#neighbor!frankie

[joelalorian]

neighborhood watch

neighbor!frankie morales x f!reader | wc: 5.7k | masterlist

Summary: When someone - or something - starts causing mischief around your new neighborhood, you and your neighbor Frankie are paired up for the new neighborhood watch.

Warnings: Not much, just cursing. Though this fic is rated T for Tame, this blog as a whole is 18+ mdni. Fluff and humor. Reader is a blank slate. No use of y/n.

A/N: This is my contribution to @punkshort's AU August Challenge to celebrate Shortie's 1-year tumblrversary. I was given the AU prompt neighbor!Frankie and ran with it. Hope you enjoy!

Palm trees lined both sides of the road, fronds gently swaying in the sea breeze as you drove through the picturesque neighborhood of bungalows to your new home. After a long and winding journey nearly halfway across the country to get there, you sighed in relief when you pulled your Wrangler into the small driveway. With all your – admittedly limited – worldly possessions shoved into the backseat, truck, and every other available crevice; you couldn’t wait to get out of the cramped space.

An old Florida 2/1 painted the color of green sea glass, the bungalow greeted you with a charming porch and two large windows bisected by the front door. The gabled roof offered taller ceilings and the wood flooring was original. By far, your favorite feature was the reading nook nestled into the living room with built-in shelves for books and the comfiest cushion to lounge on while reading or simply staring out the bay window.

Yeah, everything about this place beat what you left behind. Shitty apartment in a shitty part of a shitty town and an even shittier ex-boyfriend. Not that you were bitter about that or anything. You were still in awe that you managed to dig yourself out of that toxic situation before it completely destroyed you and scrounge up the money for this place. Thankfully, it came furnished. You didn’t have much money left for anything else.

You spent the afternoon unloading your belongings, organizing, and rearranging the place to your liking, blinds open to let the natural light in – anything to save on electric when the AC unit would be running nonstop. With the router and wifi connected, you curled up in the reading nook and watched as your new neighbors started coming home from work or set about walking dogs and mowing their small yards. A few glanced curiously at the sight of a vehicle in your driveway, no doubt wondering about the new resident.

Was this the type of neighborhood where neighbors would bring you casseroles to introduce themselves? Surely that was something only done in television shows and cheesy movies, right?

No less than an hour later, a kindly looking older woman knocked on your door, a covered dish in her hands. She greeted you with aged eyes and a toothy smile when you opened the door.

“Well, hello dear. I’m Stella and just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Stella casually peeked into the house as she spoke, not bothering to hide the blatant snooping, and you shook your head in amusement.

“Nice to meet you, Stella,” you replied, offering your name. “Would you like to come in?” The woman practically craned her neck to get a look, how could you not invite her in.

“Oh! That would be lovely, dear. As long as you don’t mind. Maybe we could snack on this key lime pie I made for you?” She bustled right in, making herself at home at your tiny dining table and you shut the door to follow her, grabbing plates and forks along the way.

“Would you like something to drink, Stella?” you asked from the kitchen. “I don’t have much yet, but I made lemonade.”

“Lemonade is great, thank you.” After a moment, she added, “Will anyone else be joining us?”

“Unless there’s a ghost hiding out in this place, I doubt it,” you replied, taking a seat across the table from her.

For the next hour, Stella grilled you for information – where were you from, what brought you to this particular neighborhood, were you single. The list of questions went on and on, but she was so kind and friendly about it that it didn’t feel intrusive. Still, relief washed over you when she changed topics from you to sharing information about the other neighbors. Much of it went in one ear and out the other until she got to someone who piqued your interest. Stella talked A LOT.

“There are two men about your age a few doors down. They are the nicest boys, always offering a hand when they can. Benny and Frankie are their names and they have been friends since they served in the military together. Quite handsome, too.”

Stella watched you as she spoke, keen eyes gauging your reaction, and she smiled when you perked up.

“Oh?” you said wanting to hear more.

“Mmhmm, thought those two might get your attention,” the older woman chuckled merrily. “Frankie is the one with dark hair and soulful eyes. He’d run into some sort of trouble a bit ago, which is why he lives with Benny while getting back on his feet.”

You hummed. “I know how that goes.” You wondered what kind of trouble he got into, but you didn’t ask Stella. That was something you’d want to hear firsthand from Frankie, if he ever wanted to share, not the rumor mill.

“Don’t we all,” Stella agreed. “Benny is the blonde one, a little younger and full of energy. Comes home with a bruised face a lot. I think he boxes or something. I’ll never understand young men and their desire to beat each other up.”

You smiled dreamily, mind wandering as Stella continued talking. While all the neighbors sounded normal, you looked forward to meeting Benny and Frankie from just the little Stella shared. They seemed most like your kind of people. The broken souls just trying to make it through life one day at a time.

It took a week to fully settle in and meet most of the neighbors. Stella lived right next door with another older couple, Ann and John, next to her. Benny and Frankie lived next door to them. One the other side of you lived a young couple, Kara and Matt, newlyweds who moved in not too long ago, followed by a quiet woman by the name of Lynn, and a busy couple in their 30s with two small children, who you referred to as “The Kellys”, finger quotes included. They scurried to and from their house like cockroaches afraid of the sun, never stopping to interact with the neighbors. You found it oddly amusing.

Across from you was another eclectic bunch of neighbors – an artist, two retired teachers, a retired cop, an insurance agent and housewife, and a variety of others whose names you were still learning.

You met Benny pretty quickly, crossing paths one morning while going for a run. Stella hadn’t lied, he was cute, but in like a golden retriever kind of way that made you want to scratch his head and throw him a ball to fetch. He was just not your type, if you even had a type. Given your track record… nah, you weren’t going down that road.

Frankie, on the other hand, was an elusive creature. He tended to work a lot if the hours were available, Benny told you. It took an extra week to meet him, and it happened completely by accident while going to check your mail. A collective mailbox area sat next to the small clubhouse, and you started swinging by at the end of your morning runs to check your mail. It gave you some time to cool down and get rid of the junk mail before you got home.

Eagerly awaiting the severance package from your last job, you excitedly rushed around the corner after that morning’s run to get to your mailbox. The collision with a hard chest knocked you right off your feet, leg muscles too fatigued from your three-mile run to stabilize after the impact.

“Oomph,” you grunted at the initial impact, quickly followed by, “Oh, shit!” as you fell backwards on your ass.

“Fucking hell! I’m so sorry!” came the rushed, masculine reply as strong arms shot out to catch you just a moment too late.

You stared up, wide-eyed, from your seated position on the grass – at least you didn’t crash down on the sidewalk – to meet the prettiest pair of baby cow eyes you’d ever seen, the irises a shade of coffee brown you could just drink in for days. Your eyes roved the man’s face, meeting tanned skin flecked with stubble and pouty lips, dark locks curled out beneath a ball cap, twisting around the backs of his ears and along the absolutely kissable stretch of skin on the back of his neck.

One large hand moved to rub along that exact expanse of skin, a nervous tic perhaps, as the other reached out to help you back to your feet.

“Are you alright? I’m really sorry ‘bout that. Wasn’t watching where I was going,” the man said once you stood before him.

Brushing the grass off your ass and the back of your thighs, you waved him off. “No, no, I’m fine and it was completely my fault. I charged around the corner like a bull in a China shop.”

The man laughed in relief, blush still visible on his pinchable cheeks. “Yeah, you kinda did. Almost knocked me off my feet, too.”

Eyeing his exceptionally broad form doubtfully, you shook your head. “I’m your new neighbor, by the way,” you said, reaching out a hand and giving him your name.

“Oh! I’ve heard about the pretty addition to the neighborhood,” he winked at you, taking your hand in a firm grip. “I’m Francisco Morales, but everyone calls me Frankie. I think you met my roommate Benny already. He’s the one who said you were pretty. He wasn’t lying.”

Heat rushed your face at the rambled compliments. Frankie was a delightful mix of flirty, nervous, and shy which you found incredibly endearing. He was also gorgeous.

Flustered and overheated, the need to flee overwhelmed you. “Well, it was nice to finally meet you, Frankie. I’m sure I’ll see you around,” you called over your shoulder as you moved to your mailbox in the back corner of the space.

“You can count on it,” he called back before departing. He didn’t notice you peek around the corner to check out his backside as he walked away. His jeans hugged his ass in a pleasing way and his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the seams hanging on for dear life.

Frankie was going to be trouble; you could feel it. The best kind of trouble, yes, but trouble none the less.

Working from home allowed you to keep a great schedule. No more long commutes to the office, getting caught in traffic on the interstate, spending too much money on gas, or racking up the mileage on your car. You loved the Wrangler, but fuel economy was not its best quality. Instead, you could sleep until a respectable hour, still get a morning run or walk in, and have time for a shower and breakfast before plopping down at your desk for the workday.

And you loved your new job. Not only did you get to work from home, but you were paid to learn and develop learning programs for corporate trainings all day. The nerd in you danced with joy every time you learned something new or received feedback on something you put together.

The only downfall to this new life of yours?

Loneliness.

Sure, video calls with clients and colleagues peppered your days and you occasionally ran into a neighbor on your morning runs. But real human connection? No, there was none of that. Aside from talking to the plants or yourself, you didn’t even have a pet to provide companionship.

Three weeks after settling in, you found yourself at the shelter browsing adoptable animals. Growing up loving animals but never allowed to have pets – even your asshole ex was adamant about not having any in the house, which you should have seen as a giant red flag much sooner – you were finally able to add a furry little being to your family. You weren’t picky either, going in completely open-minded and letting the universe choose a fur friend for you.

