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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 16 days ago

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In the Winter - A "Kissing You" Drabble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Warnings: LOL this is so rated E for every single reason. Oral (fem receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, you name it. Word Count: 2355 Prompt #56: Pulling your love in your lap, them straddling your hips. a/n: I watched Triple Frontier twice in a week and this happened. Happy Winter!

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You’d grown up in the cold, but Frankie most certainly had not.

“How the fuck does anyone live here?” Frankie asks for what you’re pretty sure is the fourth time since you started shoveling out the driveway. Snow was still falling, but you’d lived there long enough to know that shoveling a little at a time was greatly preferable to plowing your way through the higher drifts later. Your dad didn’t believe in snowblowers so shoveling was the only option, and this made it easier. It was a whole deal.

You stop for a moment, leaning against your shovel as you wipe away a few stray strands of hair from your cheek. “You deal with it,” you shrug, although you’ll be the first to admit that living in Florida for the past few years has made dealing with it a lot harder than it used to be.

Frankie mirrors you, his weight shifting against his own shovel as he breathes heavily. A giggle escapes you at the sight - Francisco Morales in a bright blue parka, his jeans tucked into an old pair of your father’s boots. A winter hat that replaced his standard baseball cap sits atop his head, and his cheeks are rosy red from a mixture of cold and the exertion of clearing the driveway.

“I’m starting to regret volunteering for this,” he quips, taking a few steps toward you as he drags the shovel behind him, the metal scraping against the icy pavement.

“But now Dad loves you,” you tease, maneuvering in his direction with a sway of your hips, “and wasn’t that your goal?”

His eyebrows raise in disbelief, “how did you…”

“Isn’t it?” you ask again, popping the “T” in your response as a smile plays at your lips. When your mom learned that you had some time off, she’d insisted that you come home for the holidays, and Frankie had been oddly eager to join you. It didn’t take long for you to realize that Frankie was trying hard to impress your parents, but it wasn’t until you accidentally overhead a conversation in your father’s study that you fully understood why.

Your boyfriend is close enough now that his breath mingles with your own, fogging in-between your bodies. From where you stand, even through the layers you both wear, you can feel the heat radiating off him. You automatically lean closer, swaying in his direction, but he surprises you by pulling back, resuming the task of clearing snow with a sly smile plastered on his face.

“What the fuck, Frankie?”

“If my purpose here is to impress your father, then I’d better finish clearing out this driveway,” he states, effortlessly working to clear the remaining snow with renewed determination. “Plus, anyone could see us out here.”

Arousal pools deep in your belly as you watch him work, and you glance back at the house, where soft light pours out the front window. Frankie’s right, anyone could see you out here, your parents included, but it’s also late. Late enough that the street around you is quiet, and you’re fairly certain your parents have already gone to bed.

Which is why, when you look back at Frankie, your brain short circuits. He’s grunting as he lifts another load of snow and it causes a flash of heat to course through your veins, and you curse the archaic traditions that have you sleeping in separate bedrooms. Frankie had sheepishly followed orders, bunking downstairs in the guest room while you took your childhood bedroom two stories up. You’d protested, but this trip and their impressions were important to Frankie, which meant they were important to you, but now your ability to refrain from sneaking beneath his sheets is wearing thin.

And, then, a plan forms in your mind.

You drop your shovel where it stands, moving with purpose down the driveway. He’s focused enough on his task that he doesn’t hear you, the sound of your footsteps muffled by his hat, and he’s obviously surprised when you grab his arm and drag him back toward the house. His shovel drops with a second loud clang, and you wince, hoping that it doesn’t wake anyone inside the house, but you keep moving, intent on getting him inside as soon as possible.

“What are you…” he asks, but you drown out his response with your lips on his the second you have him pulled into the garage. With the door closed behind him, he winds his arms around you, still covered hands spanning the width of your back.

Frankie’s a good kisser, you learned that on your first date, but nothing ever seems to prepare you for the way he devours you. You might be in control, pressing him firmly against the door, but he maintains a near-frantic pace, biting at your lower lip in a well-practiced effort that draws a moan out of you.

It’s overwhelming, and you’re unsure how he’s been able to notice anything in the moments since you stepped into the garage when you already feel like you’re floating, but he leads you easily toward an old workbench that you recognize faintly from your grandparents’ farm. When he sits, he drags you down against him, urging you to straddle his hips, hands on your thighs as he leads you in grinding your core against him. Your movements are sloppy, desperate for any kind of friction, but then he finds your rhythm and fuck.

He’s hard against your center, hips rocking ever so slightly up against you even through the layers you both still wear. It’s unclear when you lost your scarf or when he lost his hat, but Frankie’s lips are attached to your neck, worrying into your skin in a way that makes you thankful it’ll still be cold enough for a turtleneck in the morning. You make a feeble attempt to bring him closer by tangling your fingers in his curls, but it isn’t enough. None of it is. You need to be closer.

“Why the fuck did I wear snow pants?” you whine into the dark as you stand, frantically starting to peel back your layers. Frankie is barely visible in the shadows of the room, but you hear his low laugh, and you swat at him in warning. “Stop laughing and help me out of this thing.”

“As you wish,” he returns, making quick work of your jacket, pushing it off your shoulders to let it pool on the concrete behind you. You’re already working at your boots while he unzips his own coat, and then his hands are on you again, attempting to unfasten the suspenders on your snow pants. “And here I was thinking the most complicated thing I’d ever have to get you out of was that thing you wore for our anniversary,” he grumbles as his fingers work.

“Just wait till you see me in a wedding dress,” you tease, and you can tell by the way Frankie stills for just a moment that you haven’t extinguished a fire, you’ve lit one.

You’re barely aware of what happens next, of the way Frankie lifts you so your back is against the rough surface of the bench. He practically rips your snowpants from your legs, revealing the yoga pants underneath, and he makes quick work of those too. Your skin protests at the onset of the cold room, but he’s quick to distract you by trailing a line of kisses from your neck down your body, hands running up underneath the sweatshirt you’re still wearing to cup your breasts as he drifts lower.

When he reaches your core, he blows a puff of air against your soaked panties, and you’re faintly aware of the way you’re begging him to do something, anything. He makes you wait instead, tracing your thighs with his tongue as he slowly pulls the remaining fabric down your legs, and only then does he finally give you what you want.

You struggle to swallow a moan when his tongue traces a path through your center, his fingers already easing their way toward your entrance. He’s methodical, the same way he always is when he eats you out, carefully monitoring every sound you make, every move of your hips. “Doing so good for me, baby,” he murmurs against you, “but you’ve gotta stay quiet for me.”

It’s a command that’s easier for him to give than it is for you to follow, especially as your hips rut up against his mouth. It’s harder when he’s buried two fingers kuckle-deep inside you, pumping in and out slowly. Frankie knows how to play you, and when your motions become more evident, he pins your hips down with an arm, preventing you from increasing the pace. Forcing you to take what he gives you.

“Can you take a third?” he questions, swiping at your walls while he waits for a response. You can barely nod, afraid that if you stop biting your lip you’ll alert half the neighborhood to the fact that your boyfriend is currently eating you out in your parents’ garage. He complies, adding his ring finger just as he resumes his assault on your clit.

It’s exactly what you need, and within seconds you feel the pressure building. One of your hands finds a grip on his forearm, still pinning you to the bench, and the other holds his head against you as you let the white hot heat consume you.

He brings you down gently, like a pilot touching a helicopter to the ground, fingers continuing to circle slowly as he crawls up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the kiss sloppy as you immediately start to work at his belt. “Frankie,” you whimper quietly, pushing at his jeans, “get these off.”

“A little impatient tonight, Querida?”

