity would hook them all just as it has for him. Frankie tells you all about his current hobby, fixing up an old, cherry red 1978 Jeep Cherokee. How the only other time he spends online is searching for car parts, watching Youtube as he works on the vehicle in his garage.

You make a cheeky comment that he must be good with his hands before sending another message immediately:

Would you wanna actually talk? Like on Facetime maybe

Frankie stares at the message, blinking slowly as if it will disappear. You’re asking to talk to him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mean, if he knew that was an option he would have asked himself…

He wouldn’t and he knows he wouldn’t based on the way his stomach has dropped to his feet, his hands have gone clammy and his throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he whispers a small pep talk to himself to work up the nerve to say yes. He wants to see you, he always wants to see more of you, but the fact that you’d see him as well…he can’t cope.

Heat trickles across the back of his neck and up his cheeks, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as his brain completely wipes any thought to respond. Dropping his phone into his lap, both of his hands reach up, one grabbing the brim of his cap and lifting it from his head while the other runs through his hair to push it back away from his face. In the corner of his eye, he catches his left knee bouncing. Lips press together in a thin line, rolling the flesh between his teeth before he picks up his phone again and sends a message back to you with just his phone number.

Not even a minute later, his screen lights up with a list of digits strung together in an unfamiliar order. As if it were possible, he felt his stomach drop lower than his feet, deep into the ground below and burrowing away along with his confidence.

Shit, this was a stupid idea. He’s going to make a fool of himself and you’ll lose interest and he’ll have to think about you every day for the rest of his life and wonder what you’re doing, how you’re doing, even what your name is—

Fuck, he’s gonna miss the call.

Frankie decides that it is much more embarrassing to miss the call he just sent his phone number for than to potentially come off as uncool, so his finger swipes to the right to answer. Quickly, he turns off his camera before you notice, opting for the level of anonymity to remain.

“Hi, Frankie…” Your candied voice drips with sweetness around his name. He’s been imagining you saying it, trying to get it right in his mind over the past few weeks, but hearing it now he relishes in the fact that none of them were right. None of them sounded like spun sugar, like it did just now.

You fill the frame from your shoulders up, the same bright smile on your face that he’s seen at the end of each live, after he’s had his fun with you, but looking completely different out of that context. It’s a bit shy, demure in the way you're resting in your bed against your pillows, t-shirt on and fresh-faced. You look beautiful. And it makes him feel a bit silly that you can’t see his reaction.

“Hey, bonita. M’sorry I don’t have my camera on, jus’ nervous. Didn’t want you to hang up right away gettin’ a look at this mug,” he says with self-deprecating laughter at the end, watching as your brows knit together with a pout on your lips.

“You don’t have to apologize, Frankie. M’happy to do whatever you’re comfortable with. Besides, if your voice gives me any indication of your looks, you’d probably be making me way more nervous.” Teeth bite into your bottom lip as you hold in a grin, a hand coming into view to nudge at your nose. He’s seen you do it a few times on live, whenever you’re waiting in anticipation. For him, he’d like to think.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?” he teases, the smirk playing at his face evident in his flirty tone.

“You jus’ sound…nice.”

“Nice? That’s all? Why would that make you nervous, baby?”

A sigh slips from your lips, rolling your head back as he hears the smallest whine from you. His cock jumps in his sweats, already half hard from the flirty back and forth in your messages.

“God, you’re going to be a problem with all those pet names,” you say exasperated. Frankie laughs at his screen, feeling like an idiot sitting here alone and smiling like a fool. You’re cute when you’re mad.

“You can tell me your name and I can use that instead?” he propositions, licking his lips as he awaits the piece of information he’s been chomping at the bit to have.

“No! I mean, I’ll tell you my name, but…I like the nicknames. Keep them. Please.” Your words scramble out and it makes him grin wider, witnessing you as nervous as he’s feeling. When you give him your name, he repeats it a few times, rolling it around in his mouth, tasting the syllables on his tongue. Delicate, floral, sweet but a slight tang. Smooth as it rolls across his vocal cords, soothing the rising heat he’s feeling with a refreshing chill. Like peaches and cream.

The two of you chat back and forth for a while, pride swelling in his chest when you laugh at his stupid jokes or give him a compliment, despite being none-the-wiser to his looks. He’s quick to make you blush with his comments, telling you how beautiful he thinks you are. And Frankie’s thanking himself for keeping his camera off, because at times during the call, his eyes drift to your chest, blatantly staring at your perked up nipples through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. It grows his hard on, the softness of your breasts bouncing around as you restlessly squirm during the call enticing him to picture getting his mouth on them. He’d guess you’d taste the same as your name.

The next time you move, he watches your chest again before a sight in the background catches his eye, drawing a chuckle from his mouth. A stuffed bunny lays next to you in your bed, messy with age and love. A soft pink color with a red ribbon tied around its neck, he finds the need to ask about it prodding in his mind.

“Is that who films everything for you?” he jokes, watching your face twist with confusion before looking to your side and bursting out in a laugh. Returning your eyes to the camera, you shake your head timidly.

“No, unfortunately he’s pretty limited to cuddling.”

“He? Didn’t know you had a man in your life, baby. Feels like we shouldn’t be talking like this in front of him.” The sound of your laughter quickens his pulse, the melody trilling in his ears with comfort.

“Well, I guess if you could offer me more than cuddling, he could be demoted.”

“I think I can offer more, Conejita.” Frankie watches as something akin to excitement, but burning brighter, flashes in your eyes. You sit up more, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

“What could you offer me, Frankie?” It’s a loaded question. He could be polite, steer the conversation away from where he so desperately wants it to go, to be a gentleman. It would be easy to make a joke, to get you both to move on.

But he always wants to see where this could go. You’re the one who wanted to talk on the phone in the first place. And he would never suggest anything to make you uncomfortable, and he thinks that you know that. It’s like what the two of you do in your lives — a conversation, a back and forth that may end up benefitting both of you.

“Depends on what you’re lookin’ for, Conejita. I’m a man of many talents.” The words are slick on his tongue, silvery with enticement.

“Hm…” you ponder out loud, tapping your index finger against your bottom lip before turning back to the camera, “Can you cook?”

“Decently. Can’t claim I’m a chef, but I feed myself. And m’pretty good at a grill and makin’ some of my mamá’s recipes. Insisted on teaching them to me so they didn’t end with her.”

Grinning warmly, he feels his heartbeat kick up against his chest, thumping hard at the sight of you giving him that look. “That’s so sweet that she taught you. You can teach me, then someone else in the world will know her recipes too.”

Christ, you’re so fucking adorable. He doesn’t know what he wants more in the moment: to keep talking and simply listen to your voice, or to flirt his way into something more.

“She might be a better teacher than me, baby. Would probably be over the moon if you asked to learn since she had to force me a bit,” he laughs along with your quiet giggle, taking a deep breath when you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Are you a good teacher of other things?”

“I’d like to think so. Haven’t I taught you new things already, Conejita?”

There goes his heartbeat when you look away from the camera, smirk lifting your cheekbones as your demeanor goes shy, shrugging your shoulders as you lay back again, shifting to get comfortable.

“You have…And now I’ve learned how sexy your voice is, too. I’ll be picturing everything you type now to be said in your voice.”

Frankie breathes out a chuckle, a heat burning the nap of his neck, trickling down his back. He feels the effects of his blood rushing below his belt, ever-so-slightly lightheaded as he quietly palms his bulge in his sweatpants.

“My voice is sexy?”

“Um, duh. Are you kidding me? You sound all…rugged and raspy and deep. Like you could manhandle me easily,” you admit your thoughts easily, and he sighs quietly at the thought of having you in front of him to throw around his bed and mold you into the positions he dreams of getting you into.

“No tienes ni idea de lo que haría contigo (You've got no idea what I would do with you)...” he mumbles under his breath, hearing a soft whimper from you. One of your arms is slung across your front, pressing your breast into the other and he can take a guess as to what your hand is up to. “You want some help, baby? I bet you’re jus’ feeling so needy, aren’t you? Listening to my voice got you that worked up?”

“Mhmm…I need it, Frankie…” Your voice has the edge of a whine and he exhales slowly as he hears you beg for him. Not his call sign or a username. His name. Him. There’s no one else who’s making you feel this way, no one else striving for attention.

He pushes his pants down, pulling his hard cock out to start slowly stroking. You’ve left him aching, dripping precum that his fingers smear around his length to lubricate as he moves up and down in a teasing pace.

“Use your manners, Conejita. What d’you say?”

“Please. Please, Frankie. I wanna hear your voice, I want you to tell me what to do.” He hisses from behind his teeth as he squeezes his cock at the base, leaning his head back against his headboard before his focus zeroes in on you on his screen, asking for his guidance, his control to get you off. No one else privy to the sights he’s seeing.

“Good girl. Such a good girl for me, baby. Why don’t you take off your shirt for me? Let me see you, bonita.” Wetting his lips with his tongue when you move to prop your phone up on your mattress, an expert at framing yourself perfectly. The thin, worn fabric of your sleep shirt slips over your head, leaving you on full display for him — already pantyless. Whether you started the call with any on is a mystery to him, but now, he settles back to tell you exactly what he wants from you…what he knows will feel good for his conejita.

“Okay, bunny, lean back for me…That’s it, get comfortable. Good girl.” Looking into your camera to your side, a nervous smile plays at your lips, shyness overcoming you as you wait with bated breath for Frankie, who’s still a mystery to you, to instruct you. It’s driving him mad, how trusting you are of him without ever seeing his face. Such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.

“Show me how you like to play when no one’s watching.”

When his phone dings one evening a few weeks later, Frankie pulls himself out from under the hood of his project car. A familiar fizz bubbles over his body, a Pavlovian response that’s been built over the last few weeks he’s been talking to you. There have been text chains, full of flirty sincerity, and more phone calls, all with his camera off but not all ending like that first one. There have been times when the two of you have had long conversations, full of laughter and learning about the other. A few calls have ended with you falling asleep, stuffed bunny tucked under your chin and pillowy lips parted slightly with deep, even breaths.

Admittedly, he’s grown attached. Maybe a bit much for…whatever this relationship or friendship is, but he can’t help the teenage giddiness he’s felt with every text chime, ringtone, or dial that he’s found you on the other end of.

He’s got a crush.

So immediately at the peal of his cell, he’s reaching for the rag on his workbench, wiping his hands clean of grease before reading over your message.

Conejita:

Hiii 😚

Are you busy?

Grinning like a fool at the gray bubble, Frankie begins to type out a response before abandoning the message and clicking the phone button at the top of your name instead. Pressing the speaker to his ear, he runs a thumb across his bottom lip while he listens to the trill of the dial tone. Steps pace him across the garage, counting them in his head as he waits for an answer.

“Hey, stranger.” The line clicks on and your voice immediately draws a smile across Frankie’s face, hearing one of yours in your upbeat tone.

“Hey, Conejita. What’s up with you?” Even your presence over the phone calms his nerves, sparking kindling low in his gut that spreads down to his toes and up to the back of his neck. Frankie tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder as he wanders back over to the carhood, shutting it carefully. He retreats inside, washing his hands as he listens to you recount your day.

“...So then I got pissed off and left ‘cause she was being so unreasonable. And then I wanted to talk to you ‘cause, I dunno.” The intensity in your cadence slows down toward the tailend of your story of an argument with a friend of yours; Frankie chuckles, biting his tongue while you sigh deeply and he dries his hands off on a kitchen towel.

“You don’t know why you wanted to talk to me? Don’t get all shy on me now, cariño,” he teases you, receiving a frustrated huff on the other end. “Well, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. She sounds like she has a stick up her ass. And m’glad you wanted to call me, Conejita.”

“D’you wanna switch to Facetime?”

“‘Course, I do. Always wanna see your face, jus’ one sec…” Frankie climbs his stairs two at a time, reaching the landing as his screen lights up with the Facetime request from you. He answers it, camera off, while he changes out of dirty clothes and listens to you chatting about plans for the weekend. He mentions going out with the guys tomorrow night, and you make a jest that gets him laughing, both of you bantering back and forth before he settles back on his bed.

“Y’know, I am content to chat with you like this, Frankie. But I keep wondering what you look like…” In the small rectangle of his screen, you lean forward to fill more of it, cleavage exposed in your bralette. He’s been waiting for this to be brought up again, and feeling so much more comfortable with you, he can’t admit he hasn’t thought about it. But with that stronger connection comes the anxieties. What if he isn’t what you pictured? What if he isn’t your type? What if you don’t like him anymore?

Frankie thinks he’s decent looking enough — he hasn’t had much trouble pulling girls since he was a teenager, but not being the most commanding or charismatic in the room, he has had his bouts of struggle in the relationship department.

“Please, Frankie. S’not fair I get to hear your sexy voice and not know what you look like. Pretty please, I’ll give you something special if you do,” you bargain with a pout on your face, bottom lip protruding and puffy. He wants to kiss it away, bite down on the glossy flesh, work away your frowning moue with his own mouth. Wonderings of what you taste like.

Coming back into himself, he wears a proud, intrigued smirk that you’re blind to except for the way his words curl around his slick, silvery tongue, “Oh, is that right, bunny? What if I wanna know what the something special is to decide?”

“Not how it works, silly. Either you want something special or you don’t.” A stern shake of the head, sitting up straight as you raise an eyebrow at him.

He sits with it for a moment, thoughts warring on the inside. In the end, his realistic side barters that either way could end badly: he doesn’t turn the camera on and you get frustrated, ending it, or he does turn the camera on and you don’t like the look of him, ending it. A phantom whisper of your voice, bubbly and bright, reminds him that it could make everything even better, and that ultimately is what convinces him.

“Alright, alright. You make a convincing argument, Conejita.”

A beaming smile stretches across your face as you draw a leg up to your chest, resting your head on your kneecap while you hold back your excitement and anticipation. Frankie takes in the sight of you, astir on tenterhooks.

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbles to himself before his thumb is pressing the camera button, illuminating himself on your screen. He sees himself in the smaller rectangle in the corner, grimacing before he laughs softly and grins, awaiting your reaction with waves of solicitude raging inside.

You see him, your Frankie. Filling your phone screen. Finally.

A nearly inaudible gasp leaves your lips, blocked from the mic by your knee. Studying his face, you witness the lines next to his eyes deepening as he laughs, his shy smile growing on his face. Big brown eyes strike your chest, their sincere softness making you want to fall into their warmth and stay there forever. Like the comforting heat of a mug of coffee on a chilly morning. You note that your visualizations were correct, mostly. Brown hair, curling out from under the cap branded with Standard Oil that sits on his head. Wide set shoulders that extend out of frame, a build to him that screams he most definitely can manhandle you around in bed. His call sign makes a bit more sense to you, seeing patches in his short beard, admiring the one on his left cheek that is shaped like a heart. Simply endearing. The image of him in front of you sends a shock to your core, wet spot in your panties growing as you begin to imagine what the rest of him looks like.

Hot is all you can think. Frankie is fucking hot.

His voice cuts through your trails of admiration, joking around to break the silent tension, “So are you gonna ask me to keep my camera off now?”

As you swallow to recover some of your composure, shaking your head back and forth quickly before a genuinely eager smile paints your expression. Leaning closer to see more of his details, freckles across his neck and where his shirt exposes a sliver of his chest, the peak of his cupid’s bow shaded by his mustache, long eyelashes that reach toward his eyebrows. You drop your knee from in front of you, leaning an elbow on the surface of your desk and resting your shin in your palm.

“Frankie, respectfully, what the fuck? You’re so hot.”

A boisterous laugh rolls from his chest, the same shy smile returning with a blush across his cheeks, “Conejita, you’re the hot one between us.”

“No, no, I’m being serious. You’re like — Damn. Your smile. And you have pretty eyes, Frankie. And you’re just like…really fucking hot. I can’t even think of another word. You should be the one doing what I’m doing.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re only seeing my face, baby.”

“Yeah, and? It’s a pretty face…Wanna sit on it.” Your giggle cuts through his speakers, and Frankie groans at the comment. Saliva coats your mouth as you watch the muscles in his neck tense, licking your chops like a prowling lion. If only he was in front of you right now…

“Diablita…eres una problema. (Little devil…you’re a problem.) Do I get my special something now?”

Another giggle and a mischievous smirk make Frankie’s brows stitch together in frustration, your shoulders shrugging as you toy with the strap of your bra, hooked under your index finger, “Actually, I think I wanna move the goalpost. Will you show me what I’m missin’, Frankie? I wanna see more.”

Desire burns bright and wild inside of you, ache building between your legs as your arousal drips from your panties and onto your thighs. You’d been picturing him — all of him — for weeks. Ever since that first message. But now, seeing him on your phone screen, your imagination is running wild with newfound information and attempting to fill in the blanks. He has to be big, thickness would be just right. He’s the quiet type, unassuming in his own looks, which means he has to have a virtually perfect dick. It's the rules of the universe. Undecided if he’s cut or not, but regardless, picturing your manicured fingers wrapped around it and tongue licking at his tip. Watching him come undone from you. Stomach tensing, those long fingers that you sneak a peek of when he adjusts his hat wrapped up in your hair. Rasping moans. What would he taste like?

Frankie shakes his head, a quick tsking drawing your attention back to the moment as he looks on with a teasing expression, “Conejita, I don’t think it works like that.”

“Okay, then no special something for you. Your choice, Francisco.”

He watches as you move the strap back up your shoulder, the soft snap of the elastic against your skin. Huffing out a frustrated breath, he mumbles, “No serías tan valiente si estuvieras aquí conmigo, mocosa. (You wouldn’t be so brave if you were here with me, brat.)”

Uncaring in whatever annoyances he was airing with you, you watch him sit up further in the frame, knocking off his cap and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Despite his words, he lifts his shirt over his head, looking back at the camera, bare shoulders and chest on display, “This is what you get for now, bunny.”

Satisfaction glows from your smile, biting hard into your bottom lip while Frankie watches your eyes search everywhere on your screen besides his own. A stern clearing of his throat breaks your trance, a commanding expression on Frankie’s face.

“You promised me something, Conejita.”

A deep pout replaces your grin, huffing in defiance as you slip your bra straps from your shoulders, “Can’t you please take the rest off? Show me what I wanna see, Frankie. Please.”

“Nah uh. Quit demanding, baby. Y’know that’s my job. Now tell me, what are you gonna do for me to get what you want?” His unwavering voice surprises you, despite hearing it for weeks. With the added heat factor of his looks, you crumble a bit quicker, clenching your thighs as you sigh and nod obediently.

“I’ll do anything, Frankie. Jus’ tell me what to do, I wanna make you happy.”

He grins on the screen, sincere softness peeking out, “Oh, baby, y’know it’s easy to make me happy. Jus’ gotta be a good little bunny, yeah?” He hums, licking his lips as he ponders what he wants from you tonight, a night he wants to fill with another milestone for the two of you. He’s only seen you use a small vibrator or your fingers on the phone with you, but he knows what else you have. He’s watched the video of you using it on your profile only about ten times.

“Get your pretty pink toy for me, Conejita. Y’know the one. And then get on the floor and you’re going to show me exactly how you use it.”

There’s rustling as you follow his instructions, stripping bare and suctioning the toy to your hardwood floors, propping the phone up for him to see it all. The hot pink dildo bobbles from you moving around it, glistening with lube that you applied — even though with one glance at your cunt, both you and Frankie know you wouldn’t need it. Straddling over the silicone, you slowly tease your entrance with it, whining before you make one more attempt to Frankie watching you with a smugness in his smirk.

“Please, Frankie, can’t you please show me your cock? I wanna picture it while I fuck myself. Wanna know if it’s how I imagined…Dream about it a lot.” He can read right through your tactics, but his dick can’t. It strains against his zippered jeans, throbbing under the fabric for some sort of relief. He squeezes his palm over it once, exhaling as he shakes his head, strong in his convictions.

“Be a good girl, and I’ll show you what you wanna see.” No more room for negotiations.

“Yes’sir.”

Frankie’s mouth hangs ajar while his focus trains on the apex of your thighs. Watching you slowly sink down, the bright pink rubbery toy disappears inside of you. Whimpers slip from your lips as you brace your hands on your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin. Need burns brightly in his chest and below his belt, clenching his jaw while he imagines biting the meaty part of you, leaving teeth marks in his wake before settling his mouth at your entrance.

Your hips set a quick pace, desperate for the high you’ve been dripping for since getting on the phone with Frankie. A low growl followed with a disapproving tut clicks over the speakers of your phone.

“Slow down, baby girl. Not a race…” Frankie corrects, and the only response you have is a frantic nod, turning your movements to a drag. The toy fills you up, stretches you the most that you have ever been. Pain heats your feelings of pleasure, intensifying it all in the lightness of your limbs and head. The ridges of the faux veins of the fake cock impress into your walls, the tip of it notching at the spot inside of you that Frankie taught you to reach. It only skates by it, whines accompanying your frustrations.

Frankie, on the other end, listens to the squelch of your pussy around the silicone. The sound drives him to fully cup his erection through his pants, palming himself with heady breaths as your own moans for him drive the iron hot brand of need deeper into his skin. He can see your need for a change, your need to be given permission to chase that feeling that’s within reach.

“Lean back, little bunny. Sit back on your hands and use your hips…Show me more of that pretty pussy,” he instructs, cool and confident while his hips buck up into his hand. Being his perfect girl, you do as he says and change positions, gasping when you sink down onto the toy. Your cunt clenches around it, a satisfied smirk painting Frankie’s face. He knows he’s gotten you to hit that special spot. With the grip your entrance has around the base of the dildo, he wonders if you’ll pop it off of the floor on your next thrust.

“Oh, fuck…Frankie, wish you were here. Tell me—tell me what you’d do to me if you were here,” you beg, your hips still dragging at the new angle.

A groan escapes Frankie at your request, biting down hard on his lip and taking his hand away from his lap to deny himself the temptation.

“You love hearing me say all the dirty things to you, huh Conejita?” Without waiting for an answer, he continues, “If I were there with you, I’d would be—shit—I’d be devouring you right now. Fucking you with my tongue and my fingers, making you squeeze me and getting your come all over my face. Gotta get you ready for me, bunny. After, I’d flip you over. Get your pretty ass up for me, and I’d fuck you senseless. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Turn it all off up there and just let me take care of you…”

Nodding, your hips start to move faster as Frankie speaks to you. He doesn’t have the heart to tease you anymore, letting you start to take what you want for a bit. Your moans pitch up, tits bouncing with your nipples pebbled and the rest of your soft curves twisting as you rock back and forth on the toy.

“Yes, please. I want that,” you mewl, heavy breaths erratic.

“That’s right. My baby deserves it all,” he says with a sigh, his large palm squeezing his hard cock again, slowly unzipping his jeans and slipping his hand into his boxers to grip himself at the base. “I’d fuck you until that pretty little brain of yours was filled up only with thoughts of how good I make you feel. How good you are for me, pretty girl…Look at you go, bouncing on that toy. Rub your clit, Conejita. Slow, at least for right now.”