The universe delivered ten minutes after arriving at the shelter when a big-eared, blue-eyed, black and white shepherd looking dog bounded up to you excitedly, darting directly between your legs and goosing you so hard it felt like your soul left your body with the yelp that burst from your lips.

“Joshua! No!” a harried volunteer called out, rushing over to you and the overly eager four-legged fiend. “I am so sorry! He loves people and picks out his favorites with a little too much zest.”

The woman wrangled the dog, which was no easy feat. Bigger than a breadbox but smaller than a German Shepherd, Joshua was a sturdy boy – and strong, based on the visible muscles in his hind legs – presenting a challenge when he put his mind to it.

Right then, his mind focused on you, and he refused to leave your side, licking at your hands with his pink tongue, booping you with his snout until you scratched his head, ears perked up as he gazed at you with those ice blue eyes.

You fell in love instantly. Plopping down on the ground, right there in the middle of the kennel walkway, you ruffled Joshua’s short-haired fur. He practically smiled in delight and melted into you as you pet him, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he presented his belly.

A pile of paperwork and a small fee later, you and Joshua the two-year-old McNab Shepherd headed to the pet store for goodies to start your adventure together. Joshua herded you around the store with single-minded determination, choosing his toys and treats while you spoke to the staff about the best food to feed him. Hundreds of dollars later, a gangly teenager helped you load a large dog bed, 50-pound bag of dry food, and two bags full of toys and treats into the Wrangler. Joshua sat shotgun, head hanging out the window as you drove home.

Joshua settled right in with minimal fuss, spending his days laying under your desk while you worked, booping you with his snout when he needed attention or walkies, and – worst part – chomping on your right ass cheek when you weren’t going in the direction he wanted. That was a habit you needed to break, asap. With Joshua at your side, you found yourself outside more, stopping to talk to all the neighbors and being recruited to join the new neighborhood watch. Suddenly, you no longer felt lonely or left out.

Tim, the retired cop who lived across the street, started the neighborhood watch out of boredom, you reckoned. He served the public in larger cities for much of his law enforcement career, and the small-town life took a while for him to get used to. Thus, Tim liked to patrol the neighborhood, self-identifying as the Sheriff of Paradise, keeping an eye out for mischief.

Recently, Tim noticed evidence of some mischief in the form of knocked over garbage cans and missing or broken lawn ornaments. Minor things that could potentially be explained away by blaming the occasional trash panda searching for a midnight snack. Like a dog with a bone, Tim was unwilling to chalk it up to mischievous racoons and began recruiting neighbors to join him in keeping an eye on the neighborhood.

That’s how you found yourself seated on a couch in Tim’s living room, squeezed between the broad shouldered forms of Benny and Frankie, with other neighbors scattered around room. Tim stood in front of the small group with a dry erase marker in hand; a large whiteboard perched on a chair next to him.

“Thank you all for your interest in keeping this neighborhood safe. There have been several concerning things happening lately and I would like for us to make a collective effort in heading them off before things escalate,” Tim began.

His speech continued and the sudden vision of Scruff McGruff the Crime Dog popped into your head. You barely managed to stifle your laughter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Benny flashing Frankie an incredulous look and mouthing “Is this guy for real?”

You wondered the same thing but kept those thoughts to yourself and listened as Tim continued.

“I took the liberty of assigning teams of two and setting patrol schedules,” he said, turning to the whiteboard. The sound of the dry erase marker squeaking across the board was the only noise in the room for a solid five minutes as you all stared at Tim’s back.

This dude was intense.

Frankie’s knee started bouncing next to you, jostling the cushion a little. Smiling warmly, you reached out a hand, placing it just above his knee to get him to stop. The warmth of his skin flowed through his jeans, igniting a fire inside your belly as his wide eyes shot to you, a hesitant smile on his face as he mouthed “Sorry”.

Tim spun around and called out the pairings then, breaking the eye contact between you and Frankie. Your breath caught when he announced your name and Frankie’s as the third team. Frankie beamed at you and bumped your shoulder.

“Looks like we’re a team,” he said, dark eyes shooting to frown at Benny over your shoulder for a moment. You turned to see what Benny did, but the man just grinned and winked at you.

“Yeah,” you replied, still a little flustered from the heat bubbling in your core. Jesus, could you not think of anything witty to say?

Tim called the meeting to an end ten minutes later – thank the fucking Lord above! – and you followed Frankie outside. He and Benny basically walked you to your door just to say hi to Joshua.

Your happy fur baby bounded down the front steps to say hi the moment you opened the door, tail wagging so hard his whole booty shook with the effort.

“No jumping, Joshua!” you called with a laugh as Benny practically fell to the ground to play with him.

After getting a few pets in, Frankie left the rambunctious pup to wrestle with Benny while he moved closer to you. “He’s really just a big kid,” he said with a chuckle.

“I can see that,” you replied, meeting Frankie’s chocolate eyes as a smile spread across your lips. Damn, he was gorgeous, and you could easily get lost in those eyes.

“So, uh, looks like our first neighborhood watch shift is tomorrow night from 9 ‘til midnight,” Frankie said as you both watched the makeshift WWE match happening in your little front yard.

“Yeah, that’s past my normal bedtime so it will be your job to keep me awake,” you responded with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. “Sad, but true.”

“Not a night owl? Me either. I’m sure I can come up with a few ways to keep you awake,” Frankie replied boldly, though a blush crept up his neck into his face.

You shot him a mock scandalized look before collapsing into laughter. “Yeah, I’m sure you could.” After a beat, you steered the conversation back to the neighborhood watch. “What do we need to do on this shift? I’ve never been part of something like this and, to be honest, I tuned out half of what Tim droned on about.”

Frankie’s smile widened until the dimple in his cheek popped, drawing your eyes. “That guy sure could talk, huh?” When you nodded, he added, “I guess we just walk around and make sure nothing’s happening. I’ll meet you here tomorrow night with flashlights in case we need them, feel free to bring Joshua. Nothing will get past the three of us.”

True to his word, Frankie stood at the base of your walkway at five minutes to 9 pm with a backpack containing bug spray, water, snacks, and flashlights. Joshua bounded towards him the moment you opened the door – you should have known to put his leash on first, but you were just as eager as the pup to see the handsome man waiting for you.

After handing you a flashlight, Frankie gestured for Joshua’s leash, clipping it to the dog’s collar and gripping it tightly in his right hand. You let Joshua lead the way, stopping every so often so he could sniff at something interesting.

You weren’t nervous, per say, but you did have some concerns about how awkward these three hours might be. Those concerns were all for naught as conversation flowed easy and free between the two of you as you both asked and answered questions about each other.

Frankie told you a little about his time in the military and how he met Benny and his other friends. He shared about his current job working on helicopters and trying to get his pilot’s license back after some misunderstandings. You told him about ditching your old life to start fresh, how your ex turned out to be controlling and isolated you from your friends. You told him about your new job and how happy you were to be in control of your own life again.

“Sounds like that guy was a real asshole. Me and the boys could go kick his ass for you, if you wanted.”

You appreciated the offer but turned it down. Instead, you asked about his love life. “You mean my complete lack of one?” Frankie replied teasingly.

“Hmmm,” you hummed distractedly. Something seemed off about Stella’s front garden. Your eyes narrowed, searching the shadows from the streetlights and Frankie followed your gaze, brows furrowed.

“That wasn’t like that when we passed by on our last lap,” he said as you both took in the destruction. Potted plants toppled over, some clay pots shattered, leaves ripped from shrubs, flowers crushed, and sporadic holes dug in the topsoil.

In a word, it was a mess.

“No, it most definitely was not,” you replied and immediately glanced around searching for the culprit. The street was empty save for the two of you. “I don’t see anyone. Whoever did this is hiding or long gone.”

“We better write this down in our notepad for Tim. He’ll want full documentation, so we can’t leave out a single detail.” Frankie pulled the small, spiral bound notepad and a pen from the front pocket of his backpack, handing them to you. At your raised brow, he shrugged with a boyish grin and added, “I’m holding a flashlight and your dog’s leash. Besides, you probably have much neater handwriting.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” Rolling your eyes, you accepted the items and flipped the notepad open to the first page. Noting the date, time, and location, you wrote a few notes about the destruction in Stella’s garden. After a moment, you pulled your phone from your back pocket and snapped a few pictures. Tim would appreciate the effort.

“You think I’m cute?” Frankie teased once you finished, sounding pleased as punch at the idea. You ignored him.

The rest of the night passed with no further incidents, and you waved to Frankie as he walked back to his house after handing you Joshua’s leash. Despite the exhaustion plaguing your body, your mind fixated on thoughts of Frankie for two more hours before you finally fell asleep with Joshua snuggled against your side.

Things only got stranger the next two nights you patrolled the neighborhood with Frankie.

“So, what do you do for fun, Frankie?” you asked, making conversation as you walked along the sidewalk.

“The usual, I guess. Hanging with friends, listening to music, playing the occasional video game, and having a few beers. Mostly just hang with the boys and reminisce about the old service days. Oh! And flying, of course. Can’t wait to get my license reinstated.” Frankie ran a hand along the back of his neck, a little embarrassed about how boring he sounded. “How about you?”

“Oh, you know, the same stuff,” you laughed. “I lead a very exciting life. I read, lounge on the couch watching reality tv shows, run in the mornings. Stuff all the cool kids do.”

“We’re an exciting pair, huh?”

“It only goes downhill from here.”

You bantered back and forth as you worked your way through the neighborhood, keeping an eye out for signs of mischief. Frankie was the first to spot the trouble in the mail area. A few mailboxes were wrenched open with envelopes and magazines ripped and scattered across the ground. Joshua sniffed at them unhelpfully.

