#fransisco morales (triple frontier)

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Maybe, Baby?

Summary: You and Frankie aren't trying for a baby just yet, but when your weird symptoms start to throw your body for a loop, you start to wonder if you actually might be pregnant

Pairing: Husband!Frankie Morales x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), Unprotected p in v sex (wrap before u tap, silly gooses), creampie, praise kink, size kink (if u squint), unintentional breeding kink (lmaoooo, it's me, sorry not sorry), birth control/family planning, pregnancy (or maybe not? part 2 maybe? hehe) symptoms, Frankie and reader mention being closer to 30 than 16 (turns out when you're an adult, it's not a teen pregnancy anymore), reader has hair that can be played with, Frankie being the sweetest husband alive (all the gold stars for him), Frankie is so excited to be a dad that I just may pass away

A/N: I know y'all voted for me to finish chapter 20 but i lied (I'm so sorry), but I wrote this in a day and husband Frankie was really speaking to me on this one 😭 This one is brought to you by my raging baby fever and perhaps some real life inspiration WHOOPS, art imitating life on this one ig 💀 Poorly beta'd bc that's how I roll!!!

Ever since getting off birth control a few months ago, your body had felt… different. 

While you were glad you had made the change for yourself, you still found yourself shocked every month when a new sort of symptom decided to appear at some point in your cycle that you had never dealt with before- acne in new places, weird cramps, and crazy mood swings that showed up out of nowhere before your period were just a few of the things you were learning to manage as you figured out your body post birth control. 

Another symptom you hadn’t expected was that now, you were insatiably horny. 

All the time. 

While Frankie had been more supportive and caring in helping you deal with all of your not so pleasant symptoms than you could have hoped for, he was also more than happy to help you with your newly found positive one, too. 

The only problem was, after so many years of not having to worry about the consequences of your sex life on birth control, you and Frankie were finding it very hard to adjust to be more… careful. 

As you got hornier and hornier, the box of condoms that Frankie had bought after you stopped taking the pill had been seeing less and less use, and to be honest, hadn’t really seen the light of day from the back of his nightstand drawer in about a month an a half- and if you were being even more honest, on top of that, Frankie’s pull out game was almost nowhere to be found. 

You both knew that you wanted a family in the future- That was a part of your reason for getting off birth control to begin with. The two of you had agreed to hold off at least for a little longer to try and get your life more in order before bringing a baby into it, but with with your new lack of protection when it came to sex, and constant horniness around the clock, you both were beginning to have a feeling that that your agreed upon timeline for having a baby might be harder for you to maintain that you thought. 

Especially when you found yourself morphing into an unspeakably horny monster when you were ovulating. 

So little did you realize, that as you were brushing your teeth in the bathroom as the two of you were getting ready for bed and you caught a glimpse in the mirror of Frankie, stripping out of his shirt and jeans, leaving him only in his boxers as he searched around in your dresser for pajamas, that was the reason you nearly spit out your entire mouthful of toothpaste to try and get a mouthful of something else. 

You couldn’t help but ogle at your husband's broad body and freckled tan skin, muscles flexing as he shuffled through your drawers, pulling out an old, worn gray t-shirt and tugging it over his head, running his hand through his messy, curly hair before searching for his pajama bottoms.

At this point, you had honestly braced yourself on the edge of the bathroom counter to keep yourself from falling over at how mouth-watering he looked, already feeling the wetness beginning to pool in the cotton of your underwear at the thought of wanting to rip his clothes off just as fast as he had put them on. 

Letting out a yawn, Frankie raised his hands above his head so a sliver of his soft belly peaked out between his waistband and shirt hem before making his way into the bathroom, sleepily padding along the tile floor until his body was behind yours, chest flushed against your back and arms wrapped around your waist. Even more prevalent, his bulge pressed against your ass, making the wet spot in your underwear grow damper by the second. 

“You ready for bed, querida?” Frankie cooed, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder and smiling at your reflections in the mirror. 

While you were absolutely ready to get into bed, sleeping was not going to be your activity of choice.  

“I think that maybe…” You paused, turning around to face Frankie, his body caging yours against the counter, palms splayed flat on either side of your hips, looking down at you with his sweet, brown eyes, “I think that maybe we should do something else before we go to sleep.” 

“Something else, huh?” Frankie smirked, raising his eyebrows at you as your hands began to run up and down his arms, slightly squeezing the muscles of his biceps as your fingers crept under the fabric of his shirt sleeves. “And what might that something else be, Hermosa?” 

“You know exactly what it is, Fransisco. You expect me to watch you just roam around shirtless in our bedroom and not get all hot and bothered? God, you’re so fucking hot.” You moaned, letting your hands run up his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him in for a long, electric kiss. 

“Damn, what’s gotten into you, babe?” Frankie chuckled, trying his best not to blush at your comment, sliding his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“I don’t- Fuck, I don’t know, I just know that if you don’t fuck me right this second, I think I’m gonna explode.” 

While your statement may have had a flair for the dramatic, it was just about as close to the God’s honest truth as you could get- You were so worked up, you felt practically feral, the ache in your core so strong that you really did feel like you were on the verge of implosion. 

Before you even gave Frankie time to respond, your lips were crashing into his with a ferocious intensity, your hands grabbing fistfulls of his t-shirt as you stumbled back towards your bedroom, bodies bumping and bouncing against the walls and door frames, mouths never parting as the back of Frankie’s knees finally hit the mattress, forcing him to fall backwards onto the bed. 

Crawling overtop of him, you were already straddled over his hips, grinding your bottom half on the bulge growing in his pajamas as your hands crept under the hem of his t-shirt, running along the tanned, soft skin of his chest, making him let out a low groan that rumbled in his throat. 

Frantically shuffling himself further onto the bed, Frankie’s hands dug into your hips and over your ass as your hands slid down from his chest to his waistband, fingers tugging at the elastic to shuffle his bottoms and boxers down his legs, quickly followed by your own, dropping to a crumpled pile on the floor. 

Feeling your fingers wrap around his cock, already painfully hard, you swirled the precum leaking from his tip with your thumb before dragging your hand up and down his length, leaving Frankie sitting up in surprise while he watched you begin to hover over him, dragging his dick through your folds. 

“Hermosa, are you sure you don’t need me to-” But before Frankie could finish the rest of his protest to make sure you were ready to take him, you were already sinking down onto him, whimpering at the sweet sting and stretch of his fullness, followed by the ragged moan escaping Frankie’s lips. 

“Oh fuck… Nuh uh, Frankie. I need to feel you, baby. Needed to feel you inside me.” You whined, taking Frankie cock inch by inch until he had bottomed out inside you, his tip kissing your cervix, the fullness making you cry out in pleasure. 

Normally with Frankie’s size, you would have needed to warm you up first, but with how wet and worked up you already were, you were able to take him with ease, desperate to feel him buried deep inside you. 

“Jesus fucking christ, queirda, you’re so fucking wet. Fuck, baby.” Frankie moaned, feeling you begin to slide up and down his length, coating him with your arousal with each swirl of your hips. 

Arching your back, you jutted your hips forward, bracing your hands on Frankie’s strong thighs, circling your bottom half against his, whimpering at his fullness and the hairs at the base of his cock brushing against your clit, selfishly already longing to chase your own high to ease the ache that had been burning in your core. 

“Fuck, Frankie, you feel so good. Feel so fucking full with you in me.” You whimpered, bouncing even harder and faster on Frankie’s cock, the lewd sounds of your skin slapping his and wetness dripping from your heat coating the walls of your bedroom. 

“Yeah? This what you wanted, pretty girl? Wanted me to stretch this pretty little pussy out and fill you up?” Frankie groaned, gritting his teeth as he began to jut his hips up into yours as you rode him, the added depth of his thrusts making you cry out in pleasure. 

And for as fucking good as it felt, the horny monster you had morphed into had you greedily craving more- to have Frankie stretch you open in a way that had you seeing stars, so much that you could still feel the next day, long after the two of you were finished. 

“I-I want more, p-please, baby. Fuck- Fuck me harder, Fransisco.” You cried, your sweet voice whimpering his full name turning him almost as feral as you were, letting out a low growl as he grabbed you by your hips, flipping you so that your back hit the mattress and he was caging his broad body over yours. 

Practically ripping the t-shirt still covering your upper half off your body, Frankie dove face first between your breasts, groping one while hungrily sucking at the other, flicking your pebbled nipple with his tongue, his free hand reaching down to line his cock back up with your entrance, sliding back in to your aching core with ease. 

Frankie let himself sink all the way back in, filling you to the brim before hooking his arms around your knees, pressing your legs against your stomach, smirking to himself at the ragged moan you let out as the new angle opened you up even further. 

“You want me to fuck you harder, Hermosa?” Frankie mewled, slowly dragging his length out of your heat, looking down to see your shiny slick soaking his cock before looking back at you and the wrecked expression plastered across your face, frantically nodding in desperation. “Tell me how badly you want it, sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, I need you so bad, Fransisco, please.” You begged, damn near close to tears with how deeply you needed to feel Frankie ease the emptiness inside you. “Please, baby, I- oh fuck-”  

Before you could even finish the rest of your plea, your breath was already hitched in the back of your throat as Frankie began to pound into you at a relentless pace, tightening his grip around your thighs while he pressed them closer to your chest, grunting with each rut of his hips into yours. 

“This what you want, querida? Meirda- so fucking wet and tight, baby girl. You feel so fucking good, holy fuck.” 

It didn’t take long for the all too familiar tingle at the base of your spine to start spreading through your body like a wildfire as Frankie continued to slam into your g-spot, making you chant his name like a prayer, your brain at a loss for any other words than “Fuck, Fransisco.” 

And as if you already weren’t close enough, when Frankie reached down to thumb at your clit, rubbing in relentless circles against your sensitive nub, you knew you were a fucking goner. 

“That’s it, Hermosa. Cum for me, baby. Want that- oh fuck- want that prefect pussy to fucking soak me.” Frankie groaned, feverishly pounding into you, desperate to feel you come undone for him giving him long enough to fight off his own high that was rapidly building in the pit of his stomach. 

A few more thrusts were all it took to have the coil snapping in your belly, crying out Frankie’s name as you came, orgasm ripping through your body with a blinding intensity, eyes scrunching shut and jaw hanging open while pleasure and euphoria flowed through every ounce of you. 

Still blissed out and wrecked out of your mind, your eyes shot open as Frankie’s mouth crashed into yours, swallowing your whimpers and moans in a messy dance of tongues and teeth. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum. Jesus fuck-  fuck, I’m close too, baby. W-where do you want me, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, barley holding on long enough for you to answer, his thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier as his hips began to stutter, gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow with every ounce of self control he had left. 

Still barley coherent enough to form a sentence, your brain blurted out the only thing you could think of, and the only thing that you really wanted in the moment. 

“Inside, Fransisco. Fuck, cum inside me, baby.” 

That alone was almost enough to send Frankie over the edge, letting out a long, low groan, sloppily rutting into you as his brain went blank alongside yours, starting to babble incoherently. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck- you want me to fill you up, queirda? Fuck, I’ll fucking fill you up so good you’ll be dripping out of me for days. Oh fuck, shit baby, fuck, oh I’m gonnaahhhhhh-“ 

Just like that, Frankie took one last thrust, spilling deep inside you, coating your walls with his spend as his body slumped into yours, the pair of your chests rising and falling in sync as you both came back down to earth. 

“Jesus Christ… Holy fuck, Frankie.” You giggled quietly to yourself, blissfully filled with post orgasm ecstasy as your husband carefully pulled himself out before rolling over next to you on the bed, pulling you close against his chest. 

“Fuck me, Hermosa, holy shit.” Frankie chuckled, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead, tracing small circles on your back as he held you, heat radiating off of each other's sweat-ridden bodies. “God, I love you. We should probably get you cleaned up. You wanna shower?” He asked, smirking as your face lit up at his nearly rhetorical question. 

“Only if you’re up for round 2, Morales.”   

“My eyes are up here, Fransisco.” 

“Hmmm? What did you say?” 

“Exactly my point. Can you stop looking with your man eyes and look with your normal, helpful people eyes to help me decide on a dress for Benny and Victoria’s wedding?” You sighed, laughing to yourself as you raised an eyebrow at Frankie, his gaze still fixed on your chest. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be helpful.” Frankie huffed, overdramatically rolling his eyes at you, playfully throwing his hands up in defense as he leaned back against the dressing room door, looking you up and down in one of the cute floral dresses you had picked to try on for your friends’ upcoming wedding. “It’s just that… Nevermind.” 

“It’s just that what, Frank?” You asked tilting your head in confusion at your husband as his eyes traveled back to your breasts, furled look in his brow like he was really staring there to prove a point. 

“It’s just that- Baby, I don’t know if it’s just the dress or what, but your boobs look huge. Like, they always look good, believe me, but like… Whew.” Frankie whistled, practically shaking his head in disbelief at how good you looked. 

“Really?” You asked, turning around to face the mirror in the dressing room, gently cupping your breasts, grimacing as you held them in your hands. “Yeah, I guess they do… Honestly, I was gonna complain about how sore they’ve been all day. I wonder if maybe my period is just coming early?” 

“Maybe? You did ride me pretty hard the last couple nights and put on a good show, so maybe they hurt from all that bouncing and-” 

“Frankie! We are in public!” You playfully scolded, giving him a flimsy slap to the chest to cut off the rest of his thought, the two of you quietly giggling to yourselves and trying to “Shhhh” each other from drawing too much attention to your dressing room stall. “The dress, you goofball, yes or no? Sooner we pick, the sooner we can go get food, because your wife is starving.” 

“I vote yes on the dress. You look beautiful in it, querida.” Frankie smiled, stepping behind you to press a kiss on the side of your head. 

“You just like it because it makes my boobs look huge.” 

“What? Can you blame me for wanting to stare at my gorgeous wife’s boobs all night?” 

“God, you are ridiculous, Fransisco. Fine, boob dress wins. Now let’s get out of here and go get some food before you get stuck in a titty trance and I die of hunger.” 