You follow his orders, supporting yourself on one arm. Slow circles against your clit have you shuddering with pleasure, a twitch of your tummy as you moan. Your eyes flutter shut, face twisting with overwhelming need. Frankie drinks in the sight, indulging himself in a few long strokes of his cock before he hears it.

“Daddy…” you breathe, near a whisper, but it’s audible to him. Lost in yourself, you don’t even notice you’ve let it slip until it comes again, “Oh my god, Daddy.”

The surprise of it shocks your eyes open, stuttering your hips as you narrow in on your screen. Frankie’s eyes grow dark, licking his lips as he holds in a loud moan. His fingers grip the base of his aching cock, holding off at the edge. So close to coming when he heard that word drip from your mouth like melted sugar.

He can tell you’re attempting to gauge his reaction, nervous settling in as you attempt to move on from it and continue fucking yourself closer to finishing. Frankie’s eager to take it in stride, clearing his throat before he gives it right back to you, opening that door that he knows won’t be shut any time soon. At least not by him.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby. Let Daddy tell you what you need, yeah?” He chuckles darkly, satisfaction thumping in his veins while you nod and whimper yes yes yes back to him, “Y’know, if you like that lil’ toy, baby, Daddy’s cock will feel even better. S’bigger than that fucking thing.”

“Oh, fuck, I need to—I need you, Daddy, please!”

“I know, Conejita, I know. Poor little thing jus’ needs Daddy to be filling her up, huh? You wanna know what my cock feels like inside of you, don’t you, pequeña?” He hisses with a buck of his hips into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief second.

“Yes, yes, please, Daddy! Please,” you choke on a breath and Frankie can see you twitch at your inner thighs from the full-on view of your pussy, your tell-tale sign that you’re about to come.

“Y’know the rules, Conejita. Better ask before you come.”

“Please, please may I come?” you moan, rubbing faster circles against your clit and grinding down on your toy.

“Oh, bunny, you can ask nicer than that. May I come…?” he leads, smirking devilishly when you nearly squeal from the way he’s holding you out on the edge. Teetering on the verge of that high that he knows well, he can see your legs faltering with a cramp.

“Please may I come, Daddy?” Your eyes open, heavy-lidded and lips parted with shallow breathing. Frankie gets lost in the sight, wrecked from his direction, his words, a sheen of sweat over your skin and the arousal coating your thighs. A fucking dream.

“Mm, come for Daddy, baby girl—” he’s interrupt as you erupt in a high-pitched moan, mouth wide open as you string together mumblings Oh fuck, Daddy, feels so good. Need you so bad…

“Good girl.”

Frankie hums contently, chuckling as a dopey grin finds your face, blinking through the orgasmic haze. Laying back, you slip the toy out of your pussy, leaving it to wobble in place and spreading your legs around it. One arm comes to rest against your forehead, breasts rising and falling with deep, recovering breaths. He’s blocked of the view that would make this moment even sweeter, licking his lips before he speaks up.

“Lemme see that fucked cunt of yours, bunny. Let Daddy see what belongs to him.” You sit up again, popping the toy off of the floor and laying it to the side to be cleaned later. Frankie hums as you part your legs more, the glittering of your come dripping on your thighs and across your swollen pussy. “Eres un buen oyente, pequeña. (You’re a good listener, little one.)”

“What’s that mean?” you ask, a long exhale punctuating the question.

“You’re a good listener, little one.” Frankie grins when you grow shy, inching your legs together before he tsks again, one hand coming into frame to motion for your lower limbs to part again.

“Y’know, it would look even prettier with my come dripping out of ya, baby.”

“Please.”

“What, Conejita?”

“Don’t tease me anymore…Can’t take it, Daddy.” You lips push out in a pout, subtle but he can catch the change in expression.

“Nah uh, no pouting, bunny. Who said that I was teasing? I’m going to make it happen.”

Sweetness slips from your lips in a giggle, leaning over to pick up your phone and hold him closer to your face.

“So, if I was a good girl, doesn’t that mean I get to see what I asked for before?” Wiggling in eagerness, Frankie feigns ignorance, scratching at his beard as he shrugs, acting as if he didn’t nearly come in his pants multiple times in the last few minutes.

“I dunno, Conejita. What did you ask me for? Gonna have to remind me.”

“Your cock. I wanna see it.” Your pout sneaks back, biting your lip. “May I please see your cock, Daddy?”

“I think I could do that for you, baby. Asking so nicely. Such a good girl for Daddy, yeah?”

“Always.” A giggle bubbles up from your tummy, biting down on your lip as Frankie takes you in, shaking his head in subtle disbelief. How the hell did clicking for one subscription get him here, having Facetime sex with you?

He obliges your original requests, moving to prop his phone up in front of him, stripping down his jeans first. The sight of his bulge waters your mouth, pupils widening in want at the outline of his cock. No tricks of the light, no chance of manipulation like some men in your DMs do. All natural.

And Frankie wasn’t lying. He’s big.

The reveal comes when he tugs his boxers down to his ankles, settling in front of the camera again. His heavy length rests against his lower stomach, precum dripping into his dark happy trail. Your eyes drag over the veins ribbing him, leading down to show off that he’s tastefully groomed. Swallowing saliva, you lick your lips as his large hand wraps around, slow strokes that gently shift the foreskin away from his tip. The end of his cock glistens with pebbles of precum, red and aching. Frankie hisses at the contact, the veins in his neck straining against his skin while he starts to fuck his fist.

“You look so pretty, Daddy,” you compliment sweetly, grinning at him as he laughs quietly back at you.

“Such a sweet little bunny. You think you can take me in your tight little cunt?” A long exhales concaves his chest, quiet moans as his hand picks up pace.

You return his regular favor of talking him through it, detailing how good of a girl you’d be for him, telling him all that he would be allowed to do to you. The sounds Frankie makes has you dripping again, getting his permission to fuck your fingers, both of you driving each other to a peak, your second one taking the breath from your lungs as Frankie comes at the same time. Whimpers escape your mouth as you envy his hand and stomach being covered in his release, biting your tongue and crowding the screen as he shows off how much you made him come.

“Wish I was there to clean you up, Daddy.”

“Right back at you, Conejita.”

A few days later, Frankie calls you after one of your livestreams, grinning like a schoolboy when you answer in only your underwear. You laugh as you set your phone down on the surface of your dressing, his childish smirk turning to a pout as he stares at your white painted ceiling. Calling out to him, you ask for one second while you tug a sweatshirt over your head, shuffling around before grabbing the device and relaxing back on your bed, bunny in your lap.

“Hi, baby,” Frankie coos, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile as he drinks in your cozy, drowsy demeanor. Cuddling with the toy against your chest, you grin back at him, curling up onto your side like a cat.

“Hi, Frankie,” you mumble back, exhaustion heavy in your eyes.

“You sleepy, little bunny?” A slow nod answers his question. “Alright, I won’t keep you up for long then. Just had a question for you.”

The vague proposition piques your interest, your eyes shooting open and the camera being brought closer to your face, “What’s your question?”

Frankie works his lips between his teeth, nerves crackling over his entire body. Realistically, he knows you’ll say yes, but there’s still that chance for rejection in the moment. His left leg bounces against his couch, hand running over his face as he takes a deep breath in, “I was wondering if you’d wanna come visit me here in Florida? If you don’t have time—”

“I would love to come visit, Frankie,” you agree immediately, a sincere smile growing on your face. Frankie mirrors your excitement with a goofy grin, the creases next to his eyes deepening and his dimple cratoring his cheek. “I’ll even book my flight right now, that’s how eager I am.”

Shaking his head furiously, he clicks his tongue in a tut, scolding you playfully, “Hey, hey. No, none of that. I’m not letting my baby pay, I’m the one who asked you to come.”

“But—”

“Nope, no buts. Except yours getting onto a plane and coming to see me,” Frankie laughs at his own joke, earning a playful eye roll as you hold back your own chuckle. “Oh, c’mon, that was funny, Conejita. I can tell you want to laugh.”

The two of you go back and forth while he books your flight on his laptop, showing off the confirmation number once it’s all gone through. Both of you wear shit-eating grins on your faces, sitting in disbelief.

Frankie can’t help the rush of anxiety, unable to tell if it’s solely from his excitement. All he can think about is having you in front of him, in the flesh, in person. No screens between the two of you, no broken signals or shitty wifi interruptions. Hearing your voice without the strain of speakers, getting to touch you, taste you, hear you, feel you all over him. There’s the flash of a vision of you laid out underneath him, making your little sounds that drive him crazy and digging your nails into his back…

“Gonna let Daddy spoil you while you’re down here, baby girl?” Frankie smirks as you stretch sleepily, biting down on your lip.

“You’re flying me out, isn’t that spoiling me enough? Shouldn’t it be my turn to spoil you then?”

“Think you know the answer to that, baby. Having you in front of me is spoiling me enough, I jus’ wanna take care of you.”

The simple statement brings a smile to your face, shyly tucking your face into your pillow. The rest of the call relaxes you back to near sleep, listening as Frankie tells you all about what he’ll take you to do. Your drowsiness catches up with you, drifting off on the phone. Frankie chuckles quietly to himself, sitting with you for a moment silently before he goes to hang up.

“Night, Conejita. Can’t wait to see you.”

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#frankie #writing #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #tw daddy kink #cw daddy kink

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undercoverpena · 24 days

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15. raspberry truffle

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter fifteen of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.1k chapter warnings: smut. 18+. jo's mirror love resurfaces and armchairs are used as more than things sat behind desks. lots of mouth to mouth resus. smut. also there's smut. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: I've had this image in my head for so long...

prev chapter | series masterlist

“Do you trust me?”

It's a simple question. One he’s asked you time and time before, but never with the current look in his eye he’s currently wearing.

Dressed in a tight grey tee and a pair of black sweats. Hatless, teased curls frame his face as you rest against your counter. The one you’ve seen for the first time in some days.

It strikes you that the only reason you're standing in your home, to begin with, is because of the email informing you that some of your new furniture had been dispatched.

His mouth had been sealed to your neck, fingers grasping at your waist as you read it out, distracted, attention not entirely focused on him until his hand snaked between your legs, in his sheets, in his bed—the one you’d now found to be far more comfortable than your own—as he whispered, I can build it for you.

And, he did. Had done.

Putting his tool on the side as he rejoins you. A nominal irk bubbling through you that the toolbox it lives in is one foot away, it vanishing when he steps closer, presses you further against it. Cool, firmness meets your spine as his body corners you.

He looms in a way that makes your heart double as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him. Deeply.

“Should I trust you, handsome?”

Snorting, his laugh fluttering over your lips. “I think you should.”

Lips pursing, narrowing your eyes teasingly, you feel his thumb sliding the fabric of your top up and down your hip bone.

“You are biased though.” His head lolls from side to side as he hums, fingers pinching at the bottom of your top. “Do you think I should because you built my chair?”

As soon as he slides his arm around your waist, your back arches. Chest desperate to be flush. Heart aching to be near to his.

“No. Because you love me.”

Sighing, nodding—all playful. A smirk just there, all beneath the surface. “Oh. That thing.”

Tracing his nose against yours, a smile trying to beam, but he mirrors how you hold back. “That thing.”

When he’s close like this, it’s almost criminal when you’re not kissing him. When you’ve not slanted your mouth against his soft lips, felt the roughness of the hair on his face against your palm, buried your fingers into his curls and pulled a little to earn that groan he does. The one, if it were a thing that could be possible, you’d love etched into your brain.

The thought of which makes you want to peel your clothes off.

Already so hungry for a thing you’ve been feasting at a buffet for the last number of days. Yet, still wanting, still needing.

“You really play a long game,” you say, more sweet. And his nose scrunches, frowning as you smirk. “Waiting this long, getting me to fall in love with you, and then killing me in my own office.”

“Oh yeah, I’m a mastermind.”

Laughing, you twirl a curl around your finger, finding the hair a little longer. “Okay,” you reply, sealing it to his lips, “I trust you—you get my blood on my new chair you’ve just built, I’m going to haunt you.”

“It’s not a punishment that you’d want to spend the rest of your days haunting me, Rainy.”

His hips dip, becoming aware of the effect you have on him too as his growing bulge rubs against your parted thighs. A moan escapes, body jolting at the welcome friction. The sound leaves so softly, barely loud enough to disrupt his mouth from being on yours.

But it does.

“Do you trust me?”

The four words repeated, answered hurriedly. No game, no tease.

His mouth comes close to your ear, a chaste kiss left along your hairline as his hand clutches your waist for stability, and you forget how to breathe.

“Close your eyes, baby.”

As you do, his fingers, clean and soft, all but sawdust stained, slide over your eyes—his chest to your back as he leads you down a familiar path that suddenly feels foreign. Trusting.

Your nose tunes in. Takes in the scent that is equivocally just him, one you’re thankful has begun seeping into your home as much as he has your heart. Hearing him whisper instructions, watch this, be careful, until you're body is shifted on its axis.

His fingers slide from your vision, allowing you to blink, see him, smiling at the sight of him.

“Fuck you’re handsome.”

Backing you up against the newly painted office wall, your arm hooks around his neck again, mouth ghosting over his as a hand hovers over your hip.

“Still trust me?”

Nodding, you feel his breath on your parted lips, before he slides his mouth over yours. Searing. Burning—all determined as his tongue slides past your teeth and his fingers slide up your neck, tracing your jaw. It makes you delirious. Dizzy. Thoughts nothing but lost to you until you glance past him and see it.

The built chair, in the nearly decorated office. The desk it should be behind is still a week out, but the chair, mirror and plants are all set up—the shelves adorned with bits you have for now.

“Hey?” he says, eyes snapping back to him.

Spotting the bubbling molten in his eyes, remembering how your body is aflame—

Then the next question comes. “Can I taste you, baby?”

Nodding, you whisper your answer into the air as he leads you, guides you all over again, moving you closer and more towards your new chair. Mouth latching itself to yours, palms on either side of your cheeks, before his hand steals the cushion, and throws it down.

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he whispers, trailing the words down your neck, along your collarbone.

It makes a gasp flutter from your lips, feeling your insides knot, likely dampening the fabric between your thighs, making nothing short of a mess—

“Gonna take these off, okay?”

Your tongue thickens in your head, swallowing a whimper at the feel of his thumbs hooking inside your shorts and slipping them down your thighs. The fabric skims, sliding, before they fall with a soft thud and he's guiding you to sit down in the armchair.

Taking a breath, you stare, captivated. Frankie sinking, kneeling before you on the cushion. “Part your legs for me.”

“Shit, Frankie.”

“Baby.”

Swallowing, you do. Then, it’s delicate, soft.

The gentlest of kisses up the inside of your thighs. Aware of the heat of his fingers pushing your knees further into the arms of the armchair, tuned into the way he exhales through his nose, cool air teasing over your already slick, cloth-covered pussy—the chair groaning when you buck your hips.

“Rainy.”

He grunts it. Low—warningly. It comes from a place in the back of his throat, grating and gravelly as he stares up at you. Nothing but brown dipped in more brown holding your gaze. Usually, it would make you smirk, but instead, you mumble an apology.

One that trails off; turns into a whine when he drags his tongue over the already-drenched fabric.

You’re not sure how it’s possible but you moan like you’ve been teased for hours. Sure that with a few more, you could be close—

“I want you to look in that mirror, and see how beautiful you look as I do this.”

“Frankie, I…”

His hand slides up, right between your still-covered breasts, before cupping your cheek, thumb under your jaw, eyes searching, sweeping and locating. “Look for me.”

Flicking your eyes to it, the ornate thing you’d not been sure you wanted until he’d slid his arms around your waist. Buried his face into your neck. Told you it was nice.

You’d agreed then, you most definitely did. Nodding, letting a little whispered okay escape as he nods. Staring, trying not to pick apart what you see in the reflection. The way your eyes look tired, skin not as bright as it normally would be. That is until he nips at your skin. Pulls your gaze from your own to the back of his head.

“Beautiful—”

“Frankie,” you sigh.

Hand coming over your face, heat blooming in your cheeks as you feel him kiss your inner knee. Thumb stroking at your skin, circling, before he taps. A silent request, a reminder: look at yourself.

You do.

“You are so beautiful, Rainy.” He dips his head—becoming aware of the finger sliding in the gusset of your plainest underwear, dragging the fabric, pulling it from your soaked core all the way to the side.

“I thought it when I first saw you.”

Air blowing across your core, before he places the most delicate, softest kiss against your swollen clit.

“Think it now, seeing you sat in your new chair, in your new office.”

You feel your chest heave, see it. Staring at the way the muscles strain in your neck from not moving, before he drags a long, slow stripe up from your aching hole to your nerves.

And he groans, low and dull. It vibrates against you before his tongue swipes again, hands pushing your inner thighs apart before he dives again. Sliding his tongue between your folds, licking, drawing.

He’s slow in his movements, measured. Delves as much of himself into you before wet, roaring heat swirls around and encases your clit as his growl sends flames up your spine.

That’s when he slides his fingers in. Curls them. Moves them in slow thrusts.

The whine of his name you let escape is sinful, practically unrecognisable. Your hips moving, unable to tear yourself away from staring at the way your mouth hangs open, panting, moaning, as you rock your hips, fuck yourself on his fingers, on his tongue, as you hope his other hand on your hip will leave a mark. Half moons or bruises, or even fucking both—

“Frankie, please.”

The angle of the mirror not only allows you to see the sight of him taking you apart, but how the act seemingly undoes him. How his shirt is stretched across his shoulder blades, how his muscles ripple under the thin fabric as you hold on to every thread as the pads of his fingers curl more into you. All come hither, beckoning the incoming wave you know is going to wash over the two of you.

And it turns you on.

“You like it, querida? Like watching yourself.”

“Like watching you.”

And you swear you feel him smirk as your hips lift, desperate for more, eyes speckled with spots as your nails grip the arm of the chair, the other lost and tangled in his curls.

It’s so good, so fucking good.

He’d make you confess, make you tell him everything—no matter the secret, you’re sure he could pull it from you like this. Have you spilling, as though he’s cracking you open, and even helping him translate the parts of you he’s yet to understand or know.

“So perfect squeezing around me, baby. Love how you taste—always taste so fucking good.”

Your back is off the chair, grinding into him, so close you can’t even think, can barely speak.

“Want you to come on my tongue, Rainy. Need you too.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s it. Let yourself feel good, baby. Use me, use—”

And you do.

Fuck. You do.

Your cry echoes and bangs around the walls before slamming into your ears. Legs shaking. Mind sludge as you come down from your high to his soothing touch, to his whispers, to his words that make you feel like you’re in heaven. Not just here, with his shoulders supporting your knees, but all the time.

It’s why you bring his mouth to yours. Messily, all disorientated from the high of him as you taste yourself on his mouth, on his tongue—the tang of what he’d done to you evidenced.

It makes you want, need.

You’re not sure how the two of you made it to the bedroom so cleanly.

His clothes are scattered, left in the hallway; a path that leads from one moment to the other. Your knees were likely bruised from how you dropped to them in the doorway, straddling the hallway and bedroom as you palmed him through his underwear, eyes wide, looking up.

“I love your cock, Frankie.” Hooking a finger in the band, dragging the fabric to his ankles, to the ground. “Like how heavy it feels on my tongue cock.”

Hand slowly wrapping around him, pumping once, twice.

“Fuc...”

His curse isn't able to form when your mouth wraps around him, taking him in your mouth. As much of him as you could. Hearing him groan, grunt—seeing his nostrils flare before his forehead presses into the crease of his elbow as he leans it against the door. His breath stammers, palm cupping the back of your head casually as he tenses, muscles straining, body stiff.

All you can think is you wish this image could be painted, commemorated; hung somewhere for your eyes to see everywhere, every day.

Because he's backlit by the afternoon, shadows cascade from the half-drawn curtains of your room, bicep flexing as you take him down your throat, loosening it as much as you can until the tip of your nose finds itself in his curls.

“So big, Frankie.”

He groans, at the same time as you taste salt, it pooling at the back of your throat. Your eyes flick up to see his jaw slackening, nostrils flaring when your tongue swirls around the tip, hollowing your cheeks, feeling him twitch in your mouth—

“Bed.”

It’s hissed, strangled, as he pulls himself from between your lips and spit trails over your lower lip and chin.

“Now?” you tease.

“Now.”

His hands, all capable and strong, haul you to your feet. Finding a home on your hips, directing and shifting you until you’re on familiar sheets, turned over, stomach flush to your mattress as he trails his mouth down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you.”

“Then fuck me.”

It’s different, the way your bodies come together. The way he swallows your hiss when he bottoms out, stretching around him, fingers clinging and clutching at him.

“Y’too good to me, Frankie.”

“Impossible,” he whispers.

Mouth sliding up over your neck, nose catching on your skin, his hand dips between your bodies—where you’re joined, where you’re full and stretched around him. It’s bliss. Perfection. One you endure so regularly but don’t become used to, each time as taken back by how good it feels to be seated fully inside you as his fingers tease your swollen nerves.

It’s with a smooth thrust do your fingers brush over his face, finding his cheek, mouth and nose, guiding with your eyes closed for his mouth to seal itself over yours. Hips moving, thrusting, meeting him each time as you grow slicker, making a mess of him and the sheets beneath you.

Mouth slotted over his, moaning passed his teeth, hands clutching his cheek, the back of his neck, fingers teasing his curls. “Fuck, Frankie. Fu—“

He grins, you feel it. His hand slides from your slick-covered clit to your hip, along your waist, travelling and travelling until his palm cups your breast—until his finger and thumb are pinching your hardened peak. All the time kissing you, open mouths, breathing one another as his pace quickens. As you feel the early signs of your thighs tremoring, seeking something to grip, to hold on tight—

“Love how you take me.”

You whine. Gasping.

And he’s smooth with it. The way he slides your hand from his cheek and down towards the bed. Hingeing you, making you go down onto all fours as he kisses down your neck, trails his tongue, leaving a searing wet line before he’s under your arm, snaking his mouth over as much skin as he can get.

“Baby—“

“I know,” he grunts, puncturing it with several thrusts. “Feels good, you always feel good.”

Your eyes clench shut, mouth falling open at the angle. At the way it makes your toes curl in nothing. Something tightening, something that makes the corners of your vision blot and darken. It close. Liquid heat forming, swirling in your stomach, in your need and you—

A whine rips from your throat. All stained in disappointment, in loss as he pulls out. Leaves you empty, desperate.

You almost hiss. Throwing your head over your shoulder as you glance back to see him breathing heavily, chest oiled with sweat, hand squeezing himself at the base, a lopsided grin spread into his cheek as his other hand slides over your side. Urging, silently requesting.

“Roll onto your back, Rainy.”

It centres you, roots you when his elbows come down on either side of you.