Your eyes have finally adjusted to the low light, and you glare at him, watching as he kicks off his jeans and makes quick work of his boxers, his cock springing to life. “I swear to god, Frankie, if you don’t - “

He cuts you off with a lengthy kiss, his body crowding you into the wooden surface, his length already rutting against your folds. “If I don’t what?” he asks when he finally allows you both to come up for air.

“If you don’t fuck me right now you’re sleeping outside.”

He chooses that moment to slip inside you, cock dragging against your walls as he buries himself to the hilt. You grab at his shoulders, mouth biting at the skin of his chest as you conceal your moan. Frankie’s hips are pressed against yours tightly, waiting for you to adjust to his size, and he gently grinds into you in some effort to speed up the process.

Sloppy kisses are left along your collarbone, but you can easily tell just how hard he is, how much effort it’s taking him not to spill into you then and there, so you encourage him to look at you in the dim light. “You can let go, baby. It’s okay,” you reassure him, fingers pushing unruly curls away from his sweaty forehead.

He shakes his head. “Want you to come again too.”

Of course he does.

“Then fuck me, Morales.�� Your statement is more of a command than anything, and it’s one that he heads without hesitation, pulling back before slamming into you with a particularly rough stroke. He repeats the process, immediately lost in the sensation, brows furrowed in concentration as he holds himself back. It’s fast and it’s needy and you’re only faintly aware of the way the old wooden bench is squeaking beneath you, legs hammering against the concrete with every snap of his hips.

“Come on, baby. Come on,” he urges, breath hot against your skin. You know you’re close, but that he’s closer, and you wrap a leg around his hips in an attempt to push him over the edge.

“Let go, Frankie,” you whimper again, hardly coherent yourself, but it causes the coil in him to snap. His hips stutter as he fills you, the rough pad of his thumb circling your clit in an attempt to take you with him. It works, and you follow just as he collapses against you.

His cock is still buried within you when you come back to your senses, his head pressed into the crook of your neck. It’s only when your shoulders start to ache that you encourage him to move.

“Wait,” he stops, and you watch with curiosity as he slowly pulls away, his cock immediately replaced with his fingers as he drops to his knees at the side of the bench, pulling you toward him. You shudder at the motion as he pushes his spend back into you, swiping his tongue along your slit once, twice, and then a third time that has you aching for more even after two orgasms. His gaze meets yours. “I want to remember what we taste like,” he states, and you have half a mind to spend the rest of the night in this garage if it means he can keep fucking you.

But then the sensor light outside turns on, illuminating you both as the light seeps in through the garage window. There’s a scramble to find your clothes, both of you giggling like teenagers as you pull on pants and coats and jackets somehow faster than you’d ripped them off, giggling the whole while. Your snow pants remain tossed on the garage floor, forgotten as you ease your way toward the door to see who’s triggered the light.

And there, in the yard, sits a raccoon, staring at you with bright, mischievous eyes.

Frankie’s behind you a moment later, crowding your space as he looks out over your shoulder. “Do you think he knows?”

You elbow him lightly, “knows what? That you just fucked me into oblivion in my parents’ garage?”

“No,” he whispers against your ear, a hand already trailing down beneath your yoga pants again to where he’s still seeping out of you. “Do you think he knows I’m about to do it again?”

#lurking and writing #frankie morales x reader

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macfrog · 1 year ago

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rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

main masterlist

When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

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pimosworld · 7 months ago

Note

would you be able to write something about santi and frankie making a tree house for the reader's kids?

her kids have always wanted one and there's a perfect tree for it right in the center of the back yard, but she's never had the time to make it herself or get a professional to make it.

one day, at a neighborhood barbecue, pope is talking to reader's kids (trying desperately to be their favorite uncle) when they inform him of their plan of how to get their mom to make their tree house.

he tells them to draw him up a plan of their dream tree house and tells them he'll see what he can do. with the help of fish, they draw up a real plan of action from the drawing and set out finding materials. reclaimed wood, an old slide that really just needs a fresh paint job, a carpet to go inside, and some old moroccan style tiles for the roof.

they show up, truck bed full of supplies, unannounced and get to work unloading and constructing the thing. how can the reader be so mad when her kids look so happy helping them build it and playing in it once it's built?!

(new anon, sorry that this was so long.)

Pairing-Triple frontier boys x f!reader

Summary-Your kids find a way to get what they want both for you and for them.

CW-SFW, Fluff, angst, mentions of parent loss, mentions of spouse loss, tf boys being protective, tf boys being great uncles, mentions of insecurities, kids being menaces, dating, cursing, inaccurate descriptions of tree house build time because this is my world and we can build tree houses quickly, so much fluff. The boys being good with their hands.

WC-2.7k

A/N- I’m sorry this took me so long anon. Writers block sucks but it’s only fitting that the anniversary of my first ever fic COMPANY that came up a few weeks ago featuring the tf boys is kicked off with your request for some Frankie and Santi being amazing. I made some adjustments but I hope this is everything you wanted and more.

[Triple Frontier Masterlist][Main Masterlist]

If you build it

“I can tell they’re up to something.” Santi shoots you a look as he flips the burgers on the grill.

“They’re kids of course they’re up to something. The question is what.” Santi closes the grill as he looks across the wide expanse of yard at his niece and nephew playing in the sandbox.

It looks like the childlike version of an ops mission happening. To someone else it may just look like a little girl playing with a stick in the sand but Santi knows better than that.

****

It’s such an odd feeling, you should still be grieving right? You most certainly shouldn’t be looking at Santi and his chiseled jaw as he watches your kids play. Or watching the way his muscles flex in his tight tee shirt as he crosses his arms. You’re so distracted you don’t even realize he’s speaking to you.

“Can you watch the grill for a second?” He raises an eyebrow at you and you feel flushed for all the wrong reasons. The sweltering heat does nothing to hide your embarrassment.

“Ya of course but don’t be gone too long. I’ve been known to burn anything on the grill.”

“I’ll make it quick then.” He winks at you as he walks across your lush green yard. Swiftly dodging a football that Benny throws deliberately at his head as he flips him off in return.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in his pants if you keep staring.” You jump at the sound of Frankie’s voice and he has the decency to look apologetic at your reaction.

You hadn’t really noticed how much they’ve all aged in the last few months. His hair is a little longer as it curls around his cap. His worry lines are just a bit deeper than you last remember them being. Yet he still smiles at you all the same as he pulls you into a deep hug, kissing the top of your head.

“I didn’t mean to scare you cariño, I was only joking.”

You shove him off playfully as you open the grill again. “I wasn’t staring.”

He bumps you out of the way as he grabs the spatula from your hand. “Sure…whatever you say. Your secrets are safe with me.” You watch him as he effortlessly dispatches all the burgers to a plate and sets them aside.

You bite your lip as you wait for him to say something but you know he’s giving you time to think. Something he’s always done for you, knowing that your mind is going a mile a minute and if anyone interrupts that train of thought it might be gone forever.

He’s just standing beside you like a steady weight as he glances around the yard at some people he barely knows and others he knows like the back of his hand. Now it’s mostly close friends and one or two neighbors, compared to several months ago when he couldn’t pick out a familiar face among the crowd. People tend to forget that your grieving continues even long after you’ve decided not to show up.

He shouldn’t feel bad for you because you’re a strong woman. More resilient than any of them could ever be.

“Frankie, can I ask you something?” You say with a nervous smile.

“You’re allowed to move on.”

You glance up at him and it’s intense the way he meets your eyes. “I didn’t ask the question.”

“You didn’t have to…my answer is still the same.”

****

As Santi approaches the sandbox he can see some kind of intricate drawing. Lexi is using a stick practically the size of her to draw it out while her brother Liam watches from the corner. She looks so much like you, especially with her focused face on as she draws another detailed set of lines that he still can’t quite make out.