While the rest of your Saturday was spent enjoying the delicious Mexican food that you had picked up on the way home and a much needed night in on the couch with Frankie, there was a tiny part of your brain that couldn’t seem to shake his comment from earlier about how big your boobs looked. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t agree with him, because truth be told, they felt huge, too. They had been sore since you had woken up this morning, and while you had chalked it up to what you and Frankie had been up to the past few nights, or bad PMS symptoms, there was still just something about you that felt off. 

Later that night, during your movie marathon, you had paused whatever new action movie Frankie had been begging to watch since it had popped up on Netflix a few days ago for a popcorn refill. 

While Frankie meandered around the kitchen waiting for the next bag of popcorn to finish popping, you stayed curled up with your blanket in your corner of the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, until a sharp twinge began to cramp in your lower stomach. The feeling took you by surprise, digging your fingers into your side to try and ease the dull and achy sensation as your face scrunched in confusion, wondering why in the world you had what felt like period cramps in your belly. 

“Hey, you okay, Hermosa?” Frankie asked, returning with popcorn in hand, his face painted with concern to see the pained look scrunched between your brow as you curled deeper into the couch. 

“Oh, y-yeah, I’m fine. I just um, I just had a weird cramp I guess. Probably just ate all that popcorn too fast.” You replied, trying to convince yourself just as much as you were trying to convince Frankie that you were overthinking whatever mystery symptoms had just flashed through your lower half. 

“Here, lemme just set this popcorn down and then I can rub your back while we finish the movie, okay?” Frankie smiled softly, setting down the bowl on the coffee table before crawling back under the sea of blankets on the couch with you, laying your head against his thigh like a pillow while his hand traced up and down along the small of your back. 

“Thanks, Frankie.” You whispered quietly, taking a few deep breaths as the familiar warmth of your husband’s palm worked up and down the worn fabric of his shirt that you had put on earlier. 

“Of course, baby. If you need anything else, just let me know, okay? Just promise me you’ll take it easy on the popcorn if you have any more there, Killer.” 

The two of you laughed quietly as Frankie leaned down to press a soft kiss into your messy hair laid across his lap before picking up the remote to let the rest of the movie play as your eyelids began to get heavier and heavier as you slowly drifted off to sleep. 

“What’s inside this box?” 

“Open it up and find out! It’s a surprise for you!” 

“Okay? Huh, why is it just a pregnancy test in there?” 

“It’s yours! Congratulations! You’re having a baby!” 

“Ahhhhh!” You shrieked, panting as you woke from a cold sweat, shooting up from the couch. “What the fuck…” You whispered to yourself, coming to and realizing that you were now awake and had only been dreaming moments before this. Running your hands over your face, you blinked a few times to be greeted by the dim light of the TV still flickering in the background, Frankie sprawled out and snoring by your side where the two of you must have fallen asleep on the couch during the movie. 

“What a weird fucking dream…” You sighed to yourself, shaking your head as you quietly pushed yourself off the couch to stumble to the bathroom, pulling your phone out of your sweatpants pocket to check what ungodly hour of the night it had to be since the two of you had crashed on the couch. 

2:07 A.M. 

You let out a low grumble, pushing your sweatpants down to your ankles as you sat down to pee, blinking your eyes open wider to look through the notifications piled on top of each other on your lockscreen. Mindlessly swiping through a few junk emails and text messages from group chats, one notification in particular caught your eye, rousing you from your half awake state. 

“Feeling down? As you begin your Luteal Phase of your cycle, it’s normal to be less cheerful compared to last week when you were Ovulating! Click to track your cycle symptoms for today!” 

Oh shit.  

You could feel your heart beginning to race as you opened up the app, scrolling to the calendar tracker for the month. Swiping through the days, it didn’t take you long to realize that despite all of your weird symptoms you had been chalking up to PMS, you were almost two weeks away from starting your period. Frantically scrolling backwards, you began to try and rack your brain of all of the times in the past week that you had sex with Frankie while you would have been ovulating, and out of that number, how many times he hadn’t finished inside you, let alone even attempt to pull out. 

And that number was a big, fat zero. 

That’s when it hit you like a fucking freight train- You weren’t PMS-ing.

More than likely, you were pregnant. 

“Holy fuck…” You whispered to yourself, your voice trembling and heart pounding as you buried your face in your trembling hands, your mind flooding with a million different thoughts all at once. 

How could you not remember that you were ovulating? Would Frankie be upset? The two of you weren’t even trying for kids right now. Would you be a good Mom? What were you even going to need to do to prepare? Your house was starting to get small for just you and Frankie, let alone a baby. How were you going to find a new place to live in 9 months? And get a new car? How were you- 

“Baby, you good in there?” Frankie groaned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he stumbled into the bathroom, letting out a yawn as he opened the door, bright light flooding into the hallway and revealing the sobbing mess you had become, still pants down, hunched over the toilet. 

“Woah, hey, hey, hey. Baby, baby, what’s going on? Talk to me, Hermosa. Are you okay? What happened?” You could feel Frankie’s demeanor immediately switch as soon as he saw you in the bathroom, instantly dropping to his knees by your side, his hands gently grabbing your face to shift your gaze towards him, carefully swiping his thumb to dry the tears that had been streaming down your cheeks. 

“Frankie, I- I- Fuck.” You stuttered, gulping hard as you tried to catch your breath, fighting back your nervous sobs as you locked eyes with Frankie, wondering how in the world you were ever about to brace him for the news you were about to tell him. 

“Hermosa, what is it? Please, tell me baby, what’s wrong?” Frankie pleaded, softly squeezing your face in reassurance as he waited for your response. 

You took a few more deep breaths, composing yourself enough to at least try to get a coherent thought out, swallowing hard as the words left your mouth. 

“Frankie, I-, Frankie, I think- I think I’m pregnant.” 

Frankie’s eyes went wide, his jaw practically hanging open as he tried to process what you had just told him, wondering if he hadn’t heard you right in his groggy state. 

“W-what?” 

“I think I might be pregnant, Frankie.” 

Before you could even bear the thought of looking at his face again, filled with fear that it would be a look of shock and disappointment, you buried your face in your hands again, fighting with everything in you not to cry and keep your composure. 

Frankie sat quietly for a moment, his hand covering up the gaping hole his jaw had made as it nearly hit the floor, shaking his head in disbelief before wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulling your hands to look at him. 

“R-really? You- fuck- You really think you’re pregnant?” 

As your eyes met his, you couldn’t believe the look on your husbands face- Not only was Frankie practically grinning from ear to ear, the sweet brown of his puppy dog eyes were welling with happy tears of their own, waiting on your every word as if he still didn’t believe what he was hearing. Silently, you began to slowly nod your head, biting down on your tongue, your heart feeling like it was about to shoot out of your chest. 

“You’re...y-you’re not upset?” You stammered, sitting up a little taller at Frankie’s reaction. 

“Upset? Hermosa, why in the world would I ever be upset?” Frankie laughed quietly, gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as his other hand cupped your jaw. “Querida… There’s nothing more I want on this earth than to have a family. And-fuck- The fact that it gets to be with you? That you might give me a family? How could I ever be upset about that? 

“Well it’s not like we were really trying for a baby, Frank. We said another year or two. With the house and money -” 

“Hey. We’ll figure it all out, okay? I promise, we’ll be more than okay.” Frankie smiled, his goofy grin still stretched wide between his cheeks, finally easing some of your worry. 

“I don’t even feel like I’m old enough to have a kid. I feel like I need to call up MTV to tell them I’ll be on the next season of 16 and Pregnant.” The two of you snorted, shaking your heads in awestruck disbelief that a stupid joke about a reality TV show could soon become your reality. 

“Well considering we’re married, have a house, and most importantly, are much closer to 30 than we are 16, I think they may have a hard time pitching the show “Married Couple Has a Baby”.” Frankie teased, giving you a playful nudge as the two of you laughed, giving you a few seconds to catch your breath before trying to dig into details. “Did- Did you take a test? How long have you known?”

“No, I don’t know for sure yet, Frank. It’s… It’s just a feeling, I guess. But the huge, sore boobs, weird, period-like cramps and the fact that we really haven’t been the most careful are all pretty good clues.” 

“Well, I mean, I don’t know, we’ve tried to be care-” 

Before Frankie could even finish the rest of his thought, you were already giving him the sassiest look you could muster in your overwhelmed and sleepy state, making the two of you laugh again he let out a sigh of defeat. 

“Okay, yeah, we really haven’t been that careful at all. Sweetie, listen, I- I know it’s not what we had planned, but… I mean, if you are pregnant…” Frankie paused, smiling at your stomach as he gently place a hand over your belly, tears welling in his chocolate brown eyes, “Baby, I would be so excited. Nervous as hell, but so fucking excited.” 

“Me too.” You sniffed, looking down at Frankie’s palm splayed across your stomach, heart swelling at the thought of Frankie being dad, thinking of how sweet and caring and perfect he’d be as you grew your little family together. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled Frankie in close, letting out a shaky sigh, whispering your words through happy tears. 

“I love you so much, Frankie.” 

“I love you so much too, Hermosa. More than anything.” 

For the sake of Frankie’s shoulder, you pulled away to wipe your tears to keep from soaking your husband’s shirt, quietly laughing to yourself at the fact that this whole time you had been talking to Frankie, you had still been pantsless, hunched over the toilet. 

“It probably would have been way more romantic to tell you all of this not at 2:30 in the morning, pantsless and hunched over the toilet like a little gremlin.” You snorted, Frankie following suit as he shook his head, running his hand through the sleepy curls of your hair. 

“I wouldn’t want it any other way, mi amor. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed.” 

As the two of you sleepily trotted your way upstairs, curling together under the warmth of your comforter with Frankie’s chest pressed against your back, you couldn’t help but smile as his arm draped over your stomach, hand resting on your belly while his thumb traced soft circles on your skin, imagining what it would be like if a few months from now if you really were getting ready to add another member to your family. 

The next morning, as the sunrise began to spill through your curtains, casting bright orange and pink shadows on your bedroom walls, you couldn’t help but stir as the familiar scent and warmth of Frankie’s body was missing from his side of the bed.

 As you sat up in the sea of blankets and comforters, softly rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you saw Frankie’s frame quietly sneaking through the bedroom door, fresh mug of coffee and bag of breakfast in hand with a stupid smile plastered across his face as he was greeted with your barely awake grin. 

“Good morning, beautiful.” Frankie cooed, setting down the coffee and breakfast down on your nightstand as he sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, pressing a tender kiss into the sleep-ridden ends of your hair before wrapping his arms around you in a long embrace. 

“Good morning, handsome.” You yawned, stretching your arms over your head, letting out a little grunt and laying your head on Frankie’s shoulder. “What’s all this for?” You asked, gesturing towards the coffee and oversized McDonald’s bag, assuming it was the reason for Frankie’s absence when you woke up. 

“I- I don’t know, I uh- I was just really excited when I got up this morning. It was early, and I didn’t wanna wake you up, so I made a trip to CVS to buy some pregnancy tests for you and figured I’d pick up breakfast on the way home.” Frankie smiled sheepishly, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, brushing past his untamed morning curls. “I know- I know you can’t really take the tests yet- I spent a lot of time reading the boxes in the store and wasn’t really sure what the best one was to take, so I got like, 4 different ones for when it's time.” 

“God, you’re so sweet. You’re the best, you know that? It’s about to be a long week of waiting before I can take one of those. Do you- fuck, Frankie, do you think it could really be positive?” You asked, tears beginning to well in your eyes again as you smiled up at your husband, already beaming back at you, picturing the two pink lines showing up on all of the tests he had bought for you. 

“Maybe, if we’re lucky.” He smirked, gently cupping your face, swiping his thumb across your face. “But if it’s not, then maybe… Maybe we start trying for a positive one on purpose.” 

“R-really?” You grinned, biting down on your lip in excitement. 

“Really, really.” Frankie replied, bringing his lips to yours in a long, slow kiss, soaking in the sweet taste of you on his tongue. “And maybe…” 

“Maybe, what, Fransisco?” You giggled, bringing your mouth back to his in a sweet and sloppy kiss. 

“Maybe…. We start trying right now, ya know, just to be sure. Wouldn’t want all those pregnancy tests to go to waste.”

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[yomi345345345]

okay Mr. Morales i c u.

Second drawing idea inspired by @morallyinept 's fic Ring Toss!!

[chronically-ghosted]

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed 

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled. 

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder. 

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.” 

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.” 

Partner. 

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. 

And then he met you and the definition changed again. 

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why. 

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days. 

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions. 

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts. 

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed. 

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here. 

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all. 

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.” 

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime. 

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath. 

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee. 

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold. 

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.” 

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee. 

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets. 

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night. 

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids. 

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it. 

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since. 

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks. 

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair. 

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation. 

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay. 

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold. 

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love. 

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants. 

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare. 

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him. 

“Baby–,” 

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this 

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall. 

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer. 

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in. 

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle. 

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut. 

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars. 

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day. 

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is. 

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head. 

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful. 

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you. 

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you. 

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees. 

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now. 

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it. 

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch. 

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart. 

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips. 

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs. 

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes. 

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it. 

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford. 

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair. 

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.” 

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole. 

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair. 

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh. 

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty. 

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible. 

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean. 

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face. 

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine. 

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point. 

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now. 

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level. 

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls. 

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest. 

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table. 

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock. 

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?” 

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich. 

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.” 

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.” 

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork. 

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist. 

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.  

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain. 

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.  

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.” 

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.” 

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it. 

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done. 

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.” 

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him. 

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow. 

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy. 

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire. 

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust. 

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again. 

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm. 

“B-baby, please–,” 

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer. 

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.” 

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.” 

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him. 

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name. 

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep. 

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again. 

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more. 

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst. 

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs. 

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet. 

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling. 

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor. 

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull. 

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face. 

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.” 

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest. 

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.” 

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips. 

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all. 

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed. 

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you. 