“How’d someone even get these open?” you questioned. “They need a key.”

Frankie shrugged. “Must’ve pried them open with something. Wouldn’t be too hard, actually. These aren’t the best locking mechanisms. Here, write it down while I take some pictures.” He fished the notepad from the backpack and handed it to you, snapping photos of the mess while you jotted down observations.

“How long have you lived here?” you asked Frankie once you tidied up the mess into a small pile for the other residents to sort through in the morning.

“A few years. You?” He froze, realizing the stupidity of the question, and grimaced. “I clearly have foot in mouth disease. Forget I said that. Please.”

Waving him off with a chuckle, you told him not to fret. “Have you noticed anything like these shenanigans happening before?”

Silent for a few moments, Frankie thought about it. “Not that I recall, but I’m not too sure I paid much attention.”

“It’s weird though, right? Like all of this seems like something a couple of middle school kids would do but they wouldn’t be out this late. Shit, I haven’t even seen kids that age in this neighborhood.”

Frankie nodded. “Come to think of it, we haven’t seen any footprints or litter either. Kids always leave a mess, right? Like candy wrappers and soda cans and shit.”

The next night, things got more bizarre. Joshua stayed at home, exhausted after visiting the vet that afternoon and getting a few shots, leaving you and Frankie on your own.

Frankie spotted a light on in the detached single-car garage at Kara and Matt’s house after a few laps through the neighborhood. Both of you swore the light had been off the other times you passed by. It wouldn’t be so odd if it was a weekend night. But you knew the couple got up really early for work and there was no way one of them would be tinkering in the garage after 11 pm on a worknight.

The pair of you approached the garage warily, sounds of rummaging and glass breaking coming from inside the wooden structure. You looked to Frankie for direction. He gestured for you to stay put a couple yards back, shrugging the backpack from his shoulders, and pulled a handgun from the front pocket.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon. “What are you gonna do with that?” you whispered as he handed you the bag.

“Nothing unless I have to,” Frankie replied quietly and edged closer to the garage. He crept up to the garage door, trying to peek through the dirt smudged windows, but it was impossible to see anything. Instead, he slowly made his way around toward the side of the garage.

A few steps from the corner, his foot caught on a stray cinderblock, causing him to trip with a yelp. The sound within the garage ceased, immediately followed by a scramble and rustling in the wooded area behind the garage. By the time Frankie righted himself and turned the corner, who- or whatever it had been in the garage was gone. A small window on the side of the garage sat open and Frankie peered inside, finding utter destruction within the garage.

“Well?” you inquired from your position. “Anything?”

“Nothing but a mess. I didn’t see anyone and there was nowhere for someone to hide.” He motioned you over now that it was clear. Slipping the weapon back into the bag, Frankie pulled out his phone and took photos through the window.

Gazing at the window, you said, “I can’t imagine they leave this open like this. It must be a person, right? How would an animal get a window like this open? Or turn on the light?”

Frankie shrugged. “I have no fucking clue. We should let Tim know about this. He’ll want to talk to Kara and Matt in the morning.”

Sliding the window shut, Frankie led you from the property.

“This is just getting ridiculous,” Benny muttered from the backseat. “I can’t believe that dickhead has us on a fuckin’ stakeout on a Friday night. Who died and made him Sheriff of fuckin’ Palmingham.”

“Sheriff of Palmingham,” you repeated with a guffaw. “Good one, Benny boy.”

You, Benny, and Frankie were parked at one end of the street in Frankie’s truck, with a few other neighbors stationed at the other end. A stakeout was Tim’s brilliant idea to finally catch the culprit terrorizing the otherwise quiet neighborhood. He created a few teams and stationed them at the end of the two main streets of the small neighborhood. Tim wanted the culprit caught tonight.

The first thing you learned about stakeouts was they were boring as fuck. If not for the company of two handsome men, you’d have been banging your head against the dashboard after the first fifteen minutes. After the first hour of staring through the windows, you and Frankie resorted to playing a variation of twenty questions.

“What is your favorite food?”

“To make or to order out?” you questioned. When Frankie rolled his eyes playfully, you added, “What? There’s a big difference!”

Nodding his head, Frankie laughed. “Ok, if you say so. Tell me both then.”

Sitting back in your seat, you tapped your chin with a finger. “Salmon to cook and beef wellington or scallops to order out. What about you?”

Benny watched from the backseat as the two of you went on and on. “For fuck’s sake, I feel like a third wheel on a first date,” he complained. “Will you just ask her out already?”

“Damnit, Benny,” Frankie growled. Enjoying the conversation with you so much, he almost forgot his friend was even there.

“You want some cheese to go with that whine, Ben Ben?” you teased. “I know little girls who whine less than you.”

“You want some cheese with that whine,” Benny mocked in a high-pitched voice. Leaning forward in his seat, Benny perched his chin on the back of the front bench seat, a shit-eating grin playing across his lips. “You know, if you like Salmon for the omega 3 fatty acids, my boy Fish here has some mega D fatty acid for you. It’s a lot better, or so I’ve heard.”

“What the fuck, Benny?!” Frankie exclaimed as your mouth dropped open in shocked amusement. He glared over his shoulder at the younger man before looking at you with dark, pleading eyes. “Please ignore this fucking idiot.”

“Come on, man. That shit was funny!” Benny insisted, broad shoulders shaking with laughter.

You patted Frankie’s thigh reassuringly. “I mean, it is pretty freaking hilarious, I’ll give him that. And Fish? Is that your nickname or something?”

“At least your girl has a sense of humor.” Benny slumped back in his seat at Frankie’s scowl.

Still staring down his friend in the rearview mirror, Frankie explained the call signs from their army days. Movement down the block drew his attention mid-sentence and he drifted to a stop. “Can you guys see that?”

You reached for the binoculars sitting on the dash, raising them to your eyes to peer into the distance. Something darted from the shadows into an area of the street brightened by a streetlight, and you gasped.

 “It’s a fucking monkey!”

The rest of the night turned into a shitshow as the three of you chased a small monkey – a capuchin, you guessed – around the neighborhood. After a quick call to Tim, the other neighbors on stakeout joined you in the effort to capture the mischievous little bugger. Shortly before dawn, someone found the monkey asleep on a low-hanging tree limb and scooped the thing up, quickly containing him in a travel pet crate.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, you walked toward your house when a sudden commotion sounded a couple doors down. Ann and John rushed from their home, frantically searching for something in the yard.

“Where could he have gone?” Ann called out to John.

“How did he even get out?” John yelled back, moving to search the backyard.

Pausing mid-step, you turned toward where Frankie stood talking to Tim. The capuchin monkey sat in a pet crate at the former cop’s feet as they talked about what to do with it. Eyes narrowing, you looked back at the older couple scouring their yard.

The pieces clicked into place, and you rushed over to Frankie. “Hey, uh, I think this little cutie belongs to Ann and John,” you said, pointing over your shoulder. “They’re searching for a missing pet, and it seems awfully coincidental.”

Sure enough, the older couple were searching for the little monkey named Cosmo, who they were pet sitting for their grandson. The little rascal had been sneaking out each night to wreak havoc on the neighborhood out of boredom. Cosmo was used to a much higher level of activity than the older couple could offer. Thankfully, the grandson was coming later that day to take Cosmo home.

“Hey, you wanna come over for some brunch?” you asked Frankie once all the drama wrapped up, not wanting to part from him just yet. You really enjoyed his company and wanted to get to know him even more. “I’m thinking pancakes and mimosas. What do you think?”

“I, uh, think that sounds like a perfect first date,” he replied with a shy smile, one hand lifting his cap as the other combed through his curls.

“Oh yeah? I think this might count as a third date given all the time we’ve spent alone together this week.”

Frankie’s lips spread until his smile split his face and his dark eyes burned with want. “Third date, huh? Do you have a rule about third dates?”

“Why don’t you come in and find out?” Grasping his large hand in yours, you led him inside.

[whore-era]

anyone a fan of … the milk man ?

[acurse0nmyt0ngue]

don’t let her in.

[xxstaystillxx]

all i got is vague doodles

[duckapus]

SMG4 Joins the PTA

4 ends up enrolling Lil Coding and Lily in school, both so they can spend more time with some of their friends (namely Cody, Franky and BJ, since Floyd is dead and from another universe, Sage is a computer and can just download information if she wants to learn it, and Jubjub and Desmond are in different age groups), and because nobody in the crew is actually qualified to teach kids about anything other than sports or memes.

Thing is, he's well aware of how fucked the American Education System is (even if Mario and Luigi try to assure him that the Mushroom Kingdom is a lot better about it than most places) so he and 3 join the PTA to have at least some influence in how things are being run. Karen and Bowser are also there. This all goes about as well as you'd expect.

[soup-for-my-family]

i stg i made a post about my neighbor's cat and now i cant find it anywhere

[titabel]

im gonna need 3-5 business days to recover from this🥵

vis-à-vis

frankie morales x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: your bedroom window offers a direct view into your cute neighbour's apartment. as time goes by, you two start looking for each other through the glass. shy glances become desperate, needy glimpses into each other's lives until one day, you finally make contact. warnings/tags: neighbour!frankie, some serious exhibitionism, naked window neighbour behaviour, a mild obsession between two strangers, mutual masturbation, brief piv sex between reader and an OC [while frankie watches of course], very little actual foreplay, unprotected piv sex, a hint of possessive!frankie, come eating, getting fucked in a short little sundress yahtzee, two* people that need to be thrown in horny jail [three* if you include me] word count: 4.2k masterlist a/n: so i got caught up last night thinking about vis-a-vis apartments. the exposure of it, the perversion, the intimacy... annnnd this was born. hope you enjoy x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing

You live in a studio apartment on the fifth floor of a complex.