Warm, hot mouth sliding over your jaw, his hand gripping yours, holding you tight as he teases, slides the tip of his cock through your messy folds, taunting your swollen clit.

“I love you,” he groans, pushing himself in, completely to the hilt, all in one smooth movement.

You swear he's deeper. Always say so until he trails his hand up the side of your leg, lifting them, hooking them over his waist as you wrap them around his back, and dig your ankles into his lower spine.

“Feel so good.”

“You make me feel so good.”

Your chin tips up, feeling him press open-mouth kisses to your throat. Likely feeling the vibrations of your moans against his lips, his tongue.

“Yeah?”

Nodding, rustling your head against the dishevelled sheets as his breath fans over your collarbone, “Only you.”

His pace quickens, snaps his hips to yours, grunting, moaning—the sounds making you clench around him. Chasing your second orgasm, walls fluttering around him as your fingers tighten around his, as he grasps your hip and fucks into you. Spears into you.

“I love you too,” you moan.

“I’m close. So close. Want to feel you, baby. Can you come, baby, come for me—”

Fingers knotting tighter around his, vision spotting, it all pooling, all set to spread.

Then, it snaps, splinters.

You cry out. Body erupting.

Nothing but heat and fire surging through you as you are washed in it. Drowned it. Never wishing to be saved as you go under, as your hearing fades and your eyes blur. Only aware, distantly, of the way your skin tingles as it lights with a blaze.

But, you do catch his guttural groan. The way he stills, paused, as his eyes clench and your name is buried into your ear—feeling him collapse on you.

A weight you love.

His heart hammering against yours, breath strained, difficult as you clutch at him, pulling him closer if that is at all possible. Even if it's just for a moment, before steam fills your bathroom and soap suds slide down both of your skin.

Because it's a weight that makes you smile every time, every day. One you adore. One you never want to not know.

You say as much against his mouth as your lips sloppily meet his, smiling, grinning against his mouth.

I love you.

Love you too, Rainy.

an: this was almost titled the last smut. (because of the series coming to an end, not because of some unhappy ending)

NEXT CHAPTER ->

#frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #francisco morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier smut #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader smut #francisco morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales x f!reader #triple frontier fanfic

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wutheringmights · 3 months

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After I finished reading The Epic of Gilgamesh today, I entered a fugue state where I sat down and read the entirety of Alanna: The First Adventure by Tamora Pierce.

On the record, I have had a lifelong love and adoration for Pierce's Tortall books. I first read the Song of the Lioness quartet when I was 11, and they rewrote my brain. I love them so much. I reread them and the other Tortall books on a semi-frequent schedule.

It's been a while since I reread any of the Alanna books, if only because my sister took our shared copies when she moved out. I've been meaning to buy my own set for a long while now but haven't been able to justify the purchase. The other week, I just so happened to find the first two volumes at my local indie bookstore. I bought them immediately, as well as ordered the third and fourth book. (And discovered that the store owner knows me by name-- when I went to pick up my order, she saw me and said, Hi Frankie! I got your books over here.) (I may be spending too much money there.)

So I have been in a bit of an emotional rut these past few weeks. Work sucks. Life stinks. The temptation to run off to Tortall and curl up in the fantasy story that captivated me as a kid has never been stronger.

Ergo, I ran off to read the first book as soon as I could.

If you're looking for any critique of this book, series, or Tortall in general, I will never give it. Sure, it's problematic and dated, and in many ways imperfect, but someone else can list out all of its issues. They're all perfect to me.

Anyway, the book. I should say something about this book in particular.

One thing I appreciate about Pierce's writing is how she handles school settings in fantasy. Learning and training is so mundane. All of her heroines have to work hard and put in extra hours of study in order to improve, much less keep up with their peers. It's so normal that it circles around to being weirdly refreshing.

Also, there is still no other fantasy author who handles period talk and birth control the way Pierce does. We make fun of the trope of fantasy birth control nowadays, but I rarely see it presented as it is here: as a part of normal puberty lessons and given long before sex is in the girl's radar. And even today with the glut of YA fantasy stories out there, I still have yet to see menstruation be portrayed as frequently or as bluntly as Pierce writes it.

There was a period of time publishers really tried to push the Tortall books as straight YA, which doesn't work for that reason alone. You gotta market them to middle schoolers. They're the ones just starting puberty talks, and getting scenes like this is so good for their brains.

Moving on: I fucking love these characters. Alanna was an icon of brash, temperamental heroines that have shaped my taste to this day. I love how even in the first book, Jon is kinda shitty. I adore George Cooper. Talk about a taste maker the way this man sets a standard.

I just can't be coherent when it comes to any Tortall books. I have no thoughts. Head empty. I am going to binge the rest of this series as quickly as I can before my library book comes in. Then normal book content will resume.

Before I go, I need to talk about the book covers.

Growing up, my sister and I had these covers:

Which, god. I love them. The black is striking. The art is incredible. Alanna looks so good. They were the perfect pocket-size too. I was going to buy the same edition for my copies, but instead I got the 40th anniversary reprints:

Not bad at all! These books have had some seriously bad covers, and these look great! Very anime, which will appeal to the 11 year olds who need to have their socks rocked by this series.

But, man. I really miss those black covers. One day I will splurge and buy a second set of them just so that I can stare at the art.

#having a not normal time on tumblr dot come right now #alanna my beloved #if you were a deity i would worship you #me rambling #me reading #bookish #books and reading #books #bookblr #Alanna: the first adventure #the song of the lioness #tortall #tamora pierce

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guess-my-next-obsession · 11 months

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Real Love, Baby

pairing: frankie morales x plus size!fem!reader

rating: F (talks of body image issues/insecurities/maybe a kiss of inner angst bc i’m self-soothing here, but mostly just Frankie wooing us)

wc: ~1k

frankie masterlist

Growing up curvier than all of your friends had somehow brainwashed you into believing romance had a weight limit on it. Even into adulthood, you found yourself perpetually single, watching and playing wingman to your friends who, by the grace of genetics, seemed to always have a line of suitors waiting for their shot only to be turned down.

While you admired and adored your friends for knowing that their league was far above some random dude in a bar, you couldn’t help the slight twist of jealousy blossom in your stomach every time they shooed another suitor away, simply because you couldn’t even remember the last time a man tried to talk to you in a bar.

It wasn’t the attention you wanted—hell, it wasn’t even the men that you yearned for. You simply longed to feel like all of the other girls, to experience the things they experienced, to be desired by someone without being fetishized. To live the life that every “conventionally” attractive woman got to live, one full of experience and romance and heartbreak.

It wasn’t any surprise that when the day finally came, you were severely unprepared, and truthfully, a little rude.

“Hey,” a voice sounded from behind you as you stood at the bar, watching your friend’s purses as they danced the night away with a man they’d just met that night. Expecting the usual, you sighed and pointed at the seat beside you.

“Look, if you want to talk to one of my friends, you’re gonna have to do that yourself,” you said, hardly even looking at the man who’d found his seat beside you.

“What?” he chuckled, though genuine confusion was thick in his tone.

You brought your eyes to his finally and sighed at how handsome he was. Why is it that you always find yourself attracted to the kind of men that look like they would have bullied you in middle school?

“My friend—“ you started, but the furrow in his brow cut you off. “What?”

“I didn’t come over here to talk to your friend,” he explained with a chuckle. “I came to try and talk to you.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that fell from your lips at his words, but the confusion written all over his face silenced your amusement.

“Sorry, I just—“ You shook your head and looked down at your drink, swirling the black straw inside of it around the glass. “I can’t remember the last time someone tried to talk to me in a bar.”

“Me either,” he said, offering a friendly smile that instantly made you feel safe with him even when you knew nothing about him at all. Holding his hand out to you, he introduced himself. “I’m Frankie.”

You slid your hand into his and shook it, smiling shyly as you gave him your name.

“So, Frankie,” you spoke through your fluster. “What brings you out tonight?”

“My friends,” he replied, swiveling on the barstool to point across the room at a table of muscly, masculine men who began to whistle the minute you turned to look at them. “Sorry about them. They collectively share one brain cell.”

“Ah,” you nodded and smiled again. “What about you?”

“I’ve got at least five, I think,” he said, flashing that winning grin of his. “I don’t wanna sound like a creep or anything—“

“Oh no,” you winced, making him laugh.

“No, nothing too creepy, I promise. I just,” he sucked in a breath of courage and suddenly looked endearingly boyish to you. “I’ve just seen you around a few times before, but I’m not the best at this whole…flirting thing so I never came over.”

You feel your cheeks heat at his admission.

“What finally gave you the courage?” you asked, attempting to play things cool just like your friends always did.

“My friend Pope said that if I didn’t come talk to you, he would,” he said. Turning around again, you smirked as you looked at the men who’d gone back to their conversation.

“Which one’s Pope?” you asked.

“The short one,” he said dryly, earning a laugh.

“Pretty cute,” you teased, smiling as you watched Frankie roll his eyes.

“He’s loud. He snores. He’s got shit grammar—“ Another laugh. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d connected with a stranger like this, so quickly and naturally. “I’m saving you a headache, really.”

“Well, thank you,” you grinned. “I hate loud snorers with shit grammar.”

“Oh yeah? What do you like, then?” He was really going for it now, even pulling out the casual eye drop to your lips tactic that you’d seen so many men pull on your friends before. Only now, it was working.

“I like…” You bit your lip as your eyes bounced across his features. “Brown eyes,” he nodded as though to check it off the list. “A beard,” another nod. “But mostly, I just like a man who can make me laugh.”

“Sounds like you just stumbled upon the man of your dreams,” he grinned.

“You stumbled upon me, dream boy.” Frankie laughed and nodded in agreement.

“Is there any way we can stumble upon each other again?” he asked, that nervous smile finding its way back onto his face. “Maybe for brunch?”

“A man who eats brunch,” you fawned, making a show out of fanning yourself off. “I’d be a fool to say no.”

“Hey,” you smiled as you approached the patio table in front of the breakfast spot Frankie had picked out for your brunch date, finding him already seated and nervously bouncing his knee.

“Hey!” he chimed, a wave of relief washing away his nervousness as he stood to hug you and pull out your chair. “Thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

“Definitely not,” you chuckled, sitting down and scooting yourself closer to the table as he resumed his seat in front of you. “Just had to give myself a pep talk in the car that forced me to run a little late.”

“Why on earth did you think you needed a pep talk to come and see me? A guy?” he laughed, his brown eyes meeting yours.

“Because you’re a very handsome guy and I’m…” You shrugged, not wanting to voice the insecurities that sat like a weight in the pit of your chest.

“You’re what? Way out of my fucking league?” he asked with a half-smirk.

“I haven’t heard that before,” you replied honestly, lifting your glass of water to take a sip.

“Well, that really fucking sucks, because you are out of my league,” he said sincerely. “Out of every guy’s league.”

“What a line,” you playfully rolled your eyes.

“It’s not a line,” he promised. “I think you’re beautiful, and on top of that, you’re really fucking witty and quick.”

“Thanks,” you blushed and swirled your straw around your cup. “Not used to being complimented this much.”

“Well, if you decide to keep me around, I’d like to try and get you used to that.”

Five Years Later

“Jesus,” you groaned, leaning into Frankie’s side as the two of you walked into that bar where you first met, the room filled with younger people that made you question your spot here. “Are we old?”

“I’ve been old for a while, baby,” he joked, placing his hand on the small of your back as you weaved your way through the crowd to the table where Frankie’s friends sat.

“There they are,” cheered Pope.

“Aw, the newlyweds make an appearance!” Benny added with a teasing smirk.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have,” you quipped, watching Frankie pull your seat out before sitting down. “We need to find a spot to drink with people our own age.”

“Hey,” Benny said. “Just because all of you are old and settled down doesn’t mean I am. I still need to find my princess.”

“You’re going to find your ‘princess’ in a sports bar?” his brother, Will, teased.

“Frankie did,” he argued.

“And to think,” Pope mused, playfully throwing his arm across your shoulder to hug you into his side. “What could have been if Frankie never got the courage to talk to you.”

Frankie, sitting on your other side, swatted his friend’s arm off of you before pulling your chair closer to his.

“Thankfully, we’ll never know,” he said, leaning over to kiss your shoulder. “I’ve got her locked down now.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales triple frontier #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales oneshot #frankie morales x y/n #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie catfish morales

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megamindsecretlair · 8 days

Text

Say You Love Me

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Angst. Smut. Cursing, dirty talk, PIV, fingering (female receiving), oral (female receiving), minor D/s elements, all consensual. Allusions to drug use, masturbation.

Summary: After Frankie returned from the trip, he seemed like a different person. More moody and withdrawn. You finally couldn't take it anymore, all the times he snorted drugs and fucked up. You kicked him out and it has been months. After getting scared half to death, you finally admit to yourself that you miss being around Frankie. You decide to clear the air once and for all, getting reacquainted with him.

Word Count: 7,234k

AO3 Link

A/N: Finally stopped being a baby and decided to write and post this. Idk why this has been plauging my brain, but I enjoy it and I hope you do too. Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @nerdieforpedro @soft-persephone @amethyst09 @ciaqui @we-outsiiiide @browngirldominion @iv0rysoap @thecookiebratz @harmshake @00aijia00 @judymfmoody @multiversefanfics @tvchi @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @superhoeva @softimgyu @eggnox

You rolled over in bed, stretching your hand across the other side and finding the space cold. Every morning you woke up, reaching out for a body that would no longer be there. No matter how many times you started the night in the middle of the bed, your body was too used to “your” side.

You sighed, snatching your hand back, and got out of bed. It was approaching midday on Saturday and you were too damn tired to do anything. Work was kicking your ass per usual and your daughter had been up all damn night crying. It took a village to raise a baby. Your daughter had to settle for you.

You looked and felt like hell. You passed a mirror, not bothering to give yourself more than a cursory glance. You knew you looked how you felt and you didn’t want any visual reminders. You went down the hall, checking in on your baby girl, Inez. She was up all damn night so you decided to postpone going to the park today. Let her sleep some of that wayward energy away.

You’d have to find something else to tire her out during the day so that you got some kind of sleep. Inez was far too young to understand why Daddy wasn’t home, but old enough to ask about him. Constantly. And hell if you knew what to say. You didn’t understand it yourself.

Your daughter needed you, so you didn’t get to fall apart like you wanted. You finally closed her bedroom door, walking down the hall once more towards the kitchen. The kitchen was open and spacious enough to feel like you could cook without too many things in the way.

There was a small kitchen island in the middle, where the sink was, and extra counter space to work. You took out ingredients for pancakes, eggs, and bacon. You yawned as you greased the pan with butter, turning to the countertop to start mixing the pancake mix.

You set everything down, reaching into your spice cabinet. You braced yourself to fight with the cabinet door, damn thing had been stuck for months, but it gave way easily. You stumbled a bit and looked at it, testing the cabinet by opening and closing it.

“The hell…” You muttered. You tested the cabinet again. Matter of fact, strange things like that had been happening for a while. Where things that were once loose or in need of fixing magically repaired itself overnight.

Were you sleepwalking and fixing things? Had you imagined that these things were broken? You remembered bitching to Frankie that he needed to stop snorting shit and actually be useful around the house. Some of that was picking a fight because it was more convenient to yell at him than admit how frustrated you were with him, life, or work.

You closed the cabinet with a frown, making a mental note to investigate it later. As you turned around, you jumped with a scream on your lips. A shadow passed outside of your house.

It was on the tip of your tongue to yell out for Frankie, that there was a stranger outside. Bastard was no longer there. Your heart raced as you peered out of your kitchen window. Whatever or whoever it had been was too quick. You couldn’t see past a certain angle, as the kitchen was tucked in the corner of the house.

“Shit, shit,” you whispered. You never touched Frankie’s guns, despite how many times he begged to show you how to defend yourself.

“Why would I need to know how when I have a big strong man to do it for me?” Your words to him echoed in your mind as you backed away from the kitchen slowly, eyes glued to the window. It could be nothing. It could be something. But fuck if you didn’t wish you had listened to Frankie at the moment.

You padded away, barefoot, careful of every creak as if the person or thing outside could hear it. You backed all the way to your bedroom, grabbing a bat. You really didn’t want to do this. You didn’t want to have to fend off an attacker. Too many scenarios ran through your mind.

What about your daughter? What about you? How were you going to protect her if this thing or person hit you, hurt you, or killed you? And who the hell does something like this in broad daylight? A fucking psychopath.

You swallowed around a huge dry lump in your throat, feeling your heartbeat in every step you took towards your daughter’s room.

Faintly, there was a scratching sound. Or perhaps a knock? You couldn’t make it out. It was so quiet in the house, you couldn’t decipher the house settling or an intruder trying to break in.

You opened Inez’s room by a crack, checking to ensure that she was still asleep and none the wiser. You debated if you should wake her up and stow her in her closet or in yours. No. You needed to make sure that the asshole never made it past you. It was that simple.

You closed her door as softly as possible, inching down the hall towards the back of the house. Towards the source of the noise. It sounded louder. Or maybe you were just getting closer.

Either way, you were nearly to the back door. There was a large shadow there. You could see your locks getting turned. You trembled with fear, but there was only one thought in your head, “Gotta protect my baby.”

The locks gave way just as you raised the bat in your hand. You had a fleeting thought about bringing a bat to a gun fight when a large man let himself into your house, lifted his head, that damn baseball cap moving to reveal chocolate brown eyes and a scruffy beard.

“Francisco Morales!” You harshly whispered, lowering the bat.

Frankie stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, lips puckered in an apology. “Sorry!” He said in the same tone you were using.

A mixture of relief and adrenaline flooded through your system, making you sway. You leaned on the wall for support. Frankie reached out but you held up the bat to keep him away.

“I almost peed my fucking pants!” You furiously whispered.

Frankie looked down at your bare legs. You opted to wear a blue tank and black shorts to bed since you had the heater cranked up to a hundred. Without him as a space heater, going to bed was damn near frigid.

Heat rushed through you at the look on his face. Despite the tense situation, he still looked ready to devour you. Sex was never your problem. It’d been entirely too long since you felt his touch but that was beside the point. He was still a bastard.

“What are you doing here?” He asked. Damn him. He looked good, sporting dark jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt. The shirt was stretched over his biceps, granting you a view of his golden skin tanned from being outside. He wore his signature cap, curls peeking out from underneath.

“It’s my house,” you said.

“I mean, yes. But why aren’t you at the park?” He asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

“You’re usually at the park by now,” he said.

“Are you stalking me?” You asked. You had too many thoughts whirling through your mind and not nearly enough food. Your stomach chose that moment to growl. You placed a hand over your belly, willing it to shut the fuck up.

Frankie lifted an eyebrow and you scowled at him. “No, I’m not stalking you. I just…” he grew quiet, licking his lips and suddenly looking everywhere but at you.

“Spit it out,” you said. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. You couldn’t begin to imagine what he had up his sleeve at the moment. What fanciful yarn of shit he was getting ready to spin.

“I sort of fix things while you’re gone,” he said slowly.

“Sort of?”

“You were always telling me about things I needed to fix. And I never did. I..I wanted to make sure shit worked around here, even when I’m not here.”

You sagged against the wall, chuckling though there wasn’t a damn thing funny. “That’s you?” You asked.

Well, at least you weren’t going crazy. It was just like Frankie to show up a day late and a dollar short. “So you let yourself into my house while I’m gone?” You asked. You leaned the bat against the wall. You placed a hand over your chest. Your heart was still beating a hundred times per second.

Frankie stood framed by the doorway, sunlight hitting the back of him and making him glow slightly. He kept one hand on the handle as if he didn’t know he should bolt or stay.

“It’s my house too,” he said, a deep sigh leaving him.

“You can’t be here, Frankie. You can’t let yourself in to fix things. I have…I can call someone to come fix it,” you said.

“And have some piece of shit overcharge you or some stranger in here?”

“It’s not your business anymore,” you whispered. Having Frankie here, in the flesh, while you were half naked, was screwing with your nerves. It had been too long since you'd seen him longer than the time it took to drop your daughter off at Santiago’s where Frankie was staying.

And he caught you in a particularly vulnerable moment, missing the heat of his skin and the curve of his lips. Frankie turned wide eyes towards you and licked his lips. He dropped his hand from the knob and placed his hands on his lean hips. “Let me at least fix one more thing,” he said.

“Frankie…” You sighed.

“Just one more. And…I won’t come around anymore.” You tried to ignore the trembling in his voice. The thickness of his words and how he forced himself to say it.

You were tired. And he caught you on a bad day. You knew it was a bad idea, but you moved away and let him enter. He closed the door and locked it, giving you a brief smile before he walked down the hallway. You saw him glance towards your daughter’s room, but he kept moving on towards the kitchen.

You debated throwing on a robe or longer pants. Anything to not make you feel so exposed. But this was your house, dammit. And just because he pushed his way in, didn’t mean that you had to change anything on your side.

Frankie assessed the kitchen and noted your breakfast supplies. “Pancakes?” He asked.

You nodded. Frankie nodded. It was all so awkward. Staring at him across a chasm of pain and frustration. You’d give anything to run to his side, tuck yourself under his arm, and just breathe in his scent. Feel warmed by his body heat.

“Christ, it’s hot in here,” he said. He took off his cap and wiped sweat from his brow, fixing his hair before returning the cap. He was letting it get too long, the ends curling against his ears.

You cleared your throat and put yourself to good use by finishing up breakfast. Inez would be up soon and you wanted to get her something to eat. You didn’t know what you would do if she caught Frankie here. She would inevitably ask if he was staying for breakfast. You finished up bacon, making extra…just in case.

Frankie moved around the kitchen like a phantom, knowing exactly where everything was. He should, it had only been a few months since the separation. Since he followed his friends on some asinine “top secret mission” and came back changed somehow. He offered you no explanation. You held on to the anger you felt, the hurt, the many ways you tried to get him to open up and he never did.

You cleared your throat again, not wanting to go down that dark path once more. “If it’s too warm, I can turn down the heater,” Frankie offered.

“I got it,” you said. You didn’t move towards the thermostat. You continued mixing the pancake mix and wishing he’d hurry the hell up. You felt his eyes on you linger for a brief moment before he dropped to the floor, getting under the kitchen sink. You moved out of his way, standing off to the side while you spun the spoon around and around. Trying to ignore the length of him. His legs as he propped them on the floor. His heavy, scuffed boots.

Frankie grunted as he worked. You hadn’t seen him grab his old tool box and you nearly tripped over it. You cursed as it hit your foot, your baby toe smarting from where you hit it. Frankie gave you a lopsided grin.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?” He asked.

“Focus on yourself,” you said, though you noticed it had no bite in your words. A kiss from him…you must be loopy. Not seeing Frankie helped. Not being reminded of how pretty he is when he’s sober, teasing, and open like he was before. It was easy to focus on your daughter or work, day by day, too tired to worry about how you arrived here.