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.” 

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach. 

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.” 

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

[penvisions]

working on a new frankie piece for a special someone’s celebration ( @janaispunk 🥰👀)

You were new to the area, the city and the meeting. The mediocre coffee and the drab, stagnant air of the rented out room the only thing linking this new chapter of your life to the old one. Anonymous meetings always seemed to be held in the same types of places, outside in large parks too crowded and loud with other people or playgrounds off in the distance or errant rooms of old church buildings where they typically held their holiday social gatherings a few times a year. The faces were always the same with washed out expressions, dull eyes, fidgeting legs, and shaking hands all clamoring for the too bright amber liquid that barely passed for coffee and too sugary sweets for snacks alongside it.

But there is something new about this scene you were all too familiar with, no matter the city you were in or the state of your recovery. A man was walking in through the doors, dressed in a simple pair of dark wash jeans and a weathered grey t-shirt. Atop his head is a worn and well-loved hat, a patch over the front of it depicting some foreign to you oil company logo. But it wasn’t the nondescript clothes or the hat that caught your attention, lord knows it wasn’t, it was the man who adorned them. He looked so different from the others in the room even as he shared in greeting handshakes and close lipped smiles with everyone milling about before he’s standing in front of you.

[cutesyscreenname]

The Last Great American Dynasty

Series Masterlist

Series Summary: Addiction, deadlines, a nasty divorce. In an effort to shed your skin and find yourself again, you pack up and move to a historic seaside home across the country. It's all a blur, you're hurting and spinning your wheels in a big house all alone. Until Frankie shows up on your doorstep.

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Frankie Catfish Morales x AFAB reader

Warnings: Mentions of drug use, divorce, and rehab, angst, fluff, smut, Frankie and reader have pasts with addiction. Will add more as they come up...

Notes: Big thanks to @pr0ximamidnight, @mydailyhyperfixations, @joelsgreys, and @mylostloversbookmarks for letting me ramble to you 🩵💙

Chapter 1:

This Was The Very First Page

[xxhypersomnia]

FRANKIE FRIDAY LOCKSCREEN 1

#frankiefriday NEW LOCKSCREEN AVAILABLE IN STORIES AND ON TUMBLR! 💚

All edits watermarked 💧 please use/share/credit

[winniethewife]

I will not let you go (Francisco 'Catfish' Morales x reader)

Words: 546

A/n: Inspired entirely By @summonthesoups sharing the Above image. thanks to @romanarose for being a sounding board for this fic.

Whenever they went on walks together Frankie always had to have his hands on her, His arm tight around her waist, his fingers intertwined with hers, his arm slung over her shoulders, as long as he’s touching her he’s satisfied. After they adopt an adorable Mutt puppy that Frankie named Mullido from their local animal shelter their walks become more frequent and Frankie loves every second of it. The leash in one hand and his arm around her waist as Mullido investigates every interesting smelling thing on the path dragging them along. Frankie swears this has probably been one of the best choices he’s made, other than his lady and his daughter of course. 

One sunny day right after they adopted Mullido, Their Daughter spending the day with her grandparents, they had walked with their enthusiastic pup down to the beach to meet the guys, as usual his hand held on to hers tightly as they made their way across the sand.  Benny is the first to notice their approach and calls out running across the beach.

“Hey Guys! Woah! DOG!” He says excited with childlike wonder as he crouches down to let the puppy lick his face and snuffle at his clothes.

"Yeah! This is our dog, Mullido!" Frankie announces with a big smile on his face. She and the Guys are all gathered around the dog as Santiago Steps to the side with Frankie and laughs slightly

"Wait...did you really just name your dog...Fluffy?" Santi asks with a smirk as he looks at him quizzically

“Yep. We thought it would be funny.” Frankie pats his friend on the back and smiles at his girl, who was holding Mullido in her arms as the Miller brothers were enthusiastically fond of the small animal. 

As the sun crossed over the sky they were all tossing a Frisbee back and forth as Mullido chases it between them, like an adorable game of monkey in the middle. Out of breath She sits down to the side and watches as the others play. A smile on her face as she watches them. She grabs a cold drink out of the cooler and takes a drink as she watches. Eventually she was joined by a smiling Francisco and an exhausted puppy.

“You doin’ alright Mi Vida?” He asked as he flopped on the ground next to her.

“Yeah, just taking a break.” She smiles at him.

“You’ve got the right Idea. Mulli is a little pooped too.” Frankie puts his hand on her thigh as he looked at the ball of fluff curled up at their feet.

“Well it’s been a good day to be a dog.” She chuckles

“I’d say.” Frankie laughs, they watch the guys abandon the frizbee to all take up a spot in the circle of beach towels that they had laid out. They all start talking and joking. Will holding Mullido in his lap as they sat together. She smiles as Frankie puts a protective arm around her. This was everything she had ever hoped for. A Happy life with a happy family.

~

Bonus scene

About a month later Frankie get a call. Its Benny.

"Seriously Fish. Fluffy? The dogs name is Fluffy?” “Yes! Did you just figure this out?”

“…Yeah.” They both laugh.

~

Masterlist

[infinity-mars]

Masterlist

Frankie "Catfish" Morales

Let Me Take My Time With You

Agent Jack "Whiskey" Daniels

Play With Me

[yomi345345345]

[xxhypersomnia]

NEW LOCKSCREEN AVAILABLE IN STORIES AND TUMBLR 💙

All edits watermarked 💧 please use/share/credit

[beefros-sin-bin]

Join me in sin!

i need swimming lessons… like… please. 👙🥵👌

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Sleazy swimming instructor!Frankie Morales x f!reader Rating: 18+ My masterlist

Summary: In an effort to feel more like yourself and less like the sheltered girl you always were, you take up swimming lessons, unaware of the temptations that are placed in front of you by a man you think might be the devil himself.

Warnings: Smut, non-TF AU, implied age gap, the touching is dubcon/almost noncon at first but she’s really into it so idk, infidelity, reader is married to John Smith, Christianity, sleazy!Frankie, dom!Frankie, oral (f, m receiving), face fucking, cringe protected PIV with reader’s husband, semi-protected PIV with Frankie, creampie, reader was raised Christian and is still practicing, doubting one’s own faith etc, blasphemy, praise kink, religious references, taking the Lord’s name in vain, rough sex, double dipping??, ass play, come play, brief reference to abortion, inappropriate student teacher relationships, weed, possessiveness, mention of doodee in a public pool.

A/N: Special shoutout to @5oh5 for giving me so many fantastic ideas for this!! This one's dedicated to my demonic sub mommy @gracieispunk, the #1 Frankie fan. I'm treating this as my 4k followers celebration, so thank you four thousand times over for following me, for reading my fever dreams put into words, for your comments and messages and everything else. This has been such a fun hobby for me and I hope to give you all even better stories in 2024 🤍

“Damn he really about to give her the father, the son, and the holy semen.” - @atticrissfinch

Word count: 10.9k

The smell of chlorine penetrates your nostrils while the sound of children yelling and screaming and hollering and splashing grates your ears. The community pool is a place that shouldn’t scare you but somehow does, making your eyes shift side to side, looking at the big blue rectangle and the small blue rectangle, one with people swimming laps and the other with kids floating around with those puffy, plastic, floaty things around their arms.

You grab the cross that rests against your chest, wind the thin gold chain around your finger and swallow around a lump in your throat, looking down at your black swimsuit, wondering if it might have been a little too low cut after all, leaving little to the imagination. You would love to turn on your heel right now, to sprint out of here, and find an activity less daunting to start off your year of taking up hobbies to become more independent, to learn how to trust in God and spend time with Him while learning something new. 

You've always been told what to do and yet, sometimes, it feels as though you don’t know how to do much of anything. It was time for you to do something for yourself, everyone at church agreed, and you’re not sure who suggested it but something lit up within you when swimming lessons were suggested. It offers independence and self-sufficiency, they said. It’s a survival skill too, really, if you think about it, not just a hobby. But the deep water is so daunting, the tiled bottom you can barely see from where you stand, and the chemical filled, blue water sloshing against the drains. 

Learning how to swim, a baptism — what’s the difference, at the end of the day? They both involve dipping your head under the water to become something, at the hands of someone who has done this many times, who hardly sees the novelty anymore while you go through your transformation. It must become routine for them, and you hope it does for you too, that you’ll be able to dive into the lake by John’s family cabin and go for a swim in the mornings when you head down there for the summer. You never knew why your parents never taught you, whether it was your mother’s neuroticism and firm boundary that the beach water could never surpass your knees, or your father’s insistence you went to choir when your friends went to the pool. None of it matters now. 

You dip your head and whisper a quick prayer, holding onto your cross, asking God for courage to do something so out of your comfort zone, thanking him for the confidence to come here today in the first place. It wasn’t an easy decision, praying over it with John, then deciding to tell your parents that you would be skipping family dinner on Sundays to take swimming lessons, ensuring them that of course you’d still come to church, and of course you’d join them for coffee and of course you’d go to Bible study with the girls on Thursdays instead. It surely wasn’t a coincidence that the only lessons were available on the Lord’s day - you thank him also for the opportunity to spend time with him one on one for eight weeks, hoping that you can bring something new to the table when you return to your family dinners. 

You jump at the sound of your name, snapping out of your moment of recollection, your attention directed up to a man standing in front of you, holding his hand out to introduce himself. He’s wearing swim trunks, a light colored shirt with some sort of birds on it, and a pair of awful looking flip flops — bright red and frayed at the edges, probably a decade old. 

“Frankie,” he says with a smile on his face, a smile that deepens the crows feet above his cheeks, that warms his stunning brown eyes, “I’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks, we exchanged a few texts earlier.” The fluorescent lights behind him illuminate his messy hair, the halo of golden brown curls that point in all different directions, that he pushes his other hand through while he raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes, right, Frankie,” you say, nodding and smiling back. Your mouth is dry, hands beginning to tremble. What is this strange feeling? Your face feels hot all of a sudden, heat flashing over your cheeks and your temples. Your chest feels like it’s about to break out into hives or something. But he looks so… Scruffy. There are silver threads in his mustache and in the patchy beard covering his jaw — he looks nothing like John and yet you remember feeling something similar to this the first time your now-husband took you out on a date. 

“You ready?”, he asks, and you don’t miss the way his dark eyes sweep over your bathing suit, how it hugs your hips, your waist, your chest, how his gaze lands on the golden cross you’re playing with and the rings on your finger, the gold band and the silver one next to it the one with the sparkling diamond. You don’t miss the little smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, señora,” he says, tipping his chin towards the large pool, “Let’s go.” 

You bite back a smile at his words, at being called anything but sweetie. 

“We’re gonna start off pretty easy,” Frankie says as he walks you towards the shallow end of the big pool. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the side, revealing a set of broad shoulders, his brown curls dipping into his neck and the width of his back as he climbs down the ladder into the water and motions for you to follow. “Come down here and we’ll have you just walk a little, back and forth, nothin’ crazy.” 

You nod, hands still trembling and that heat sticking to your chest and cheeks, different from the heat in the dry heat in the room. You curl your hands around the railing and carefully take one step at a time, descending into the blue pool, pausing halfway down, breaths moving a little faster. 

Temptation, temptation. The ladies at church told you that you might meet a handsome man one day who makes all kinds of promises, who sweet talks and says he’s good for you, who makes you stray from the Lord and lets the darkness swallow you whole. He has the devil in him, they said, and he will be sent to test the strength of your relationship to God, to your trust in Him and your faith. 

“What's the holdup?” 

You hear Frankie’s voice from the water and feel the waves crashing against your thighs, snapping out of your frozen state and taking the last step down, the surface of the water reaching your waist as you slowly walk towards him, elbows cautiously lifted in the air. 

He waves towards himself and you take three more steps, closing the distance with a bit of a stumble, tripping before Frankie catches you with his hands around your waist, stabilizing you with a firm grip, with big hands and thick fingers spanning an obscene amount of your skin. You gasp at the sensation and he pulls you closer as he clicks his tongue, playfully scolding you for running in the pool, winking and sending a shiver down your spine that settles in your womb with a low throb. 

But he doesn’t let go of your waist, even when you reluctantly try to squirm out, brushing against his bulge in the process, under the water, wet pieces of fabric dragging over each other while he looks at you with those deep, dark eyes, those mesmerizing, brown orbs that make you swallow around a lump in your throat when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“Promise to be careful?”, he asks. The raspy timbre of his voice turns everything around you into a blur, the screaming and splashing suddenly drowned out by the sound of his breaths as he waits for you to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“Good girl.” Your face flashes hot at the nickname, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. He leans in, hands still circling your waist, thumbs digging into your bathing suit, and his lips hover right by your ear. “Let’s start with some of that walking, just back and forth,” he says, his tone a little lower now, pulling you even closer for a moment, “Can you do that for me?” 

With goosebumps covering your arms, with desire pulsing in your cunt, you nod, and he releases you, letting you turn and walk away from him, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the waves crashing against your ribs at every step, turning to walk back to him where he stands with his arms folded over his naked chest, smirking like he did earlier, in a way that should irk you and creep you out but instead makes something inside of you fizzle and flutter. 

More praises, perfect, good girl, then you try to listen carefully when he talks about proper breathing technique. It’s so difficult, he makes it difficult, especially when he tells you to bend over, just like that, and touches the small of your back, pushing it slightly. Your common sense couldn’t be further away from this pool, but your eyes flit down to your chest and you see the cross resting there, a few droplets of water surrounding it, skin glistening and nipples hardened under the wet, shiny, black swimsuit. 

You glance back up, and before you know it, your lungs are filled with air and you’re bending over to dunk your head under the water, plunging in and holding there for a few moments, taking in the soothing silence of the pool, before coming back up, breaking the surface and being met with the noise again, looking up at Frankie. 

“You can hold your breath pretty well,” he remarks, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and nodding in approval, “That’s good to know.” He takes a step towards you and looks down at your wet lashes, clumped together, the drops of water sliding down your clavicle and into the suit. 