Crowded and cluttered, you live practically on top of yourself. Always squeezing through the doorway, shins permanently littered with grazes and scrapes from where you’ve bumped into the bedframe, the coffee table, the anything. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, all cramped within 600 square feet.

And there is only one window. A thick, wood framed sheet of glass that rests directly above your bed. When you peer out the window and look down, you are privy to every coming and going in the alleyway below – a constantly overflowing dumpster, a family of rats scavenging for discarded food scraps, the occasional drunken hook up between two sturdy brick walls on a Friday night. But if you let your eyes float up, if you stare directly out your window, you can see into his apartment. Into his kitchen, you realise quickly. Can clearly see a tall cabinet, a wide silver fridge.  

And he’s a stranger to you, in those first few weeks of your lease. And then, slowly but surely, a little more than that.  

At first, it’s just a brief catching of eyes. Awkward, almost shy moments where the two of you find yourselves peering outside at the same moment. Looking away quickly, cringing, drawing the curtains.

And then it’s wary smiles.

You sit up in bed one day, hair greasy and flattened from your pillow. Pull back the curtain and spy him standing in the kitchen with a mug in his hand. Rubbing sleep from his eyes with a tired fist and then pausing, nodding suspiciously at you through the glass. Good morning, stranger.

Another afternoon you get home from work to find him pacing, phone tucked between ear and shoulder, that far away face twisted up in a frown. You catch his eye and smile; offer raised brows and a curious thumbs-up that ask – You doing okay, stranger? He imitates the gesture, face going soft, kind. Long fingers curling into a wave, and then a thumbs-up in return. I’m good, thank you, stranger.  

Your stranger is tall. Built strong, broad, with dark hair, dark features.

Your stranger has a moustache, facial hair, and he scratches his fingers through it when he cooks dinner some evenings.  

Your stranger is never dressed up. He wears weathered t-shirts, hides his hair away beneath caps, slips sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose before he leaves the apartment.  

Sometimes your stranger has guests. Loud, boisterous friends that fill up his kitchen. Two blond men frequent the apartment; lounge against his kitchen counters, nursing beers and talking shit. You hear them sometimes, on the warmer nights. He cracks the window to welcome in a breeze, unaware of you lying in your bed, hidden beneath the windowsill, eavesdropping on deep voices, and bellowing laughter. You play a game with yourself on those nights, trying to pinpoint which voice might be his. Hear the name Benny once or twice and imagine that it could be his name, although it never seems to fit.

Sometimes weeks will go by with no sign of him.

In those times, his curtain stays drawn back – no prying eyes to hide from except yours. You watch the morning light brighten his lonely kitchen. Admire how the setting sun hits his cabinets in a glistening display of orange and yellow. You find yourself anticipating a roommate. A wife or a husband; someone that shares his bed, who sips from that same mug he takes his coffee in each morning. But there is no one else. Your stranger is a solitary creature, just like you.

When he returns from these disappearances, your stranger often looks exhausted. Pours his coffee with hunched shoulders, rests heavier against the bench than is normal. He offers tired, drowsy waves to you in the mornings. Tilts the neck of a beer bottle to you in the evenings, cheers stranger. 

And then one day, a handful of weeks into the sticky Floridian summer, things take a turn.    

At dusk, freshly showered, you rub a towel over your skin, chasing wayward droplets of water as you tug open a drawer. Dry enough, you twist your hair into the towel to keep it off your skin. Pull a pair of underwear up your legs, slip a thin sleep singlet over your head. And only then do you look. Almost instinctual now, the way your eyes flick and flutter in the direction of the window, curious and searching. And to your surprise, those eyes are already on you. Dark and beady, they peer through the glass, piercing the bare skin of your legs, your arms, your stomach. Face slack and dappled with red, he meets your stare and flinches. Tears himself away and pulls the curtain closed in fast, jerky movements.  

And where there should be shock, or perhaps an affronted uneasiness, you just smile. Tuck yourself into bed and grin, the skin beside your eyes pinching. So endeared to your stranger now, you find your stomach warming at the memory of his blush, his embarrassment at being caught. Pulse quickening, your hand slips beneath the band of your underwear, and you wonder how long he must have stood there. How long he let himself watch you, how much he’d seen. And you know that you want to see it again – that flush on his cheeks, those lips twisting into an apologetic grimace. You make yourself come twice just thinking about it.  

Soon the air gets hotter, wetter, and you wear less clothes around the apartment. Open the curtains earlier, close them later, hoping that he’ll look in. That he’ll see you in your underwear again, or less.

In early July your AC breaks and you resign yourself to lounging in nothing but your littlest underwear most evenings. Thin strips of cotton that only just cover the seam of your cunt, the crease between your ass cheeks. Breasts bare, skin shimmering with sweat – all of it exposed to the warm lamplight of your apartment for your stranger to see as you prance through your space.   

One weekend, after darkness has shrouded the street, you text an old flame. Some guy whose name starts with J and you’ve slept together a handful of times, and always regretted it afterwards. You lay him out on your thin mattress and spread your thighs over his waist, eyes darting upward as he slips inside of you. He notices your stare out the window, mistakes the look in your eyes for nervousness, says someone might see us, and you assure him that no one lives there. You wedge it open, feel the summer breeze whisper against your skin, and he says, someone might hear us, and you assure him that they won’t.  

You grip his shoulder and rock your hips against his, breasts bouncing with every rise and fall of your body, and your stranger pauses at his window. Head tilting to the side, he peers across the alleyway, and you see the way his body jolts. Shoulders stiffening, eyes meeting yours, he doesn’t look away. Drags the hat off his head and stares.  

Eyelids fluttering, you stare at the hard line of his jaw. That expressionless face stares back at you, and you moan when he crosses his arms, biceps pulling taught across his chest, and leans against the wall beside his window. You wonder if he can hear you; hope that he can. Whimper a name that starts with J while your mind calls out to your stranger.  A hand lands on your breast, too soft, too gentle for your liking, and then he’s turning you over. Pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back into his, and when you look up, your stranger has fled the scene and turned out the light.

 

Four days later, you see him for the first time without a pane of glass between you. It’s late, uncharacteristically cool for mid-summer, and you’re tipsy off vodka lime sodas wearing a skirt that leaves little of your legs to the imagination. Your fingers struggle against the keypad, trying to get inside of your building, and you hear laughter down the street. A couple sets of heavy footsteps that get closer with every second.

When you glance over your shoulder, a sort of nervous anticipation bubbles in your stomach.  

He's with the blondes again. One of them has an arm wrapped around his neck, hand on the brim of his cap, threatening to pull it off. The other stumbles along a few steps behind, chuckling under his breath.  

Your breaths are coming short and sharp as you jab a finger against the keypad. Five, seven, nine— 

You hear something clatter against the concrete path. A phone, maybe. And then— 

“Told you not to drink so much, Benny,” a low voice teases, so close now, and something goes tight at the base of your spine.  

You can’t help yourself. You have to look, you have to.  

It’s fleeting, a passing glance over your right shoulder, but your eyes lock with his instantly. Your stranger, in the flesh.  

His pace slows a little, dark brown eyes rounding out as he stares at you. Head turning, turning, looking back now to keep an eye on you even as he comes to a stop outside of his building. Movement catches your attention, and you look back to see the drunk one—Benny—moving to follow them. He meets your eye and flashes a quick wink at you.  

“Benny,” your stranger snaps. A shiver races down your spine. His voice. “C’mon.”  

“Alright, alright,” Benny mutters, jogging now, following the other two men inside.  

You take a deep breath, hands shaking as you press five, seven, nine, four and head into your own building.  

The blondes stay for a few hours. Sounds of a sporting match blare from a TV and drift out the window, sneaking into your apartment. You drink a cold glass of water, and then another, shower and then tuck yourself into bed naked. Another hour passes, and the cool front that plagued the city for the day slips away, allowing that familiar humidity to attack your senses once more. You kick your sheets to the end of the bed, restless, and strain your ears to listen. Television off, no more Benny now. The neon numbers on your alarm clock blink, telling you that it’s just past midnight.

Carefully, you sit up in bed. Turn a little to see if he’s there. And he is, of course, he is.  

Your stranger is shirtless, stood a few metres away from the window, clad in a pair of loose black shorts. Dark hair a mess on the top of his head, and it’s curly. Gorgeous little tufts of wavy hair that cascade around his ears and—you’re salivating at the sight of him.  

He steps closer to the window, and then closer again. His shoulders are wide, arms long and strong. But his middle is soft, and you watch as he rests a broad palm across it. Shy, maybe. Hiding from you, maybe. You wish he wouldn’t.

So you rise up, perch on your heels and expose your bare chest to him. You think you can see him swallow, think you can see his hand twitch against that gorgeous stomach. And then you raise a hand and graze one of your nipples, slow. Feel it harden beneath your touch, pinch it between your thumb and index fingers as he watches. And when that hand on his stomach lowers, disappearing beneath the band of his shorts, you feel nothing but relief.  

Please, you whisper, begging him. Please, please, please.  

Your free hand slips beneath your pillow and grips your vibrator, hot pink and long. Never taking your eyes away from his, you press the on button and glide it between your thighs. Jolt when the tip of it presses between your slick folds, clit twitching beneath silicone.  

His face is flushed again, jaw clenched tight as he steps as close to the window as he can possibly get. He’s shaking his head, chest rising and falling faster now. You notch the toy at your entrance and press it inside, mouth falling open at the stretch, and you wish it were him, wish you knew how it felt to be touched by him. Endlessly, painfully needy for him.  