“We used to have fun finding things to fix,” he said, returning to whatever the hell he was doing.

You didn’t say anything as you turned your attention to the eggs, getting it prepped before putting it on to cook. You whisked the eggs as you remembered when you first moved to the house. It was a piece of shit then, but you had fun making it into a home. Into something both of you were proud of.

“I let too many things slide,” he said.

“Can’t you fix that shit in silence?” You snapped.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, mixing and mixing and mixing. You were scatterbrained, Frankie’s presence conjuring up many memories and thoughts. But the only one you were stuck on now, was how amazing he looked. His shirt had ridden up while he reached under the sink. You saw a hint of his tummy, so thick and luscious with a happy trail leading straight down to…

“Eyes up here, gorgeous,” he muttered. You looked up and caught his eyes and a smirk on his face.

You turned back to the stove, turning it back on, and obscuring your face from his. So what, he caught you staring. It’d been months…Months since you kissed him, held him, or felt any kind of relief. You tried after he was gone. Tried pleasuring yourself in your bed, in your bathtub, in the living room after your daughter went off to bed.

Nothing worked. It was like your body had gotten much too used to the way he took care of you, your fingers and vibrator no longer did shit for you. Asshole. Out of all the things he did, he didn’t have to take that from you as well. You’d be able to think more clearly, act better, when you got around him if you weren’t so pent up. None of this…yearning.

You turned around, ready to plate the eggs when Frankie stood behind you. Too close. You gasped, standing so close to him that your breasts nearly brushed his chest. He smiled crookedly at you, looking down, when he whispered, “Forgot something in my truck.”

You nodded. Swallowed painfully. He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you, didn’t say anything, just stood there in the kitchen looking down at you.

“Is there anything else that needs fixing around here?” He asked.

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him that your body needed fixing. Your heart too. You shook your head, moving past him since he wasn’t inclined to move. He sucked in a sharp bite of air as your body slid against his. Possibly on purpose.

“Daddy!” Inez shrieked in the otherwise quiet house. Frankie’s face erupted in a big smile.

“Chiquita! (Little one!) Look at you!” He said. He stooped down and scooped up your daughter, swirling her around the kitchen in a giant bear hug. The eggs popped behind you.

You softly cursed, taking the pan off of the stove and turning it off. Not burnt but…not soft either. You plated the eggs, turning your attention to Frankie as he held Inez in his arms.

She chattered away, catching him up on everything he missed since he’d seen her last weekend. Everything that happened on Bluey, with school, with her friends, and with a squirrel she grew fond of in the backyard.

Frankie listened to everything, rapt attention, like your daughter was providing exclusive news coverage. He asked her questions, getting her to open up more. It made your heart sick.

“Is Daddy staying again?” Inez asked.

Your lips parted but no words were forthcoming. You looked to Frankie for help, though you didn’t know why. Bastard was smiling at you. “I can’t let you eat all the bacon. I’m a growing boy, I need food,” he said. He pouted at your daughter who shrieked with giggles.

“You’re already growed up!”

“Growed is not a word,” you said.

“Mommy’s just jealous. She’s already growed up, too,” Frankie said.

You tilted your head at him but he only shrugged. You rolled your eyes. “I suppose I can spare a few slices…”

Inez yelled in victory, mimicking her father when he watched sports. He yelled the same way, placing your daughter down on the floor. He got down to her level, fixing her pjs and then tapped her nose.

“Now, I wanna see clean teeth and a scrubbed face in ten minutes,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Go!”

Your daughter took off towards the bathroom, huffing and pumping her short little legs to beat Frankie’s clock. He watched her with a slight chuckle and you watched him. You hated that they worked so well together. You started to feel like the Wicked Witch of the East keeping them apart.

You never denied Frankie a chance to see his daughter. But you knew that he was maintaining a healthy distance for your sake. Because whenever you got around him, you didn’t know if you wanted to kiss him or scratch his eyes out.

Frankie stood up, walking over to you. “I can make up something if you don’t really want me here,” he said.

And be the one to crush your daughter’s heart? He stood too close again, crowding your space in the way that he always liked. Frankie reminded you of a puppy, a wolf puppy, but a puppy that just liked to snuggle. Touch. Caress. Part of his charm was that he was so openly caring that way.

“It’s okay. Some payment is in order for fixing the sink. Finally,” you couldn’t help but add.

Frankie smiled, placing a hand over his chest. “You wound me,” he said.

“Better hurry before there’s no more bacon left.” Frankie smiled, turning on the sink. You waited for it to sputter like normal, shooting out water before clearing and returning to a normal flow. When it didn’t, Frankie winked at you and washed his hands.

“I still need something from the truck, I’ll hurry,” he said. He went out the front door this time. You moved everything to the dining table, getting out three plates instead of two. You peeked out of the window as Frankie climbed into his truck, retrieving a plastic bag.

The sun damn sure loved him. It highlighted his tanned skin, like the sun itself was giving him a kiss. The red in his hair stuck out against the sun. He turned towards the house and you moved on, hoping he didn’t catch you staring again.

Frankie came back in, waving some kind of nugget for the sink. You didn’t have a clue what it did but if he said he needed it, then so be it. Your daughter returned, grinning up at Frankie. He stooped down to one knee, looking at her.

“Did you just splash water everywhere?” He asked.

“Noooo,” Inez said. She was a bad liar.

Frankie chuckled. “With soap this time, please Chiquita?” Your daughter’s shoulders slumped as she went back to the bathroom.

You giggled as you poured orange juice for her and started the coffee maker. “Would it be alright…?”

“Black. I know, Frankie,” you said. It had been his standing order when he was still here. You liked doing domestic shit for him. Liked taking care of him to appreciate him for all the small ways he took care of you. Fuck, you missed it.

Your daughter returned and you all sat down to breakfast, like the good old times. You talked and laughed, played board games. Frankie told you to take a nap while he took your daughter out to the park to tire her out. You loved the idea so you agreed.

When you awoke, it was well past dark outside. You sleepily emerged from the bedroom, finding Frankie asleep on the couch with your daughter tucked into his lap. You sneakily backed away, grabbing your phone so that you could snap a picture.

Done, you leaned against the doorway staring at the pretty picture of them. Frankie adjusted himself, waking though you swore you hadn’t made a noise. He smiled sleepily at you, kissing your daughter’s forehead.

“Guess we both knocked out,” he said.

“I’ll get her in bed,” you said.

“Let me?” He asked.

You nodded. He stood up slowly, cradling your daughter and took her to the room. You didn’t watch as he tucked her in. Couldn’t stand this separation a moment longer. You were weak. Weak in the damn knees and there was no solid ground beneath you.

A wall of heat preceded Frankie before he stood behind you. He made no move to touch you, just stood there for a second before moving past. He cleared his throat. “I won’t come over anymore, promise,” he said.

“I never really thanked you for fixing all that stuff,” you said.

“I should’ve done it while I was here. I wanted to do something nice for once. So you didn’t always think I was a piece of shit,” he said.

“I never thought you were a piece of shit, Frankie,” you said. You shook your head. This talk had been a long time coming. You supposed it was about time. Now, when you weren’t still so angry. Funny how a decent nap fixed a lot of things.

When you kicked him out, it had been a huge screaming match. Luckily, your daughter was next door at a sleepover. But still. You were surprised you hadn’t woken the entire neighborhood.

“It felt like…you didn’t want to be here. Like all you could think about was escaping. You were always up in the air and even when you were home, you were snorting shit or out with your friends. I started to feel like…” You weren’t quite that brave, to admit that it felt like he didn’t love you anymore. Couldn’t bear to toss those words out there.

Frankie saw you flinch anyway. He closed the distance and looked down at you with those haunting brown eyes. “You and Inez are the only important things in my life. I fucked that up, I know. But I swear to you, I wasn’t trying to escape. Never from you.”

Tears welled in your eyes. Fuck, this shit was all so hard. You were staring at your husband, at your best friend, as if he were a stranger. There were so many things familiar about him and so many things you didn’t recognize.

“Then why…?”

“Bad shit seems to pile up sometimes. So much so that the only way to drown it out is either up my nose or down the bottom of a bottle. I don’t want to burden you with that shit,” he said. He sighed and shook his head.

“It’s not a burden,” you said.

“It was to me. I only ever wanted you to keep being open and smiling. And happy, mi vida (my life).”

“That’s not realistic, Frankie. Your burdens are my burdens. Mines are yours. That’s kinda in the marriage contract,” you said.

“Do you know when I fell in love with you?” Frankie asked. He stepped closer, a shadow falling across your face because of his hat.

“Frankie…” you sighed, shaking your head. Trying to ward off his words. You didn’t want to hear about his love. You didn’t want to think about all this time apart.

“We’d only been dating two months. We had plans for a picnic. One of those fancy shits that people do because it’s cute and you just want to spend time together. Only, we got there, and it started raining. I thought you were going to think I was dumb or stupid for not checking the forecast. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me anymore.”

Your thoughts turned to that date. It was the exact opposite. You felt so over the moon about him already. You liked his voice and the cute way he meticulously planned everything and looked so nervous. It could have been a picnic in the park or running to the store, you just wanted to gobble up all of his time and attention.

“But then you stood up while everyone was running for cover and you turned your face to the rain. And fuck, I’d never seen such a beautiful person before. Never felt felt like I was in the presence of, fuck, royalty or divinity or something.”

You laughed. You didn’t want to but he was being too damn cute. “Shut up,” you said.

“You know I don’t always have the right words. But I never felt like I deserved you. I left so often because I knew I was fucking up. I knew I did. I know I still do. And it fuckin’ hurts knowing that I want to be a better man for you and I can’t,” he said.

Your chest ached for him. “I never asked you to be a better man, Frankie. You already were,” you said. Didn’t the big idiot see? He was an amazing father. A great husband when he was on the right track. He always made you feel so safe and protected. Loved. Cherished. Respected.

He gave and he gave, often at the expense of himself. He was a provider and a protector. Just because it was built into his DNA. And he thought he wasn’t a better man?

Frankie dropped to his knees. He took your hand in his and kissed the back of it. When you didn’t pull away, his large hands encircled your waist. He planted his forehead against your stomach.

Softly, so softly you only heard him because it was quiet in the living room, he began speaking rapidly in Spanish. It was too fast for you to keep up with. It sounded like a prayer. It sounded like benediction. You slowly reached out and took off his baseball cap and let it drop to the floor.

You ran your hands through his curls, loving the softness of his hair. It was silky soft to the touch and you ran your fingers through it. Frankie sighed but continued. Reaching some kind of conclusion, he looked up at you.

“I don’t deserve another chance, mi vida. You’ve put up with far too much from me already. But I can’t go another day without you. Without Inez. I want to be here. I want to be the man you married. I want to be everything you ever needed or wanted. And if you’ll give me that chance, I promise I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”

You didn’t know what to say. It had been a hard road to being okay with kicking him out. You had spent many restless nights, tossing and turning because you didn’t want him in the house and you couldn’t bear the thought of him not being in it. Giving in right now felt like giving up. But it also felt like the stepping stone to everything you ever wanted from him.

For him to heal whatever was in his heart and mind. The shadows he kept from you. To be the man you married. And here he was, offering it to you on a silver platter.

“I only want you to be yourself. Can you do that, Frankie?” You asked.

Not missing a beat, Frankie nodded. “I swear it.”

You cupped his face and kissed him. Sliding your lips against his felt like the first breath of air after swimming for a long time. Like sliding onto clean sheets after a warm shower. Frankie made a low, strangled noise in his throat before he stood up and then crashed his lips back to yours. You caressed the nape of his neck, fingers curling around his hair, pulling him closer.

Frankie’s hands migrated to your round ass, cupping it and squeezing. You gasped and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. He didn’t move or press for more. Too content to stand here and make out with you. When you both were fighting for air, too lost in kisses to be apart for long, you pulled back far enough to whisper, “Take me to bed.”

Frankie growled but didn’t move. “Are you sure?” He asked.

“Now.”

Frankie smiled against your lips as he walked you backwards towards your room. You didn’t break contact, kissing, trusting that he knew where to lead you without running you into a door or a dresser.

Inside your room, he didn’t bother to turn on the light. He kicked the door shut behind him and then he pushed you towards the bed. He broke away long enough to toe off his boots and pull his shirt over his head.

You felt for him, little ambient light in the room enough to make out his outline. You would like the lights on but you liked the intimacy of the dark. Where you weren’t cataloging everything about him. Weren’t worried about how you looked or if he was enjoying himself. It had been months. Things changed. Affections changed.

You felt none of that in his arms. In the way he ripped off your tank and shorts. The way his thumbs lightly caressed your aching nipples. You gasped, loving the rough texture of his calloused fingers. A man that worked with his hands. There was nothing sexier.

He moved on from your lips, giving you a breather, while he kissed down your jaw and neck. He hooked his fingers around your shorts and panties, pulling them down in one fell swoop. You could feel the slickness between your thighs already, turned on to the max. Your body needed and craved him. So much so, you had been doing a poor job of hiding it the past few months. Even your memories or fantasies were nothing compared to the real thing.

You stepped out of your shorts and panties and Frankie pushed you onto the bed. He hooked his arms under your legs and pulled you to the edge of the bed, spreading you wider. Had the light been on, he’d see you closing your eyes and inwardly groaning.

You didn’t know why you felt shy, only that you did. Only that this time felt different. In so many ways. Sex had never been a problem for you and Frankie. But this felt like more. Like when you first got together and all you wanted to do was explore each other’s bodies.

“Shh, shh,” Frankie whispered. “You are gorgeous. Beautiful. Devastating,” Frankie whispered against your tummy as he kissed there.

You giggled. How the hell did he know?

“I know you. Inside and out,” he said when you asked him. He kissed down your tummy as he knelt before you. He dragged his nose through your folds, inhaling. “Still smell so sweet. Tell me, did you touch yourself while I was gone?” He asked.

You hesitated. Did you really want to admit that too? That you did but were unable to finish if he wasn’t there?

“Tell me, mi vida,” he said. He bypassed your pussy altogether, moving down to place kisses against your thighs. You sighed, body heating up to dangerous levels. You just wanted him to move, to touch you, to give you that relief you’d been craving for the past few months.

“Yes,” you finally admitted. The word nearly scraped your throat on the way out. You wanted to fight and tease him. Be sexy. But you were just too damn horny to think correctly at the moment.

“Did it help?” He asked. He got a teasing lilt in his voice that told you he was enjoying this. Enjoying dragging this out as much as possible.

“Yes,” you said. That wasn’t technically a lie. It did help take the edge off. But only just. It seemed like once you gave up, you could get something that resembled sleep. But you didn’t really rest.

“Liar,” he said and bit your thigh. “Did you think of me while you touched yourself?”

“Always,” you moaned as he dragged a finger lazily up the center of you. He didn’t touch your clit, not yet. He only played with your pussy lips, gathering the essence that leaked out of you.

“Tell me what you thought about,” he said. He placed his free hand on your tummy, splaying his fingers wide.

“Frankie…” you sighed.

“Tell me. I won’t say it again,” he said. His voice dropped, turning into that sexy, sleepy, bedroom voice of his that never failed to make your eyes roll back. Combined with the fact that you couldn’t really see his face, couldn’t gauge his emotions, could only rely on his voice, it turned you on in the best way possible.

You swallowed around a dry patch in your throat. You were breathing so hard, it was tough to calm down long enough to tell him. “I thought about your hands. And how big they are. And how incredible they feel on me,” you said.

Frankie hummed while he pushed his fingers through your folds, swirling his thumb around your clit. You gasped, moving your hips. But Frankie’s steadying hand on your stomach kept you locked in place.

You moaned, back rearing off of the bed. “Keep going,” Frankie prompted.

“Your fingers…feel like heaven. I thought about you fingering me,” you said.

Frankie kept his thumb on your clit, rubbing circles, while he pushed a finger inside of you. He grunted and a shudder seemed to run through him. “You’re so fucking wet, mi vida. Keep going, tell me how you really feel,” he said.

“I thought about you…tying me up. Tying me to the bed and leaving my legs free while you fuck me,” you said. The safety of the darkness let you unleash what you really wanted. Frankie had taken you in so many ways. You thought you’d be sick of it. Or craving something new.

The opposite was true. You liked his mastery over you. The way he commanded and demanded, the way he gave orders and you followed, with a little mischievous resistance. You liked being at his mercy because you knew that he’d always protect you.

You clenched around his fingers and Frankie cursed low, under his breath. “You want to be fucked?” He asked.

You nodded until you realized he couldn’t see you. “Yes, fucked,” you said.

“What else do you need from me?” He asked.

“I want you to hear your voice. I missed it. I want you to…tell me you missed me,” you said. You didn’t know how much you needed to hear it at the moment. After you kicked Frankie out, he respected it by keeping things civil as much as possible. You saw the lingering looks when you dropped off Inez, but you weren’t sure how he really felt.

“Oh, mi vida,” he sighed. He flipped his wrist and started fingering you in earnest. Before, it had been a slow glide, getting reacquainted with your pussy like the first time he came back from his tour overseas. This was something new entirely. He pumped his finger into you, adding a second and stretching you.

“Oh, oh,” you moaned and grabbed hold of his wrist, feeling his muscles move beneath his skin.

“I have thought of nothing else but you. I’ve missed you so damn much, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t focus. I dreamt of you and hated when I had to wake up and discover you weren’t there,” he said.

He curled his fingers in a come hither motion and you were exploding on the spot. His voice should be bottled and sold as the cure to any sexual ailment. With a few sentences, he had you going off like a bottle rocket. He whispered in Spanish while you floated in that gooey region in your mind, lost to pleasure. He continued to stroke that spot, wringing every last morsel of passion from you before he slowed down.

You calmed down, throat raw from moaning, and panted. Frankie removed his fingers and he loudly sucked on them, tasting you.

“There were too many nights that I stroked myself to thoughts of being welcomed back into your warm, wet heat. My hand was a poor substitute. Every day in the shower, I spilled into my hand wishing that I was spilling into your tight, little pussy,” he said. He kissed all around your pussy before planting a kiss on your clit.

You moaned and writhed on the bed, picturing him in the shower glistening with water. Picturing him jerking himself to climax, lips parted, eyes tightly closed, the steam of the shower rising around him. Your pussy clenched just thinking of it.

“I dreamed of your taste, mi vida,” he said. He followed that sentence with a lick of his tongue. You jerked and moaned, hands flying to his hair and pulling. He growled, licking you again and causing you to pull harder.

“Sweet fuck,” you moaned.

Frankie stopped talking as he aggressively ate you out. Gone was the sweet, slow pace he set while he finger fucked you. His tongue moved around your clit, flicking and tasting, and teasing between his lips.

You writhed and moaned, pushing at his head. It was too much. He grabbed your flailing hand and pinned it to the bed beside you. Your moans grew louder, more wanton, escaping your lips. You brought your other hand up and he only pinned that one as well. His big hands locked down your wrists, to the point that you couldn’t move an inch. God, you loved it.

“Cum for me, baby. Cum on, cum on,” he encouraged in between licking and teasing you. You began to tense, crushing his head between your thighs. He kept going, licking and licking until you were a shaking, creaming mess before him. You managed to curb your moans, painfully aware that your daughter was just down the hall. But she slept like a rock, much like you.

Frankie licked everything you gushed out. Like you were a little ice cream cone for him. He moaned into your pussy, finally dragging his lips away. You wondered if his jaw was soaked with your essence. You got your answer when he kissed both of your inner thighs, leaving wet spots behind.

“So fucking pretty. So fucking gorgeous,” he whispered into your skin while he kissed up your tummy. He stood as he did so, moving to free himself of his jeans and briefs.

“Fuck, Frankie, I missed you. I missed you so fucking much,” you whispered.

“I missed you too. Let me come home. Let me stay,” he said.

“Stay, stay,” you said.

He stopped kissing you while he got to your titties. He kissed all around your nipples, bringing his hand up to play with your left one while he sucked on your right.

“Frankie,” you chanted over and over again while he gave generous attention to your nipples. You played with his hair, with his broad shoulders. You ran your hands up and down his back, lightly dragging your nails across his skin. Overcome with the sudden need to mark him. To scratch him. To give him a physical mark and show it off to the world. That he was yours. Would always be yours. Forever and ever.

“I love you,” he whispered as he lined himself up with your entrance.

You caressed his face, bringing him down for a kiss. “I love you,” you said against his lips.

He slid in with one savage thrust and you dug your nails into his skin, sharply hissing as he stretched you to the max. Your legs shook from finally being full. You clutched Frankie to you while he thrust, picking up speed while he rammed into you, just as you asked.

“Fuck, fuck,” you moaned.

“Can’t. Last. Much. Longer,” Frankie said through gritted teeth. He dropped his head to your chest, lips finding your nipples once more as he thrust hard and fast, pummeling you, and eliciting so many moans and cries from your lips you had no hope of staying quiet now.

He pulled out unexpectedly with a groan. You whined, until Frankie roughly flipped you over. He hiked your hips up, lining himself back up, and then slamming into you.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned. He hit a sweet spot deep inside you that made you see stars as you came.

Frankie slammed into you, chasing his own orgasm as you squeezed and convulsed on his dick. You didn’t know if your eyes were open or closed. There were just the stars flashing in the darkness, a burrowing sense of relief that flooded your system and made you collapse.

His fingers dug into your hips painfully while he continued to fuck you, your essence making it a smooth glide. He smacked your ass, the sound echoing in the dark room. He slammed harder, your ass making a delicious clapping sound on his thighs.

“Gonna cum, gonna cum,” Frankie chanted. It was punctuated with him thrusting one last time, so deep inside of you, while he groaned and climaxed. He seemed to swell inside of you, filling in any remaining space if there was any. His cum pulsed, hot and sticky, shooting out of him and filling you to the brim. So much so that the moment he moved, it leaked out of you.

He pulled out completely and dropped beside you with a heavy, panting sigh. Your hips dropped to the bed, completely spent and worn out. That was what you had been missing. Your fingers or vibrator couldn’t reach as far as he could. They couldn’t talk and stimulate both your mind and body. You had tried listening to old recordings of his voice and it wasn’t the same.

Frankie tucked himself against you. You laid on his bicep while he curled his arm around you. His fingers trailed along your back and you hummed, snuggling closer.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

The end.

Frankie will be back! The Secret Frankie Morales Files

107 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 5 months

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 5

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 6.7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude team up to prolong their survival, and find something unexpected.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 4

Day 3 on the island…

Being deprived of sleep practically for the last forty-eight hours, Frankie nodded off, eventually succumbing to that alluring pull into the murky depths of the unconscious dark.

A light snort of his breath being caught in the back of his raw throat jolts him awake some hours later; that and the nightmare of reliving the plane’s crash over and over again, like on some twisted replay just to torment him, even in his bleak dreams.

Being adrift on that piece of wing debris, and the suffocating loneliness and panic, replaced his usual black dreams and twisted them into something sharp with talons, which was biding its time in devouring him whole.