“Before I forget,” he says then, clearing his throat and gesturing to your swimwear, “You might wanna wear a two piece instead of this, it’s more aerodynamic, you know, under the water? Helps you swim faster, less fabric weighing you down and such.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” you chirp. He’s the expert — who are you to say that he’s wrong? 

“I’m gonna have you floating on your back now,” he says then, and spins his finger, urging you to turn around, then gesturing for you to lean back against his chest. You take in as much air as you can and lean back, letting him catch you with two hands on your back, and your head leaning onto his shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits you, your breath hitches in your throat, and you feel one of his hands sliding down to your asscheek, cupping it and squeezing, forcing a little whimper of your throat, one you’ve never heard yourself. 

You feel the rumble in his chest when he chuckles, and you hope he can’t feel you pushing your ass further into his palm, rubbing against it almost, like a cat in heat or some poor, lost person under the spell of something dark, something twisted and demonic. 

When you look up at him, he’s staring at your chest, and again, you should be so incredibly uncomfortable, you should feel violated and upset and creeped out. But you have never been this aroused in your life, and that sweet pulsing in your cunt, the ache in your clit and the sensitivity of your nipples tells you that you’ve never truly enjoyed your body and what it is capable of — your God-given body, with God-given feelings and sensations you never knew existed, that John has never evoked in you. Both of his hands come to your behind then, holding you up while you rest a little closer to his neck, breathing him in, and he kneads your flesh while you spread your legs, entirely upon instinct, with no thoughts running through your mind other than a want, a need, for him to touch you somewhere else. 

You don’t know how long you float there, or how long you spend holding onto the railing and kick your feet while he has a hand under your lower stomach to hold you up and his eyes on your ass, but your breathing is heavy and your insides are hot and tight until the session is over and he helps you out of the pool, where the cold air hits you along with the reality of what happened in the heat of the water; the sinful reality of your dance on the edge of adultery, of accepting the touch of another man, one who does not value the sanctity of marriage, judging by the way he looked at your rings with mischief in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” you say curtly, a tight lipped smile holding back the storm of emotions in your chest — the guilt, the regret, the arousal, the strange gratitude you feel towards this man for showing you how your body can make you feel. 

“See you next Sunday,” he winks, drying off his chest with a towel. 

—

The drive home is unbearable, the ache between your legs so distracting that you fear you might drive off the road. The guilt should consume you but your primal brain brushes it off, too excited for the carnal desire that has sprung up within you, itching for release, for the touch of that man again. 

You feel possessed almost — this is not attraction, it is not love or comfort, it’s something entirely different and dangerous. It slithers around your limbs and tightens around your throat, and the lightheadedness that should concern and suffocate you, instead feels delicious. It feels like adrenaline and blood coursing through your veins, it feels like your clit swelling and your nipples perking up, like his bulge feeling a little firmer the second time you came near it. 

Lies spill out of your mouth when you arrive home, when John asks how it went and you say it went well but that it was a big step. He seems to understand when you say it was quite scary at first and that you feel the want to pray about it, to debrief almost, with God, that you only need a few minutes to yourself before you can start making dinner for the two of you.

The bedroom door shuts behind you, the lock flipped, and you kneel at the foot of your bed, hands clasped together in prayer, unsure of what exactly you’re about to ask for. 

You try anyway, thanking God for the courage to step out of your comfort zone, for a knowledgeable instructor, but at the mention of Frankie, at the thought of his broad chest, his curls and his eyes, the dull throb behind the fabric of your panties makes a reappearance, an ache between your legs that won’t settle no matter how hard you try to shake it off. 

It feels like an affront to God, truly, being so distracted when you speak to Him, and so you decide to revisit after cooling off. You flop down on the bed with a sigh, noticing after a moment that your legs have spread and the button on your jeans has popped open. The locked door stares at you, reminding you that John will not be barging in, no matter what you do. 

So with the feel of Frankie’s touch still burning your skin, around your waist and hips and asscheeks, you slip a hand into your panties and slowly begin to rub your clit, stifling your moans as they catch in your throat, not moving an inch so as not to evoke suspicion. Your body is so flooded with arousal that you come mere moments later, his name on your tongue, and then the bitter aftertaste of reality. 

Back onto your knees at the edge of the bed, you ask for forgiveness this time too, and for the courage to stick to these lessons, despite your apprehension surrounding your ability to swim. 

—

Sunday, the Lord’s day, another afternoon standing across from Frankie, and you’re wearing a two piece this time, at his suggestion, one that barely holds the flesh of your chest and behind. He suggested a warm-up before today’s session, and so you find yourself doing stretches with your eyes fixated on his shorts, and the massive bulge he has seemingly made no effort at  trying to hide. 

He clears his throat before he speaks with a chuckle, “Checking me out?”

You avert your gaze and brink profusely, feeling that heat in your cheeks again, “No, I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he muses, glancing down at his crotch,  “Probably not every day you see that kinda thing, with the whole, you know—” He gestures towards the cross dangling from your neck and you grab it in response, in defense perhaps, refusing to admit that he’s right. 

Never have you seen this kind of thing, never have you seen this kind of man. You’ve been so sheltered that you’ve barely even seen yourself. Frankie is everything you have been told to fear, and everything that begins to churn inside of you, stirring and bubbling up to the surface, slithering into your trembling arms. 

You should be so afraid of this man, of the spirit within him that draws you in and makes you commit such awful acts of sin against your marriage, against the vows you’ve taken and the promises you’ve made your husband — promises that a little part of your mind reminds you that he has taken as well, but that he does not keep, because he does not keep you with his actions or his words. Rather, he relies on you being kept, out of obligation and loyalty, never suspecting that outside of the four walls of your home lurks a man whose only intention is to take, to steal, to corrupt and to lead astray. 

Frankie tells you to do jumping jacks and he stares at your chest while you do them. 

—

Someone calls his name as you step down the ladder and he tells you he’ll be right back. You carefully descend down into the water again, a little less scared this time, and wave your arms around under the surface, creating little waves with your hands in figure eights while you pass the time. 

“Hey, señora,” he calls out a minute later, and you look up at him as he approaches the pool. He takes a couple steps down and pauses to look at you, to observe how you stare up at him with wide eyes, your nipples giving you away again, thighs clenched together under the water. 

“I could get used to you looking up at me like that,” he mutters, tilting his head, his tongue in his cheek, his brow arched. 

You barely even understand what he means but you can tell it’s something that, again, should drive you straight out of this pool and into your husband’s arms, but you like looking up at him too for some reason. 

Despite your heart being in your throat and your arms trembling a little at Frankie’s attention, you begin to swim with ease, stretching your arms out and pushing the water behind you, kicking your legs and getting a few feet further every time, staying at the shallow end of the pool. 

Then Frankie takes a few steps back, into a deeper section. “Swim towards me,” he winks, holding his arms out and waving towards himself. So you launch forward, kick your legs and wade through the water, and when you get close to him, only an arm’s length away, you feel his fingers brush against your tummy and his hands sliding around to grab your waist. 

He turns you around but doesn’t let you swim away yet, holding you against himself, pushing your ass into his crotch, onto his erection, as he praises you, good girl. 

Your arms fail you when he releases you from his grip, and you splash around, arms waving and legs floundering, convinced you might drown until he grabs your waist and pulls you towards him. You grab his forearm to stay afloat, breathing fast, nearly panting, distracted and horny and frustrated at yourself. 

“You’re unfocused, baby,” he coos into your ear, tracing his fingertips down the muscle that connects your neck to your shoulder, holding onto your waist with his other hand, “That’s dangerous, you know? Need to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“S— sorry,” you whisper, tilting your head to the side to stretch your neck further for him. 

“I know one thing that might help,” he whispers, nibbling on your ear, taking it between his teeth and pulling it slightly, “It’ll relax you, then you can refocus.” 

“Yeah, that— that’s a good idea, whatever it is.”

He releases you from his grip while he whispers, “Just gonna go tell the management that someone shat in the other pool, then we’ll be alone, alright?” before getting out and heading towards the front office. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but before you know it, a lifeguard comes out, blowing a whistle, waving his arms and instructing everyone to get out of the water. Frankie speaks to him for a moment and the lifeguard nods, and then he’s back in the pool with you, watching everyone filter out. 

You stand against the tiled wall, with Frankie in front of you, pretending to make conversation while he submerges his hand and starts to tug at the strings of your bikini bottoms. Your hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, and you eye him as he tugs one final time and the fabric peels away from your mound. The last person leaves the pool, the lifeguard has disappeared already, and he moves to the other side, one firm tug and your bottoms are floating between your legs. He fishes them out and throws them over the edge of the pool, letting them land with a wet smack on the tile, and nudges your legs apart with his foot, bringing his hand to the apex of your thighs, running a single, thick finger through your folds. 

“Think I know what you need, little miss crucifix,” he croons, then looks to his side to see that the coast is clear, puts both hands on your hips and hoists you up onto the edge of the pool, pushes your legs apart as you squeal in surprise and holds them open. He wastes no time, his tongue crashes against your clit and he eats you like a man starved, sloppy and wet and dragging his tongue up and down and side to side, he sucks and releases and nibbles and pulls.

You lay down, only to arch your back and let him spread your legs further, growling into your pussy, pushing his tongue into your opening and rubbing the tip of his nose on your clit so that you’re constantly stimulated, coming back up to lick and suck until you’re coaxed into an earth-shattering orgasm that rings in your ears and rips his moaned name from your throat.

You cover your face with your hands, coming down from your high, your back hitting the tiles while you feel him kiss your folds and your inner thighs. The searing heat of his touch and the biting cold of your indiscretions coalesce into something that sends goosebumps over your arms, and the water on your skin suddenly feels freezing. You sit up and watch him push up on his hands just a little, just enough to get closer. 

“This cannot happen again,” you assert as you close your eyes, holding your hand out in front of you, not touching him, but also not stopping him from pressing kisses to your wet chest, licking up the drops of water sliding down between your tits, “I am not a cheater, Francis.” 

“My name is Francisco,” he mumbles into your neck, sliding his tongue over your skin and biting into it after. The sound of his name, how his voice carries the syllables — it echoes in your mind, it makes you gasp for some reason, sending a new wave of goosebumps over your arms, following the one from his lips on your pulse. 

“Okay, Francisco, well, this is never happening again.” The insistence in your words is rendered useless when you tilt your head to the side, stretching the column of your throat, giving him more space to claim, space that he covers with his lips, one kiss at a time. 

“If you say so,” he whispers, his hand making its way to your jaw now, your ear sliding between his middle and ring finger, tilting your head back so he can raise up and begin to kiss you, angle your face and slide his tongue into your mouth. You moan into his mouth immediately, never having been kissed like this, with determination and lust and the taste of your pussy on his tongue. 

He places both hands down on the tiles on either side of your ass and lifts up fully from the pool, making the water slosh and little waves crash around him he pulls himself out and up over the edge with his lips still on yours, urging you down on your back while he kneels on the drain and lays down on top of you. His hard cock grinds into your naked center and he growls while tasting behind your teeth, then strokes your tongue with his own, takes your leg and hooks it over his hip. 

He overwhelms you with his scent, his weight, his sounds, the size of his cock. He sucks on your tongue and bites your bottom lip, pulls on it and moves to your neck, sucks on your skin and sinks his teeth in. The way he thrusts his hips, the way he humps you, it’s animalistic and wrong and terrible and it turns you on so severely that you can feel your slick dribble out of your opening and slide down between your asscheeks, mixing with the water below. You’ve never heard sounds like the ones coming from his throat and his chest, more masculine and rough than anything John has ever uttered, more hungry and wanting. 

John. 

Shit. 

You tap Frankie’s shoulder just as you feel the head of his clothed cock begin to push into your hole, his wide head barely entering you, and as much as you want to rip down his swim trunks and let him fuck you right here, you get a single moment of clarity when you look up and see the sun shining in through the square window in the ceiling, the rays of sunlight radiating down, reflecting off the shimmering surface of the pool, giving Frankie that halo again, those radiant curls sticking out in every direction. 

“What?”, he murmurs, and you wonder if that’s how he would sound if you woke him up from his sleep. It makes your insides twist but you can’t think about the implications of any of that now. 

“I— I have to go, sorry,” you say, wriggling out from under him, grabbing your wet bikini bottoms, already gone cold. 

“Alright,” he sighs, but before he lets you out from under him, he wraps his paw around your neck and anchors you right there as he leans down to kiss you again, with barely any tongue this time, only a light sweep across your swollen bottom lip, before he plants a kiss to your mouth and then whispers, “See you on Sunday.” 

He raises up and climbs off, heads over to the rack with towels and picks one up, coming back to hand it to you — one that you unfold and realize is incredibly small, clearly meant for children, and he smirks at how your struggle to cover your chest and your naked center as you stumble to the showers. 

—

Thursday Bible study feels like pulling teeth. 

Of course marriage is the topic of the day, and you would’ve known, had you checked the schedule before leaving the house. You’d fake any illness necessary to avoid sitting in Betty’s living room, around her dining table, hearing about how much your friends value their godly marriages, how much they feel like they’ve been brought together by God, destined to meet and be with one another. 

Betty says that Cameron was placed in front of her one day, that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and you think of Frankie in half a second. You think of the ad you came across, the availability only on Sundays, how quickly he spotted your cross, your ring, how he immediately knew how to push your buttons. 

What would your life look like if this was not how you spent your evening? What does Frankie do with his free time? 

Questions you shouldn’t want the answer to, and yet you still wonder. 

Somehow, the topic of sex is brought up. The other women giggle, one of them flushes pink and red in the face, another fans herself. 

“It’s a part of marriage,” Betty says, sing-songy in her tone, “We shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.” Reassuring nods around the table encourage her to keep going, and she looks down at her notes, then begins to talk about abstinence, the wedding night, about learning and figuring things out with your partner. 

One of the girls shares a story about going away on a trip, and her husband making love to her all night. More stories follow, the girls opening up one by one, but even the most detailed stories leave something to be desired. The more you hear, the more you feel Frankie’s firm grasp, his aggression, his want to take as well as his drive to give. You feel the hardness of his big cock, his hands on your thighs, his voice, low and raspy. 