Liam glances up at him and gestures with his fingers to stay quiet. Santi takes a seat at the corner of the box near him as they patiently wait for her to finish. He looks so much like him that Santi has a hard time not getting choked up, he’s grateful that they both have your personality.

“Okay.” Lexi throws the stick to the side and dusts her hands off on her white skirt. “I think it’s done.” She looks up and flashes a toothy smile at Santi and he can’t help the way his heart melts.

“Can I ask what exactly this is?”

The little girl lets out a deep sigh as she looks over at her twin brother and he just holds his hands out in silent communication that she needs to take the lead.

“Well…this is a tree house.” She pauses briefly and Santi thinks that’s cool that she can draw but then she starts. In great detail for several minutes animatedly explaining the process of her vision coming to life.

Santi has to get up and stand from her perspective to really get a grasp of what she’s talking about. He tries to follow along as she explains the duel ladder system, one on the trunk and another hanging down from the middle entrance of the house. Two doors, one for entry and the other for the slide,that lets out perfectly into the softest patch of grass in the yard. Her and her brother evidently couldn’t decide on carpet or tile so they opted to split it down the middle. Her half would be tile and his half would be carpet. They would obviously need enough room for arts and crafts, the kitchen and naps.

He’s never been so impressed with an eight year old in his entire life.

He’s so enthralled with the design that he doesn’t notice the little girl standing there staring up at him expectantly.

“So what do you think?” She’s wringing her little hands together as she glances over at her brother with an equally curious look on his face. As if a lightbulb goes off in his head Santi is suddenly aware of what exactly they were up to.

“Mija…are you asking if I can help?”

She nods her head as she rocks back and forth in the sand.

“We both have allowances if that helps.” Liam chimes in from the corner of the sandbox and Santi has to try to disguise his smile behind his hand.

“Foods ready!” You yell from across the yard and Santi meets your eyes. A look of what are you up to written all across your face.

He crouches down waving Liam over and the little boy carefully avoids the blueprints in the sand to join them. “Okay…here is what I want you to do.”

****

Your kids are being uncharacteristically good. They finished all their food, they haven’t bothered you in over an hour and even offered to help clean up the table after everyone ate.

Most everyone has cleared out from the barbecue besides for the boys who seem to be enthralled with something over by the sandbox. Frankie keeps glancing over his shoulder at you and Will has shot you a thumbs up twice. If they thought subtlety was their strong suit they are sadly mistaken. You often wonder how they managed to be special ops and keep things a secret when it’s so obvious they’ve all got something up their sleeve.

****

The something they had planned despite your initial worry was in fact a much needed day for yourself. Benny was going to take the kids to the zoo and despite wanting all the credit Will assured you he would be accompanying them so that an adult would be present.

Over the last several months various repairs around the house had gone undone in the chaos of being a newly single mom. Frankie and Santi volunteered to spend the day getting your house in order while you had a full day planned with Will’s wife Jenna. Brunch, pedicures, shopping…you couldn’t remember the last time you treated yourself to a day that wasn’t centered around your kids. As much as you loved them you knew that at times it felt like the person you used to be was long buried underneath a world of stress and hurt.

Dating was completely off the table at the moment…especially since your current situation was all but off limits. Taking care of yourself for once could be a great start in the right direction.

****

“I told you to get half inch screws Pope.”

“Those are half inch!” Santi says as he hears Frankie grumbling under his breath.

“These are definitely a quarter inch and that explains another problem.” Frankie chides as Santi flips him off.

They’ve been at this for a few hours having completed the tasks in your house in a matter of no time. All this a ruse to get the tree house completed before you and the kids are back from your day out.

It’s been awhile since they’ve done something like this. Not just the physical labor but the reward at the end being something that they know is going to brighten a lot of days. They may bicker and fight like brothers but at the end of the day Santi knows how much they both needed this. To have their minds occupied with an intricate task.

Intricate doesn’t even begin to describe what’s unfolded before them. With their niece's original design in mind and a few additions when they got to the store this is turning out to be better than some places they’ve slept while in the service.

Frankie is putting the finishing touches on the bug screen that he decided would be a good addition to the entryway for the balmy summer nights. Santi’s never felt so large while he sits on the wooden bench that doubles as a reading nook. The wood matching the same structure that he knows could withstand any storm or hurricane. The sun is setting, casting a shadow along the bright yellow carpet they found on clearance at the back of the home decor store.

The leftover Talavera tiles Santi had from his home remodel fit perfectly on the half that would be the makeshift kitchen.

There are three exits and two entries. The trap door with a knotted rope, the wooden plank stair steps and the slide that leads to the softest patch of grass in the yard.

Santiago’s thoughts are interrupted by the sound of car doors slamming and children’s laughter.

“We should head down.” Frankie grunts as he shuffles over to the slide, reaching for his standard heating oil cap placed on the bench nook.

Santi raises his eyebrows at the man taking in the scene about to unfold.

“What? How else are we supposed to get down?”

“Oh I don’t know the stairs or the rope maybe?” He says sarcastically. “We don’t need you breaking the slide before they even get a chance.”

“Fuck you, this slide was built to withstand a hurricane.”

His nieces squeal from across the yard interrupts their fifth squabble of the day.

Frankie flashes him a wide grin. “Last man down has to ask their mom on a date.”

“What?!”

“Byeeee.” Frankie slides away, throwing him the middle finger on the way down.

Santi had already talked to him about this ad nauseam. It always felt like the wrong place at the wrong time.

He opened the latch to the trap door, opting to climb down to spare him the embarrassment of using a children’s slide in front of you.

****

You pulled up to the house at the exact same time as Will and Ben. You don’t remember the last time you’d felt this refreshed. Your hair and nails done, way too many bags piled in the backseat of Jenna’s car with a new wardrobe. It was exactly what you needed and a much needed conversation with another woman to reassure you that you were perfectly capable of making your own decisions about your love life. You shouldn’t feel guilty about moving on and doing what’s best for you and your children.

You half expected your kids to be happy to see you but they both gave you light hearted waves as they raced each other around the side of the house, leaving you in the driveway with Will and Ben with amused looks on their faces.

“What’s gotten into them?” You say as the boys shoot each other a look and Jenna takes your hand on hers to lead you around the house.

“It’s better to ask for forgiveness than for permission right?” Ben says from behind you and now you’re really starting to worry. Your daughter's screech has you pulling away as you run into the backyard.

The sight you’re met with is one that completely knocks you off your feet. Your children are jumping up and down in front of a beaming Frankie and the largest tree house structure you’ve ever seen. This is something out of an outdoor life magazine.

You don’t realize you're frozen in place as the rest of the gang join him on the lawn. Santiago perhaps on purpose opted to make your life that much harder by effortlessly climbing down the rope ladder. In all the years he’s been out of the service the man still has an impeccable physique. You will your feet to move as you take in the thing that your kids have been asking you for since they could talk. The thing your husband didn’t make time for and the daunting task seemed impossible for you on your own. Paying someone was out of the question and you were too prideful to ask the boys to help you out anymore than they already did.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Santiago approaches with the most worried look you’ve ever seen on his face.

“Look, I’m really sorry if we overstepped. I know we should’ve asked and it wasn’t our place…but the kids-“

His ramblings are cut short when you throw yourself into him. He instinctively hugs you tight as he feels the wetness from your eyes soak into his shirt.

It’s embarrassing to admit how long it’s been since a man has held you and right now you can feel your resolve breaking as he soothingly rubs his hands down your back to calm your tears.

“I don’t know how to thank you Santi.” You mumble into his chest as you try to calm your beating heart.

It’s a moment before you break apart and he really gets a good look at you. Even with fresh tears in your eyes you look stunning. The most relaxed he’s seen you look in ages and just as beautiful as the day Tom introduced you to the boys.

With the group and the kids thoroughly distracted he figures now is as good a time as any. He’s far enough away that if you reject him he can slink out of the backyard and disappear to another country for three to six months while the shame dies down.