When he comes to, he’s lying down on the hard, uncomfortable ground inside the cave mouth; his arm numb from supporting his head whilst he slept like he was dead, and a small part of him wishes he was already when he remembers the reality as it all comes crashing back.

Jude’s absence is noted as his sight comes back into focus and the stark memory of another survivor pulls at the threads of his surly unconsciousness.

Frankie sits up slowly, but still feels dizzy and as though something heavy has sat on his head all night crushing it.

He turns and stares down into the deep pit of the cave and wonders if something is watching him back with rabid, hungry eyes, and it makes him shudder.

He then spies the bottle of water, almost full and waiting for him.

He knocks it over in his haste to reach for it with shaky hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as some of it sloshes over the ground.

The temptation to down it all in a few glugs is strong and he really has to stop himself from finishing it off as he begins to drink the warm, yet refreshing, liquid that coats his stagnant tasting mouth.

But then something in his brain tells him it's best to save it; slow sips and keep dehydration at bay for as long as they both can. Just a few days, right?

He puts the bottle down, squeezing his fists together with a silent resolve to will them to stop trembling.

Nausea gnaws at his empty stomach, waves of tremors wrack his exhausted body, and a clammy sweat drenches his skin under the layers of his clothes.

The physical torment, though excruciating, pales in comparison to the mental anguish that threatens to consume him, even faced with this dire situation of being stranded. Memories of past mistakes and the weight of unspoken regrets haunt his restless mind despite flicking between trying to remember his training and how the fuck he’s supposed to get off this damned island.

¡Vamos, piensa! Tú puedes hacerlo. No puede ser tan malo. (Come on, think! You can do it. It can’t be so bad.)

He squints up at the sky outside the cave and it’s still a little grey, but who knows when it’ll rain again?

“Fuck.” He grits.

On the rocky shoreline, a few metres from the cave mouth, Jude is sitting on some rocks with her jeans off and inspecting the laceration on the back of her right calf as best as she can.

Convincing herself it’s not infected, even though it’s obviously sore and hot to the touch, clearly signs of a brewing infection. It’s crusting over with that yellowish plasma sap and itches like a bitch with an inflamed red tinge around the edges, but at least it isn’t bleeding anymore.

Her clothes finally feel dry enough, but they smell of the damp, salty brine. She rinsed her jeans in the seawater to clear as much blood off as she could, and they were now spread out on the rocks drying in the faint sunlight trying to break through the grey clouds.

Despite the dark sky hovering above her, the swampy heat lingers harshly. Tropical weather holds that heaviness in the air; sweltering heat in the heights of summer, but typhoons and rainy seasons accompany it, along with possible snow and harsh winters, depending on what side of the equator they’re on.

Who knows what the weather could do out here and how quickly it could change?

Looking up at the sky, Jude is unsure what season exactly it is that she’s stuck in on this island, but thankful for the rain nonetheless - at least she can drink something, for now.

She’s mulling over in her mind the long term solution to water and how to collect more, just in case the rain does indeed stop.

It’s a terrifying thought and she keeps coming up with undesirable outcomes each time she pulls it apart, making her skin prick up and shiver.

What are the odds of surviving on a desert island in the middle of the ocean? Is it mere days? Months? Is it even possible to survive at all?

Her doom filled thoughts are interrupted by Frankie approaching in her peripherals; his desert boots crunching languidly over the rocks.

She grabs her jeans, slipping them on quickly before he can see; they still feel damp in patches around her butt.

“I’m sorry-” He mutters, fearing he’s interrupted her peeing or something as he notices her zipping up her flies, and he looks away quickly.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Jude reassures.

He clocks the tear in the calf of her jeans flapping about as she reaches for her Converse, and the red faded patch from the blood that’s embedded deeply into the fabric. Staining it like a flower has bloomed; it’s a stain that won’t wash away fully.

“That looks bad.” Frankie observes.

“It’s healing, but I’m keeping an eye on it. How’s your neck feeling?” Jude asks, noticing the pink, angry blisters on his skin that seem worse this morning.

“Sore.” He winces, reaching out the water bottle to her.

She declines him, shaking her head. “It’s yours. It filled up twice in the night whilst you were asleep with the rain. I’ve had my fill.”

Frankie smiles appreciatively and drinks slowly from it again. “How long was I out?”

“A while; I don’t have a watch so I can’t be precise,” she shrugs. “Guess you needed it.”

He glances down at his wrist at his own watch, and it isn’t ticking anymore. It’s stopped at twenty-five past one. Is that morning or afternoon?

He ponders it for a few moments with a stumped look on his weathered face and zones out for a second. “Did you get much sleep?” He then asks her, dropping his wrist.

“A little,” Jude replies nonchalantly, although truth be told she’d hardly slept a wink.

Each time she closed her eyes harrowing images filled them, and when it was too quiet she could hear those engines roaring again as the plane fell out the sky.

“How do you feel?” She asks him, resting her chin on her shoulder and regarding him carefully as he hovers awkwardly, yet so tall and broad.

“I’ve had some sleep at least. My body feels like it’s been fuckin’ crushed.” Frankie looks out at the horizon; the clouds seem meaner out there, perhaps another storm is brewing, or maybe it’s rolling away from the island - it’s hard to tell with this heavy, hazy head. “Any sign of any boats or anything?”

Jude shakes her head glumly and sits back on the rocks resting on her palms. “Nothing.”

They both stay in a subdued silence for a while, until he perches on the rocks next to her, with a gap, and offers her the water bottle once more.

“I insist.” Frankie presses, and she eventually takes the bottle, has a couple of swigs and hands it back to him.

After some more time of them both scanning the horizon intently, looking for any flash of a rescue, he speaks again. “Why were you on the plane?” He drinks from the bottle with chapped pink lips.

Jude sighs heavily and folds her legs. “I needed a break from life.”

Frankie baulks with surprise and drinks again. “I hear that.”

“You too, huh?” She snorts.

He swallows, nodding, and offers her the bottle again and she takes it tentatively. “Work contract. But also the same; kind of a time out.”

“You said you were in the forces?” Jude asks curiously, as the breeze whips around her scraggly, salt-stinking hair.

He looks at her and smiles a little shyly under long eyelashes, the snap of his cap shielding them in the shadows of his face.

“Used to be. I work in aviation now. I was going out to Madagascar on contract to fix some helicopters. I used to fly them on duty.”

“Really? You’re a pilot?” Jude smiles.

“I was. Not anymore. Retired. But, I uh... I just don't fly right now.” He confirms as he watches her eyebrows rise in surprise.

“I see,” she shrugs. “Your business is yours, Frankie. You don’t have to explain.” She says, and he’s thankful that she doesn’t probe any further, leaving them to ruminate in a contemplative silence for a few minutes.

“What do you do?” Frankie asks her in return.

“I’m a photographer. Landscapes mostly.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Living the dream. Or at least, I was. I do all sorts of media and advertising for vacation companies and travel blogs, that kind of thing. Freelance mostly. It keeps me away from home a lot, and well...” she trails off “hence why I needed to get away, because in the end my love of travel caused more problems than it was probably worth.”

The bitter memories of Nate in bed with other women sting the back of her throat, and heart in turn, until she swallows through it. But bitterness always tastes vile.

Perhaps if I wasn’t away a lot he wouldn’t have cheated...

Frankie listens carefully with a small nod.

“I’m sorry, you don’t need to hear all that.” She says, as he turns his gaze away from her and back out to scan the sea.

“No, it’s alright. I mean, what else are we gonna do?” He shrugs, trying to make light of their plight. “I get you about working away a lot. I do too. Sometimes for weeks.”

“What’s that like?” Jude enquires.

Frankie thinks for a moment. “Lonely.” He says as he turns back to her, and she notices his eyes are tired and dull, despite the brilliance of the hazel and gold colours that are spun inside his dark irises, glimmering in the dappling sunlight.

“Do you not have a partner or something to go home to? A forces sweetheart?”

“I did.” He takes the water bottle back from her when she offers it to him and drinks it again. It’s almost empty. “How about you, will there be anybody special missing you back home?”

Jude shakes your head and snorts. “Not anymore.”

“Ouch.”

“I mean, family sure, but like you I did have someone. Turned out he was a grade A jerk.” She tries not to sound so bitter about it, but it’s hard not to when that betrayal is still incredibly raw.

Frankie nods with a smirk. “Hence the getaway?”

“Hence the getaway,” Jude confirms. “There’s just something so comforting in running away from your problems, right?”

“Yeah. That’s going incredibly fuckin’ well for us, ain’t it?” Frankie remarks, and Jude can’t help but laugh a little.

Then he laughs; his shoulders heaving up and down, making the pain across his skin pull tighter still, and they both find they can’t stop for a while.

Just guffawing merrily over the dire circumstances, because it’s either that or cry hysterically and wade into the sea possessed by the crazed delirium of suicide until they sink to the bottom.

They both guess that the other has already considered that unsettling scenario, because after a few moments their laughter dies out and they both go back to a solemn, bubonic silence.

The only sound to accompany their physical bodies is the sound of the ocean waves rolling in and out, a gentle taciturn.

“We need to work out a way to collect more water for the long term,” Jude begins, eyeing the water bottle through her peripherals inside Frankie’s hand.

She notices a small, round tattoo inked between his thumb and forefinger. He has stubby thumbs on large hands, and the skin on his knuckles seems dry and flaky in places from the salt.

Working hands, she deduces. And notes a subtle tremble in his fingers as he squeezes the bottle whilst they talk.

Frankie nods. “You think we’ll be here that long?” He’s trying not to think of the bleak answer himself.

“I hope not. But I think we need to plan for it, just in case?”

“You’re probably right. We can collect sea water, boil it somehow.” He suggests spitting out ideas.

“You know how to distil water? They teach you that in the Army?” Jude questions.

“No...” He replies glumly and she instantly frowns. “Kinda. But we don’t have anything other than this bottle to collect water in. It would melt if we tried to boil it.”

“Yeah. That would suck.” Jude says, feeling mightily protective of the crinkled bottle inside his grip.

“I was in Delta Force.” Frankie mutters.

“What’s that, like the Marines?”

“Kinda. More specialist.”

“Huh.” Jude says, and glances back at the horizon seemingly unfazed. Either that or Frankie assumes she doesn’t give a shit.

“What about that place you said you found?” Frankie enquires.

Jude shrugs. “There wasn’t much there, but I suppose it’s worth another look, I guess.”

“What about a tarp? We can use plastic to collect water.” Frankie explains, searching back through his turbulent mind for the schematic details.

“There was some plastic in there, I saw a bag?”

“Perfect.”

“How does that work exactly?”

Frankie bites at the skin on his lip and she’s instantly reminded of Nate doing the same thing, and shudders.

“It’s called a solar still. We dig a hole in the ground. It condensates. We should build a fire too. Keep it burning. Someone could see the smoke.” Frankie elaborates.

“Good idea.” Jude agrees; her levels of optimism climbing slightly, but even they’re suffering from chronic exhaustion too.

“We have shelter in the cave, for now. We need to find food. There might be fish in the water."

"Have you ever fished before?” She asks.

“Most weekends with Will before...”

Frankie trails off struggling to remember the last time he went fishing with Will. Those memories seem so far away now.

Far away in a simpler time where fighting for your life was a reality he’d never encounter. Just sitting in Will’s father’s boat enjoying the peaceful silence and the lush surroundings of the lake. Catching tiddlers and tossing them back and occasionally reeling in some pike. Yeah, they were good times. Before Frankie shit all over them.

He looks at Jude studying him curiously when he doesn’t answer. “Yeah. I can fish.”

“Perhaps you can teach me, pass the time a little?” She suggests. “Stop us from going insane and eating each other.”

“Sure,” he chuckles nervously.

The clouds have dispersed and the pair of them stand sweating and out of breath on the same ridge Jude had climbed when she’d first explored the island.

From up here, the whole of the island is in perfect view, and it’s a good lookout point as they both plan their route of exploration to gather food, water and anything else they can scavenge that will prolong their mutual survival in this hellhole until they’re rescued.

Frankie’s puffing heavily and scanning with his hand, shielding his eyes despite his cap visor, taking in the view of the dark wooded area.

“Those aren’t palms.” He says, scrutinising the tree species. “Shit.”

“What does shit mean?” Jude questioms warily.

He sighs, taking off his cap, shaking out and sweeping back chocolate curls, before placing it back on his head.

“It means it could get cold here. Really cold. We were on our way to Madagascar, which is in the southern hemisphere tropics.”

“Yeah, but it’s warm in the tropics, right?”

“Not always. Look at the vegetation, it's dense, but sparse. The island gets rain. Could also get snow.”

“Great.” Jude sighs.

From up here the trees seem thick, and he’s convinced there has to be some form of wildlife habiting on the island, or some edible vegetation at least.

“Where there’s vegetation, there’s gotta be animal life,” Frankie explains to Jude. There isn’t any sign of birds however, he notes.

“I hope you’re right about that.” Jude can feel her stomach rumbling, those gas bubbles fluttering under the muscles and sinew, and she hopes he can’t hear it.

“The water seems shallower and clearer over there, maybe an ideal place to fish?” He points a long, thick index finger to the north-west of the island on the other side of the wooded area. There are several rocks in the shallows, indicating rock pools.

“That’s where I washed up,” Jude says, remembering the welcoming sight of the sandy beach there and then remembering to her horror that the island was completely deserted.

Frankie drops his hand and looks down at her. “How long were you out there?”

“Same as you, I guess. The minute the plane sank, it felt like days I was on the water, but I think it was only one. I was here for another day alone before I saw you, I think.”

Frankie nods. “I passed out on the shore and I think I was out for the whole day.”

She squints in the sun looking up at him, he’s so tall. He looks back down at her through tired, yet kind eyes and messy curled hair that spills behind his ears under the cap, and smiles sympathetically.

Evidently the pair of them had some fight; they’d made it this far and Jude welcomes that they both have that in common at least.

“Perhaps we should split up? You look for tarp or anything to collect water. I’ll look for something to fish with and whatever else I can find that we can eat.” Frankie suggests after a while of more scanning across the island below them.

He steps forward and the drop from the ridge seems steep from up here. Bushes and boulders litter the bottom in clumsy zigzags.

“Sounds like a plan.” Jude agrees.

“We can cover more ground. But don’t over exert yourself. It’s hot and we need more water from the rain.” Frankie looks up above at the sky and not a cloud is in sight, the sun melting away any cloud cover that lingered from the morning. “Whenever that’ll be...”

“Meet back at the cave?” Jude suggests.

Frankie nods at her as they both begin the descent down the ridge before going opposite ways.

Jude gathers the rusted tins from the former shack, and the plastic bag that is in there will do as some kind of tarp.

Rummaging through the fallen planks, picking them up and moving them out the way, she makes a mental note to tell Frankie about them, because perhaps he can find use for the wood.

He’s a pilot, not a damn carpenter... She thinks, but then again, who knows what hidden talents he could have?

Who knows what anyone is capable of thrust into disaster and given desperate circumstances, right?

He could well be the one to get her through this whole awful ordeal, maybe even save her life. Or he could end up being a complete weirdo with a deadly fascination for wearing her skin and making her not want to spend a single moment more than necessary on this damned island with him.

Who is he really? He’s a complete stranger.

Nah. She didn’t get any cannibalistic creep vibes from him. But Frankie is still a mystery; a man of seemingly few words and not revealing too much about himself.

She’d established in her brief conversation on the rocks that morning that he was going on a work vacation because he needed a break from life. Seems genuine and plausible enough; she had that in common with him.

Jude ponders all this and more whilst she fingers through the dirt and broken body of the shack, careful not to get splinters from the wood.

There’s more plastic further under the leafy brush, and she pulls at it before falling backwards when it gets stuck on something and won’t give.

Hundreds of hairy spiders dash out, skittering across its surface and she cries out, scrambling up on her feet and brushing herself down quickly; panic stricken that spiders are crawling over her skin, face and in her hair.

“Eww no!” She squeals out and stamps her feet around in a weird, freaked out dance desperate to crush any that will dare venture towards her.

Once composed, she reaches for the plastic again; shaking it out and it’s all discoloured and opaque with filth. She shudders as she flick off a renegade spider and rolls the plastic up, shoving it in the bag.

Something that shines at her catches her eye, and reaching down, she sees a switchblade amongst the leaves.

“Well, shit.”

She flicks it open and although the blade looks a little dull and rusted on the tip, it’s still pointed enough at the end that it will most definitely be useful.

But she thinks about it for a moment, a creeping sense of unease prickling over her skin; this is proof enough that at some point, someone else had definitely been on this God forsaken island.

The only question is, what happened to them?

Frankie collects a few long and sturdy sticks as he walks the perimeter of the sandy beach outside of the wooded area along the shoreline of the island.

He figures he can probably find something to sharpen the ends to spear fish if there isn’t anything here that he can find for a makeshift fishing line.

His concentration is occasionally pulled towards the ocean where he’ll see something glimmer out the corner of his eye thinking it’s a boat, but then realising, disappointingly, it’s just the sun sparkling on the water like diamonds, taunting him.

He kicks at a few stones and pebbles along the grassy knolls as he traipses over them and notices how scuffed and dull his boots are.

An intense rush is felt, coursing through the veins in his arms and up into his shoulders.

He grits his teeth and stops for a second, breathing in and out slowly. He licks around the inside of his gums that are tight and dry and tries not to think about the desire prickling at the back of his brain for a line to sniff up.

“Ya no lo necesitas.” (You don’t need it anymore.) He tells himself in short, ragged whispers.

To distract himself, he contemplates the long term outcome for them both on the island, as his crazy mind does on autopilot when faced with a dire situation.

Although that path of thinking probably isn’t wise to venture down either. Historically, it's not really served him well.

He feels some relief that he’s found Jude; at least the loneliness won’t overcome him and drive him insane.

Isn’t that what happened to that guy on Castaway?

Jude appears friendly enough; full of determined grit it seems, especially if she made it overnight floating in the barren and dangerous ocean like he had.

Perhaps she’s a strong swimmer and the fact she’d allowed him to drink the water suggested she was kind and thought of others first. But what does he really know about her?

What does she know about him, really?

He tells himself that Jude probably wouldn’t look favourably upon him if she knew what he had done. He certainly doesn’t.

But something inside convinces Frankie that he’ll be able to count on her if shit hits the fan. More so than it already has.

Although he hopes it won’t - he hopes this fucking nightmare will all be over soon and he can go home and just forget about this disaster without any long term effects on his already fragile mental health.

Or, making it worse than it already is, at least.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Frank.

He can hear Eddie’s voice, even all the way out here. He thinks about the amount of missed calls he probably has from him on his iPhone at the bottom of the ocean.

He wonders if anyone will be missing him yet, if anyone has realised he’s not returning their calls or messages. Did Benny ever text him back?

He wonders if they’ll assume he's in the gutter again, strung out on the white stuff and barely clinging on through the manic highs.

He hopes that someone will question his disappearance. Although it’s getting harder to believe that these days. He's practically pushed everyone away.

Dustin. He’ll know I never landed. They’ll call in, reporting that I never showed up for the job.

Yeah, his employer will be his saviour. Make a few calls and soon a rescue team will be here looking for them.

Frankie looks about the ground for anything that can be of use, but it’s just littered with stones and more grass.

He looks up ahead of him and then stops dead in his tracks, dropping the sticks he’s collected in a heap at his feet.

"Fuck!"

Without hesitating, he makes a hasty run towards it.

Jude’s rinsing the tin cans down at the shore by the cave; crouched down with her jeans rolled up and bare footed, discarding her Chucks that seem like they’ll never dry out again.

She’s cleaning out the cans that aren’t rusted over completely that is. There are four that they can use for either water or food, and the remaining cans that are too rusty to risk eating or drinking from, she separates and tries to think of what other use they could have.

Perhaps Frankie will know.

She stands up when she can hear Frankie yelling, his voice ebbing in on the breeze, and turns to see him pulling along two small suitcases and a backpack slung over his back.

“Where did they come from?!” Jude exclaims, running up to him and taking a case from his hands. It’s a Samsonite brand with a clamshell outer casing and feels heavy.

“A part of the fuselage has washed up,” he puffs “it’s fuckin’ stuck in the sand on the other side of the bay."

"What?!" Jude gasps, hearing the words, but they have trouble going in.

"There might be more stuff in there. Come on!”

Jude follows after him as they make a brisk run through the trees and out the other side, following the walk along the shoreline he’d made earlier, before Frankie had looked up and spotted the wreckage of the plane embedded into the sand bank.

He couldn’t believe his eyes and suspected he was probably seeing things at first; a teasing mirage perhaps? His brain playing tricks on him - it wouldn’t be the first time.

But as he’d run closer to it, it dawned on him that it was really there.

They approach it, slowing down their pace and sweating profusely already in the scorching heat, and Jude’s overwhelmed by the sight of it.

“How the fuck did we not see this from the ridge?” She questions, befuddled, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand.

She approaches it circumspectly as Frankie touches the sides of it.

“The trees cover this whole side of the bay,” Frankie says, glancing behind him and he can’t see the ridge either from this side. “It could’ve been here since…”

He trails off as they both realise that it could have been here from the very moment they'd both washed up on the island. Maybe even before.

“Be careful,” Jude warns as she watches him step forward with a long, thick leg, and hoist himself up into the cabin.

He reaches down and holds his hand out for her, pulling her up to meet him.

She clasps a hold of a seat that’s on a steep incline for support as he climbs further in and upwards into the eerie cabin shell, crawling on his arms and legs like a sinister arachnid.

The plane fuselage is empty of any living soul, and stinks of the damp; a briny waft of salt that’s just as isolating as it is pungent.

Jude notes the remaining seats that are intact on the plane are void of any bodies, and Frankie catches her worrisome gaze.

“Do you think anyone survived this, apart from us?” She asks, almost whispering.

He shakes his head bleakly, noting that the seatbelts are unbuckled. Visions of the people who were originally sitting in them, struggling to get out as they drown, make him shiver.

Essentially they’re both walking through a graveyard. One of the seats is faded with blood and there’s a lot of it dried into the fabric.

Frankie steadies himself against the slant and reaches up, pushing open the overhead and braces himself; covering his head with his arm for anything that might topple out.

Another case barrages out and he grabs a hold of it and slides it down to Jude. She picks it up and tosses it out on the sand. He repeats the process with some purses that he finds.

Frankie carries on further up towards the back of the fuselage and yells out for her when he disappears around the remainder of what appears to be the galley.

Jude scrambles forwards, crawling, and slipping somewhat up the slope, meeting him where he’s crouched down in front of a silver trolley, and inside he’s leafing through stacks of food.

Bags of sweets, chocolates, small bottles of liquor and bread rolls, all intact and water free due to the tight vacuum seal on the trolley.

“Holy fuck!” Jude gasps as Frankie tosses her a bread roll.