Bathed in soft yellow lamplight, the muscle in his bicep strains. It makes his skin look waxy and warm and you wish you were there. Want to know what he sees in you when he peers through your window; if you look as angelic as he does.

His elbow shifts, jaw titling upward as his chest heaves, gaze unwavering. The base of the window hides everything below his waistline from view, but this is enough. It’s enough to see the soft swell of his stomach, the dark smattering of hair across his pecs, the tension in his right shoulder as he touches himself.

You come with a groan, face a twisted mess of pleasure and agony and please, please, please, and you think you can hear him moan in response. Think he must be able to tell, because his left hand brackets against the top of the window, bracing himself, and he works his cock harder, faster. Arm shifting in rapid movements as he fucks his hand, dark eyes trained on your softening face. And when he finishes, hair sweaty and stuck to his forehead, mouth ajar, you whimper, desperate to know how it tastes. You imagine that salty slick on your lips, your tongue. Imagine swallowing it down and making it yours.  

And a few days later, you do exactly that.   

You walk home from a late dinner and the cool evening draft is kind against your skin. It plays with the hem of your sundress, flicking it up to expose the tops of your thighs. When you reach your building, you text you friend home safe, and tuck your phone back inside your purse. You’ve only made it halfway up the path to the complex when you see him, walking towards you from the other end of the street. He reaches his building before he notices you, and you watch him consider the door for a moment. Weigh up his options. And it feels like minutes, like an eternity, although it’s only a few seconds, before he continues walking, feet light as he makes his way towards you.

Five, seven, nine, four, you push open the heavy door and step inside. Hold it open for him to follow.  

He does so silently. Doesn’t say a word as he steps inside and glances around, as you make your way toward the stairs. Doesn’t comment on the out of order sign on the elevator, and doesn’t complain as he trails behind you up five flights of stairs. And with every step, you feel your stomach tightening. Feel liquid heat coiling between your thighs; that hot, wet desire that has been so so patient with the two of you.

Your stranger only ever lets himself fall a few paces behind, and as you grace the landing of the fifth floor, you feel fingertips graze the hem of your dress. A whisper of a touch; the tips of his fingers brush against the back your thigh for a split second, and disappear just as fast.  

You rifle through your purse for the key, slot it inside the hole, and then he’s there. Hot chest against your back, a hand on your waist, nudging you inside. Finally.  

A rough exhale pours from you as he presses your back against the closed door, and your stranger’s mouth is there to swallow it.

Warm, plump lips mould against yours, and you moan in relief. Knock his hat to the ground, fingers tangling in those dark curls, holding him against you.  

Face to face, at last. 

Everything is sticky and hot in your apartment, and you feel a sheen of sweat form across your chest, your stomach. The thin fabric of your dress clings to your skin and you sigh as his hands grip your hip, your thigh, hitching one of your knees around his waist. You haven’t even turned on the light, you want to see him up close, want to see everythi— 

The zipper on his jeans scratches at your inner thigh, and when the thick weight of his cock presses against your cunt, you both let out a ragged moan.  

“You want this?” he breathes into your mouth, voice a low rasp. The way his moustache tickles the skin of your face makes you throb.

“Yes,” you gasp, inhaling his scent as your tongue presses inside of his mouth. You taste behind his teeth, feel them bite and suck at your lips as he grinds into you. His clothed cock presses your soaked underwear between the crease of your cunt, material rubbing perfectly against your clit. “Ohh, I need you to fuck me.”  

“Shit,” he growls, damp forehead heavy against yours. “So fucking pretty.”  

He pulls back a fraction, rucking up the front of your dress in his fist and holding it against your stomach.  

“You wear this for me?” he asks, eyes devouring every inch of exposed skin, every slip of material still covering your body.  

“Yes,” you whimper again, mouth falling open as he nips at your neck, your collarbone. His free hand slips between your bodies, nudging your panties to the side, and then a thick finger glides through the slick spread of your cunt. He sighs against your skin, fingers rubbing messily against your clit until you’re keening, arching your chest into his.  

“You’re so wet,” he marvels quietly. “Wanted this cock for so long, hmm?”  

“It’s all I think about,” you confess, and the words burn as they leave your mouth. A dirty little secret that you’ve never even voiced out loud to yourself.

“And what about him?” he urges as a thick finger nudges its way inside of you. “Huh? You want him like this too?”  

You gasp, eyes pinching closed. You can feel the ridges of his knuckles as he presses deeper, squeezing another finger inside. Curling them against the softest spot within you, stretching you out for him.  

“Who?”  

“That fuckin’ guy,” he grunts against the hinge of your jaw. The memory swims in your vision; Josh or Jeremy or Jacob or whatever his name is fucking you while you looked for him.  

“He’s no one,” you moan, hips bucking against his hand. “Just—fuck—needed to see if you’d look, I wanted you to look.”  

He laughs, low and breathy against your neck, craning back to stare at your face while he fucks you with his fingers.

“You want me that bad?” he murmurs, gaze heavy. A sharp pink tongue sneaks out to wet his lips and you whimper, eyes zeroing in on his mouth.  

“Want you,” you nod slowly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again. He coaxes your jaw open wider, and his kiss is desperate, fast, a clashing clicking mess of tongues and teeth and spit.  

His fingers pull away from your soft clutch and you whine into his mouth, only abated by the sound of his zipper coming undone, of his jeans hitting the floor. Your fingers fumble with buttons of your dress, but he stops you on the third one with a hushed whisper of leave it on, of you look so good like this.  

His cock slips between your folds, and he grinds the thick length of it against you. The thick, drooling head bumps your clit, and you cry out.  

“Oh my god,” you mumble, and it’s so hot in here, so much all of a sudden, and you’re dizzy. Head a spinning blur, body nothing but a trembling wet mess beneath his palms.     

“S’Frankie,” he says then, notching the tip at your dripping entrance.

“What?” you murmur, eyes flashing open as he begins to press inside. It’s a stinging burn as you stretch around him, and your leg tightens around his hip, desperate to have him closer, deeper, after so much waiting.  

“My name,” he pants, eyes wide and searching, forehead knocking against yours again. His nose brushes against yours, so soft. “Frankie.”  

“Frankie,” you repeat, and it feels so right in your mouth. Something in his expression crumples at the sound of it, and he pushes in all the way to the hilt. You gasp, a wet, rough sound, jaw swinging loose as he settles inside of you.  

“Fuck,” you cry out, head falling back against the door. “You’re so much bigger than I—”  

“Hmm?” he noses at your jaw, pulling back a little just to press in deeper, gripping your hips, your panties hooked around his thumb. “You can take it, pretty girl. Thought this was what you wanted?”   

A hand falls to grip the flesh of your ass and then he’s lifting you off your feet entirely, clutching you to his chest. You grip his shoulders desperately, both legs locked in a vice around his waist now, and all you can do is steel yourself when he finally begins to fuck you.  

It’s fast and loud and wet. He holds you against his chest, strong hands lifting you up and down on his cock relentlessly. With every stroke his tip glides against your g-spot, and soon enough you’re a stuttering mess, vision blurring as your body goes loose and pliant in his grasp.

“Feel so good,” he groans, hiding his face in your neck. “Been fucking waiting for this, you have no idea.” 

“Frankie—”  

“Thought about it every night,” he grunts, teeth snagging on your earlobe. “I’d fuck myself thinking about how’d you’d taste, how soft your skin would be. Fuck.”  

You grip the back of his neck and bring his mouth to yours, but you can’t even bring yourself to kiss him. Just two open mouths, breathing each other in. Twist your fingers through the curls at his nape and tug, and you think you must be saying please, please, just like the first time he made you come, because he fucks you harder. Pushes you against the wall and pistons into you, unforgiving, hitting something inside of you that no one ever has before.  

“Oh, oh,” you gasp, eyes widening as you feel that familiar tingle in your spine. Your toes curl against his skin, desperately seeking purchase, something to ground you as you hover over the edge. It’s so close now, suddenly right within your reach, and you grind yourself against his pelvis, meeting him thrust for devastating thrust.

“Say my name again,” he rasps then, and you do, over and over again. “Wanna hear it when I make you come, please.”  

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie, you moan it into his skin, his mouth, your fingernails carve it the word into the flesh of his shoulder.  

It spurs him on, and he is unrelenting, giving you every he has, every wet shift of his cock inside of you punching the air from your lungs until you pull hot and tight around him, cunt pulsing, sucking him in deeper as you come. Body shivering and jerking, you’re trapped between his large frame and the unforgiving wood of your door, nothing to do except writhe and gasp and take it as he keeps fucking you.  

You can hear him grunting under his breath. Hot against your neck, licking the words es perfecto into your skin. And you wish you could understand, wish you could say something back, but the only word you know anymore is Frankie.  

“You wanna taste it?” he grunts, and yes, you cry, yesyesyesgodyes.  

He pulls out and you drop to your knees with a thud, drooling tongue slipping past your lips just in time to catch the hot, heady spurts of his come.

Frankie presses the tip of his cock inside your mouth and when you close your lips around it, he lets out a drawn-out groan. You hollow out your cheeks and chase down every bit of himself that he has to give to you. Slip your hand beneath his shirt, lay it over his stomach, that gorgeous stomach, and feel it rise and fall beneath your fingers. His come pools on your tongue and dribbles down your throat; hot and salty and bitter, but better than you could’ve ever imagined.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good for me.” Strong hands cradle your face, thumbs digging into your skin as his hips buck forward once, twice more, finally emptying the last of himself onto your tongue. “Can't believe this." 