You excuse yourself to the bathroom and take a few minutes to cool down, and the pieces begin to fall in place. 

For every saint there is a sinner, for every day there is night, for every angel there is a demon, and for every John there is a Frankie. For every Sunday dinner with your parents, there is an empty hall, a warm pool and Frankie’s head between your legs. 

Frankie has been sent to test your faith and your faithfulness, your loyalty and your dedication.

The only issue is that you’re so incredibly weak in your self concept, your beliefs, your awareness of your needs and your desire for your wants that you don’t stand a fucking chance. 

You might go to Hell, but at least the burning touch of Frankie’s hand will guide you there. 

—

The clock on the wall ticks every second and you find yourself counting to ten, then restarting, counting to then, restarting, letting the sound fill the silence of the dinner table as you sit across from your husband. Neither of you have said much of anything during the entire meal, and while you’re relieved that he doesn’t seem suspicious, you can’t help but feel a little irritated at his inability to notice that you’re being awfully quiet. 

It’s probably best if you don’t talk anyway.

“So, um—”, John clears his throat and offers a sheepish smile as he spins his fork around in his hand, “You wanna get down and dirty tonight? Thought maybe we could try a new position.” 

You smile back, hoping that maybe a new experience with your husband will curb your curiosities about Frankie, that they’ll ground you again and remind you of why you saved yourself for him, why you’ve decided to hide the truth of your indiscretions, not wanting your marriage to dissolve. “Sure,” you say, simultaneously wondering what’s gotten into this man who usually only lasts around ten minutes in the missionary position, never very creative despite the porn you know he has consumed over the years, that he had to seek counseling for at the church, at one point, realizing he was being tempted and seduced by the ways of the flesh, that a Godly man would not consume such materials. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you, real frisky today it seems, cheeks blushing and that sheepish smile returning, “I was thinking about, like, doggy, you know, from behind?” 

You nod, chewing on your last bite of dinner, looking down onto your plate with only a bit of tomato sauce remaining. “Yeah, that— that sounds good, I just have to clean up a bit and then I can meet you in the bedroom?” 

—

When you walk in, John is already undressed, lying under the duvet with his hands folded, eyeing you as you begin to remove your clothes, slipping off your sweater and throwing it over the ottoman in the corner, unbuttoning your pants while you hear him whistle from the bed. Sometimes he takes your clothes off, but most often you find yourself taking them off when he’s already naked in bed. You flash him a glance while you take off your bra and panties, dropping them on the floor and stepping over, lifting up the sheets and getting under. 

You remember all the wonderful things the older ladies at church told you about the marriage bed, about how magical it felt to finally be intimate with their husbands, learning together, finding out what they like. Until now, you’ve found out a little bit about what John likes but not too much about yourself, and he doesn’t seem too interested to find out much more than how he can get himself off. Before the wedding, you had kissed, held hands, hugged, even took a few naps together on your couch. Both of you had felt tempted, but you were proud of having waited, having saved yourself, giving yourselves over to one another on the wedding night, fumbling with the condom, unsure of how to properly arrange your limbs, getting through it in one piece and trying again the next morning. 

But despite the year that has passed since that night, things in the bedroom haven’t changed too much. John is more steady with the condom now, slipping it on despite your birth control pills, never letting you feel his bare skin inside of you, only in between your folds for a few moments before he pulls away to rummage through the nightstand. 

Tonight, the silver packet is already placed next to the pillow when you snuggle into John’s side, tentatively giving him a few kisses on the lips. He’s hard already, but the erection that pushes into your thigh when he turns over feels different this time. Selfishly, you find yourself wondering what it would feel like to have something bigger grinding into your flesh, something more like— 

You don’t go there. 

After less than a minute of kissing, a few light pinches to your nipple and a full grab to your tit, John nudges your legs open and starts to descend towards the foot of the bed, taking the time to kiss down your torso as he makes his way to your spread legs. It’s been a while since he did this, and for a moment, you fear that he can tell it hasn’t been as long for you. Maybe you can blame it on being stressed, if your responses aren’t what he’s used to when, if you’re honest with yourself, you can’t remember how you responded to his tongue anymore. 

He begins to lick your clit, one stroke of his tongue after another, wedging a finger into your opening, drawing it in and out, unaware that you’re about to crawl out of your skin, feeling the anxiety begin to creep up when you realize that it surely won’t be enough to get you anywhere, and that even after several minutes of slobbering over your sex, you surely won’t be wet enough to take him, or to even take another finger at this rate. And if he notices that something is different, if he asks what’s going on, the all-consuming guilt of your affair will spill out through the cracks and destroy everything in its wake.

So for the sake of your marriage, just this one time, you allow yourself to go somewhere else inside the confines of your own mind — to the edge of the pool, where Frankie pushed your legs open, where he ripped off your bikini bottoms and devoured you, where he nibbled on your folds and sucked on your clit and made you convulse with pleasure. You close your eyes as you think of him, incredibly guilty but turned on nevertheless, believing that this is what she meant when your mother said that marriage is sacrifice. 

You get wetter — wet at all, really — and John pulls away. He never lets you finish when he goes down on you, either with a remark about it taking too long and his boner going down, or noticing you’re close and jokingly pouting that it’s unfair if you get to come now and he has to wait until later. Sometimes you wonder what kind of porn he watched, if his attitudes and beliefs about sex have changed since he was a teenager. He reaches over and grabs the condom, and you can see the tip of his tongue poking out as he slips it out of the foil and finds the right side, rolls it on and climbs between your legs. 

There is something unappealing about the whole ordeal, something about the way he focuses so hard that barely any attention is paid to you, about how disconnected from his own body he seems, not letting his touch guide much of anything, deciding on an action and then following it rather than letting his desire guide him. Not that it would guide him anywhere pleasurable for you, but you think it might be more attractive to see him taking what he wants. 

Not that you’ve seen that more than once. 

“Okay,” he breathes, steading himself on his elbows on either side of your head, guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing it in, giving a few preliminary strokes, his back stiff as a board, grunting when he finds a rhythm he’s happy with, not entirely consistent, thrusting fast, not hitting the place inside of you that you’re doing everything in your power not to think about the existence of — the little spot that the tip of Frankie’s finger nudged into and stroked, the spot you should forget about. 

You snake your hand down between your legs and rub at your clit, changing up the direction, the speed, shifting and speeding up and slowing down until you can tell John is close. “Wait, wait,” you say, in an uncharacteristic expression of wanting to get your own before he gets his, “Just— I wanna come, sorry it’s taking some time.”

He groans and pulls out, sits back on his heels and swats your hand away, placing his own fingers on your clit and rubbing in a circular motion, asking if he’s doing it right, getting increasingly agitated as you try to adjust his movements, sighing and giving up at the end of it. “You’re not gonna come anyway,” he groans, moving his hand to his cock to give it a few strokes, trying to get it back to its former state of hardness.  

Something about the visual of him, about the contempt in his voice, makes something flare up inside of you. It makes something start to burn as it coils and weasels its way into your ribcage, turns up the heat of your blood and makes the edges of your vision darken. It’s as if something is taking over you, possessing you, using you as a vessel, reaching its hand out to you to say, enunciate the words I feed you and then take my hand, let me bring you somewhere you are allowed to be selfish and where you no longer need to sacrifice. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” you smile and grit through your teeth, the sickening guilt replaced by something new, something devious and wrong and demonic, “How about— you said you wanted to try something?”

He flashes you a grin and you get on all fours, feeling him shift around and enter you again, pulling your hips back in an unstable manner, while you fake a few moans and he thrusts in some sort of jumpy, inconsistent pattern, until he comes silently and flops down on over you. 

You tap your fingers on the sheets and turn your head to smile at him, “I’m just gonna go get cleaned up.” He puts his hand around his dick and pulls out, discarding the condom while you pick up your clothes and snatch your phone off the dresser, heading into the bathroom. 

After locking the door behind you and sitting down on the toilet, you grab your phone and stare at the contact name Frankie Morales for what must be a full minute before you open a text message to him.

“What’s your address?” 

Your phone is silently put on the countertop while you wash your hands and get dressed, the flushing of the toilet covering up the beep of his response being received mere seconds later. 

“i’ll send in a sec. door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so pls be mindful of the rules. they r very strict” 

You roll your eyes and wait until his address follows in a second text, then the wheels start to turn. An excuse and a coverup form in your mind while you pull on your pants and your sweater, a way to get out of this hell for at least one night, to see what it is you’ve been warned about for so long, to see if one person’s abyss is another’s salvation.  

When you come out of the bathroom, your hand is on your lower stomach. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the store, okay? I think my period’s coming soon and I’m out of pads,” you say, nodding towards the door, “I’ll run some errands while I’m at it so just text me if you need anything, I’ll do the whole round.” 

“Okie dokie,” he says, and you turn the corner, stepping out into the hallway before you let the resentment set in any longer. 

—

Frankie’s place is, unsurprisingly, in a dodgy part of town, one with frequent sirens and more than a handful of boarded up storefronts. There’s a chill in the air when you step out of your car, on the other side of the street from a house with a single porchlight on, lighting up the entrance and the wall of the garage next to the door. You slam the car door closed and take a breath, looking up at the full moon and shaking your head at yourself. Of course it would happen on a night like this, of course it would happen on a day you haven’t felt Jesus’s presence, on a day you wonder if he really does care for you after all. 

On a day that you feel the embrace of something else, another shadow wrapping his arms around you and promising you that your desires will be seen, heard, honored, that your wants and needs will all be fulfilled. More than fulfilled, you’ll be allowed to gorge yourself if you go with him, if you turn away from the light and embrace the darkness.

You ring Frankie’s doorbell and take a step back, fidget with the rings on your finger, necklace forgotten despite the cold touch of the gold on your skin as you stand outside and wait. The door opens to a dimly lit house, the smell of weed and cologne permeating your senses. You should be turned off, you should be grossed out, you should be so unimpressed. 

And yet, your pussy is already throbbing at the first inhale of his scent, and at the sight of him as he opens the door, chuckling while he pulls off his baseball hat and runs his fingers through his mess of curls, then puts the hat back on and adjusts it with both hands, and takes a step closer. 

“That was fast,” he muses, leaning into the wooden frame leading the way to his living room. His bicep strains the sleeve of his t-shirt as he leans on his elbow. 

“Shut up,” you quip, your breaths heaving, “You know just as well as I do that I shouldn't be here so don’t push your luck, Francisco.” 

He laughs at that, taps his knuckles against the frame and takes a breath, cocks an eyebrow and looks down at you, at the porchlight drenching you in golden rays as it contrasts with his own figure in the doorway, the shadowy inside of his house. “Who am I in your eyes?”, he asks, taking a step towards you and circling your waist with his hands, pushing you over the threshold of his territory, into his space, “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray? Make you sin?” 

His hands are on your back and the door is still open behind you, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. 

“Maybe...”, you murmur, looking down at his shirt with your hands on his chest, swallowing so hard you hear the gulp in your throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.” 

He cracks a smile and leans over to close the door behind you, stepping closer when the door snicks shut, until your feet are between his. Refocusing on you, he narrows his eyes as he whispers, pushing your hair over your shoulder with one hand, the other on your hip, “What have I done? Tell me.” 

You run your hands up the fabric of his shirt, slide them up along his neck, the patchy scruff on his jaw, up, up, a little further, until you reach his hat and carefully take it off, toss it over to his couch and run your fingers through his hair, separating his curls while he gazes at you in a way that you can feel on your skin, in a way nobody has ever looked at you, not on your wedding day and never since. 

“Tempted me into adultery with—”, you say, your voice as shaky as your breaths, gesturing to his chest, then his face, his hair and then his shoulders, his arms, “All this.” You step back, open up the space between your bodies, and with a sudden wave of courage, nod towards his crotch, “And that.” 

He seems to like that, pulling you back in and curving both hands around your hips, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along yours. “Godly cock wasn't doin’ it for ya?”, he whispers, with his eyes blazing, darker than they’ve ever been. His touch is scalding, heat rolling off the skin of his neck and arms, almost as hot as he makes you. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, convincing no one, not even yourself. 

His lips come to the side of your neck, the bristles of his thick mustache scratching your skin, scruffy and a little unkempt, with hints of gray. Sleazy old man. “You’re going straight to Hell, you know that, right?” He seems to enjoy mumbling terrible things into your skin and pressing the words into your body with a kiss immediately after, sealing it with a lick of his tongue, “No space for girls like you in heaven.” 

“Shut up—”

“Maybe even purgatory, adultery is pretty bad,” he chuckles, arms wrapping tighter around you, his hard cock pushing into your stomach through the fabric of his sweatpants. A drop of arousal seeps out of you at the feeling, into your panties, still wet from the lubricant on the condom from earlier. 

“Shush, stop—”

He shakes his head and interrupts you with a kiss, finally, dragging you along the floor, through the dim light of his living room, the kitchen, the hallway, to his even darker bedroom, to the unmade bed opposing the reclining chair covered in clothes. With his tongue in your mouth, he undoes your pants and pulls them down, kissing along the edge of your underwear when he’s squatting down, grabbing your ankles and stepping you out of your jeans. 

“I told you no panties,” he whispers, teasing the seam of the fabric, moving further in, licking a stripe over the lace covering your clit, making you gasp, “You’ve been such a good girl until now, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, looking at his hair and wanting so badly to drag your hand through it again, to feel those thick curls on your fingers. 

“You seem agitated.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” he mocks, pulling your panties slightly to the left, revealing part of your mound, kissing the skin that makes contact with the air. “What happened? Got shitty sex from your husband or something? Came here to get the real thing?” 

You roll your eyes at him, at the reminder of why you’re here, on one hand wanting to say that yes, it’s only because my husband sucks in bed, and on the other, trying not to spill that you make me feel something I couldn’t even conjure up in my dreams and you’ve possessed me like a demon and I don’t want you to leave my body and I love how you feel. 