“Listen, I have to say something before I lose the courage to say it.” He nervously rubs the back of his neck as he focuses on some inanimate object behind you. “I understand if you’re not ready or you think this is highly inappropriate and in that case I’ll pretend this never happened.”

You can feel the hairs stand up on your arms and you dig your nails into your palm to keep from passing out at this very moment.

“I know it’s wrong to say but I’ve always thought you and the kids deserved better. You know I loved him but it killed me to see the way he treated you and in another life perhaps I met you first and things would look a little different. I just can’t help but think maybe this can be a second chance and if you’re willing, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

The silence is deafening as you try to form words and Santi looks as though he wants to spontaneously combust at your lack of response. In all honesty you were never really good at flirting and now you’re spiraling because what do you say besides.

“Yes.”

He lets out a huge sigh of relief as he looks up at the sky thanking whoever is watching that he didn’t just make a complete fool of himself.

You both turn around to see Benny helping your son climb the rope and Frankie sliding down with your daughter in his lap as she claps her hands. Will and his wife made it inside at some point and they wave to you both from the large open window.

“It looks like I may be able to take you up on that offer tonight.”

#triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #santi x reader #tf boys x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia fluff #santiago garcia x francisco morales #santiago garcia x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #Benny miller #will miller #triple frontier au #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal characters #oscar isaac characters #triple frontier x reader #santiago pope garcia angst #santiago pope garcia fluff

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romanarose · 2 months ago

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If You Wanna Be Wild: Chapter 8

Co-written with @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction my beloved Fen, who I could not do this without. Thank you for being my emotional sounding board, my dear friend, my wonderful cowriter and helpful beta reader. I adore you.

Javier Peña x Latina!Reader/oc x Santiago Garcia

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Summary: Santi wallows and Candy is hurt.

Content and warnings for whole fic, not chapter by chapter unless something is added: Sex work, drug trade, some drug use/pressured used, sex workers and the mistreatment/stigma surrounding them specifically in the 70’s (my blog is sex worker positive) but ima put potential dub con depending how you look at it as a sex worker who works with dangerous men, some action surrounding reader and the guys and the drug trade, SMUT HEAVY, corruption kink (were corrupting santi here, he’s young, 25), no loss of virginity tho, threesomes, some slight m/m smut but that’s not the focus here, but as you know this blog is an lgbt blog so I’m always open to gay shit. Talk of war and some PTSD but I won't be going a whole lot into it. Covert/emotional incest in the past, Santi's mommy issues, m/m dynamics, internalized bi/homophobia

Reader speaks Spanish and has hair. I've decided Candy is just latina bc she's a sex worker in Colombia so this is what I'm doing. Reader also has curly hair and dark skin.

ADDITIONAL WARNINGS!: Deep internalized homophobia

Amazing smut by Fen as always!!! send love their way!!!

2.3k words

Support writers! Reblog and comment!Keep reading

Santi flinched when he heard another plate crash against the wall, thrown by mamí’s hand and hurdled towards his sister. They were screaming at each other again, and it was bad this time. Elaina had been caught by a neighbor boy's mom, naked in bed with that neighbor boy and brought her to mamí for punishment. Santi had woken from his sleep to the knock, and when he opened his eyes to see Elaina’s bed was empty, he knew it was her. It was always her. Why couldn’t she listen? Why couldn’t she just behave? She caused mamí so much stress when she already worked so hard. Look where they were, the three of them living in a small 2 bedroom apartment, the two siblings were still sharing a room at 14 and 10. She needed to do better for mamí.

“Libertina!” Mamí shouts, slapping Elaina across the face. “How dare you disrespect me! How dare you embarrass your brother!”

Santi didn’t feel embarrassed. Should he feel embarrassed? Mamí said it was embarrassing. Yeah, yeah he felt embarrassed. Humiliated even.

“Mamí! Just listen! I’m trying to talk to you!” Elaina is crying, crumpled clothes had noticeable tearing at the collar.

“Callate!! No quiero escuchar a una puta fea!” Mamí reaches for her shoe. Santiago closes his eyes, clenching his little hands up into fists, squeezing them every time he hears the smack.

When it was all said and done, Elaina was sobbing in her bed, and Santiago was pulled onto his mother's lap. He had the distinct feeling he was too old for this, but he didn’t protest. Mamí didn’t like when he said he was too old for something, or grew out of anything. He outgrew a pair of jeans last week and she cried about how soon he’d find another woman and leave her. She said he was hers. Her little man. Her esposito. Her Santito.

Mamí held him close, arms wrapped around his body as they watched TV, up past his bedtime, telling him how good he was, how he could never leave her.

“Don’t you ever leave, Santito, bueno? No woman will ever love you like I do. They’ll only hurt my baby. They won’t cook for you, women anymore don’t take care of their men. They don’t clean either. I’ll take care of you, always, just never leave me for another woman. As long as you are my good esposito, I’ll take care of my Santito.”

Santi would leave, eventually, but not for another woman. He left to join the military to pay for his mom's bills when she wasn’t making ends meet as she got sicker. Elaina took care of her, despite everything she put Elaina through. Elaina became someone Santi admired deeply, seeing her for who she was. She wasn’t the problem child. She wasn’t a menace. She was a normal kid. It was Santi that was strange. The guys in the force razzed him over his relationship with his mom, telling him his wife wrote him when a letter from his mom came. They also made fun of him for going to mass weekly or more, for praying even in the field, for not fucking the local women they encountered, but being called gay wasn’t anything new to him. He was called that in high school, along with a myriad of racial slurs.

Frankie never made fun of him, neither did Will. Ben did, but it was just friendly, nothing mean. Nothing like Tom. Will was religious, raised baptist and respected Santi’s ongoing commitment. Ben was a bit of a mama’s boy too, just not as bad as Santi. Frankie didn’t have a relationship with his family, so he thought it was sweet.

Santi thought it was normal. It was normal to constantly worry what your mom thought, whether or not you acted on it.

When Santi finally left his mom's grasp after she fell asleep on the couch, he felt a tightness in his chest. There was a sense that something was deeply wrong for laying there with his mom, a feeling that he was too old, that he didn’t want to do that anymore… but then a deep guilt for leaving her for the comfort of his own bed. He never knew what the right choice was, constantly second guessing every move he made when he went to war with his own wants and his mom's. Cracking the door to the room he shared with Elaina in their small apartment, he heard her crying. At first, he considered going back to the couch where mamí lay… but in addition to being mamí’s esposito he knew he needed to be there for Elaina too.

When he lay in his bed, Elaina eventually spoke. “She didn’t even ask what happened.” She sobbed. “I didn’t want to… I didn’t, but he- he- he, and his friends…” She broke down in heavy heaves once again, crying as the welts mamí gave her began to show in the moonlight and Santi began to realize what had happened to her. When she began to calm down, Elaina turned to him, her face set in anger he didn’t think was directed at him but he could never tell.

“Don’t you ever do that to a woman, do you hear me? If I ever catch you acting like that, I swear to god Santi, I swear to god…”

She never did finish that sentence, and Santi didn’t sleep that night, but he promised. He would never disrespect a woman, never. He would be a better man than their dad, than the men who did that to his sister. He’d make mamí and Elaina proud, he’d follow the word of God. He’d be good for his mamí. He’d make her proud. He’d be her good Santito.

“Good boy, Santito”

Cold ran down his back, through his torso and into his heart where it pumped the icy anxiety into every vein. He felt sick. Santi thought of his mom, thought of what she must think of him right now, what Jesus must think of him… in bed with a woman who isn’t his wife, kissing a man, feeling his erection in his pants as their bodies pressed into each other… and Elaina, what would she think of soliciting a prostitute?