And only when you’ve swallowed every last drop do you let his cock slip from the warmth of your mouth. Gasping for breath, already missing him, you look up with wet. He brushes hair off of your face.

“You good?” he asks softly, cupping your jaw in his palm.  

“Yeah,” you murmur, nuzzling into his hand. “I’m good.”  

Slowly, Frankie helps you up from the ground, hand on your elbow to steady you, and then looks around your apartment.

He’s quiet for a moment, still breathing heavy, hand slipping around your waist, and his eyebrows drift down into a small frown as he gazes at your home for the first time.  

“Jesus,” he finally speaks. “This place is fucking tiny.”  

a/n: okay but do you have a naked window neighbour or are YOU the naked window neighbour? i've always been the latter, oops, anwyays thanks for reading!

[abostongirlinkentucky]

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I won’t tell anyone if I ever hit the lottery but there will be signs…

[olafsmiles2020]

Help! I was reading a story about Frankie and didn't favorite or reblog before I sat my phone down and now i can't find it 😭😭 Frankie meets his neighbor who is a high-school science teacher nick named bug. He has a little girl named Lucia who she helps out with. If anyone has any leads you will forever be my favorite!

Repost and favorite stories people!!

[joelalorian]

wip wednesday

I actually made it on a Wednesday, yay! Thank you lovelies for the tags - @mermaidgirl30 @burntheedges @evolnoomym You sure make a girl feel special!

I have a torn rotator cuff in my left shoulder and haven't been writing as much as I'd like. Starting PT next week so hopefully it will start to get better and I'll find the energy to write more. For now, I'm still working on punkshort's AU challenge entry, neighbor!frankie:

Three weeks after settling in, you found yourself at the shelter browsing adoptable animals. Growing up loving animals but never allowed to have pets, even your ex was adamant about not having any, you were finally able to add a furry little being to your family. You weren’t picky either, going in completely open-minded and letting the universe choose for you.

The universe delivered ten minutes after arriving at the shelter when a big-eared, blue-eyed, black and white shepherd looking dog bounded up to you excitedly, darting directly between your legs and goosing you. It felt like your soul left your body with the yelp that burst from your lips. “Joshua! No!” a harried volunteer called out, rushing over to you and the happy, four-legged fiend. “I am so sorry! He loves people and picks out his favorites with zest.” The woman wrestled with the dog, which was no easy feat. Bigger than a breadbox but smaller than a German Shepherd, Joshua was sturdy enough – and strong, based on the visible muscles in his hind legs – to present a challenge when he put his mind to it. Right then, his mind focused on you, and he refused to leave your side, licking at your hands with his pink tongue, booping you with his snout, ears perked up as he gazed at you with those ice blue eyes. You fell in love instantly. Plopping down on the ground, right there in the middle of the aisle, you ruffled Joshua’s short-haired fur. He practically smiled in delight as you pet him, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

NPTs: @sanarsi @syd-djarin @kyberblade @thundermartini (sorry if you've been tagged already!) and anyone else who would like to play

[basilisk2000]

making it my duty to go to work high off my gourd tomorrow

[3gremlins]

our neighbors across the street brought us festive cookies thus beginning a War of Politeness with which we must immediately retaliate by giving them homemade baked goods in turn lol.

ngl i'm excited, i wasn't sure how much holiday baking i felt like doing this year (b/c we are once again going nowhere and i do have a bit of the fomo since my family is doing a thing all together but we're both a bit iffy on travel still) but now i have a reason to do a bunch of festive baking and put it in incredibly extra boxes and stuff

(also normally this time of year i get sad b/c of aforementioned fomo and do a lot of sad baking to fill the emptiness and inevitably josh has to eat all the cookies by himself b/c i don't really like eating as much as i like baking/cooking so this solves both problems. thanks neighbors!)

[ssuperficialspacecadett]

Could we get a Frankie Morales fluff or smut (whichever you're feeling, or both?) with

35. "Better than I ever imagined."

👀👀🥺🥺💚

Find You.

35. "Better than I ever imagined."

Author's Note - this is a drabble written as part of my 500 Followers Celebration!! find that post here if you're interested in sending a request!! i love writing for any pedro characters. those big brown eyes get me everytime :(

Pairing - Frankie Morales x Neighbour!Female Reader

Warnings - mild cursing. smooching <3

Word Count - 811

Masterlist. 500 Follower Celebration Masterlist.

Your episode of TV is interrupted by a knock at your front door.

"Sweetheart? It's me. It's Frankie."

Sighing with relief, you make your way to the door, opening it to be met with none other than your next door neighbour, Frankie Morales.

"Hey!" you greet, probably a little too chirpy. Your crush on this man is monumental, and you often find you have to remind yourself to play it cool around him.

"Hey, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Ever the gentleman. No, you're not. Just watching TV. What do you need?"

It's not uncommon for you and Frankie to show up at each others doors unannounced. Sometimes, he'll come to borrow sugar, or you'll pop over to ask for help fixing your faucet. You make good neighbours, always helping one another out in whatever way you can.

"I have a weird request," he explains, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

"Hit me with it, Morales."

"Can I use your shower?"

Oh. Suddenly, your mind is flooded with images of Frankie, dripping wet, towel hanging low on his hips, hair messy...

"You with me, honey?" he asks, slight smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, sorry. Daydreaming," you recover. "Any reason you can't use your own?"

"Something's wrong with it. I've tried to fix it, but I think I made it worse. I've been at work all day, and the plumber can't come until tomorrow," he explains.

"Well, you know where the bathroom is. I'll get you a clean towel," you begin to walk towards your cupboard when a strong arm grabs your wrist and pulls you back.

"Thank you, so much. You're an angel, you know that right?" he winks at you, and you throw your head back in a laugh. The melody of it makes him smile.

He makes his way to your bathroom, you following shortly after with his towel. You retreat back to the living room, resuming your episode and trying not to think about the currently naked Frankie Morales in your apartment.

"Sweetheart?" he speaks from the doorway, startling you.

"Shit, Frankie! You move like a Prius!"

"Sorry," he laughs, clearly amused.

You look at him carefully. He's still dry.

"I'm totally interrupting something, aren't I?" he asks.

You raise your eyebrows in confusion. He continues.

"There's a pretty dress hanging up in the bathroom, and your makeup is all over the counter. Were you going out? Am I totally ruining your plans right now?"

Shit. You'd forgotten you'd hung your dress up to try and get the creases out, and totally forgot to put all your makeup away. You'd scrubbed your face with a makeup wipe haphazardly and made yourself cosy on the couch, paying no mind to the mess you'd left behind.

"No, no," you explain. "I was supposed to be going out, but the plans changed."

You're hoping he doesn't notice the slight wobble in your voice. He does.

"Hey, hey, are you okay?" he frets, coming to sit next to you. "Did something happen? You can talk to me."

"It's nothing. Seriously. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid if it's upset you."

He's looking at you so intently with those warm chocolate eyes, you're struggling not to burst into tears.

"I was meant to be going on a date. I was kind of excited, actually. But he cancelled last minute with some bullshit excuse."

"Oh, honey."

"It seems to happen to me a lot. Do I repel love, or something? Why can everyone find it but me?"

Frankie grabs your hands in his, warm palms calming you down.

"You're too good for men like that," he says firmly. "They don't deserve you."

You smile half-heartedly at him, and sit in the silence for a while, fingers still intertwined. Frankie's voice breaks through the quiet gently.

"Maybe you need to stop looking for love. Maybe it'll find you." Then, a bit quieter, "Maybe it already has."

Your eyes widen at his confession, searching his face for any traces of humour. Instead, you're met with Frankie looking at you carefully, no hints of amusement on his features. He's deadly serious.

"I'm so glad that idiot cancelled on you," he admits. "Because it means I get to do this."

He surges forward and captures your lips in a searing kiss. His hands move to cradle your face, and yours move to tangle in his chocolate curls.

The kiss is electric, alive with excitement. It's passionate and loving and heated and well worth the wait.

You pull away, gasping for air. He rests his forehead on yours, breathing each other in.

"Better than I ever imagined," he whispers against your lips.

"Yeah?" you smile.

"Yeah," he confirms, grinning from ear to ear.

Suddenly, Frankie stands up from the couch, pulling you by the hand. He's smirking, mischief rife in his eyes.

"Now, how about that shower?"

[voxmilia]

Thinking about mash au Grazi, barely in her 20s, unofficial guardian of her three younger siblings, adamantly anti war. But then her best friend and her twin brother are drafted and she has to follow them, she has to.

Only the boys are sent to the front lines as soldiers and Grazi enlists as a nurse and they're sent to three different units, nowhere near each other. So she spends half her time sewing up patients and worried her boys are being sewed up just like this at some aid station that she wont know about for weeks until they can send a letter her way.

[chuuphic]

i started the watcher the dad is literally so extra

[almostfoxglove]

SIT BACK, BABY

written for @joelmillerisapunk's #PPCUBodyWorshipChallenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Frankie Morales x f!Reader BODY PART: Thighs | WORD COUNT: 4.1k CW: Smut (m!oral), pwp, drinking (not during smut), sorta sub!Frankie.

SUMMARY: You've got a crush on your neighbor across the hall and finally get the chance to show him you care.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Your alarm clock reads 2:02 A.M. when you stir from a sweat-stained dream. 

Someone is breaking into your apartment.

Or sounds like they're trying to break in, at least. The awkward stabbing and metal scrape of disobedient picks and keys. A sudden fear cleaves through you, skull to stomach, and just like that you’re wide awake. Then you hear a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking please—”

And you sigh. You’re not in any danger.