She scrambles with the package and bites into it. It tastes a little stale but is still damn good.

He pulls out two cans of soda and they chink them together; the bubbles fizzing over the rim of the can and over his hand.

“Salud!” He says, grinning.

Jude toasts to him and smiles approvingly.

“This is a fuckin’ treasure trove!” Frankie marvels, belching through a gassy burp after drinking his soda too quickly. “Sorry,” he laughs through pale pink lips that feel moist again.

Jude giggles and belches back, making the skin around his eyes crease as his smile drags wider across his face, laughing.

“I’ll see your burp and raise you a belch.” Jude howls in embarrassment.

Frankie rummages around further in the trolley and there are several bottles of water and more tasty goodies to be found.

“We should bag this all up and take this with us. I don’t think I can get the trolley out.” Frankie announces, standing up and reaching for the overheads.

Jude glances at the trolley and it’s on a diagonal tilt, wedged tightly between the galley walls.

They both set about opening more metal doors in the galley and find more food; several vacuum packed meals that seem uncooked and protected from the water by their plastic wrap.

“Jackpot!” Jude coos and Frankie turns as she pulls them out.

He reaches out a large palm and high fives her enthusiastically, a giant paw slapping against her own.

“Nice one, hermosa.”

Frankie and Jude make three round trips back and forth to the fuselage in total and by the end of it, they count a mixture of three carry-ons, one backpack and a couple of purses.

“I can’t believe this; this is like some kind of miracle.” Jude says, staring at the wonderful sight, completely floored and not really knowing where to start with it all.

They’d both stripped the fuselage clean of everything they could physically take during the remainder of the day, and stood there watching the outer shell, part of their doomed flight resting contentedly on the sand as the sun began its descent in the sky.

“Maybe we can take it apart somehow... Take the seats out, use it to build some shelter or something?” Jude suggested

Frankie contemplated it, eyeing it carefully and examining the areas where he felt he would be able to muster the strength to rip things out with his bare hands.

Without tools it would be a near impossible task though, and he hissed through his teeth at the thought of his tools slung in his Pickup back home.

"I don't know. The angle it's on isn't practical. It's too heavy for us to move. The cave is better for shelter. Warmer too."

“Maybe someone will see it from the sky if they fly overhead?” Jude had said, and Frankie seemed hopeful; it’ll be hard to miss it on a search and rescue mission.

“We can take the seat cushions out; make some sort of bedding to sleep on. It’ll be better than the ground in the cave.” Jude reached under the seats and pulled out all the lifejackets she could find too. “These might be useful?”

Frankie nodded as he had watched her gather them under her arms and tossed them out of the fuselage onto the sand with the ever growing pile of everything they could take from it.

Frankie reaches into the bag of food and pulls out two water bottles and tosses one at her.

She watches as he drinks from his own greedily and gasps out after swallowing; the bottle crumpling in his hand as he sucks the air out of it too.

“Let’s have a look at the cases.” Frankie suggests as Jude stares at it all taking it in.

She bends down and starts unzipping them eagerly. They both find an abundance of travel-size toiletries and clothing in different styles and sizes.

She pulls out some garish, floral shirts and holds them up for him, to which he smirks.

“These might fit you,” Jude replies and he laughs with mirth at them.

Frankie opens a case that seems stuffed with more clothes and a toiletry bag; there are some razors in there and some shower gel.

Frankie pulls out the razors and holds them up astonished.

“How the fuck did they get them in their hand luggage?” Jude questions, utterly perplexed.

“That’s the fuckin’ TSA for you.” Frankie rolls his eyes. “We can use ‘em.”

Jude then remembers the switchblade she’d found and fishes it out of her back pocket and tosses it at him. He catches it one-handed and examines it.

“Figured you could use it for fishing or something,” she shrugs.

“So there was someone here, before us?”

Jude nods. “I think so, yeah.”

“What happened to ‘em?” He asks.

“Perhaps they were rescued?”

Frankie nods, a fleeting sense of hope skimming across his frontal lobe. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t want to think of the other outcome.

He tosses the razors back in the case and finds some sun lotion. He spots a small tube of moisturiser and wastes no time in squeezing some into his palm and rubbing it gently into his scorched neck.

He winces and hisses through his teeth as the moisturiser stings his skin instead of soothing it. “Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I was hoping that would soothe it.”

Jude finds the tube and discovers it’s actually antiseptic cream.

“It’ll sting, but it’ll help for sure.” She says, examining his neck. It’s welted and the blisters look angry and swollen with yellow fluid. It’s too tempting to poke the little skin bubbles.

“Here, let me help?” She offers, as he nods and turns his head so she can apply the cream all over the burns. He hisses as she carefully dabs it on.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

“It’s okay.” His eyes flick towards hers as she gently runs the cream over the welts.

She glances back up at his deep chocolate eyes, brooding and set in skin with lines around the socket.

“Where are you from?” Jude queries.

“El Paso.” Frankie says. “I moved out to the west coast though. Florida.”

“You speak Spanish.”

“My family is originally from Colombia. I was born in the US.”

She nods, smiling as she spreads the cream further over the burns.

“What about you?”

“The Big Apple. City girl.”

“Nice.” He says.

“It is in the summer. The winter, not so much. Better?”

He nods. “Thanks.”

Frankie touches his skin gently a few times with his fingertips after she steps away.

“You should put some on your leg too,” he encourages.

“I’ll do it later. Now we have some soap we can freshen up in the water. Take turns to clean up. God, I stink.”

“I don’t think you smell too bad. Me on the other hand…”

“Yeah, you smell pretty ripe.” Jude giggles.

Smirking, he comes across a make-up bag and tosses it to her. When she catches it, she finds a cosmetics mirror in there amongst some lipstick and eye shadows that have crumbled into a metallic sludge from being waterlogged.

There’s a pair of tweezers too.

She glances at her face in the mirror briefly and can see the large, purple bruising above her temple and examines it carefully, wincing when she touches it.

Frankie finds another baseball cap and offers it to her and she places it on her head; it’s still damp and cools her for a bit.

He finds a notebook with a pen. The pages of the notebook are crispy from being wet and he flicks through them to see the notebook is blank.

“Santa mierda!” (Holy shit!) Frankie exclaims suddenly, and pulls out a mobile phone and holds it up at her.

It’s an iPhone model and the screen is cracked.

“Fuck! Does it work?!” Jude rushes over to him.

They both stare at the screen, waiting for it to power up with severe anticipation, but it doesn’t.

Frankie glances down at Jude with a frown as she peers at it, seeming tiny inside his giant palm; willing it to come alive.

Please, come on!

He fiddles with the case, taking the battery out and it’s wet inside the phone’s internal chipboard.

“We could dry it out in the sun and then maybe it’ll work?” Jude asks him, hope swills around her eyes at him.

He nods with a thin smile. “Worth a shot, although I doubt we’ll get any signal out here.”

Frankie lays the phone in the sand next to the notebook and wipes the battery down with the hem of his salmon pink shirt.

Jude nods glumly. Probably best not to get her hopes up.

They sort through the cases, filling one up with the toiletries and separating the clothes between the remaining two.

“We should ration as much of this stuff as we can; make it last. Who knows how long we’ll be here, right?” Jude suggests to Frankie as she finally stands up, sweating and aching from being bent over in the sand sorting and organising for the last few hours of fading sunlight.

“Yeah, I think we have a few months’ worth of stuff here if we ration carefully. Although let’s hope we’re not here that fuckin' long. They’ll be coming for us real soon.”

Jude nods. “Yeah. We won’t be here long. They’ll be looking for us right now.” She agrees aloud and Frankies nods for a little longer, like one of those nodding dogs on a car dashboard.

He hands the sun lotion to her with a sympathetic crooked smile that is soft.

“Here. You’ve been exposed to the sun all day.”

“Thanks.” Jude says, unscrewing the cap and slathering it on the skin of her arms that feel tight.

Dusk approaches, and they both retreat into the cave mouth with the cases and the food in tow, clearing the beach in case it rains again and placing the empty water bottles into the sand to collect any rain water.

Frankie looks at the phone and battery lying on the ground near him. “I’ll try it again in the morning.” He yawns.

“Fingers crossed it works.” Jude says.

She reaches into the case with the food and pulls out a bag of Peanut M&M’s, which are a little squishy due to the heat, but still taste good nonetheless.

She watches as his hand barely fits inside the packet as he scoops out a handful of the coloured chocolates.

Jude murmurs out in sweet relief at the feel and taste of the chocolate melting on her tongue.

Frankie smiles in a pleasant response too, and as the fading light dies away, encasing them both in the blinding dark; his satisfied smile is the last thing Jude remembers before falling asleep.

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

@suzdin @missladym1981 @magpiepills @millennial-teenybopper @legendary-pink-dot @linzels-blog @msjarvis @tightjeansjaviupdates @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin @chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog @myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs @fckyeapedrothots99 @goodwithcheese @anavatazes @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @76bookworm76

#pedro pascal x reader #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales angst #adrift with you series #jett's writing #triple frontier fic

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legendary-pink-dot · 8 months

Text

Hinterland

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x female reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Unprotected PiV and half-asleep sex, established relationship

Word Count: 600 on the dot

Summary: Camping with Frankie, and why 3am half-asleep sex in a backcountry tent is superior.

Notes: A little scene inspired by @trulybetty's gorgeous little fic "Campfire" and the discussion it inspired with @goodwithcheese via reblogs about the joys of camping with Frankie. (Are you still not convinced?!) I'm an Outdoors Girl, so this would be my dream.

Stillness at 3am in the backcountry is primal. Nocturnal creatures have finished their hunts, but it's too early for birdsong. Even the insects have stopped clicking and chattering.

The air around your tent is quiet. Heavy. It's echoed in the way Frankie softly grinds against you from behind, his hard cock teasing your entrance. He doesn't have to ask if you like it; all his half-conscious brain has to do is track the pace of your breath, register the slight hitch in your hips that begs for more.

His calloused fingers, wisps of woodsmoke still clinging to them from the campfire, automatically travel down from your stomach to lazily circle your clit. He's too lost in his half-lidded dreams to be intentional with his movements, but it sparks your fire all the same, until you're wide awake.

Being with Frankie in these early morning moments, when he's half asleep and acting purely on instinct, is your favorite thing in the world. When you're at home spread across your luxurious bed and not inside this pitch-black tent at 3am, he's controlled, so focused on your pleasure instead of his own, a people-pleaser to the point of fault sometimes. But not now. He can have whatever he wants.

Frankie's cock finally slides into you. His breathing is soft and even against the back of your neck, and you reach back to twine your fingers gently through his hair. After a minute or two to adjust -- he's always so thick inside you, especially in this spooned position -- you start to clench around his length, matching the rhythm of his breaths as they slowly pick up speed.

Lazy and languid gradually turn visceral as his hips instinctively move faster, his thrusts hard enough to hit and drag across nerves deep inside you, but without the force behind them he can give when he's conscious and you're loudly begging more, harder Frankie, please fuck me, I want to feel all of you.

Little drops of condensation bead on the inner nylon of the tent, rolling lightly down the walls.

His fingers dig into your hip to push and pull you over his cock. His hand has given up doing anything to your clit, but that doesn't matter. You can take over. It won't take much anyway.

His breath catches repeatedly, forming grunts and groans that echo loud inside the tent. You know he's close, even though he's still not fully awake.

Your hips are moving faster now to pull him in and drag him out, just far enough to brush the nerves around your entrance with each slide. Your hand draws familiar and practiced circles on your clit, bringing you to the edge and drawing soft whimpers from your mouth. Not too loud; you don't want to wake him.

You press your palm against your clit at just the right spot and you come with a whimper, squeezing down on Frankie's cock just as he presses deep with a groan and spurts, his cock pulsing and twitching inside you, deliciously filling you up as you ride out your orgasm.

He never really woke up, and you can tell by his breathing pattern that he's already drifting back into deep sleep.

As you start to doze off yourself, his softening cock still inside and his arm wrapped around your chest, the forest outside the tent gently starts to wake. You cling to each other like it's the final moments of a delicious dream that will be gone forever once the sun rises.

In a few hours, you'll wake up exactly like that.

#frankie morales x reader #triple frontier smut #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal character fic #still managed to get a hair mention in there #juice collective

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

Morning Sunshine

Summary: Once again, you wake up to Santiago in bed with Frankie and you.

Content: pr0n, pr0n, pr0n. This gets smutty.

Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you) x Frankie

Wordcount: 6,900 words of depraved smut.

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist

You have a recurring dream.

It always comes when you're anxious. Back in College it used to happen the night before an exam. Now that you've graduated and joined the workforce, it tends to rear its ugly head before a performance review. But the most safe bet that this dream will always make an appearance whenever Santiago is visiting and about to leave.

Leaving for deployment. Leaving for a private job. Leaving for the sake of leaving.

In this dream, unlike the stereotypical stress dream, you're not standing naked in front of a class. Your teeth don't fall out through a hole in your cheek. In fact nothing much of note happens in it.

You're just standing on an empty tarmac, waiting for a plane that never arrives no matter how long you stand there.

There's no sight of it even as your feet become sore and throbs and aches with blisters. Not even as the clear blue sky turns obsidian dark and stars begin to dust the black canvas above.

Most of the times when you dream you're alone throughout. Sometimes a person you've never met before, with a nondescript face will walk up to you and ask you what you are doing. You'll tell them that you're waiting and when they ask you for what and who, you'll shake your head and refuse to answer.

You never tell them. Because like a birthday wish, there's a chance that if you say anything, your wish won't come true.

You wake in your bedroom. The first of the morning sun spill through the blinds with a warm gentle glow that settles over the cream sheets on the bed, dyeing it in amber.

Peering up, you stare at Santiago from where your head is resting on his chest, chin tucked into his clavicle.

He's here.

He's actually here.

Your eyes roam over Santiago's face, over the golden skin that's baby-soft without a single blemish no matter how hard you try to find one.

Soft plump lips most girls would die to for. Ink-black lashes so thick and long sometimes you wonder if they're fake. They have to be.

His lashes flutter behind his shut eyes in his sleep. It's almost as if he could sense your thoughts from his sleep and decided to rub it in your face. You press your face back into the hollow of his neck, nose brushing up against the lazy pulse you feel there.

He's here, it reminds you as it beats faintly against your skin. Santiago is actually back.

You bite down on your lip, tampering down the jolt of giddiness that rushes to your head at the thought.

It's hard to stay still, excitement is vibrating inside your bones and it wants to burst out of your skin. If it wasn't for Frankie's grounding weight pressed warm against your back, caging you in, you're not sure you wouldn't be floating off the mattress.

Taking a long deep breath, you try to stay calm so you don't wake either of them.

For a moment you try to talk yourself into trying to fall back asleep and catch a little bit more sleep.

But no, that's not happening this morning. Your brain is too wired. You haven't even had coffee yet. But you feel like you've had a dozen of espresso shots injected straight into your bloodstream, ready to run a marathon.

Santiago is here. In your home. In your bed. With you. And with Frankie.

For two whole years, he had stayed gone and didn't come to visit you even once.

The only signs he wasn't buried six feet under in some desert half across the world were a handful of calls, infrequent texts and hastily written postcards that arrived in the mail months apart.

In all that time, you haven't caught so much as a glimpse of his infuriating, beautiful face.

And now he's here, has been here for the last two weeks.

You don't know how you managed this. Don't know how you lured Santiago Garcia into your bed that first morning of his visit. Don't know how you managed the even more impressive feat of not having him bolt barefeet to Tampa airport when the three of you'd woken up together half-naked tangled in bed.

Your fingers linger over the pulse of his throat, making sure that he's real.

And he is. Warm and soft under your fingertips. Your lips are stuck in dopey smile.

Santiago stirs from under you, voice groggy with sleep as he grunts quietly. It takes you a second to register that the garbled sound muffled against his pillow are words. You just can't make out what he's saying.

"What was that?" you ask.

His head lifts just slightly from the pillow. "Said go back to sleep." Then he drops himself back down with a soft thud. "Too early," he mumbles. Those soft riotous curls of his spill across the pillow.

Gorgeous, ridiculously pretty bastard.

Your fingers draw down until you meet the familiar golden chain resting there. The gold glistens against the sun, and you trace the length of it from the back of his neck to his chest, until you reach the end, where the pendant rests. It's the shape of half a heart cracked in half.

You snort with a laugh.

It's been a hot minute since you've last seen this hideous thing. He usually tucks it inside his shirt, hidden from plain sight.

It's one of those ugly and cheap BFF necklaces that were all the rage in the 90's. The kind one could buy from any strip mall in America. You'd know, because that's where you got it, down the road from your first apartment, some ten years ago.

Holding the half golden heart between your thumb and index finger, you smile. It is a heinously ugly thing adorned with a gaudy pink rhinestone to boot.

You'd really taken your time that day to pick the most obnoxiously offensive option, hadn't you?

For all the grouching Santiago did when you had given it to him, all the griping about how "eye-gougingly ugly” it was. How much he "hates it". How he was "going to throw it into the Pacific where it can't do more harm" -- somehow all these years later, it still hangs around his neck.

It just has a bit of wear and tear now, polished from use where it rubs against the collar of his shirt, to the point where the lettered inscription of 'BE FRIE' stacked on top of each other is barely legible anymore.

Older than a decade, this beaten up necklace, and he's still wearing it.

"You have terrible taste you know," his sleep-rasped voice comes from above. He's got one eye cracked half open as he peers down on you, as if the room is too bright at this early hour for him.

His gaze on you is warm, and your chest flutters pleasantly. But you can't resist poking back at his snarky comment, the way that you two always do.

"It was a very heartfelt gift from me to you, Santiago. Don't be an ungrateful brat."

He hums, the tone of it still marred with sleep as he speaks. "If it's such a heartfelt gift, why do I never see you wearing your half."

"Are you fucking kidding me," you snort, as you lift your head from his chest to lean up to his face, "I wouldn't be caught dead with that ugly thing."

Both his eyes shoot open with a pout and his put out expression, has you wheezing with laughter.

You clamp your hands over your mouth and nose, trying to suppress the noise so you won't wake Frankie. But god, it's impossible. Because the more you laugh the more offended he looks, and that's even funnier. It's a self-perpetual cycle of laughter that doesn't end.

You drop your head back down to his chest, burying your face there as you shake with laughter, trying to muffle the sound.

"Are you done?" Santiago asks with that trademark sarcasm, but the fondness creeping into his tone is unmistakable.

Pressing your lips together, you breathe in a long inhale through your nose to calm your laughter before you tip your head back up.

Santiago is smiling at you, eyes squinted and softly crinkling. At the sight of him, whatever remaining laughter you had dies in your throat.

Heart-stoppingly pretty, that's what he is.

His hand comes to cup the back of your neck and he pulls you down to his lips. A soft tender press that ends much too quickly, before he lets you go, smiling wider than ever up at you. It's a little bit embarrassing how dumbstruck that one barely-there kiss gets you. You have no witty retort for him, just stare back at him dumbfounded.

"I get to do this now, right?" he asks with that warm smile of his that you've missed more than oxygen.

It takes your brain more than a few seconds to re-calibrate, to take in and process his question and the full depth of the bizarre but welcomed new reality that is going to unfold.

The three of you have stepped into unknown territory that none of you can take back. It's something you've known since that first morning at the breakfast table.

If something goes wrong. If you screw this up. If Frankie pushes him too far next time. If Santiago cuts and runs, he's going to be gone for much longer than two years.

That should scare you. Even the remote risk of that happening should be plenty of reason to stop this. But you don't.

You drop down your head again to recapture his mouth with yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheeks and it has your face tingling with heat.

His thumb smooths over your cheek, pressing gently as he tilts your face to an angle where he can kiss you deeper, and you know without an ounce of doubt in you that it's a risk worth taking, because, sweet baby jesus, you are kissing Santiago Garcia.

It's messy and slow. Santiago is too sleepy at this early hour to master his usual coordination and you're overbrimming with adrenaline to follow his lead and pace, but you try.

Soft, sweet. Hard, then needy. You let him slide his tongue against yours, as you wrap your legs as best as you can around his waist. Practically grinding yourself against the warmth of his torso.

It's messy, and a bit uncoordinated in the best of ways. Santiago's hands are holding you close, one hand firm on the back of your neck, the other curled around your waist.

It's still early, and everything around you is wrapped in that morning haze of soft sunlight and morning quiet. The only sound you hear is the rustle of sheets and Santiago's subdued low moan against your lips.

His hands on your neck and waist doesn't move, the firm grip, holding you steady and close to him. But you can feel a wide palm, warm and calloused slide against the slope of your stomach. It drags slowly downwards, the rough skin rasping against yours until he cups the apex of your thighs over your panties and presses down. White heat sparks along the length of your legs and you arch into the pleasant touch for more.

It's all the encouragement he needed. You can feel those dexterous fingers slip inside the trim of the cotton fabric, coating the wetness already there, before pushing inside of you.

It's blinding. Sharp electric pleasure sears into your skin. Those curling fingers slides deeper, finding that perfect place with practiced ease and no hesitation. Sparking heat rides along your entire back.

It's so fucking good. You don't understand how Santiago can do that. Know your body this intimately when he's never been with you like this before.

You moan into his mouth at the sensation, pushing back with the bend of your back until you meet the insistent firm hardness pushing urgently against the small of your back.

There's a rasped groan, low and heated in your ear. Soft lips and the slight rasp of a patchy beard dragging against the back of your neck that is so familiarly pleasant.

You open your eyes to the sight of Santiago's hand bridging across your jaw and cheek; then eye his hand that is still on your waist. You follow the line of the third hand buried between your legs, before you finally connect the dots.

There's only ever been one man in your life who knows your body inside out and can make you feel this good, this fast.

It's not Santiago's hand.

It's Frankie's.

Your husband with his thick and practiced fingers curled deep inside, that has you moaning and writhing. It's embarrassing really that you're so far gone that it took you this long to realize it.

Santiago pulls away just far enough to let out a chuckle against your lips with a smirk.

"Morning, Frank, did we wake you up?"

There's a soft hum that reverberates against the skin on the side of your throat as Frankie's presses open mouthed kisses there, the scrape of his beard making everything tingle.

"Mmm," he murmurs, the soft brass reaches into the core of your chest and drips warm and molten. "You two weren't being very quiet."

His fingers curl and press, nudging that perfect blissful spot until you arch back against him. You don't know how long he's been awake. But Frankie's fully hard already. The outline of his heavy cock, push against your back like it's trying to make a permanent indentation on your spine. You can feel it twitching and jerking eagerly against you.

"Sorry 'bout that, Fish," Santiago says, but there's nothing in his expression that says he’s contrite about it at all, cocky and brash as always. His lack of remorse is pretty clear to Frankie as well, because your husband chuckles softly, the breathiness of it skittering up along the nape of your neck.

"You don't look very sorry, Pope," he presses another kiss to your skin, "don't worry about it. There are worse ways to wake up."