“How about that,” he marvels as he raises to his feet, moving his hand to your chin and tipping your face up to look into his eyes, “Crawling to the cross… Finally gonna let me fuck that tight ass little pussy? Not reserved for Jesus anymore? Or your husband?” 

“Thought so.” Frankie smells like sweat and cologne and weed, and this is a terrible idea and you really shouldn’t be here but your sweater slips over your arms just as easily as your bra, as easily as his own shirt falls from his body and his sweatpants drop to the floor. 

“You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you,” he coos, and you hate how much his words go to your clit, to your nipples and every other erogenous zone he might discover on the surface of your body, “Gonna smell like my come, my cologne, my spit, my sweat… Like my bed—” 

You whimper and he kisses you, then murmurs into your lips, “But first you’re gonna suck my cock, and then I’m gonna fuck you.” He rips your panties down your legs and forces them off, then pushes you to your knees and tells you to open up, digging his thick fingers into your cheeks to pry your jaw open. 

Your lips part, jaw separating wider as he rubs the tip of his massive, impossibly long cock on your lower lip, sticky with precome as it oozes out from his slit, and he groans at the sight, putting his free hand on the back of your head. John never forces you to your knees, never shoves his cock past your lips — he begs and pleads, lays on the sheets and takes your mouth in silence, tensing up a little before he comes. 

But Frankie, 

“Hope you don’t have a fucking gag reflex,” he mutters, then pries your mouth open a little more and presses his cock in, deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of your throat, placing one large hand under your chin and the other on top of your head, holding you in place while he tips his head back and thrusts. 

Frankie fucks your face, relentlessly and without reprieve, shoves his head down your throat, makes you drool and claw at his thighs, forces little sputtering, choking, gagging sounds from you, ones that spur him on and make him growl and moan, pushing in as far as he can and retracting until only his tip is left within. John would have come by now, you note to yourself, sated and done for the night, but Frankie only gets harder, with your nose buried in the coarse dark curls on his pelvis, inhaling his musk, your eyes sliding back at the scent. So masculine and so fucking hot. 

“That was your warm-up,” he pulls out with a groan, slips both hands under your arms and pulls you up, leaning you over the bed, kicking your feet apart and slotting his dick between your asscheeks. “Know we haven’t gotten to the backstroke section in the lesson plan yet,” he chuckles, thrusting gently, sliding his length over your asshole, “But you can think of this as another type of backstroke, hm?” 

“Yeah,” you whimper, hands fisting in the crumpled sheets beneath you while he pushes you up on the mattress, teasing your entrance with his tip now, bare and dripping, letting your wetness coat him as he feeds you less than an inch at a time, drenching more and more of him before he pushes in, the first time you’ve felt a naked cock inside you, a loss of another type of innocence, an intimacy not awarded to you by your husband. 

“Tight fuckin’ fit here,” he remarks with a low whistle, “Looks like John Smith didn’t do much to stretch you out.”

You whip your head around in absolute horror, “How do you know his name?”, and Frankie looks at you, dumbfounded, mouth open, brows scrunched together as he pauses. 

“His name is John Smith?” He’s on the verge of a laugh now, dragging a hand down his face, through his curls, then coming to scratch at his beard, “Are you serious right now?” 

You roll your eyes at him and concede, “Yes, Frankie, that is his name.”

“That’s your husband’s name — John Smith.” 

“Yes,” you sigh, “Frankie, do I need to remind you of what I said when I showed up here?” He pushes in a little further then, amusement plastered all over his face, his sly smirk doing something to you that you can’t quite place, as if you feel it in your chest somehow. 

“Remind me of what?” He tilts his head, wraps your hair around his fist and sinks all the way into you, bottoms out and watches it punch the air out of your lungs, a pathetic little breath escaping you while your eyes slide into your head and he gives your hair a little tug. “Remind me of what?” 

“That I shouldn’t be here,” you breathe, bordering on delirious already, clenching your walls around him just to feel his size, to feel every curve, every vein, his skin, the burn starting to set in from how you gape around him, fucked open and stretched out. His, now. “I think you might be the Devil or something.” 

“Don’t give me that much credit,” he laughs, sliding out, pressing back in, grinding into your cervix and tugging at your hair, listening to you moan, leaning over to whisper, “I am so much worse.” 

Then he starts to fuck you, deep and almost punishing in its fervor, his hand gripping your hip so hard you swear he could crush your bones, hand fisted in your hair and pulling on it until your head leans back, and he towers over you, forces you to look up at him while he pounds you from behind, while he shows you how a real man fucks you, one who isn’t tied down and restrained by the shackles of a past spent trying to be pure, trying to suppress his instincts. 

Frankie lets go of your hair and purses his lips, lets a glob of saliva fall to your crack and watches it slide down while brings his thumb to his mouth, wets it with spit and reaches down between your cheeks, rubs your tight ring of muscle and gently pushes in while you look back at him, eyes wide with apprehension. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, pushing further in when he feels you relaxing around his finger, “Sodomy in front of the Lord, I get it.” 

You roll your eyes back at him. 

“I can promise he’s not looking in here, baby, he doesn’t wanna see this any more than that little husband of yours does,” he says, then narrows his eyes in that way you hate, “What was his name again?”

“Shut up,” you groan, and the hand on your hip finds your hair again, tugging it back harshly while his wide thumb sinks in fully.

“What was that?” he growls, giving you a hard thrust when you don’t respond, your slick seeping out and smearing over your inner thighs when he withdraws and fucks back into you, makes your flesh shake and jiggle. 

“Forget it,” you mumble, letting your hands slide out in front of you, suspended by his hand in your hair, feeling your ass bouncing against his hips at every thrust, the wet squelch of your pussy taking him and his balls smacking against your clit, sticky and sinful and the best feeling you’ve ever felt. 

“That’s what I thought.” He lets go of your hair, letting you fold in half as your chest hits his sheets and your face is buried in his scent again, and he reaches around to put two fingers to your clit, circling it quickly, bringing on your orgasm in mere seconds. You soften, letting him in even deeper, sucked in by your pussy while your asshole flutters around his thumb, and he chuckles, muttering under his breath, easy to please. 

He keeps rubbing, despite your whines and whimpers, fucking you and playing with your clit until you come for him again, then flips you over onto your back, pulls you to the edge of the bed and slides back in. You glance down at his pelvis, sticky and wet with your arousal, thick hair he hasn’t trimmed in what must be months, dark curls you want to feel against your sensitive little nub. Both of his hands slide under your ass to lift you up, his cock reaching so deeply his name rips from your throat with a loud moan, the first followed by more, forced out one by one, his name in there again somewhere, incoherent almost. 

Then he lays you down, pushes you up on the bed and kneels between your thighs, lays down on top of you and cages you in with his bulging arms. He captures your lips in a kiss as he grinds into you, pushes his pelvis into your clit, lets his sweat smear across your torso, your shoulders getting covered in the concentrated scent of his underarms. 

You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you. 

It’s like you’re being baptized in his scent, drenched in his perspiration, in the saliva covering either side of your neck from his wet kisses, his precome dribbling out inside you, the taste of it still on your lips. 

“Frankie—”, you pant into the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, your other hand on his upper back, holding him close, “Frankie, I’m gonna— I’m gonna come, I—”

He shushes you with another kiss, with a rumbling growl, letting you come before he throws your ankle over his shoulder and he pounds you until the sound of your moans drowns out the sirens outside the window and his snarls, his curses, the wet slap of your bodies and his grunts when he takes your other ankle and folds you in half again, pushes your knees into your chest and shows you how you’re meant to be fucked. 

You can tell he’s close, closer than he wants to be, muttering how fucking tight you are between grunts and moans, both hands gripping your hips, pulling you back onto him with every thrust, his cock so deep within you that the room is a blur, hazy from the darkness, the air thick with the smell of sex. His thrusts slow, trying to abate his orgasm, failing to when you tighten and whimper his name again, when you arch your back and suck him in further, until your walls suffocate him and he grunts your name, panting with his jaw hanging open, lifting up to look down at how he splits you in half. 

“Hope you’re on the pill or something,” he groans, while his cock pulses and swells inside of you, while ropes of his come fill you and slide down his shaft. Then he chuckles, his voice going low and gravelly, “You know, so you don't have a little demon baby in here you won't let yourself get rid of. That wouldn't be good for business, would it?”

Crushing you with his weight again, he bites and kisses your neck, staying lodged inside your cunt, body pressing you down into his sheets, a drop of his sweat sliding down your chest, your own heat dampening the backs of your knees. His lips find yours, tongues twisting together, heavy breaths filling the silence in the air. You swallow his saliva, you’d drink it if you could, his blood or his spit or his come. 

“You’ve never had that before, huh?”, he murmurs into your mouth, “Never taken a load like that?” 

Your hips squirm in response while you shake your head, and another laugh rumbles in his chest. “You like it, though, you like having my come inside you.” You don’t dare tell him you’ve never had a load inside of you at all, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to own you like this, the first person to risk something. He pulls out and brings his hand to your core, lets some of his spend seep out onto his fingers, and smears it over your folds, your clit, up to coat your nipples, your lips, then back down to rub it into your asshole. 

“You like when I cover you in it,” murmured and low, his eyes dark again, piercing and paralyzing while you raise up on your elbows and look up at how he towers over you again, “Not so Godly anymore when you're covered in the Devil's seed, huh?” 

“No,” your voice is weak, little more than a squeaking sound.

He cranes his neck down to smell your shoulder, your arm, your chest and your neck. “Told you you’d smell like me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into your chest, right above where he marked you, “Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me.” 

His finger comes to your stretched out, gaping entrance. It collects more of his slick, warm load, and he brings it to your chest, one streak across and another down the middle. He crosses you with it, with the evidence of your lust, your sin, your adultery, your submission to darkness and evil, to your own wants and your own primal drive towards this man, the desire for you that you sense in him. 

“Yeah, now you know who you belong to.” 

You look down and see the glistening cross of semen, your nipples still glossy, filthy and revolting and terrible and making your pussy clench so hard another thick drop splashes out of you and onto this bed, your clit beginning to ache again, wanting more and more and more. 

“See that?”, he tilts your chin up with one hand, the other planted on the mattress, muscles bulging out, his wet, semi-hard cock hanging between his legs, come still seeping out of him, dripping from his slit, “Don't need God when I’m here to tell you what to do, baby.” 

 “No?”

“Nah,” he slides his hand around your neck to cradle the base of your skull, moving his knees to the outside of your hips, shifting closer until his cock is in your face. “And now you’re gonna lick up all my come, you’re gonna suck my dick till I’m hard again, and then I’m gonna teach you how to ride me.” 

“Okay,” you whisper, lashes fluttering, lips parting at the sight of his thickness, his length, the flushed red tip. 

“Not just gonna teach you how to swim, sweetheart — gonna teach you how to take my cock. Mine, just mine, until you can’t do without it, until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it, until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.”

You pause for a moment, looking up at his face, eyes adjusted to the darkness now, and then, “Frankie?” 

“Yes, angel?"

"Teach me.”

[winniethewife]

I will not let you go (Francisco 'Catfish' Morales x reader)

Just sees what he wants to see (Benny Miller x Gn!Reader)

Whatever tomorrow brings, I'll be there (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x TransFem!reader)

Come on baby, make it hurt so good (Francisco "Catfish" Morales x Gn!Reader)

I walked with you once upon a dream ((William "Ironhead" Miller x F!reader)

My Blood would teach me how to love (Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader) (18+ DDDNE)

Main Masterlist

[rise-my-angel]

Quiet Poolside Cuddle

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, insecurity, nsfw activities mentioned, alcohol use

Note: I haven't posted a fic in forever so I'm sorry for whatever this is

It was rare that you ever felt calm when you were at a party. Normally the mixture of loud music, too many people, and not being in your own home puts you too far out of your comfort zone to feel totally at ease. This party seemed to be no exception. For the most part you either liked or knew the people here, but they all know each other far better than they know you. Either current or former military or the family that they’ve also known just as long, make up most of the attendees. 

After years of being out of the country, and subsequent months of getting his life back on track, Santiago “Pope” Garcia finally bought himself a permanent home. A gorgeous house with an expansive backyard, and a pool backing onto the edge of a wooded area. The inside was just as beautiful, but the backyard had a cozy feeling to it that reminded you of your own backyard. If it weren’t so cold, maybe the rest of the party would have joined you outside, but as it were you preferred to be by yourself. Too many people and being too loud overall, you needed some peace and quiet. 

Shoes sat aside, pretty little things you bought specifically for the party, tossed off when you lowered yourself to the poolside. Your cardigan draped across a chair, leggings pulled up just enough so they stay out of the water as your feet gently kicked themselves back and forth, and the small bowl of grapes you managed to sneak right before sneaking out the sliding back door, sitting by your side being picked at gradually. You considered getting up to scroll through your phone to pass the time, but part of you remembered it was tucked safely in your boyfriend’s jean pocket instead of in your cardigan. Frankie had noticed your pockets were just slightly too small to carry it without risk of falling while navigating through all the people, and offered to hold onto it for you. 

You sighed deeply, having Frankie cross your mind. You had been dating him for a number of months now, but after knowing him for years beforehand you sometimes wondered if this fairytale floating feeling you got when thinking about him should be a phase you were over with by now. He was so sweet though, how could you help it? Even now as you sit outside, Frankie is probably inside, nursing a new beer that either Santi or Benny slapped into his hands, being able to simply laugh and joke with these people he’s known for years.

Part of you wondered if you should be inside with him, seeing that giddy smile and slight flush on his face from the alcohol, maybe a tad more affectionate than usual with those around him. The other part of you, maybe the insecure part, thinks he deserves his space. Frankie spends so much time with you lately that he needs to spend time with those he loves without you hovering at all times. 

Just to prove you wrong though, as soon as the thought crosses your mind, the sound of the sliding glass door hits your ears. Turning you head, you see the soft smile on Frankie’s face as he slowly closes the door and makes his way towards you. Popping another grape into your mouth you go back to looking at the clearness of the pool water, giving him the chance to take his own shoes off to join your feet in a good chlorinated soak. 