Yellow light leaks into your apartment from the hall where you find your mountain of a neighbor slumped on his knees at your feet, one hand raised at the level of your lock, a silver key pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

He tilts his chin up, letting you glimpse beneath the brim of his navy ball cap the glassiness of his warm eyes, the flush of his cheeks. His lips part, bewildered or lost. The man looks hopelessly drunk. 

“Haanng on,” Frankie grins, squinting up at you. “You’re in my apartment?”

He drops his hand and his apartment key slips from his grasp onto the floor, unnoticed by him. You’ve lived across the hall from him for two years, steadfast in your belief that fucking anyone who lives in your building—or frankly, within a three block radius—is a hideous mistake. Has that made your hopeless crush on him any less… crushing?

Absolutely fucking not.

Now, seeing Frankie on his knees is doing something terrible to your brain. Giving it all sorts of ideas. You blame his jeans, the brawn of his thighs—how badly you’d like to sink your teeth into them surprises you.

“My apartment, actually,” you correct, lifting one finger to point over his shoulder, across the hall. Frankie turns and, sure enough, recognizes his apartment number gleaming on the door.

“Shit,” he says. You make a point of staring him dead in the eye even when you’d usually look away, just so you don’t look at his legs. The spread of his knees on the carpeted floor. 

Doe-eyed, Frankie blinks up at you—helpless as a pup—as need stirs in your stomach. The urge to hold him. To take care of him for a while.

“I’m a lil’ drunk,” he admits in a whisper, like it’s a secret, like you wouldn’t have known.

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You don’t say.”

He buries his face in his palms and groans quietly, embarrassed. “Hermosa,” he muffles, making your mouth go dry. When his hands drop, his gaze lands at your feet, rising slowly to your legs—he turns, you think, the color of a berry. Something that bursts red against your fingertips in summer.

“You’re not wearing pants,” Frankie says plainly, his eyebrows high on his head.

Shit.

You cross your arms over your chest as if that’ll hide your legs, bare beneath the t-shirt you sleep in. You can’t remember what underwear you have on, if it’s a cute pair or a laundry day pair, and pray quietly that he can’t glimpse them from where he’s sitting, though he probably can. What’s worse, though, is that you can tell Frankie’s not trying to peek. He’s looking you in the eye—respectful, it seems, even on the verge of a blackout.

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, trying not to blush. “Y’woke me up.”

Poor, drunk Frankie’s face just folds. Devastated to have bothered you—he huffs softly, lets his eyes stutter closed, dark lashes shivering on his cheeks. It really isn’t fair, how cute he is like this. Grown, drunk men are idiots. Nuisances, at best. And yet here he is—this broad mass of a man, solid in his calm, easy way—managing to be both out of his mind and entirely endearing at the same time. It’s almost annoying, how not annoyed you are to be disturbed from a fit of slumber. You’re sort of glad.

“M’sorry,” Frankie mumbles, staring at the floor. He lifts one finger and with your breath held you watch it move slowly toward your foot until his fingertip meets your bare ankle. Softly, so softly. You hardly feel it, this small touch, his fragile apology. 

It’s like he’s trying to kill you. It’s like he knows you’ve had some stupid crush on him for two years.

“Come on,” you say, as you crouch down to retrieve his forgotten key, then his arm, warm and solid in your grasp. “Think you better get into bed.”

He giggles as he lurches to his feet, thankfully able to stand after you steady him and release the weight of his arm. Cheeks warm, you walk his key across the hall, unlock the door, and step aside for him to go in with a sweep of your hand.

“How embarrassed should I be tomorrow?” Frankie asks, coming to stand at your side to stare down the tunnel of darkness formed by his entryway.

You shrug. “Willing to bet you won’t remember this in the morning,” you say, smirk nagging at your lips as you nudge his key back into his hand.

At the contact, he turns, face shadowed by his hat and curls licking playfully beneath the brim, and though you expect him to laugh or smile there’s not a drop of humor in his expression—he looks, you think, disappointed. Like maybe he doesn’t want to forget. Squinting, you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment, but Frankie doesn’t move. He blinks drowsily at you, bottom lip pouting again.

This is probably the most you’ve ever spoken in one go.

The closest you’ve ever stood.

“Pope’s never gonna le’me live this down,” he mumbles.

You huff a short chuckle under your breath and set one hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him inside—clearly the man’s never going to go in on his own. 

“That one of your broad shouldered friends?” you tease.

Frankie only budges a step closer to the doorway, frowning as he rolls his shoulders, standing up a little straighter as if to make a point. “Yes,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you tease, then drop your hand from his back. “You’re very broad, too.”

“I feel bad I woke you up,” Frankie says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper, and you feel it again—that impulse to hold him, make it better. Rub his shoulders or something, just to help him relax.

“It is,” Frankie mumbles sorrily.

“Did you mean to wake me up?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Were you trying to break in, or did you get mixed up?”

“Got mixed up,” he admits quietly.

You catch his gaze and offer him a small smile. “Then I forgive you,” you say. “No harm done, seriously. You’re not the worst person to find at my door.”

This seems to settle him, at least a little, because with one final, frowning huff Frankie surrenders his guilt and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, and time stands briefly still as he moves toward you—leaning in to graze his lips against your cheek, his stubble brushing your skin. 

You stand, statued by your surprise, unable even to breathe.

“G’night, nena.”

“Goodnight,” you choke out, grateful that in his state he doesn’t seem to register your shock or the tremble in your voice. If he weren’t drunk, you’re pretty sure that would’ve snapped you. You’d have told him right now and right here that you’ll take care of him, help him unwind a little—that you’ve wanted to touch him for two years and it hasn’t gotten any easier, orbiting him without the guts to swing yourself closer to his gravity.

But he is drunk. Three quarters out of his mind, if you had to guess, based on the clumsy muddle of his footsteps as he at last sways into his apartment, shutting the door behind him. Leaving you breathless in the hallway, alone.

In the morning, you wake to a band of sunlight searing through your curtains. You’ve slept through your alarm all the way till ten, and lift your phone to find a text waiting on your lock screen, sent two hours ago.

Think I owe you an apology, neighbor.

Groggy, you frown at the string of digits you don’t recognize until the night comes back to you, piece by piece. Your heart stutters as you sit up in bed, letting your bedsheets pool in your lap as you type out a reply.

How did you get my number?

Also, you got up at 8am?? Are you even alive?

You get a reply only minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth.

Told the building manager that I was getting your mail and wanted to return it. Little scary how few questions they asked.

You scoff, only to have your phone ding again immediately.

Sure hope I’m alive. I have a very thoughtful neighbor to thank for getting me home safe.

You spit into the sink, then rinse your mouth, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

Thoughtful, huh?

Pretty, too. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that yet.

Still feel bad about last night. Let me make it up to you.

No more than six hours later, you’re pulled from whatever TV show’s been rotting your brain all afternoon by a steady knock on your front door. Your skin twinkles with nerves.

You’re fully clothed this time—showered too, thankfully—and when you open the door Frankie isn’t on his knees. He’s standing, curls squashed beneath his hat, t-shirt stretched across his chest, in black athletic shorts baring him below the knee, as he holds up two plastic bags that fill the hallway with a smell you know all too well: takeout from the Chinese place you love down the road. When your eyes round at the sight, Frankie grins, letting you glimpse the dimple that winks from his cheek. 

You see, too, his exhaustion. The navy shadows bruised beneath his glassy eyes. He may be alive, but it’s painfully obvious that he must, beneath that smile, be suffering a brutal hangover. And he’s bringing you food—too generous a gesture, you think, for such a small crime.

“Hoped you might like this place,” he says.

“You really didn’t have to—” you start to say, but Frankie shakes his head before squeezing past you in the doorway to come inside.

“Only fair,” he insists, and you shut the door while he toes out of his shoes, thoughtful enough not to drag dirt into your apartment as he breezes into your kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times before. Opening the bags, cracking each container, fishing through drawers until he finds your cutlery. Domestic and entirely alien: this man you’ve known for two years who’s never entered your space, making himself at home. Trying to serve you.

Dumbstruck, you watch him, unsure what to say and the longer you do, the more the ache of him seems to radiate. You swear you see him wince when a drawer slams too hard, when he looks up accidentally into the ceiling light. With one hand, you reach out and turn the dimmer switch to soften the lights over his head, and Frankie looks up from the styrofoam containers to catch your eye. 

The grin drops from his face. “Shit—is this too much? It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Frankie wipes his hands on his thighs as he rounds the kitchen island to stand before you, dark lashes batting worriedly over his freckled cheeks as he lowers his head to meet your eye. “If you want, I can just leave you with the food. Don't wanna be here if you don't want me to be.”

A soft scoff leaves your lips, the first breath of disbelief disguised as laughter. “Frankie,” you breathe, and his chest puffs at the way you say his name. “You look like you feel like shit. Your head must be killing you. And you brought me food.”

His jaw ticks, and you wonder if he’s been looking for an excuse to talk to you, too.

“No more fussing over me,” you say, lifting your hands slowly to rest on his shoulders. 

Frankie flinches but doesn’t pull away, his warm eyes flickering between yours like he’s trying to unpuzzle you. 

“Let me help,” you say.

“Hermosa,” he murmurs, sounding winded. Desperate. He shakes his head.

With a soft grin you slip your hands down his arms—firm and hot beneath your palms—to guide him toward your couch, warmed by a box of sunlight cast through the windows. Frankie sits with a gentle sigh, biceps tensing beneath your grasp, not yet sure what to make of you. You give his arms a light squeeze, flash him a grin you hope might ease his nerves, and sink to the carpet between his knees.