The heel of Frankie's broad hand presses down on your clit, and sharp electricity jolts through you as you spasm in his arms. Your fingers dig into the firm muscles of his forearms, but he doesn't stop.

"Shit baby, you're so fucking wet already," Frankie murmurs in your ear, and leaves an indulgent kiss to your temple.

"Wanna see?" Frankie asks.

At the question Santiago swallows and you can see his Adam's apple bob in that graceful throat.

The cocky expression that seems ever present in the man fades. His mouth drops slightly open as he just stares at you and Frankie.

He's more nervous than you thought he would be.

You've always imagined Santiago to be assured and confident in bed. From all accounts and reports you've had from friends and even exes he's stayed friends with that seems to confirm your expectations.

But that first time watching Frankie and you in bed, he'd been hesitant to touch you. Last night, he'd been hesitant. So-so careful not to overstep with you and Frankie.

And right now as he's staring up at you and Frankie with wide and eager eyes, that same hesitancy is etched in every line of his face.

You hate it.

You want to grab his face between your hands and kiss him hard until you can wipe it clean from his face. Until there's not a trace of hesitation left on him when it comes to the three of you.

Frankie must read your mind. Even though Santiago hasn't answered him, he's already slotting his knee between your legs to spread you apart, "Let me show Santiago, baby."

You think he means he's going to show Santiago how easily he makes you fall apart in his hands. But instead his fingers slip out of you, leaving an aching emptiness as your pussy flutters at the loss.

He draws two fingers in front of yours and Santiago's face, your glistening slick coating him to the knuckles.

"See that Santiago?" he says, with a goading tone. He pulls his index and middle fingers slowly apart and you see the silvery thread connecting the tip of his fingers. "See how wet you made her?"

Something in Santiago kicks into gear.

The hesitation in Santiago's face is replaced with a determination as he leans forward.

You think he's going to kiss you again. But he doesn't. Instead Santiago's hand leaves your waist and grabs Frankie's wrist, pulling it towards his mouth. He wraps his lips around those thick fingers, and sucks.

Your brain stalls out at the sight. Tongue heavy and dry in your mouth as you watch Santiago’s throat work and his tongue lap up every trace of you from your husband's fingers.

"Fuck," Frankie utters.

Santiago barely has the chance to pull his lips from Frankie's fingers.

Before you've fully registered what you're doing, you're already reaching forward. Your hand grabs at the back of Santiago neck. You pull him down until those gorgeous lips are back on yours and you lick your own taste from his bottom lip.

It's still messy, but it's not slow this time. You kiss Santiago deep and hungry, trying to make good on your intention to permanently wipe out any hesitation in him he might ever have.

You don't know if you've succeeded, but what you know is that his hand does come to your waist, grabbing on tight as he pulls you close, angling your mouth to lick deeper into your mouth. You can't taste any hesitation on his lips.

You grind up against him, rubbing yourself against his torso, until you can feel the hardness that meets you there, pressing against your lower stomach.

"Fuck," Santiago gasps out between your lips, as he pulls back to catch his breath.

"Shit," he swears again, eyes darting down between your bodies to where his cock is straining against the fabric of his underwear, pulling it taut like the seams are about to rip from its stitches.

The tip of his tongue darts out to swipe at his bottom lip as he looks up hungrily at you.

You both know what he wants, because fuck you want it too.

But he doesn't say anything. Doesn't make any move to touch you. Instead, there it is again, that painful hesitation bleeding back into his face.

It takes you a moment to realize why.

This would be your first time together.

Silly as it might seem, technically, that morning two weeks ago, doesn't count as sex. Frankie, your husband, fucked you. Santiago watched.

Not that a handy and mouth stuff isn't crossing a barrier for your friendship. But this would be something else entirely. This is crossing a canyon and Santiago is peering down from the edge of the cliff and hesitating.

"Santiago," Frankie's voice breaks through the stalemate.

From behind you, Frankie's arm reaches out, wedging it between your bodies, to push down Santiago's underwear with an impatience and aggression that's entirely uncharacteristic of your patient husband.

Frankie is tired of waiting.

He wants Santiago to cross the damn canyon already, before Santiago gets cold feet and run away again.

So Frankie is pushing, and goading and leading Santiago along the edge. Hell if Frankie had his way he'd be shoving Santiago off of it.

It speaks to the difference in the friendship you both have with the same man.

Frankie for all his calmness knows when to push Santiago so he doesn't run the other way.

You for all your stubborn impatience knows when to wait for Santiago. To pull him back and make sure he doesn't fall right off when he's ventured too far.

Your hand reaches up to cup his cheek, pulling his eyes to yours. "You ready Santiago?"

His eyes focus with a solemn pause that tells you he's really considering your question. As if he's hearing a thousand layers to your simple one, and needs to consider each implication.

Finally, he gives you a slow nod. "Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs as he rests his hand on top of one of yours and drags it to his mouth and kisses the palm of it. "Yeah I'm ready now."

His hand draws down between his legs as he pulls the boxers the rest of the way, kicking them off, to reveal his flushed and hardened cock pressing eagerly against his stomach.

Your tongue feels dry even as your mouth floods with saliva at the sight of it. For all the blood that is roaring in your ears with excitement, blocking your hearing, you think you can hear Frankie groan from behind you. Can feel the eager weight of his cock twitch and jerk against the small of your back, dripping and smearing precome along your skin.

Fuck, fuuuck that's-- you're aching between your thighs, feeling much too empty in this second as you watch Santiago's hand grips the base of his cock and positioning himself against your entrance. Everything in you tingles with adrenaline, then he meets your gaze steadily, before pushing in.

The first slide of Santiago inside of you is perfect. Thick and filling, and with every inch of advance, you think you're going to go blind from the pleasure that fills you.

You didn't know it'd be like this.

Slow and careful, wide adoring eyes the way he's always looked at you when it was just the two of you.

It's overwhelming, to have him this way. Your chest feels ripe and overfilled, the pleasure swirling warm and heavy in your belly, until you don't know if you can take anymore and not fall apart somehow.

Your hand grips onto Frankie's strong arms caged at your side. You're moaning and whining, and your husband hushes you comfortingly.

"Shh baby, doing so good. You look so good taking Santiago's cock like this."

There's another choked sob, and you think it's from you at first, until you feel the way Santiago shakes against you. "Fuck, Frank."

He sounds breathless and out of it, eyes dazed, as he continues to push forward, the very last bit, until he's buried deep inside you as deep as he can be.

It's heaven, and you both moan in unison at the deep pressure.

“Does that feel good baby? You like having Santiago’s pretty cock inside you?” Frankie asks, lips pressing softly against the side of your temple and you nod in response with a whimpering keen.

Santiago pulls his hips away from you with a slow and sinful drag of his cock inside you. Searing pleasure swims across every one of your nerves, wild and demanding.

Your hands flies up and clamps over your mouth, trying to keep in the scream that wants to erupt from your throat, because fuck it feels too good. Too much. Like it's not even real.

Frankie's hand comes up to your forehead, brushing an errant lock of hair out of your face. You're so grateful for his sturdy presence and touch.

If he wasn't keeping you grounded to the here and now, encouraging you and Santiago both, in his raspy sleep-thick voice about how pretty you both look, you think you might have lost consciousness and blacked out from how surreal this all feels.

"How you doing there, Pope?" Frankie asks with a hint of amusement as Santiago's eyes squeeze shut, brows knitted in concentration.

He can't answer Frankie with words, just lets out a strained breathless moan before he finally manages a nod. He seems lost and overwhelmed, taking another pause of a second as if he needs one because this is all so much. Then he finally, slowly pushes back inside again. A long measured stroke that fills you all the way before he withdraws again, leaving you empty, only to fill you up again, and again, and again, until you're both losing your mind from it.

Santiago's hand slams down against the mattress, holding himself steady as he stills, half-way inside. He's breathing heavily, with a pinched expression as he rests his forehead against yours.

You can see he's overwhelmed. Can see he's holding on by a thread. But you can't help the neediness that burns thick and addictive in your veins for him, squirming as you try to get more of him inside you. But Santiago isn't obliging you in this instance.

Instead, it's Frankie's deep voice that comes to your help. "Want him deeper? Want me to help querida? Have him fill you all the way up?"

You nod eagerly, and you don't have to wait long before Frankie reaches an arm across the both of you, settling his grip on top of Santiago's hip and pulls him deeper into you.

There's a shattered and wrecked groan from Santiago, a noise that's been ripped from his very lungs, like he wasn't prepared for it, as his cock pushes its way deep into you. It breaks into a ragged sob, as he tries to catch his breath, but he doesn't get any reprieve.

Frankie's hand is already pushing Santiago's hips away from yours, until only the tip of Santiago's cock rests inside of you, and then he does it again. Pulling the man's hips forward, using Santiago to fuck you at a pace of his liking.

And god, it's good, it's so fucking good it has tears sting sharp in the corner of your eyes. The blinding heat from before, simmering hot and insistent in your veins, molten and sweet, as you wrap your arms around Santiago's neck and hold on.

Maybe it's because Santiago had the cards stacked against him from the start, barely half awake before he found himself in this position. Maybe it's the relentless, unforgiving pace that Frankie has set for him, not allowing him to stop even as he's practically whimpering out choked breaths. But you can see that Santiago is unraveling. His curls are a wild mess against the crown of his head. Jaw tense, and eyes rolling back to the back of his head.

His hand shoots out. He clutches and digs into Frankie's arm, fingers curling into the strained bicep with enough force that Santiago goes white-knuckled. His eyes fly open, and there's a pained look in his face, brows pinched in distress with a pleading look for Frankie to ease up on him. Without a single spoken word, you both know that he's close.

Your hand reaches across his cheek to soothe him but it only seems to make things worse because the tense muscle in his jaw tics at your touch. "It's ok Santiago, come. I want you to come."

He doesn't answer you, just squeezes his eyes tightly shut as if he's trying to block out your very voice.

"Santiago," you try again, but there's nothing. He doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes. Just stays there, deep inside you, to your frustration, as he struggles to keep his breathing under control.

You try to squirm against him to no avail, and you decide to hedge your bets. If Santiago won't respond, your husband will. Frankie always indulges you and succumbs to your whims, always spoils you. You roll your hips, angling your back until you feel the heavy and hard weight of Frankie's cock press deeper into your flesh. Until you hear him groan with a low rasp in your ear.

But Frankie isn't moving either. Hips still, pressed firmly against your back.

Shit, shit shit shit, you want more. Need more. Want every inch of Santiago buried deep inside as he thrusts into you, hard and demanding until you can feel him spill every drop he has to give inside you. Want Frankie to hold you down as Santiago fucks his cock into you, until you're pressed so hard into the mattress they will have to dig you out with a shovel after.

You try to arch your back again, to goad Frankie, but this time his hands move down to your waist to keep you still. Frustration burns bright under your skin at being denied. You don't think this has ever happened to you before with Frankie. Have never had him deny you in any shape or form.

But fine, if Frankie's not going to help you. You'll help yourself. If neither of the men, will respond to your encouragement, the only thing you can do is take matters into your own hands. Reaching across, you drag your hand over Santiago's hips, resting your palms over the round perfect curve of his ass, the way Frankie had earlier. Then you pull him closer to you, flush to your hips as deep as he goes. That one single thrust is enough, his eyes burst open, dark and wide in startled shock. There's something vulnerable within those pupils, and you already feel the way him twitching and—

Santiago sobs, actually sobs.

"No, no no. not yet," his voice is strained and tortured, cracking at the edges, as he pleads with you, "Sweetheart please, just—I need—"

Those gorgeous eyes of his flicker away from yours in panic, looking past you. "Please," he pleads again.

He's not asking you anymore, he's asking Frankie.

There's a pause and a silence. You stare up at Santiago, but there's a conversation with no words exchanged between him and Frankie that you are not privy to.

An unbreakable bond between the two men that had been forged in foreign countries you've never stepped a foot in.

Before you can dwell on it, before you can try to interpret and translate what is being said in the silence, Frankie's hand moves from your waist, joining your hand that's resting on Santiago. Then he's lacing his fingers with yours and pulls your hand away. He pulls you back from Santiago.

You whine at the loss, at the torturous drag of Santiago's cock leaving you empty and aching.

"Fran--" you start to protest, but you never get to finish, you can already feel him, hot and heavy pressed against your slick folds as Frankie presses in from behind you and you blank out. His name on your tongue dies on the tip of your tongue. The oxygen in your lungs extinguished as he thrusts into you. Air rushes out of you with no space for anything else but his fat cock. Every single thought is lost at the perfect pressure of his cock inside you, how Frankie completely fills all of you and so much more.

Then Frankie slides out of you, in a sweet and achingly slow slide. His pace is almost lazy, as if he's trying to drag it out to buy Santiago some time.

Your eyes flutter open to see those gorgeous familiar brown eyes of Santiago's staring at you wide-eyed, pupils blown as he bites his lower lip.

You eye Santiago's cock, where it's pressed against your stomach. It's flushed and twitching, shining slick and glistening with your wetness and the precome that's steadily dripping down the head, leaking what must be a comparable mess to the one Frankie's made of your back.

There's a gentle but insistent pressure against the inside of your thighs, nudging them to widen. Then Frankie's gravelly voice brushes hot in your ear, "Baby, spread your legs, just like this okay, so Santiago can see better."

You comply, moving under Santiago's unwavering gaze. There's a heavy weight to it, to be pinned under Santiago's attention in this way. Comforting and intimidating and oh so addictive all at once. You felt it two weeks ago, as he was watching you swallow down your husband's cock. Felt it when Frankie's face was buried between your thighs. It should feel lewd and dirty, something out of a ridiculous dear penthouse letter, but it doesn't.

Because it's not about getting your rocks off to a stranger in a dirty bathroom stall. Santiago doesn't look at you like a dirty John at a peep show. There's too much history between the three of you for that. Too much love spoken and unspoken in every glance, and every touch he wants to reach out for but doesn't. Too many goodbyes and not enough welcome backs.

All you want is to bridge that gap that still exists between you.

From behind, Frankie's snapping his hips up and into you, and his cock hits something shattering. You swear it fills you so fucking deep from this new angle, there's no more space inside you, not even space for oxygen in your lungs. It's a sensation enough to make you lightheaded, as Frankie fucks into you, thorough and demanding, as he opens you up on his thick cock, and that familiar tingle on your spine sparks in alarm to warn you that you're going to come.

And Frankie knows it too. His voice is in your ear, low and gravelly, “You want to give the first one to Santiago, baby?”

It simmers insistently inside. Sweet heady pleasure that is about to crack and fracture across your veins. You're trying to say yes, but Frankie's not stopping, his cock dragging slick and hard inside you, robbing you of any words. “You want that, baby? Let him feel your perfect pussy come around his cock?”

You open your eyes to look at Santiago (and fuck you don't even remember closing them again). The man seems more out of it than you are. Eyes glazed, and lost, with a look in his eyes like he wants to reach out but isn't. Like he's standing on the precipice of a cliff, looking down at the abyss.

You want to reach out and hold him. Want to lace your fingers together and tell him it's okay.

You don't have to. Frankie's reaching over from behind you, one strong and sturdy hand cupping over the back of Santiago's neck. He's pulling him closer until the whole of Santiago's torso is pressed along every inch of yours from your knees to your chest. Until you're compressed between the two men with not an inch of a crevice of space between. Then Frankie leans over your shoulder, pressing his lips to Santiago's.

All you can hear is the slick sound of their mouths, the wet slide of their tongues meeting, and the gentle dreamy hum from Santiago as Frankie moans into his mouth. Then Frankie's quiet, gentle voice. “You ready to go again Santiago?”

You can't see it, but you can feel Santiago nod. It's all that's needed before Frankie slides you off. You don't even get the chance to properly mourn the loss of Frankie's cock inside of you, because before you've even taken a single breath Santiago is already there. Hand wrapped tight around the girth of himself as he's pressing up against your dripping and slick cunt in a slow, easy slide until you've taken every inch down to the root of him. Pressing forward, until all of him, as far as he can go, is inside of you and both of you sigh with relief at the pressure and weight of him inside you.

His forehead rests against yours, and he smiles at you and it's fucking everything. It doesn't matter that he's done this a million times. Doesn't matter that his smiles are nothing rare in all your years of friendship. It's different now, and he knows it too.

This is a gentle smile, not the rakishly charming one he reserves for the gorgeous women he meets at an nondescript bar, 60 seconds before he walks out with them on his arm. Not the smug "I told you so" grin he wears when he knows he has won one over you. Just a simple smile on his lips as he looks into your eyes. Right now, he sees you in a way that Santiago only does. A smile that was reserved for just you and no other women or men. This smile is yours.

It's a promise that he'd always come back to you, no matter how far he went or how long he was gone for.

A smile worth standing alone in an abandoned field for as long as it takes.

You feel dopey and content, head buzzing with endorphins as you stare up at him. You love him. You love him so much you feel stupid, and you don't know how to tell him.

And maybe you don't need to.

He moves, long, drawn out strokes as he pushes his cock inside and there it is again, your orgasm flickering awake as it licks up your spine with its adamant presence. You don't last long.

Your toes curl into the sheet, hand grappling for something to hold onto, until you feel the familiar warmth and weight of Frankie's arms wrapped around you. "Right here, baby. I'm right here."

Maybe it should feel strange. Maybe it should feel wrong. To have your husband hold you in his arms while you're about to come on your best friend's cock. The same man that your husband has been in love with for as long as you've known him.

But it doesn't. What has always felt wrong was the wait. What was wrong was not having Santiago in your bed. Not having this man right next to the both of you in your lives together of supposed married bliss. It's why no matter how many rooms you donned up and filled up with furniture and trinkets and photos and memories, it always felt empty.

A space that would never be filled until Santiago came home to you both.

"It's okay, go ahead and come," Frankie whispers.

And fuck, with your husband's loving voice in your ear, you do.

It's consuming, streaks out in pulse after pulse across your nerves as the pleasure fills along every nerve. From the tip of your nose, to the air in your lungs, down to the aching muscles of your calves. Your back arch, your mouth parted with a moan or a scream, you don't even know. All you know is that it's bliss rushing to your head and blots out everything else as you come on Santiago's cock.

You're surprised you can even hear sound, when Frankie's lips are pressed to your temple and that familiar voice rumbles across your skin, encouraging and sweet. “Doesn’t she feel good Santiago?”

It's a bit distorted, too blissed out in your post-orgasmic bliss to understand what's being said even as you can hear Santiago's breathless voice and make out the words he's saying. “So good Frank", he moans, a strained, quiet little sound, "so fucking good. I think I’m losing my mind over it.”

“Yeah I know the feeling.”

Santiago's still hard inside you, still thrusting slow and measured, to drag out your climax, even as you're coming down on him, but you don't even know where to fit the warm buzzing pleasure skittering across your skin as he bends down his head and presses adoring kisses to your lips and cheeks. “You feel so fucking good when you come on my cock, sweetheart.”

You're so fucking out of it. Can barely hum in approval as you feel Santiago slip out of you and Frankie takes his place inside you. Gentle fingers come to your forehead, smoothing out the sweat-drenched locks. You don't know if it's Frankie or Santiago, but that's okay, because you don't think it matters.

Because he's here now. They both are.

“Let’s try to come together this time, okay baby?” Frankie asks and for the two of them, you do.

You fall asleep after, tucked and nestled between the two men you love the most.

You dream of standing in a field. Sun set high across the azure blue sky, with not a plane in sight. Across the tarmac, there's a silhouette standing against the blaring sun. It doesn't matter that you can't see him against the blinding brightness. Your wait is over.

It's the last time you have this dream.

Dedication & Credits: To my prawn clown sister @thirstworldproblemss because she is the best and I looooooooove her the mooooose-test

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

#oscar isaac #pedro pascal #santiago garcia #frankie morales #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #tiple frontier #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fanfiction #homecoming #telltale heart asks

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wildwheatfields · 9 months

Text

This is VERY MESSY but this is my reference for my headcanons n what I like from the dolls n show

More in depth down below cuz my handwriting is icky anyway

Clawdeen Wolf -

Her werewolf attributes are the nose, teeth, ears, claws and fur. Even her “hair” up top is fur. The fur placement is very much my own headcanon of fur following body hair placement so she’s got the furry arms, legs, chest, tummy, back n sideburns.

Since she’s half Latina, I believe she’d be hairy (to a lesser degree) in human form cuz I’m mixed Latino n black as well n am very hairy. I am projecting onto her!! I was teased growing up so to have Clawdeen be proud to be furry means something dear to my inner child

She likes to paint her claws n dye her “hair” but she has natural brown hair/fur. She’ll dye the “baby hairs” on top but not other face fur

She’s half Latina/werewolf n black/human and I love the double mixed analogy that can come from this n yes I will explore this

Draculaura -

Her vampire attributes are fangs, claws, pointy ears and pink skin. She has no natural blush cuz I headcanon vampires have no blood n need to be sustained by blood or in Draculaura’s case using other ways to sustain herself

She has a heart shaped beauty mark below her eye that she’ll incorporate in her make up. She’ll paint her claws with Clawdeen. She’s dyed half her hair pink purely for the vibes. I think her whole fam is vamp goth but she loves that splash of pink n hearts n frills.

She’s mixed Romanian and Vietnamese but I think she grew up in the US

Frankie Stein -

Their frankenmonster traits are simply the total mishmash of parts. Their body is made up of probably stolen human body parts (I feel like their parents must have mad scientist grave robber crackhead energy fr please I hope they appear in the show) n I think their hair is choppy too cuz it’s made up a bunch of different black n white hair from diff people but they just won’t cut it even. Their brain bits are all monster tho

There’s a panel on the back of their head for brain access. Their bionic leg and foot are interchangeable. Their stitches can come undone but reattaching is easy n they still have control over limbs when detached cuz of some mad science mumbo jumbo

They dyed some strands of hair blue cuz that’s fun. They have a gap in their teeth

They’re technically mixed race cuz I believe they’re literally a combo of diff races of corpses lmaooo I do have some thoughts that they’re made up of people gone too soon but that’ll be a diff post!!

If I think of more, I’ll update! I’ll also slowly release the other monsters

#monster high #monster high gen 3 #clawdeen wolf #clawdeen #draculaura #frankie stein #frankie #mhg3 #mh g3 #mh #my doodles

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musings-of-a-rose · 5 months

Note

I'm having a Sparks and Benny thought here. Based on this pic. Both of them arrive at home from a Xmas party at Will's. Things got hot really quick.

Note this was supposed to be in your ask box. I messaged ya this thought. My bad! Holiday brain!

The Party

Pairing: Benny Miller x “Sparks” f!reader

Word Count: 1300+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: I miss the HELL out of these 2 so please continue to send in anything! Also I’m changing this up to a New Year’s Party because I couldn’t finish it in time for Christmas. And then I was even more late! Thank you for being so patient and waiting!! (This was not beta read)

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❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

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**Reader is not described

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“Did we really have to dress all fancy?” Benny whines, rolling his shoulders to shift the suit jacket a little.