He needed to go. He had to go. He had to get out of this room and maybe throw up and maybe switch jobs and go to confession and punish himself… he caused Candy to sin, he caused Javi to sin, if they go to hell it’s his fault, he’s going to hell, he’s going to burn in hell now and-

Santi realized he was already walking down the street, not remembering how he got there. He paid her right? Did he? Great now he was a sexual sinner and a thief. What was wrong with him? So many things… so many things…

Tucking himself into an ally, he doesn’t make it far before he starts throwing up, the little food he’s been able to get down coming back up. This is why his pants were falling off. He was a fucking disaster. He was a failure to everyone around him, he couldn’t even catch Lorea. There was no stopping the tears that came as he laid down on the disgusting floor. There was a needle by his leg and Santi was pretty sure someone had defecated nearby but he wasn’t in control of his own body anymore. The guilt was crippling, the sadness exhausting… He wanted to call Javi, Javi would make it better… but there was no better, was there?

It wasn’t going to be better.

Santi laid there until the sun set.

Javi opens his front door on the fourth knock, not bothering to check who is there before he flings it open, a scowl plastered to his features.

His expression quickly softens when he sees you. Sees the redness to your eyes.

“Cand-”

“Can I come in?” You cut him off quickly, you don’t want to see that sympathetic look, you don’t want to see worry in his eyes. This isn’t about that.

You swallow down your emotions, force them down. Don’t think about Santi, don’t think about Santi, don’t think about Santi.

You push past him before he can even answer, ducking under his arm that is holding open the door.

“I… yeah?” He turns, shutting it and following you as you walk into the room. “What-”

Enough questions. You don’t need questions.

You kiss him forcefully, slipping your tongue past his lips and lightly walking him backwards.

Taken by surprise, he goes with the kiss, groaning softly. Your lips only break apart as you push him back onto his sofa.

He tries again to speak. Tries to break through the shield you’ve put up.

You don’t let him, dropping quickly to your knees between his legs and palming him through his joggers.

He bites back a moan, eyes closing for a second as his body reacts on autopilot. His cock twitches under the warmth of your hand.

You don’t let him compose himself, pulling his soft dick from his clothes and quickly lean forward and take him into your mouth.

He hardens quickly, growing as you swallow and bob until he nudges at the back of your throat. You groan, swirling your tongue as you deep throat him, taking him deeper.

Javi’s moans grow in volume, mutters of praise slipping past his lips as the sounds rumble in his chest.

“Santi…” you whine as you come hard against him.

“I wasn’t finished.” He smiles cheekily.

“Good boy, Santito.”

You choke, spluttering for a second as you breathe at the wrong time.

“Baby,” Javi pulls you off him, salvia drinks down your chin as he takes your face in your hands. Worry in his eyes.

That fucking look again.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was just wondering if you… wanted some company tonight…” You say softly. “Free of charge?”

You hold his gaze as he looks over your face. You know that expression too. The one of a detective. You just wanted a distraction, and he could give it.

But after a moment he nods and doesn’t press further.

You pull off your clothes quickly and climb into his lap when Javi has barely taken off his t-shirt. You waste little time, taking him again in your hand and pumping twice between you line yourself up with him and sink down.

He groans, screwing his eyes up tight.

You shiver. He’s big, and even though you’re used to him your body still reacts a little in surprise, clenching and hampering your intentions.

You frown, wriggling, trying to take more and more even and fight the resistance.

When Javi’s eyes meet yours you want to scream. To cry.

You don’t want those soft eyes. You don’t need them.

Oh god, how much you need them.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t push. Simply rubs his thumb against your clit while his other hand holds your hip and stops you from trying to sink further down.

It takes less than a minute for a spark of pleasure to run along your skin, for your hips to rock and for you to throw your head back in a soft moan.

He gently pushes you down onto him, filling you and stretching you wide before he moves and flips you onto your back on the sofa with him above you.

He thrusts slow and deep until you're digging your nails into his back and sobbing his name as he sucks bruises into your neck in time with the rapid rock and grind of his hips.

“Javi…” You tense, gasping as your pleasure crests suddenly, overpowering and relentless. Robbing you of thought for one blissful moment.

“That’s it, bebé, that’s it…” He whispers into your ear, slowing his thrusts but not stopping completely, letting you breathe and recover for a minute before he starts to build up again. “I’ve got you.”

When you’ve settled, naked on his chest, Javi holds you close. He has a way of sensing when you need him, of when you need the extra touch and he’s there to give it.

A gentle kiss to the tip of your ear. “Do you wanna talk about it, Candy?” His voice was soft, letting you know you don’t have to answer. But you did, because it was Javi, your Javi, and you needed him.

“Santi’s mad at me.” You sniffle, clinging to him as the tears come for the hundredth time. “I- I don’t know what I did, but he just left- he left right after we… he wouldn’t even look at me, and he won’t talk me and it’s stupid, Javi I know it’s stupid because he’s a client, he’s just a client but, but-”

“Candy.” Long fingers tangle in your hair. “I know hes not just a client. It’s okay. You’re human. It’s normal for you- for us- to feel things… and I know how it feels to… feel… for him…”

You pause at that, then finally pull yourself off his sticky skin to look down at him. Your hair falls around, closing off the two of you to the world. “You… do?”

The look Javi gave you made your heart clench tight, something you’ve never seen in him. Worry.

He gives a small nod. “He’s um… not talking to me either. I… kissed him… on friday. And he ran away so… I don’t think this is about you.”

You regard him curiously. You weren’t stupid, you were aware that those two were making goo goo eyes at each other for months, so this wasn’t a huge shock, and you and Javi were both on the same page of who gave a shit if someone was gay. You’d fucked plenty of girls during threesomes and group sex, and Javi…. Well, live and let live sort of man. But you didn’t expect the kiss at all.

Rolling over, you flop onto the bed beside him.

“You know how he is… guilt over everything… just a ball of anxiety. I wish… I wish I could take it away from him. I do. I wish I didn’t feel the way I did, but I do. It’s all gotten so… complicated.”

Javi’s hand takes yours, giving you a squeeze. “Yeah. it has.”

***************

thanks so much for waiting!!!!! it's been 5 ever, but not for lack of trying on my part. its been one thing after aother and then all of a sudden its been like 6 months????

anyway thank you to fen for everything, y deepest love to you always!!!!!!!

2 chapters left!!!!

love santi? want him dark?

Love Santi? Want him soft?

Joel handmiads tale au?

Want some dark logan howlett?

@runa-falls @lunar-ghoulie @campingwiththecharmings @whatthefishh @persephone-girl @criticalarchitecture @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @beelzebeth87 @pimosworld @millerscoffee @heareball @thatwonderouswoman @poolboydivision @meveispunk @lovable-liar @millllenniawrites @read-and-wip @missdictatorme @the-fox-den @milkymoon2483 @k-ra @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @rosellacwrites @legendary-pink-dot @dreamingofbucky @englandsgray @starsthatwatch @fairlyang @alwaysmicado @theywhowriteandknowthings @casa-boiardi @lostfleurs @ninebluehearts @puglover12 @sub-aro @laiisleiite @itspdameronthings @heareball @comfortlessjoy @csarab615 @calaveramangonda @bit-dodgy-innit @stevngrant @kirsteng42 @mrsjavierp @nanfafnan @lovable-liar @axshadows @cookielovesbook-akie @reallyrallyauthor@solar-fics

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growup-thatbeautiful · 1 year ago

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I love all your fics!!!! I wondering if I could please request imagine (Triple Frontier) Ben Miller x shy girlfriend reader and both your infant son is mommy boy. Pretty adorable like every single day walking around the building, waiting for Ben or after the MMA fights, being both his good luck charms 💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

A/n: you’re a genius, lovely! this is post-canon so i don’t have to deal with tom :) also, i spent so much time choosing the gif because i kept getting distracted about how pretty they are (the tf boys and the gifs)

Warnings: none :) reader has a kid, so if that’s not your thing don’t read!

triple frontier masterlist

Good Luck Charm

The brick wall of the gym hallway is cool against your shoulder from where you’re leaning against it. The smell of clean linoleum and the hum of the fluorescents above you provide a timeless cocoon for the sleeping bundle in your arms to nuzzle in closer to your chest.