His heat envelops you as he sits right next to you, and his hand grasps as your free one, pulling it into his lap so both of his can hold onto it. “Watching Benny and Pope try to outdrink the other isn’t as fun to watch without you there to make fun of them with.” 

Frankie’s tone was warm, you could hear the bit of smile without even looking at him. Your own face matched his as well. “Both of them are gonna end up passed out on the floor at the rate they were going.” 

The chuckle that follows is also drenched in warmth, his voice a constant source of comfort at every turn for you. You know when you don’t say anything else, that Frankie is looking at you. He looks at you a lot, you’ve just gotten used to sensing it with him. 

A good moment of silence passes before he says anything else. “It’s too cold for you to be out here alone, querida.” 

Shrugging slightly, you continue to just watch the stillness of the water. “It’s not so bad after a while.” You want him to be inside if he’s cold, not outside babysitting his partner. “I have my cardigan if it gets too cold.” 

With a hum, Frankie leans in closer to you, an arm gently finding its way around your body and resting against your arm furthest from him. A slight pull brings your side against his, a small reprieve from the coldness of the night, being up against his warm body. “You know there’s a lot less getting used to the cold, if you were back inside with us.” 

Another shrug, still not looking back at him. “Maybe. I think I just needed a moment alone, is all.” 

Fingers start gently moving up and down your arm as Frankie speaks, “Talk to me baby, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” 

Your unsure if you even want to answer that. Sometimes whats going on in your head sounds stupid when you say it outloud, and tonight you just want Frankie to go back inside and enjoy himself without whats on your mind, also be on his. 

“Nothing. I just needed a breather, is all. You know me, not a-” 

“Not a party person.” Frankie answers for you, he knows you all too well. He knows you don’t like crowded parties and he also knows that being at a Santi’s house warming party wasn’t what was bothering you at the moment. He watches your face continue to not look directly at him, before turning slightly to watch your feet kick and swish through the illuminated pool water. 

Thinking before he speaks again, Frankie makes a soft approach. “We can go home if you’re ready, I don’t want to keep you here if you want to leave.” 

Except that was the opposite of what you wanted. That's what makes you look up at him. You were right, he has a flushed glow about him from the drinks, not as much as you would assume he’d have, this late into the evening, but enough that you can see he’s enjoying himself tonight. “No no no, I’ll be in in a bit, you go back to the guys I’ll join you in a second.” 

Frankie also knows you well enough to know that’s not true, and so you reaffirm your statement with a playfulness not previously present. “Come on, Santi offered us a guest room, you shouldn’t waste a chance to not have to drive home at 3am.” You reach up to his hair as you speak, brushing it slightly out of his forehead with a gentle smile. Frankie though lets go of your loose hand in his lap, and reaches up to the one in his hair, grabbing it before you can pull it back to your own body. 

He kisses the back of your hand before holding it against his chest, right over his heart, “Baby, tell me what’s wrong. You were so excited to come tonight before we left, what happened?” 

His big brown eyes, ones that you could drown in are too much. Its so hard to lie to him when he looks at you with those big beautiful eyes, soft as can be looking right into yours. “I’m just tired.” He doesn’t believe you, you know it. “Really, it just caught up with me is all.” 

Frankie’s hold on your hand tightens, but he doesn’t say a word he just looks at you. Waiting.  Eventually you just lean in and kiss the material covering his shoulder, chin finding a seat resting on it as you look up at him. “Go back inside, my love. Enjoy yourself, they all want to spend time with you anyways. No need to waste your time out here with me.” 

The soft gaze Frankie had towards you shifts then. His brow furrowing down and his eyes narrow as he takes in what you said. “Why would I be wasting my time?” 

“You just, you know..You don’t spend as much time with those guys anymore, and with Santi finally home, you should spend time with them without me to worry about.” 

When Frankie sighs, hand holding yours dropping it gently back down, he begins looking at the water now as you had been previously. You worry you said the wrong thing, but Frankie doesn’t let you ruminate on the thought long enough to let it turn to anxiety. “I was having a good time when you were beside me also having fun.” 

He doesn’t let you respond, he just keeps going. “You’re who I want to spend my time with. I love them all don’t get me wrong, querida. But spending time with you is what makes me happy. Not too much of Benny’s crap taste in beer and telling lighthearded versions of army stories about the only few missions we even can share with people.”

Frankie reaches to your chin and gently raises it up and turned to look him in the eye once more. “I don’t need you giving me space. Not at a party that we came with together, not anytime.” He leans in, never once giving up his gentle hold on your chin, even moving slightly to be more of a hold on your jaw. Directing you towards his lips. 

Frankie kisses you softly, so softly that you could have missed it if he didn’t keep you so close after. His lips brush against your own as he mutters your name. “You make me happy, okay? Don’t ever think I need space from you to be happy.” 

You nod just enough to feel his lips brush against your own, top and bottom lips brushing past the other just a little more noticeably then when you speak up. “I..I just worry everyone’s going to see me as clingy, that you may think I’m being clingy if I’m always right beside you.” 

Frankie laughs, a much fuller laugh then the chuckle he gave earlier. The hand on your jaw slides up, encompassing the side of your neck, him leaning to grant your nose a small kiss. “I’m the one who followed you out into the cold because I missed having you to cuddle up against, you know.” 

Finally, you give a real giggle. Frankie does always act as the clingy one, but neither of you ever cared about that. Being close to you makes him happy and at ease, and it makes you happy. You suppose that’s just all either of you need. 

You sigh and lean in, Frankie shifting to let your head rest on his shoulder, his hand now moving to hold the side of your head in a gentle hold, almost protectively. His feet begin to swish around in the water, as do yours following suit. The quiet splash of the water, and the faint sound of music and chatter muffled through the house walls, leave the two of you in a quiet but gentle embrace. 

Sometimes you think you don’t deserve what Frankie offers you, his kindness, his generosity, his utter devotion to your happiness, but then you think to yourself, Frankie would argue to the death that you give him the same things. In fact he has absolutely said exactly those things before. Sometimes said while you hold each other in your arms after a night of passion, other times said by him, after you’ve just moved his coffee cup tipped to his mouth, when his hands are too preoccupied trying to feed his baby girl breakfast. 

“I’m going to ask you one more time, and this time I want you to tell me the truth, querida.” Frankie says firmly. You can feel his head has turned to sit his mouth near the top of your head.

You look up in his eyes as his hand refuses to let go of it’s hold on the side of your head. “Do you want to go home, baby? Or do you want to go back inside and we can spend some more time with everyone before going upstairs to bed?” 

You inhale deeply, before placing a hand on his chest, your thumb naturally rubbing over one of his shirt buttons without realizing it, as if you yearn for it to open, to let you feel the skin underneath. “I’m sure we won’t hear the end of it from Santi if we leave before he’s had a chance to do a drunken I love you guys so much speech.” 

Another laugh comes out of Frankie, as he moves to stand up. His arms wrapping around you to gently lift you up along with him. The space right where you were sitting quickly soaks with pool water, as Frankie looks around, only to spot the small towel rack near the house wall. And quickly moving away only to grab one, an arm outstretched to you as he does so, as if to say 'don't move'.

Gently he has you hold onto his shoulder, so he can lift a foot of yours at a time to dry them, before helping you back into your shoes. Before he can dry his own feet, you lean in and sneak a kiss, grasping the towel out from under him. 

You kneel down, intent on giving him the same gentle treatment, when the sound of the door sliding opens fills the air. Only this time the sound is far less gentle, and immediately followed by the yelling of Frankie’s oldest friend. 

“Hey, hey, hey, if you’re gonna suck him off in my house at least do it in the fucking guest room I gave you!” Santi clearly has enough alcohol in his system to lack any boundaries about yelling that with an open door to a party, but clearly he’s sober enough to still find ways to tease Frankie at any opportunity. 

Frankie himself turns his upper body towards Santi, and for a moment the two yell back and forth, bantering in Spanish too advanced and quick for you to make out what they are saying. Not that it matters though, with Santi waving a hand dismissively before shutting the door as he goes back inside. 

You and Frankie look at the other laughing more easily then the entire time you’ve been outside. You dry his feet and help his shoes back on. Frankie simply grabs the towel and tosses it onto one of the chairs, before grabbing your cardigan and gesturing for you to turn and open your arms to let him put it on you.

As the both of you walk back to rejoin the party, you both move an arm to hold the other around the waist, leaning into the other, knocking the other body playfully. 

Frankie debates going back to bring in the bowl of grapes you brought outside with you, but decides against it. Santi can clean it up himself in the morning if he’s gonna make a blowjob joke about you to the whole party. 

Instead as he slides the glass door open, Frankie simply asks you, “Now querida, do you want another drink, or could I persuade you to have this dance?” 

When you choose dance, you swear you can hear one of the Millers joking about neither of you having rhythm, but it falls on deaf ears. 

All that matters if Frankie wants to dance with you, so that’s all you’re going to care about.

[aliwritesfic]

The Wedding Date (Frankie Morales x F!Reader) (part 3)

Fic summary: After walking in on your boyfriend boning the neighbour, you suddenly find yourself single and without a plus one to four weddings over the summer. Wanting to avoid looks of pity and the ‘still single?’ comments, your best friend Olivia Miller suggests you take a friend of her brothers; Frankie Morales.

Warnings: casual drinking

Rating: 18+

W/C: 4k

Previous Next

One good thing about your job was that a lot of it didn’t actually need to be done at the aquarium. Today, however, was not one of those days. You sat at your desk, knees pulled up to your chin, watching the blinking dot of your favourite shark, Betsy, as she made her way to what you liked to call Baby-Makin’ Bay.

You made a few notes about Betsy, comparing them to notes made in previous years. The research department of the aquarium only had four computers, and each was crappier than the last. After the last round of budget cuts, you preferred working on your laptop at home.

Your phone buzzed on the desk, and you ignored it, figuring it was either Olivia or your mother. Your mom had been trying to set up a lunch with you and all your siblings, which you were decidedly ignoring until you felt you could stand being around your older sister long enough to have lunch with her.

Olivia on the other hand had been freaking out about the little show you and Frankie had put on at the wedding on Saturday. Most had been akin to ‘are u fukin kidding me that was brilliant’ and ‘did u see that bitches face!!’ and ‘this shit is from an 00s romcom’.

You had to roll your eyes at the last one. Your situation was nothing like a romcom. For one, there wasn’t a flip phone or pager insight, and secondly, they always ended up together in the end. At the end of this, you and Frankie would go your separate ways, probably friends but nothing more. Even if the thought of that made your stomach hurt.

Gas, you thought, I’m just gassy.

It wasn’t until your lunch break that you checked your phone. There were the usual suspects of messages from your mother and Olivia, an email from your favourite bookstore, and surprisingly, a message from Frankie.

Sitting down at the lunch table, you pulled your bowl of leftover veggie stir fry towards you and opened his message first.

Frankie: How be the sharks today?

You smiled down at your phone and began to type your reply.

You: my best girlie Betsy is making her way to baby makin bay, it’s an exciting time

You attached a photo of Betsy you kept on your phone, you had edited it so she had a flower crown and pink cheeks. It was, in your opinion, your finest work yet.

Frankie must have been on his break too because his reply was almost automatic. She looks ready to reject all the sloppy men sharks.

I have it on good authority that she has No Scrubs on repeat, you sent back. You stared at the screen, watching the three little dots that indicated he was typing, all other messages forgotten.

Frankie: I have to get back to it in a minute, but are you busy this Friday? My friend Santi is having a bbq at his place, it’ll just be the boys and Santi’s wife.

Your eyes widened slightly at this. Was he asking you because he was being friendly, or because he actually wanted you there? Before you could spiral too much into that though, another message came through.

Frankie: Bring Olivia too, and her ‘friend’ if he wants to come.

Not a date, you decided, only very slightly disappointed.

You: sounds excellent, anything I need to bring?

Frankie: Swimsuit, drinks if you have something you prefer besides beer.

The boys . . . you figured that had to include Will and Benny. As Olivia’s brothers, you had met both a handful of times but never long enough to leave a lasting impression. The last time you had seen Benny had been last New Year; you had spent the night getting hammered and high with Olivia at some seedy nightclub that had sticky floors. At about four am, when you both realised neither of you had enough to pay for a taxi, Olivia had called Benny. It had been even longer since you had seen Will.

You returned to your desk and spent the afternoon churning out as much work as you could before you had to work from home for the rest of the week. Every few minutes your thoughts drifted back to Frankie and his invitation.

You had to stop reading into it, stop hoping for something. It would just lead to disappointment, heartache piled on top of the heartache you already felt whenever you thought about how the last few years of your life had been a lie.

It wasn’t until you arrived home later that afternoon when you had set Mr. Baldwin down in the grass of your backyard to allow him to wander in the warmth of the afternoon sun, that you knew what you needed to do.

You sat on an old wooden patio chair, toes curling in the grass, and opened up a battered notebook that you had kept since college. Most of it was filled with now useless notes, idle doodles you had made when you were supposed to be studying, the occasional shopping list that consisted of ramen and Red Bull.

Now you opened it up to a mainly fresh page and labeled it RULES.

It was good to have a set of rules, you figured, when venturing into the unfamiliar territory of pretending to date someone.

No flirting w/ others at weddings

100% honesty at all times

If one of us wants out then it’s done

Simple, straightforward. You would tell Frankie about your list on Friday when you would be able to explain the points in finer detail. You kept a careful eye on Mr. Baldwin, watching as the cardboard dorsal fin you taped to his back peeked through the longer patches of grass. Deciding you needed to have your own personal set of rules, you opened up to another page. This one was half used, notes on the bacteria found in different bodies of water covering the top half.

Do not read into things

Do not be disappointed when you do read into things and are wrong

Do not get your hopes up

Do not catch feelings

You figured a clear set of rules for yourself would be safest. Having them written down, somewhere you could remind yourself, felt smart, prepared. You refused to let yourself be caught with your guard down, refused to allow yourself to be upset over a man twice in less than a year.