“It’s Will and Makayla’s first New Year’s living together and they wanted to be fancy,” I explain as I knock on the door to Will and Makayla’s place.

“I guess.”

“Plus, it’s my first as Mrs. Miller and I wanted to look pretty.”

Benny’s eyes soften as he looks me, the edges of his gaze darkening. “You’re always gorgeous, Mrs. Miller.” He grips my hips and pulls me to him, releasing one hand to tip my chin up, kissing me softly, the heat slowly warming.

“Get your own porch, asshole.” Will had opened the door and was standing there smirking.

“You’re right. I’ll just take my wife home then,” Benny pulls me in the direction of his jeep.

“Nice try. Makayla would kill me if you guys didn’t show up. Come on in.” He opens the door wide and motions for us to enter, fist bumping Benny as he walks past.

Makayla had gone all out, everything sparkling in silver, gold, and black, like a modern day Gatsby party. People had already arrived and Benny steers me towards Frankie and Monica, Santi off in the corner making out with a girl, whom I shockingly recognize.

“Is Santi with the same girl he brought to the bar a month ago?” I whisper to Frankie and Monica.

She nods. “Yeah! I think this one is sticking around, surprisingly enough.”

We chat with them for a bit, Makayla flitting over for a few minutes before being whisked away on a champagne emergency. The music is going, some people getting up to dance. Will recruits Benny to help him with something in the kitchen, so I pull Monica onto the dance floor, whispering to her that we’re going to be menaces to our respective husbands.

We start dancing to the upbeat song, hands on each others hips as we sway and move to the song, her spinning me around so my back is flush with her front. And that’s when I see him, Benny, emerging from the kitchen and freezing, his eyes on me as I dance. Judging by the light chuckle in my ear from Monica, I’m guessing she caught Frankie’s eye too.

“Wanna torture them some more, Sparks?” She says close to my ear.

“Hell yeah.”

I follow her lead, moving my body as she guides me, our hips moving in tandem as she pulls me closer to her. For good measure, I lift my arm, wrapping it around the back of her head, trying not to giggle when she squeezes just a little too much on my inner hips. And then the song ends, Monica and I laughing as she hugs me.

“That was way too much fun, Sparks.”

“Yeah it was. Did you see their-”

Suddenly, Monica was ripped from my grasp, Frankie’s hand firmly clamped around her upper arm, a smirk and a wink tossed my way from her as he steers her away through the group of people.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?” Benny had snuck up behind me, his hands now on my hips, his nose nuzzling in my hair as he speaks low in my ear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was dancing, good sir.”

He chuckles and it makes goosebumps pop up down my arm. “Yeah. Dancing. Sure.” He makes to pull me away, to find some secluded spot but then Will clanks a spoon on a glass and everyone turns, Benny groaning a little too loud so I elbow him softly in the ribs.

Will puts his arm around Makayla next to him before speaking. “I just want to thank everyone for coming. We’re so excited to share our first New Year’s Eve with everyone we love and we’ve been working hard- ok. Makayla has been working hard. I just do what she says,” laughing flits around the group as Makayla playfully slaps his chest, leaving her hand on his toned pec. “But seriously. Thank you guys. Here’s to another great year!”

—----

The toast was had, the ball was dropped, the midnight kiss was a little too risque between you and Benny, Will not so covertly throwing an empty Solo cup at Benny’s head.

“Ugh I’ve been dying to take these shoes off all night!” I groan, kicking my heels off and plopping down in one of our comfy chairs.

“You looked hot though.”

“That’s the price of fashion. Pain.”

He chuckles as he removes his jacket, revealing that he wore a simple, plain black shirt underneath it, the fabric stretching and pulling as he tosses the jacket on the back of the couch and sits with a sigh. I look over at him, feeling warm watching his movements.

“Did..did you really wear a black t-shirt under your dress jacket?”

Benny looks down at his shirt, his eyebrows pulled together. “Should I not have?”

“No, no. I think it works.”

He brushes his chest and I almost come unglued. “Good.”

“Wanna see what’s under mine?”

His big blue eyes snap to mine. “Fuck yeah I do.”

I get up, standing in front of him as I pull my dress over my head, hearing his sharp intake of breath as I reveal his favorite lingerie set on me, complete with black garter belts.

“You…you had this on the whole time?”

I nod, moving to straddle him. He grips my hips, sliding his hands up to my ribs as he kisses my chest, his mustache tickling my skin causing me to chuckle. But then he grips me tight, standing abruptly and sets me in the chair, draping each of my legs over the arms of the chair. He kneels, his eyes dark and all-consuming as he stares between my legs.

“Can you buy new underwear?”

“I think so.”

I barely get my reply out before he grips my panties, ripping the part that covers me, tucking the ripped ends up. His large hands squeeze my inner thighs and before I can say anything, his mouth is on me, warm and lapping, my legs trying to squeeze around him. He holds me open, his fingers digging deeper into my skin as I moan his name, electric sparks rolling over me as his tongue changes patterns. One of my hands grips the chair and the other moves to his hair, tugging hard and whining when his growl vibrates me.

“Oh fuck! Ben, I -” The sounds he pulls from me are loud and grateful, Benny leaving his mouth on me to work me down. But I don’t have time to relax as he stands, pulling me up only to spin me, pushing my upper back down, the sound of a zipper loud in the quiet apartment. He drags himself through the wetness between my thighs before pushing and I slap the chair, trying to find something, anything to grip.

“Can’t believe you were wearing this the whole night and didn’t tell me,” Benny pants behind me, setting a rougher pace just hear the panted whines tumble from my lips.

My hands scramble, still trying to find purchase as he presses harder, faster, but then he folds himself over me, engulfing me from behind, his large hands sliding down my arms, his fingers lacing with mine, holding my hands as he continues to push in further. I turn my head to the side, feeling myself hurtle towards the edge again as he brushes against that spot at the back of me.

“Oh fuck, Benny! Please..please!” I come, tightening around him, his breaths panting out across my neck as he buries his face, turning his head slightly to bite my shoulder as he comes, his hips pushing in a few more times as he releases. His bite turns to kisses, nuzzling into my hair before he whispers.

“I love you, Sparks.”

I manage to finally catch my breath. “Don’t you mean Mrs. Miller?”

“Fuck!” He pulls out but stands, picking me up to throw me over his shoulder with a squeal as he stomps down the hallway, spending the next few hours showing me exactly what being called Mrs. Miller does to him.

—----

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#benny miller #ben miller #benny miller x reader #benny miller x you #benny miller x f!reader #triple frontier #garrett hedlund #benjamin miller #benjamin benny miller #garrett hedlund x reader #garrett hedlund x you #garrett hedlund characters #garrett hedlund character fanfic #garrett hedlund character ff #garrett hedlund character fanfiction

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astoryisaloveaffair · 11 months

Text

Fix You - Chapter 15 - High and Dry

*gif by @pedrohub

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader

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Read on A03

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Chapter Summary: 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 4K

Rating: Explicit!! 18+!

Chapter Warnings: Cussing, violence, drugs, sex fantasies. I will not be warning anything else due to spoiling the story. We are all grown. You can stop reading when you want to.

A/N: Thank you all for being so patient! I hope this doesn’t disappoint! It is a bit shorter than my chapters in this fic usually are but ending it where I did felt right, and I don’t want to beat you over the head with F E E L I N G S. Please keep in mind for this chapter that I am continuing based off the exact themes from Triple Frontier. If you find some things in Triple Frontier offensive, I probably wouldn’t continue reading. This has been the arc I have been working towards for almost two years, and I'm not going to waver. Just stick with me like you have been. It’ll be worth it.

* If a character is speaking in Spanish, I will put “[ ]” around the dialogue. I speak pretty decent Spanish but not good enough for this 🫠

Suggested Songs: “High and Dry” by Radiohead, “Breathe Me” by Sia, “Demons” by Guster, “Cry” by Cigarettes After Sex, “Cold Little Heart” by Michael Kiwanuka

For a few seconds you can’t even figure out what you’re looking at. Or maybe you can, but your brain doesn’t want to process it, the black of the night and the black of the gun meld together so there isn’t a clear outline.

It’s the shiny glint off the gun barrel under the streetlight that makes it real, and then you startle again when a male voice calls to you, muffled through the door.

“Get out of the car!!

You blink, your hand on your chest slowly inching towards your phone that you stashed into your bra in order to not carry a purse at the fair.

“Ah ah ah. No moving except open the door or I will blow your fucking brains out. You be good, I won’t hurt you. Get out.”

Your thoughts race and it feels like you’re silent for almost five whole minutes but you know it’s only seconds, because your hand reaches for the door.

You’re quick enough to figure out that if you try to put the key back in the ignition, he will shoot you before you can leave. If you pull out your phone, he will shoot you before you can place a call. If you try to hide, he could break the window in and grab you and it will make him pissed off.

Your only option here is to fight. You have no idea what this man’s intentions are and you are not going to ignore any chance you may have. Maybe if you hit him and ran—-

You swallow and open the door.

Immediately a gloved hand shoots in and grabs you by your hair, yanking you out of your seat and stumbling to your feet. There’s no respite once you catch your balance, as the man’s other hand pushes you hard in the chest back against the hard shell of your car and covers your mouth with the most foul smelling gloved hand you’d ever smelt.

It’s then that you notice, before you can even try to fight and make a break for it, that there isn’t just one man. It’s four. And all are dressed in black with masks on, completely encircling you. One presses a gun right up under your raised jaw, the other two aim at you from a distance.

There’s no way you can run. You can’t fight off four men, it would be suicide. But you’re not sure what other alternative you have. They might kill you anyways. Or they might let you go…after getting what they want. What they want could be worse. Your brain shuts down in panic, your eyes watering because your body will not allow you to close your eyes out of adrenaline or fear.

Then he speaks to you again.

“Where is the money”. You simply continue to stare, confused.

The man leans in closer, where his nose would be under the mask almost touching your own. It does nothing to dull how rank his breath and B.O. is.

“I’m going to let you talk, you be quiet and do not scream or I shoot you. Yes?”

You nod erratically, and he takes the rancid glove off your mouth.

For a moment you do consider screaming. But it wouldn't matter. By the time someone would even make it all the way across the parking lot to help you’d already be dead.

He asks again. “Where is the money?”

“What money?” You scrunch up your brow and you can hear your voice wavering. They know how scared you are. The gun against your neck pushes deeper, and you can feel the metal forming a bruise with how oppressive it is. “I–I don’t know what you—I have my credit card! You can take it, please have it!” Your right hand gropes its way into the open door of your car like you could magically summon the wallet to your hand.

“No. The money. The money they stole. Where is it?! They’re your sweethearts, yes? They share the money with you, and killed many of us. We came for the money.”

Your heart drops into your stomach as the night’s events flash before you at hyperspeed.

“How he went on a STUPID fucking mission with these idiots to burglarize a fucking drug lord completely off paper?...

Fuck. Fuck. But why would they come for you?

“I—I don’t know where it is. I, I understand now. I just learned this, I know what you’re talking about but I don’t have it, I don’t know where it is, they didn’t tell me anything about this, I swear—”

Your head almost recoils back with the force of his gloved hand, the large palm connecting to your cheek, leaving it stinging and your nose feeling like someone ripped it open. Your eyes water once more as you struggle not to start crying. Stay strong. You have to stay strong. Do not cry.

The man who spoke to you starts pulling you away from your car and into the dark, and despite it being an idea you’d already talked yourself out of, your instinct is to resist. “I told you, I don’t know where it is! I don’t! No–I’m not going anywhere! I don’t care how much you hit me–”

One of them turns to the other, rapidly speaking in Spanish that, thank god, you know just enough to interpret.

[“We should just kill this whore, then kill the big one’s other woman and take the baby. They can always get a new whore. They will come for the baby.”]

And suddenly it’s like your brain is the most clear it’s every been. “No! No, I’ll go! Take me, they’ll come for me, I promise. They will. And—and I’m easier to transport than a baby. You’d have to take care of it right?? Until they come?? That would be a lot of work! I’m—-I won’t fight I swear! Please just take me I promise you’ll get the money. Okay?”

The men look at each other, sending some secret silent message you can’t interpret. You look at the one standing in front of you. You can barely even see his eyes in the dark.

“Please. They’ll come.”

And then you don’t remember anything else.

It took everything he had in him not to turn and look at you, to shoot up off the couch and peer out that window to watch you leave, to rip the door open and run to you, apologizing for all of it. But he didn’t.

Instead, he sat there with his head in his hands, eyes screwed shut to keep the threatening tears from spilling out. Eventually, time and space faded out, he felt nothing but everything. It felt like he had been sitting on that couch forever and also for just one second. He felt dead inside. When he finally got up and trudged down the hall to bed, it was three in the morning.

He wakes to Gabi crying. “Fuck.” He grunts, as he rolls over to glare at his phone that didn’t go off. Except it did go off. He had slept through it, and it was almost 11am. His head is killing him, and he presses his lower palms into his eyes to try and alleviate the pain. It felt like he had a hangover, but he hadn’t had a drink or used. An emotional hangover.

Frankie hauls himself out of bed and stumbles to Gabi’s room, she is absolutely beside herself calling for him and rattling the railing on her crib. He can tell her diaper is full and she hasn’t had breakfast and now he feels like extra shit because of that.

“God, baby, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry honey…” he scoops her up and pulls her to his chest, cooing and lightly bouncing her to soothe the cries. “Daddy didn’t feel good, I don’t know what happened, I’m so sorry. Are you ok?” She sniffs and nods, wiping away a snot bubble. “Ok so I know you’re starving but you would probably also feel more comfortable after a bath. Does that sound good? Which would you like first?”

Gabi sniffles again. “um…baff.”

Frankie nods and carries her to the bathroom, immediately taking off her soiled clothes and starting to run the bath. While they wait, he softly brushes her hair, using his fingers to gently separate the cute little mats she sometimes gets in her curls.

He bathed her in silence, and he knows Gabi knows something is wrong, as she usually likes to play with her sea animal toys when she is in the bath. Today she is simply swirling the bubbly water with her finger.

He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what she understood and what she didn’t. When he broke up with Lex she was too young to realize or know any better but now…now she was aware. And she had loved you…

So did he. His chest seizes in a searing pain as he thinks of you, the way your face looked when he said what he said. He hadn’t meant any of it.

It was a new level of heartbreak, because he had known better not to cater to his impulsive stubbornness, the insults and hateful comments that spill out of his mouth when he gets caught, when he feels backed into a corner. He knew better and he couldn't stop himself, his defensive and selfishness overwhelming him. And then you asked him about the farmers he shot. And it hit him.

He was a bad person. There was no denying it. He’d wanted to keep that side of himself away from you, he’d change the topic or just blatantly lie, but he liked the man he was with you, he wanted to prolong the feeling as long as he could before he messed it up. And he messed it up.

It suddenly didn’t matter to him in that moment that you could possibly forgive him. You SHOULDN'T forgive him. His past, his life, his actual shitty personality…you deserved more. You were so young, you could find someone new easily who didn’t have all his problems. So he pushed you away.

And you were fun to fuck, I’ll admit that. Let me do fucking anything…

He whips around and all but flings the toilet seat cover off the entire toilet and promptly vomits.

He is a horrible person…but he knew, deep down, that you would have forgiven him, that you would have stayed. And as the world fell apart and it all came crashing down around him, he knew you shouldn’t. But it still pissed him off that you listened to him, even when he knew this was right. He could not deny he selfishly still also wanted you to come back, to refuse to leave and beg and plead and tell him how much you love him. Everything is so complicated.

He pulls his head up and rests it in the crook of his arm along the rim of the tub. He feels a light poking and looks up to see Gabi.

“Daddy we done?”

He blinks, looking down like he had forgotten where he was and what he was doing. He reached for the loofah to rinse it from soap later. The water was getting cold.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He says nothing and nods, wrapping her up in a blanket and putting on her favorite mermaid scale leggings and a little Fleetwood Mac shirt you’d gotten her so she could match with him.

After settling Gabi with her food, he trudges into the living room, collapsing on the couch and opening his phone.

It barely rings before it’s picked up.

“Hey, Fish…was just ‘bout to text you. You ok?”

“No.”

Will began to speak, but Frankie cut him off. “Look I need you to watch Gabi for a couple days. I’m…off my dad game. Can I bring her over?”

“Yea…sure.”

Frankie could hear the hesitation in Will’s voice.

“I’m not gonna use.”

“I didn’t say you would.”

“Right. Be there in a bit.”

He told them mostly everything. If there was one thing he learned from you, it was that talking about it did make him feel better.

They said nothing at first but listened, offering words of support, because there was nothing to say. Your reaction was completely justified, and you were rightfully upset about being lied to. So was Maidali.

“Yea she won’t talk to me right now either.” Will sighs, and Frankie feels a twang of guilt that he had spent the entire time talking about himself.

His sad eyes make contact with Will’s. “I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is. Hopefully she can get over it. Flower too.”

“She won’t.” They could see this was a struggle for Frankie just from the muscles clenching in his jaw. “I made her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I made her break up with me. I—-said some really horrible shit. Shit I didn’t mean. Well, maybe I did at first cause I was mad but also…she doesn’t deserve this.”

“Deserve what?” Said Benny.

“Me, this, everything!” He throws his arms up gesturing to himself and around him before they thump back down on the couch cushions. “I wish I did deserve her but I don’t, and she has so much life ahead of her! I don’t want to tie her down to an old, fucked up, lying murderer, ok.”

“So…you White Fanged her?”

“….I don’t fucking know what that means, Benny.”

“Like, you loved her and knew she needed to be out there in the wild, it’s where she belongs, so you threw stones and shit at her to make her hate you and leave?”

Frankie blinks. “…yea.”

“But you still love her? You still want her, yea?”!

“Yes, but—“

“Well text her! Call her! Do something!”

Frankie hangs his head. “I already did. Cause I’m fucking weak. But it didn’t deliver. She blocked me. It’s what I deserve. It’s over.”

Before either of them could speak he stood up, indicating the discussion was over.

“Listen, just…watch Gabi for a couple days for me so I can feel like fucking shit and get over it and not have to listen to Lex’s fucking nagging if I ask her to take Gabi early.”

Will and Benny nod, each giving him a long hug before he said goodbye to Gabi and trudged right out the door.

And immediately texted his dealer.

He knew he shouldn’t. This wasn’t like his argument with you. He knew damn well he shouldn’t do this, that it would ruin his life probably. The difference is he just didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t deserve sobriety. He didn’t deserve good things. And he was tired of feeling the excruciating pain of heartbreak and abandonment that he had never wanted to feel again. The sharp twisting and turning in his chest coupled with nausea and dread. He felt you in every fucking heartbeat. He felt like he was dying.

He didn’t want to feel it this time.

He sighs, finished with chopping the chunky white powdered clumps up with his credit card, grabs a dollar bill from a his wallet, rolls it up, puts one end to the line of cocaine and the other his nostril, looks up—

And sees pictures of him and Gabi. At the zoo, washing his truck together with hose water splashing everywhere. A photo you took of Frankie and Gabi sleeping spooned together on the couch.

All new memories. All memories he got within the past 6 months. Memories he never would have gotten if he was still using.

No. He did still deserve that. Despite everything, he deserved to have Gabi in his life, and deserved to have a life sober. It was fucking poison, not just for his body but his soul and his life and his sense of self and even if it hurt, even if…

Even if you never come back to him. Because you told him he needs to fix himself for himself.

What you meant to him…what he had with you before he fucked it up, it meant everything to him. It wasn’t right to just get completely blitzed out to get through the pain. He needed to feel the pain. You deserved that, at least.

Before he can think about it he scoops the powder into his palm and runs to the toilet, throws the powder and the rest of the dime bag in, and flushes. Then he heads straight to bed.

He stayed in bed for days. Yea, he got up to eat, use the bathroom, answer “are you alive” texts, eat some crap junk food. But immediately after he would collapse back into bed.

He jacked off thinking of you constantly and hated himself for it. Your smile, the way you whimper his name as you came on his cock, he’d scroll through your secret nasty WhatsApp chat blowing his load to everything you’d texted to him, the voice notes you’d send him when he was at work of you masterbating and thinking of him…

That last time he’d fucked you when you’d been sleepy on the couch only in one of his old giant tshirts, how he’d pulled your panties to the side to look at you, so perfect and flushed. He’d placed a pretty kiss against your pussy and crawled over you, pulling his boxers down and pushed himself into you, groaning with a smile as your eyes fluttered open with a gasp. He’d slowly rocked into you as you whimpered in his ear, “Frankie Frankie Frankie Frankie I love you I love you I love you…” He had kissed you as you came because he loved hearing your moans vibrate against his lips.

That one time you joked about getting pregnant while he was fucking you and he had cum so fast he didn’t even know what happened.

Your pretty eyes looking up at him as you sucked him off, taking him deep and letting him cum where he wanted.

Your laughter.

Your smell. The sheets on your side of the bed still smelled like you, and after he orgasmed to you, he’d fall asleep clutching the pillow you used, burrowing his head into it as far as he could to remember your smell, pretending it was really you. Your smell was fading. It scared him.

He started not caring about meals when he learned you'd apparently blocked all his friends, even Benny.

It’s really over.

He slept for days. Because at least when he was asleep, he was either with you, or not conscious to realize he wasn’t.

You wake up to your entire body vibrating and your head searing with pain. The ground is cold, hard, and smells weird and your skin sticks to its texture. You feel liquid dripping slowly from your scalp and you try to wipe your brow but you can’t, and as you emerge from the foggyness in your head, you discover you have your hands bound and arms pulled behind your back. Your legs were bound too, all the way up to the knee and wow, obviously that’s why your shoulders and neck hurt so much.

You’re further disoriented as whatever transport you are in swerves in a tilt to the right and you slide across the floor and into a pile of boxes against the wall. A corner hits you in the back and you almost gasp out all your air from the force but you had a nasty rag stuffed in your mouth.

“Eh!” A sharp voice from further up in the vehicle calls. “You stop moving or I throw you out the plane!”

The plane. The rumbling was from you being in the fucking air, the texture sticking to your body was the metal framework of the cabin, and you didn’t know where the fuck you were going. You try to slow your breathing so you don’t hyperventilate and panic.

Surely the government watches all the planes flying around, right? They can’t just fly a plane in the airspace without them noticing? Right?!

But the plan is not stopped, not challenged, not asked to land.

You look over the top of the boxes and notice there’s a window, and you struggle to push yourself up against the cartons with your bound hands to stand, and continuing to use those boxes, you shimmy on bound legs to look out the tiny window.

You were flying over the ocean.

No one will be able to find you.

It’s finally too much. So you cry.

#pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales #pedro pascal character fanfiction #triple frontier fanfic

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