“Good morning, Jules,” you coo softly when the bundle opens his eyes. “Have a good nap?” You get a bleary-eyed stare in response. Julian, named after Benny’s mom Julia, slowly blinks at you before spitting out his pacifier, spit following behind.

“Baby, why’d you do that?” you ask him. “You want your paci.” Sure enough, his face starts to turn red and you see his throat work up an upset whimper. Before he can start to fuss to much, though, you press the pacifier back into his mouth. Contentment settles on his face and his eyes slide back closed.

Distantly, you can hear the yelling crowd from the gym, and you don’t know how Jules is sleeping at all. The crowd is larger than normal on account of the sizable opponent Benny is fighting, hence the reason you’re waiting in the hallway instead of watching the fight.

You used to watch all of his matches when you where dating- you couldn’t get enough of the thrill of watching your Benny up on that platform, fighting with all of his strength to win. But, as you got more attached to him, it got harder to watch him take punches, especially when you had Julian.

Even if you aren’t in the room, it doesn’t stop you from thinking about Benny. The fight hasn’t started yet, which means that he’s probably in the locker room down the hall getting hyped up by the guys. As clear as if he was right in front of you, you see him wrap his hands carefully with bandages and gloves, his wedding band around a cord on his neck that holds his dog tags.

Will’s probably giving him some sort of pep talk with Santiago tagging on any information he deems helpful, which usually isn’t. Frankie, quiet and composed, os sitting on the bench, sizing up the opponent and searching for any weaknesses. They make quiet the group of men together. All there for Benny, even though none of them have to do this anymore.

When the crowd’s cheers grow louder, you know Benny’s made his way into the gym. Your husband’s always been a town favorite, and tonight there’s some sort of special opponent that he’s facing. You try not to learn all of the details- they usually make you too nervous. Benny knows not to tell you anything the same way you know not to ask questions when you patch him up. Blood, after being with him for so long, isn’t a problem for you anymore.

From somewhere down the hall, a voice calls your name. You could recognize that voice from anywhere, and if that wasn’t a dead giveaway then the loud, expletive-filled Spanish greeting gives him away before you can turn around and tell him that Julian’s asleep. Santiago wraps his arms around you, careful of Julian, and greets you warmly. “Hola, mija. How’s the kid?”

“Trying to sleep,” you respond without any malice at all. “No thanks to you.” He at least looks a little bit ashamed, but that clears away from his face as soon as Frankie steps next to him.

“Jesus, Pope, could you be any louder?” Frankie says, patting you roughly on the shoulder with a grin. “You think you would learn how to be around kids after all this time, ¿eh cabròn?”

“Thanks, Frank.” Santi’s voice is dripping with its usual sarcasm and sass, but all of you are used to it by now. 99% of what Santi says can be taken with a grain of salt.

In the gym, Benny’s name is announced over the loudspeaker and the lights start flashing rapidly. “I guess that’s your que to go,” you say. “Wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

“Can we convince you to join us?” Frankie asks. Because it’s Frankie, you know he means the offer. If you asked him, he would take care of Julian while you went to see Benny, and you would trust him fully to do so. After two of his own kids, Frankie knows how to take care of all kinds of disasters, and you know his gentleness applies to anyone he considers family.

But you just don’t think that you watching is a good idea. “Nah, it’s okay, Frankie. Maybe next time.” Both of you know you’ll say the exact same thing next time too, but you always appreciate the offer.

With a knowing look, Frankie nods and leads Santiago down the hall with him into the crowded, hazy gym. You turn your attention back to Julian, who looks content in his dinosaur onesie. It was a gift from Will, and Benny wanted Julian to show support for his uncles.

The rest of the fight passes in a the crowds oohs and aahs and you can only pay so much attention to it before it starts to make you too anxious. Realistically, you know Benny can handle whoever it is he’s fighting. You heard accidentally that there’s a pound difference between them, but Benny’s fast for someone his size and you know that he can his own. Plus, he’s got a hearty amount of backup in case something goes wrong. The worst you’ve ever had to patch up in a long is a bloody nose or bruised ribs, and even then Benny usually knows how to take care of himself more than you do.

Eventually, you hear the triumphant roars reach a crescendo and the announcer calls out Benny as the winner. Pride fills your chest as you whisper to Julian. “Daddy won his fight, Jules. Just like we told him to.” Julian, waking up due to the raised noise levels, looks at you through squinted blue eyes just like his father’s.

As people trickle past you through the back exit, you make your way into the locker room where you know Benny and the guys will be as soon as Benny’s cleared by the unofficial doctor on site. It must not have been close at all because they show up after only a few minutes, cheering and yelling their way through the door.

When Benny sees you, a grin lights up his face, as if it’s a surprise to see you there. Like you would ever miss a fight.

With one strong arm wrapped around your waist, he pulls you in to a bruising kiss. “Honey,” he mutters against your lips, “I think you might be my good luck charm.”

Even after all these years, your heart still swells at his words, at the idea of Benny being just as enamored with you as you are with him. “I think Julian might be part of it too.”

With a grin, Benny looks down at the baby between you. “Hey, bud,” he greets, two sandy blond-haired heads looking at each other. While you’re the one who can seemingly always get Jules to sleep, Benny always wakes him up. Luckily, though, Julian is usually happy when he sees Benny. You can’t blame him. “How was your day with mama?”

“He had a rough day at school,” you explain softly to Benny, looking at Julian. “Apparently he was fussy.”

Benny scoffs and carefully takes Julian when you offer him. If it was anyone else covered in sweat and blood, you would say no, but you know Benny’s at least washed his hands. “My baby? Never. He’s an angel.”

“Sure, honey,” you respond, happy to see the twinkle in Benny’s eye. He may not agree, but you know there’s nothing that makes him in a better mood than winning and having his family there. “How was the fight?”

Benny’s grin spreads across his face and takes on a confidence that you usually don’t see outside of your home. “Not even close. He didn’t see a fuckin’ thing coming.”

“Benny,” you sigh, gesturing to Julian. “I’ll let it slide because you just won.”

“Good luck getting Pope to stop. His favorite words aren’t appropriate for kids,” Benny says in return, but you know he’s trying. His language is already better than it used to be. “Isn’t that right, Jules?”

Jules responds with a happy noise, one that just makes Benny’s grin even wider. You can’t help but appreciate the sight before you; your two beaming boys with each other, your family together.

Yeah, you’re going to keep coming to his fights. Maybe your his good luck charm, maybe you’re not, but nothing could possibly stop you from seeing Benny like this.

Happy. Content. Loved.

“Come here, honey,” Benny calls to you, and who are you to say no. Carefully, you let yourself be wrapped in Benny’s arms, your head on the warm muscle of his shoulder. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Of course,” you whisper. “We’re your good luck charms, right?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees. You ignore the whistling and cheering of Santi and Frankie and the over-exaggerated gagging of Will. “Nothin’ like you, sweetheart. Or you-” he looks down at Julia “-bud.”

You can’t help but agree.

#i’ve been talking with my friends about how much i want kids recently so this is perfect nonnie <3 #nova answers #this is adorable #triple frontier #benny miller #benjamin miller #ben miller #benny miller fanfic #benny miller x female reader #benny miller fic #benny miller x reader #benny miller fanfiction #benny miller x you #benny miller x y/n #benjamin miller x you #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #triple frontier boys

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 4 months ago

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I Hope You Dance [a Jay and Frankie fic]

Read on Ao3

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Frankie Morales x Jay ‘Lady’ Ray (OFC) **Series masterlist**

Warnings: TeenagerParent!Jay and Frankie, allusions to J & F having sex, underage drinking, vomiting, mention of girls kissing, teenage bisexual panic.