The sun had almost completely set by the time you grabbed your tortoise and headed inside. You ripped both pages out of your notebook, shoving the ones with rules for the both of you in your everyday handbag, and placing the other with your personal rules in the drawer of your nightstand.

It would be better this way; there would be clear boundaries, you wouldn’t get hurt. Keeping people at arm’s length was what you did best, it was how you got by. The only person you had let in and hadn’t disappointed you or hurt you in some way was Olivia. You intended on keeping it that way.

~

“So will you come on Friday?” You reached for a cube of cheese and a cracker, peering at Olivia over the top of your sunglasses. You were sitting in your backyard, a tray of finger food and wine between you.

“Yeah, any chance to crash a party,” she said.

“It’s not crashing if you’re invited,” you rolled your eyes. Olivia shrugged.

“Same difference where my brothers are concerned,” she said, “so Frankie invited you, huh?”

“He did,” you said carefully, “and he invited you and Jeremy too.” Not just me. He’s just being friendly to his fake girlfriend.

“Fuck no, I’m not taking Jeremy,” Olivia scoffed. “I’d rather eat my own toes than introduce him to the Miller clan.”

You smirked, remembering how Olivia had told you stories of how her older brothers had scared off every guy or girl she had brought home to meet them. Each one had ended in a disaster and in an inevitable breakup. It was part of the reason why she had refused to make things official with Jeremy, skirting around the topic whenever he brought it up.

Olivia bent down and scooped up Mr. Baldwin, setting him in her lap. “So, what bikini are you taking?”

“I was thinking of my yellow one-piece, actually.” Decidedly unsexy.

“No, wear the blue bikini. Blue looks good on you.”

You narrowed your eyes at your friend. Olivia held your gaze with a smirk. You knew that smirk. You had learned to become weary of that smirk. It meant she was planning something. You just had to find out what.

~

Frankie was looking forward to Friday more than he would admit. After a week spent in the oppressive heat of the mechanic workshop, drinking and eating in a pool seemed like heaven. He was glad he had invited you, even though it took convincing from both Santi and his wife, Vanessa, to do so. He wasn’t sure if you guys were that type of friend yet, but in the end, he figured there wasn’t any harm in just asking.

He hadn’t really expected you to say yes.

When he arrived mid-Friday afternoon, Santi and Vanessa were already getting the food prepped. The scent of whatever marinade Vanessa used hit Frankie’s nose and made his mouth water, his stomach grumble.

Santi pulled his friend into a hug, slapping him a couple of times on the back. “Good to see you, Fish.”

“You too,” Frankie said, grinning at his oldest friend. It had been more than a month since he had seen Santi after he and Vanessa had gone on yet another trip across the world. This time they had gone to Singapore to visit Vanessa’s family.

“Your wedding friends are coming today, right?” Vanessa called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, they’re coming,” Frankie called back. He had asked if you had wanted a ride, but apparently, you and Olivia were going to be arriving with Will, after you had finished work. I don’t wanna make you wait around for me all day, your message had said. Frankie understood, but that didn’t mean he was exactly pleased about it.

“So, what’s the deal with all that?” Santi asked as the pair walked into the kitchen. He handed Frankie a beer and took a swig of his own. “The whole weddings thing.”

“She needed a plus one after some shit happened with her ex,” Frankie said, not wanting to go too deeply into it. It wasn’t his story to tell, and he wouldn’t disrespect you by giving more details than were needed, even to his best friend.

“So you’re just her plus one?” Santi probed. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Frankie said, taking a seat at the island counter.

Vanessa raised a brow, “then what’s this about dates?”

Frankie almost choked. “Not real. Where’d you hear that?”

“Benny, who just told us what Olivia said.”

Of course. “It’s a bit much to explain, but we’re not actually dating. I’m just a friend doing another friend a favour.”

“Mmm-hmm, a favour. Sure.”

“It is!” Frankie protested. “I get free food out of it, so it’s a win-win.”

Santi rolled his eyes. “Just as long as you’re both on the same page.”

Frankie was pretty sure you were both in agreement about things. Maybe he’d have to talk to you about it, just to be certain.

He and Santi made their way outside to the pool and sat down in the shade of the gazebo he and Santi had spent the previous fall building. Each of the boys had carved their call signs into the wood, Santi had carved Tom’s in solemnly.

‘He’d be here to do it himself if it wasn’t for me.’ The only thing Santi had said about the matter. It had been years since the trip to Colombia, but Santi still refused to let go of the guilt he felt. Frankie knew that each of the boys, including himself, carried their own guilt about what happened, and each dealt with it in their own ways. For Santi, that meant small memorials where he could make them, sending Molly and Tess money periodically throughout the year.

It was just after three by the time Benny arrived, carrying a beer in one hand and a portable speaker in the other.

“Gentlemen, the party has arrived,” he announced, turning the speaker on.

“Who invited him,” Santi groaned with a chuckle. Benny shimmied over in time to the music, shaking his ass in what Frankie considered a very white boy way.

“He’s your friend,” Frankie muttered, watching Benny with a grin on his face. It always shocked Frankie how Benny was a completely different person inside of the ring. If he had put them side by side, Frankie would have been convinced they were two completely separate people.

The three made steady progress on the beers, waiting for everyone else to arrive.

“Oh, by the way, Will been dating someone,” Benny said, tipping the last of his beer in his mouth. “So don’t try and set him up with your cousin tonight, Pope.”

Santi and Frankie glanced at each other. Will was notoriously private about his love life, preferring to keep quiet about it until he was completely sure about the person he was with. So far, the boys had only met one of Will’s partners, a woman named Daisy whom he had almost married.

“Is he bringing her today?” Frankie asked.

Benny shook his head. “He’s not ready for that yet, but I met her - accidentally - and she seems really good for him. Grounded, you know? Smart, too. She’s a fucking neurosurgeon.”

“As long as he’s happy,” Santi said. Benny and Frankie nodded. Somehow they had all come to the silent agreement that Will would tell them about his mystery woman when he was ready, and they wouldn’t bother him about it until then.

It was another hour before you, Olivia, and Will arrived. Frankie perked up at the sight of you, taking you in as you set down a large blue cooler that Frankie recognized as Will’s. You hung back slightly as Olivia went and hugged Santi, before spotting Frankie and grinning.

“Nice hat,” you said, crossing your arms over the front of your chest. It struck Frankie that maybe you were a bit shyer than you had appeared when he first met you; that maybe being here was out of your comfort zone.

“Nice sunglasses,” Frankie said. You were wearing pink-rimmed flower-shaped sunglasses that Frankie thought would take a certain person to pull them off. As it turned out, that certain person was you.

“Thanks, I got them at a gas station in Nevada for like, five bucks,” you grinned. The tight way you held your shoulders was slowly easing, your arms dropped to your sides.

You sat down beside Frankie, stretching your legs so they were in the sun, slipping off your Birkenstocks.

Soon, the sounds of laughter and music filled the air, splashing as more people entered the pool. Frankie looked at you, noticing you hadn’t moved. He could have sworn at one point you started snoring softly.

“You going in?” he asked when it finally seemed like you were awake.

“I will,” you said, “I should, just to wake myself up a bit. I had to get up at three this morning because one of the missing sharks was spotted on radar.”

“Missing sharks?” Benny, who apparently heard this, asked, leaning over the railing of the gazebo.

“Yeah, most likely they get eaten by something bigger, or the tracker gets damaged, but a few of us went out earlier today and it seems like this guy just went down too deep for radar to detect for almost a year at this point.”

“Wouldn’t he need to come up for air, though?” Benny asked.

You stared at Benny for what felt like a long time, your mouth open in a small O. Frankie fought to keep a straight face.

“Ben,” you said after some time, “I want you to really think about what you just said.”

“Well, how could it stay down underwater for almost a year? It needs to breathe.”

“Are you thinking of whales?” Frankie’s voice came out in a rasp, his throat hurt with pushed-down laughter. Benny thought for a few moments, and Frankie imagined the cogs slowly turning in his brain.

“Oh! I am!” He said finally, laughing.

“Jesus, you fucking dumbass!” Frankie couldn’t hold back the laughs anymore. Tears sprang to his eyes as he wondered how someone he knew to be smart could be so dumb sometimes.

“I’m telling your sister about this,” you said, the biggest grin Frankie had seen on your face. You pulled off your shorts and tank top, leaving only a blue bikini.

Don’t stare Frankie’s conscience told him. He averted his eyes, only to find Benny staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

It wasn’t until you had jumped in the pool and began to talk to Olivia that Benny smirked.

“Fake girlfriend, huh?”

“Yes, fake. For weddings.” Frankie said.

“You’re not looking at her like she’s a fake girlfriend.”

“I’m not looking at all!” Frankie protested.

“But you want to,” Benny countered. Frankie had no rebuttal for this. Of course he wanted to. You were beautiful, magnetic, anyone with eyes could see that. But it felt like crossing an invisible boundary that you had created.

~

The kitchen was cool and quiet compared to the cacophony outside. You sat at the island counter, unaware that this was where Frankie had sat just hours before, slurping an iced coffee, cutting cucumbers, and watching Vanessa fry up potatoes.

You had already known Vanessa for a couple of hours, but you already liked her quietly confident demeanor. The way she moved with the knowledge that she knew exactly what she wanted to do and knew how to do it.

“I should thank you, you know,” Vanessa said, breaking the easy silence. You looked at her through tired eyes; her back was to you, thick black hair in a single braid down her back.

“What for?”

“Hanging out with Fish - Frankie - this summer. It’s giving him something to do rather than mope around here all summer.”

“Mope?” You inquired.

Vanessa nodded. “He’s been out of sorts for the past . . . year or so. A lot has happened to him and I think it just all caught up all at once, you know? Sent him into a bad spiral.” Vanessa sighed and looked out the window to where the boys had crowded around the grill. “It’s nice to see him doing something, back to himself and smiling again.”

You considered Vanessa’s words. You didn’t know Frankie very well, didn’t know him well enough to be sure that Vanessa was correct. You didn’t think that your little wedding fiasco was the reason he was apparently back to himself. People turned corners all the time, for better and for worse. It was probably just the timing of it all.

You finished helping Vanessa and returned to the pool, lowering yourself into the water that was still warm from the setting summer sun. It was the kind of temperature that if you let yourself, you’d fall asleep and probably drown.

Frankie called your name and set a paper plate piled high with food down at the edge of the pool. “I didn’t know what you wanted so I got you a bit of everything.”

You grinned at him, hanging off the edge of the pool while you ate. “How’d you know I was starving?”

“Lucky guess,” he smirked, sitting down so his legs were in the water.

Now seemed as good a time as any to tell him about the rules you had written down a few nights earlier. You were out of earshot of everyone else, and you were still sober enough to remember them without the piece of paper.

Frankie listened in silence as you explained the rules and your reasons for them to him between mouthfuls of burger and crispy potato bake. He nodded occasionally or made a soft hum every now and again.

“That all makes sense,” he said when you were finally done. “But you don’t have to worry about me flirting with anyone, I’m not much of a flirter.”

“Just as long as we’re on the same page,” you said.

You ended up falling asleep a couple of hours after dinner. Still in the pool, but folded into an inflatable donut, almost empty bottle of beer resting between your boobs.

Will, Olivia, and Santi pushed you gently as you floated between them.

“Dead to the world,” Will remarked as he pushed the inflatable tube once again. Frankie chuckled. From his spot in the water, he could see your eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. Dead to the world indeed. They let you sleep, understanding how badly it was needed after your day.

It was almost nine by the time you woke up, peering around at you with groggy eyes. You were silent, lifting the bottle that had been resting on your chest to your lips and draining it.

“Ah,” Olivia said, spinning around the inflatable donut, “just like college.”

“You make a habit of falling asleep in random places in college?” Santi asked.

You nodded, paddling towards the edge of the pool where Frankie stood, water lapping at his chest. “I like to sleep. Especially when I’m full of food.” Without really thinking about it, Frankie reached out and grabbed your ankle so you didn’t float away again. When you didn’t shake him off, he left it there.

“I need to tell you a secret,” you whispered. Frankie leaned in, brow furrowing. “I’m stuck.”

“Stuck?” Now he was really confused.

“In this tube thing, I can’t get out!”

He looked properly and saw that you had sunk too deep to be able to get yourself out. Frankie chuckled.

“Do you want some help?” He kept his voice low. You nodded. “I might have to-”

“-Grab my ass? That’s fine.”

Once again, you surprised Frankie. He hadn’t met many people who weren’t afraid to say exactly what they were thinking. It was refreshing.

“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching under the water. Each ass cheek seemed to fit perfectly in his hands as he gripped and pushed up, freeing you from the inflatable prison.

Your eyes held his for a few moments, lips slightly parted. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or his own feelings, but he wanted to close the space between you. Shit, if this were a bar, or if he didn’t know you already, he would’ve made it his goal to kiss you.

Fake. He reminded himself sternly. Inviting feelings of attraction to you would just be asking for trouble. He would call one of his old hook-ups tonight when he got home, he decided. Fuck it out of his system. Johanna was usually free after her shift ended at two.

Already he was mapping out the rest of his night; text Johanna, leave the party, fuck Johanna, go home. That was the perfect thing about his relationship with Jojo; it was only sex. No strings, no expectations.

Frankie was shaken out of his thoughts as you turned away and swam towards Benny. Hell, once maybe this was all over he would put in a good word for Benny with you.

Maybe.

~

Neither you nor Frankie noticed the way everyone else had come together at the other side of the pool, out of earshot. Wrapped up in yourselves, you were both oblivious.

“So, you all agree then?” Olivia asked.

“They’re obviously meant for each other,” Vanessa replied, watching the way you two stole glances when you thought the other wasn’t looking.

“They’re both just stupid and stubborn.” Will rolled his eyes. He knew you well enough now to know that while you were often the smartest person in the room, you were also somehow the dumbest.

“Look, I’ll work on her, you guys work on him,” Olivia said.

Her plan was coming together, and she couldn’t be happier about it.

Tagging: @idreamofboobear @gracie7209

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