Frankie’s eyes go black.

The air simmers, woozy as the space above molten tarmac in the dead of summer. It’s a kind of spell, you think. His sharpened breath. Your hands slipping easily over his bare knees. And it’s obvious: the riot of guilt surging behind his lust-blown eyes, his instinct to politely turn you down as you rub his joints softly with your thumbs.

“Don’t have to,” you tell him, careful to hold his eye so he’ll see you mean them. “But I’d like to, if you want. Could take care of you for a while.”

Frankie lets out a ragged breath, and his eyes slam shut before he drops his head on the back of your couch. “Shit—are you—shit.” He grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, groans quietly, and from the floor you watch the way his whole body shudders as he struggles for air.

“That a yes or a no, let’s eat Chinese food?” you ask softly, hands frozen on his knees until he answers. “Either is good.”

“Shit—yes, that’s a yes,” Frankie pants, still hiding behind his hands with his head tipped back.

You lift one hand from his knee to reach for him, curling your fingertips around his forearm, pulling it away from his eyes. “Mírame,” you say, and it’s possible Frankie comes undone right then and there—chest deflating, arms slumping limp into his lap, head lolling to look down at you in disbelief.

Lips parted, his tongue slips across his bottom lip, sending a thrill through your body and a sudden stutter to your heart. But this isn’t about you; it’s about him, so you squeeze your thighs together as Frankie shifts his hips on the couch and nods shakily.

Oh, this is dangerous. How he already looks ready to fall apart beneath your hands. You might never get enough of it.

Testing the waters, you slide your hands slowly up his thighs just far enough to brush your fingertips to the hem of his shorts, the roped muscles in his legs tensing beneath your caress. “If you want me to stop, just say, okay?”

Frankie shakes his head, licks his lip again, and your eyes follow the glide of his tongue. “Not gonna want you to stop,” he breathes, as his cheek dimples with the flash of a sheepish grin.

You hum softly, shuffle closer to the couch, encouraging him to spread his legs wider with a press of your hands. “Just sit back, baby,” you murmur.

So he does. Frankie grunts as you patiently knead the mesa of his thighs—the hills of muscle bound tight beneath golden skin, so hot to the touch—and lower your lips to lay a kiss on his knee, glancing up through your lashes to gauge his reaction.

He rewards you with a needy groan that goes straight to your cunt.

You smile against his skin, let your hands wander, thumbs digging into his thighs as you work loose their knotted web. Humming, your hands slipping beneath the black curtain of his shorts to stray higher as you work, you slide the flat of your tongue up his inner thigh and Frankie’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck—nena, shit,” he pants, just before one hand bolts out to cover the crown of your head, stilling your movements. 

You take your mouth off him and look up, basking in the abyss of his dark eyes and the red of his neck. “Want me to stop?” you ask.

Immediately, Frankie’s head shakes nonono as he gathers your hair in his fist, holding it back from your face. “Que cosa mas linda. So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s easy, but you knew it would be, watching his body twitch and melt beneath your ministrations, the caress of your attentive hands. The wet suckle of your lips and tongue rising towards his hips. Slowly, you unwind him. Let him dissolve into your couch, always with some sweet nothing on his lips that could ruin you if you let it—mierda, feels so—so fucking good, perfect hands, holy shit, tan suave.

The taste of his skin is a balm in itself, heady, a little sweat-kissed, addictive. With his shorts shoved high on his hips, you latch at the supple flesh of his inner thigh and suck, drawing a tortured whimper from Frankie as he shivers, his chest rising faster with every breath.

“Shit—por favor, please,” he begs, as the hand in your hair gently scratches your scalp. It’s so gentle you almost believe he doesn’t know he’s doing it—that touching you like this, so tenderly, so ruinously, is to Frankie instinct alone.

“So sweet to me,” you murmur against his thigh, licking the pink mark you’ve left on his skin. “So strong, so warm. Just wanna take care of you, Frankie. Wanna make you feel good.”

“Hermosa,” he groans, desperate now, his cock twitching beneath the black of his shorts.

The square of sunlight glows over you both, warming you just as much as his body. Beyond the cracked window you can hear the chirp of birds finding their way to each other, the squeal of distant traffic, the churn of wind through the alley. All of it—all that raucous city noise that used to keep you up all night—feels tranquil now. A serene soundtrack whispering below the rasps of Frankie’s pleasure.

“Wanted to for a long time,” you tell him, before latching again at the top of his other thigh, marking satin skin with a matching brand. “Wanted to touch you so bad.”

He’s gasping now, lungs desperate for air like he’s been running, and his other hand grabs hold of your shoulder to pull you closer. “Would’a—” he wheezes, and lets his head drop back against the couch again like it’s too much to look right at you. “Would’ve let you if I’d—fuck—if I’d known.”

You hum against his leg, reach both hands high enough to dig your thumbs in the crevice of his hips, and Frankie jolts, hissing a strangled fuck before settling again, more liquid than before.

Higher, your mouth climbs, desperate for more of him. Electric with the feeling of his need, the way his hands keep you near to him—thumb sweet on your shoulder, fingertips drawing little circles on your scalp. It’s possible you’ve never liked pleasuring someone so much, and you’ve liked it before. But Frankie responds to your every movement and breath, every change in pressure or place, strung taut as a bow that’s fighting not to snap.

With a final glance up at Frankie, his head hung back to unveil the gold of his throat, the stubble scattered along his jaw, you nuzzle your nose gently against his crotch and feel his cock throb, hitting your cheek.

“Baby,” he whines, hand tightening in your hair.

“I’ve got you,” you coo, and draw your own out of his shorts to hook into the waistband. “Gonna take you out now, is that okay?”

“Fuck—yes—fucking yes it’s okay,” he begs, and the light sting of his hand pulling your hair tighter paints a smile on your face. 

Slowly, you peel down his shorts and find no boxers beneath them, only the heavy length of him which bobs up against his t-shirt, thick and swollen and aching. “No underwear? Frankie,” you tease, and he chuckles hoarsely as you cast his shorts aside.

“Laundry day,” he wheezes, and you click your tongue before scooting forward until your chest presses against the cushions, framed by his legs.

He’s beautiful like this, destroyed but in the good way—dragged out of his head for a while by your dutiful hands, your thumbs digging into the meat of his thighs. His cock leaking and twitching every time the warmth of your breath fans over his soft skin.

With one hand, you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, and the whimper that leaves Frankie’s lips in reply might be the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. You wet your tongue along his length, tasting the earth of him before wrapping your lips around his tip, trading off between suckling and licking.

The hand in your hair locks up suddenly, not moving your head but clamping down hard. You moan softly and he twitches on your tongue. Grows harder, somehow, when a moment ago you’d have thought it impossible.

“Ay,” he croaks. “Fuck—your fucking mouth, baby.”

Perhaps this is what emboldens you, makes you sloppy—just as needy as him. Drool slicking to his length as you bob, drinking in his every moan and babble. Your fist pumping what you can’t take, jaw aching around his girth. Frankie might come apart at the molecules, you think. Evanesce cell by cell, held in the heat of your mouth as you swallow around his length, forcing the head of his cock to the back of your throat.

When you gag, eyes watering, heart a hummingbird in your chest, he makes a desperate whine and his hand tenses on your shoulder. 

You’d stay here the rest of the night, if he’d let you, but he doesn’t.

Frankie thighs twitch, breaths coming faster now, shorter. Close. 

“Necesito sentirte,” he says as he squeezes your shoulder again. “Please—shit, gonna come if you don’t stop—fuck, nena, please let me feel you. Wanna feel you so fucking bad. Wanted you—fuckfuck—wanted you the day you moved in.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you see his hat has tumbled off, leaving the crown of his head a mess of flattened down curls broken up by the occasional stray, and something about how he looks in this moment, fuckedout and gone and desperate, makes you want to stay right where you are. 

Still, you hollow your cheeks as you ease off him with a wet pop, one hand pumping his thick cock while the other rubs his muscled thigh. You shake your head, bottom lip bitten. “Next time,” you promise, with a smirk rich on your lips. Then you’re on him again, throat open and accepting as he teeters on the edge of falling apart. 

“Mmmph, shit—nena, so good, oh my god,” Frankie gasps, hands back in your hair to hold it out of your way. “Gonna make me—fuck, where do I—where do you—”

He doesn’t get the rest out; the moment you slip your hand beneath his balls and sink your lips to the base of his heavy length, taking him to the hilt, Frankie comes with a sudden cry. Warmth pumps down your aching throat as he pants, fingers tangled in your hair, and you swallow it all hungrily while you moan.

He whimpers when you lift off his spent cock to look up at him with a satisfied grin. If you thought he looked ruined before, you were wrong. This is what he looks like when you’ve wrecked him. 

“Come here,” he croaks, then with a grunt Frankie yanks you off the floor and onto his lap to envelope you in his arms. You settle on his thighs, try not to swoon at his strength, and when he kisses you it isn’t at all what you’re expecting—there’s no roar, no taking, not a drop of desperation left in him at all. No, Frankie kisses you wholly, gently, all lithe tongue and sweetness and gratitude, and the longer it goes on the more you both smile, struggling to kiss around laughter and teeth.

When he pulls back, his pupils are still blown but warm too, so warm. His face and beard gilded with late afternoon light. He strokes a thumb across your cheek, then bumps his nose against yours, and you sink against his chest to chase his mouth. Before you can, Frankie's arms lock around your waist; he throws you down onto the couch, pinning you beneath him with a smug little smile.

“This time I get to taste you, hermosa,” he promises, then seals it with a kiss.

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