Words: 1,817

Summary: Jay and Frankie have a childfree night when Alma, 15, calls in panic from a party and asks to be picked up. Mom and dad to the rescue in more ways than one.

A/N: @beesmall asked the following: "What are things like for Jay and Frankie when the girls are a little older? Would love to hear about how they navigate the teenage drama years." I hope you like it! (Title is shameless stolen from Lee Ann Womack's song of the same name. I don't particularly like the song, but it fits the fic *shrugs*)

”MOOOOOM!”

Jay puts down the knife she was just about to use to cut vegetables, and looks over at Frankie, who’s frying meatballs at the stove.

”Is that girl about to die or what the hell is going on?”

Frankie chuckles. ”I think she might.”

The stairs groan under the running feet of a very stressed teenager, and the second after, Alma shows up in the kitchen.

”Mom, where’s my purple plaid?”

”I don’t know, honey, I don’t have a crystal ball,” Jay tells her patiently as she cuts up the tomatoes. ”And what have I told you about yelling like that?”

”Not to,” Alma pouts, but she’s still vibrating with pent up energy. ”But mom, if I don’t have the plaid, I won’t have anything to wear to Kat’s party!”

”You have a closet full of clothes.”

”You don’t get it!”

Alma storms off again in search of the beloved plaid, and Jay sighs deeply.

”My daughter cares about fashion. What did I do wrong?”

”Now, now,” Frankie chides her while shaking the frying pan in order to turn the meatballs. ”There are worse things a fifteen-year-old could do, you know that. Ours is actually very balanced.”

”Oh, I know that. But I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to know where her clothes are. Our kids fold their own clean clothes, and put the dirty ones in the hamper.”

”Maybe Bianca borrowed it.”

”If she did, Alma’s going to kill her.”

Alma reappears, now carrying the purple plaid and a very relieved look.

”Where was it?” Frankie asks lightly, knowing the answer.

”Where I left it,” the girl mutters, but she seems less stressed now.

”Imagine that,” Jay quips with a teasing smile, which is met by an eyeroll.

”Okay, mom.”

”Lay the table, please. Dinner will be ready soon, and then I’ll drive you to the party.”

Alma accepts without comments, and Jay watches her in secret while preparing the salad. Alma may be something of a tomboy who doesn’t really care about makeup and skimpy little party outfits, but she still cares about what she looks like. That purple plaid is her favorite, and she’d obviously want to wear it for a party.

After dinner, Jay takes Bianca to a friend’s house for a sleepover, then picks up Alma’s friend Joanna, and drives the girls to Kat’s house for the party.

”Remember that you can call for any reason,” she reminds her daughter before dropping them off. ”If anything happens, if something feels wrong, if the two of you wanna go home. Okay? At any time.”

”Sure, mom,” Alma nods, already getting out of the car. ”I’ll call, I promise!”

”Have fun!”

Confident that Alma will reach out, Jay drives back home to the old farm that she and Frankie bought and fixed up with the South American money all those years ago. Frankie’s waiting for her, grinning mischievously at her from his chair on the porch when she ascends the stairs.

”What?” she grins back, knowing full well what’s on his mind. The older the kids get and the more time they spend away from home, the more the sturdy bed in the master bedroom has to suffer. The years haven’t diminished the love and attraction Jay and Frankie have for each other.

”Come here, mama...”

///

The phone wakes Jay from her slumber, but as soon as she sees her oldest daughter’s photo on the screen, she’s wide awake.

”Hi, sweetie.”

”Mom?” Alma’s voice is small and unsure. ”Can you come and pick us up?”

”Alma, what’s the matter?” Jay’s in full mission mode immediately, getting out of bed and pulling out clothes from the closet. Frankie sits up as well, hearing that something’s amiss.

”Joanna isn’t feeling well, she had a lot to drink, and there are some older guys here...”

”I’m on my way, honey. Are you safe there? You want me to call 911?”

”Just get here, mom.”

”Fifteen minutes, honey.”

Frankie’s up as well, pulling his jeans on.

”What’s wrong?” he wants to know as soon as Jay hangs up. She pulls an old army hoodie over her head.

”Joanna drank too much, and apparently there are some older guys there. I think Alma’s fine, but she wasn’t feeling safe.”

”I’m coming with.”

Jay nods, and a couple of minutes later, they’re in the car, leaving the farm.

The party’s in full swing when they get there, but when Jay marches in, grim-faced and heavy-booted, it puts a damper on things. Not even the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys dare say anything when she turns her steely gaze at them.

”I’m only gonna say this once,” she proclaims loudly. ”Everyone who’s not on Kat’s year, get the fuck out. You have ten seconds, then I’m calling the cops and holding you down until they come and arrest your asses.”

Five guys get up quickly, picking up six-packs, and making their way past her, only to meet Frankie’s broad shoulders towering menacingly over them at the door. A car engine starts, and it’s like the rest of the crowd lowers their shoulders. Jay quickly finds Alma and Joanna in the bathroom, poor Joanna sobbing into the toilet bowl. After making sure that both girls are okay, Jay and Alma help lead Joanna out, where Frankie picks up the lurching girl, and carries her to the car.

”You can’t tell my parents, they’ll kill me,” she sobs in the backseat. Jay and Frankie exchange glances as they get in the front seat, Frankie driving this time. Joanna was supposed to spend the night at their house, and maybe it’s better to stick to the plan, and deal with the aftermath tomorrow.

They make it home with a couple of stops so that Joanna can throw up by the roadside, Jay and Frankie comforting her, Alma watching with a lost look on her face. When they finally get home, they put Joanna up in the guestroom with a bucket, an extra blanket, painkillers and water. After making sure she’s okay, they leave her to sleep.

Jay exhales deeply once the guestroom door clicks shut behind her. Walking into the kitchen, she glances at the clock on the wall, seeing that it’s two am. She hears Frankie call her softly from the living-room. Walking there, she finds her husband and daughter on the couch. Alma’s looking confused and tired, and Frankie has his arm around her shoulders.

”I’m sorry, mom,” she whispers, and Jay hurries to her, sitting down next to her.

”Alma, honey, you have nothing to apologize for.”

”I should’ve taken better care of her.”

”It’s not your responsibility,” Frankie reminds her gently, and Jay nods.

”He’s right. You did everything right, Alma, you looked out for your friend, and you called us when you couldn’t handle the situation. I promise you, Alma, you did exactly right. I’m proud of you.”

The girl’s eyes fill with tears. ”Really?”

”So, so proud,” Frankie confirms, and Alma sobs.

”Even when I drink? I mean, with mom...”

”Honey, I’ve told you, I know you’re going to drink sooner or later,” Jay reminds her. They’ve had this conversation before, and so far, Alma hasn’t once come home drunk. ”I just want you to be careful when you do.”

”It wasn’t even that good, so I couldn’t drink much.”

”Yeah, it tastes shit, doesn’t it?” Jay chuckles. Alma smiles weakly through her tears before sobbing again.

”Joanna’s gonna be mad at me.”

”She’ll be fine in the morning,” Jay guesses. ”She’ll probably feel ashamed, but it’s okay. She’ll come around.”

”No, I mean...” The girl clams shut, and Jay strokes her neck gently until she’s comfortable to share.

”We were dancing and having a really good time and... I kissed her.”

Oh, my poor baby. Alma came out as bisexual about a year ago, first to her beloved uncle Benny, shortly later to her parents and sister. It hadn’t changed anything for Jay and Frankie, except that their first week after the coming out was filled with frantic googling on how to support their daughter. Dating, Jay had realized, would maybe be a little trickier for Alma, but she had resolved to give advice and help whenever her daughter asked for it, not before.

”You think she’ll be mad at you for that?” Frankie asks her gently. Alma shrugs.

”She got really weird, and then the guys showed up, and they had beers and she just started hanging with them.”

”Baby, I’m sure you’ll patch things up,” Jay tries to comfort her. ”Just let her sober up, live through her hangover which I’m sure will be epic, and then you can figure things out.”

”She kissed me back.”

”Then I hope there’s an even bigger chance that things will work out,” Frankie points out. Alma shakes her head.

”Her mom and dad are really strict. They’ll kill her.”

”No they won’t,” Jay tells her firmly. ”We’ll see to that, honey, I promise. It’ll be okay.”

Alma takes a deep breath and sighs it out, relaxing visibly.

”I love you, mom,” she whispers, and now Jay embraces her tightly.

”I love you too, Alma.”

”I love you, dad.”

”I love you, mijita.” Frankie’s arms are around them both, warm and reassuring.

They help their daughter to bed before retiring to their own bedroom for the second time that night.

”Christ,” Jay yawns as she undresses. ”I guess it begins. The dating and heartache phase, not to mention drinking.”

”But we did good,” Frankie reminds her, already in bed and waiting for her. ”She did everything right, just like you said.”

”Yeah, thank fuck.” Jay joins him between the sheets that still smell of their earlier love-making. She settles against him and yawns again.

”But I can’t believe our baby girl is so grown up already,” Frankie adds, his voice quivering a little. Jay passes her hand over his chest in half a caress, half a shove.

”Please don’t start bawling about our kids growing up yet again, I’m too tired for that shit.”

”When will you stop pretending like you don’t think it’s super cute that I get so emotional?” he chuckles, and Jay has to smile.

”When hell freezes over.”

”You’re a hard woman. But you did amazing with Alma tonight.”

”It was teamwork, baby,” she reminds, now angling her face up towards his. Their lips brush against each other. ”It's always teamwork.”

Frankie hums before pressing his lips to hers for a long, sweet kiss that ends with both of them yawning.

”Goddammit, I’m too old for this,” he mutters, and Jay lays her head down on his shoulder again.

”You and me both. And we still have to deal with whatever fresh catastrophe those two come up with tomorrow.”

”That’s for tomorrow,” Frankie rules, and Jay agrees. Right now, both of them are happy with what they’ve accomplished, and deserve some sleep.

#jay and frankie #frankie morales #jay 'lady' ray #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales fanfic #triple frontier fanfic #my fic

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ruinedbylanadelrey · 1 year ago

Text

King of Your Heart

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 2 "Easy"

summary: All that Frankie has ever wanted to be was your everything. After years of being best friends one phone call changes everything between the two of you.

inspired by The King by Sarah Kinsley

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, age gap (reader is 28-29, Frankie 38-39), friends with benefits -> situationship, Frankie isn't a dad, light smut, jealously, best friends with benefits, reader is lowkey toxic, reader wears makeup, reader has long hair, self-hate (both characters), alcohol consumption, yearning, secrets, no y/n, pet names, blind dates, possessiveness, triple frontier boys, Tom is dead, reader is a flirt, reader has complicated relationship with her body, Frankie is a dick (later)

inside the world of king of your heart

playlist

series mainlist | main masterlist

Frankie looks around your room, looking at the pictures displayed all over the room. He knows why you have so many pictures of everyone you love. It was to show that you hold them a special place in your big heart (that you lie about saying your heart is nonexistent). You value memories since your parents passed away, you told Frankie that it was a way to remind you that you have people who care about you because you feel like you're drowning in sadness from time to time and your friends were always there to pull you out and bring you back to life.

The picture frame on the bedside table was of you and him, you guys were on the couch in your apartment drunk and sharing a pint of ice cream. You had a big smile and Frankie had a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in his mouth. He remembers that night, the guys came over to cheer you up since it was the death anniversary of your mom's passing. You wanted to spend the day alone and cry in private. But the guys being well...your friends decided against it. You were taken aback by the overwhelming feeling of being cared for.

Frankie looks over at your sleeping body turned away from him, you were curling into yourself and holding the pillow like a person. His heart aches wanting to hold you and have you in his arms. He could just say that he's a cuddly person when he sleeps and you would believe him. Frankie chooses to not disturb your sleep and just watches your chest rise and fall with every breath you take.

You come up to the table asking what everyone is drinking, and everyone gives the answer 'Budweiser', then you come back with 4 beers and 1 vodka cranberry which will switch to a vodka redbull depending on how buzzed you want to get. Frankie watches you hand out the beers and take a seat between Benny and Pope.

Frankie felt like he was punched in the gut. But jealousy and guilt play tug of war with his heart. "Fish, I asked you a question," You leaned on the tabletop and wave your hands in his face, he shakes his head and cleared his throat. "What did you say, princess?" Frankie asks before he takes a swig of his drink. That stupid nickname you got from this group makes your face burn.

The other night pops into your mind with Frankie fucking you on the floor of the living room in your apartment after everyone left poker night. "You know we let you win, princess..." Frankie grunts pulling you by the hair, forcing you to look back at him while he fucks you into the carpet, the rug burn was worth it the next morning.

"I asked you if you're coming to poker night tomorrow?" You pushed the memory into the back of your mind. Frankie nods while he is swallowing hard, you nod back and turn your attention to Benny who is talking about the next fight and you tried to seem engaged in the conversation but you kept stealing glances at Frankie. You hated how he decided to wear the shirt you had on the night before. The heathered gray T-shirt is so soft on the skin. You know it still smells like your Victoria's Secret perfume that he is obsessed with.

"I need my princess there cheering me on," Benny winks at you making you giggle. Frankie's jaw twitches when Benny says 'My princess'. "Don't worry, I'll be there this time Benny." You wrapped your arm around Benny's shoulders and you could feel Frankie's stare burning into your skin.

To you, Frankie's stare is just him letting you know that you need to choose your apartment or his house. But Frankie's glare is him trying to control the green monster inside him.

"I need you to ask you for a favor, can you come with me on a date? The girl I've been seeing has a friend that is interested in you, princess," Benny asks you, Frankie used every ounce of self-control to not answer for you, he wanted to exclaim that you are not going on a date. "Like a blind date? I don't know..." You were unsure due to the friends with benefits with Frankie, Pope watches Frankie's jaw twitch. Benny continues to beg you and of course, you being the great friend you are, you reluctantly agreed to the double date.

"I'm grabbing another round, Fish mind helping me?" Santiago told up and nodded to the bar. Frankie doesn't say anything and follows Pope to the bar.

"Alright, talk to me," Pope said waving down the closest bartender and giving them the order. Frankie crosses his arms and leans on the bar top. "What do you mean?" Frankie asks trying to act like he hasn't been avoiding everyone.

He has been avoiding everyone since sleeping with you almost every night. "Cut the shit, man," Pope rolls his eyes and sighs. He looks to Frankie who was looking back at the table watching you laugh and talk to Will and Benny.

You looked so beautiful with a smile painted across your face. You are always so happy with everyone. You lit up the room and made sure everyone was having a good time. "She's been acting different too...putting more time into everyone else but you..." Pope's words make Frankie snap out of his gaze on you. Frankie turns his head back to the bar and rubs with his face in his hands.

"You are the one giving it away...I don't know why you two think keeping anything a secret is working. We all think you have already slept together so if you two are actually fucking no one will be surprised...I take that back Benny might be surprised." Pope was talking in a very low tone and Frankie was swimming in his mind. Was he being obvious? Is it the stares? Is it how he just happens to be hangout with you whenever the guys call for a boy's night?

"We aren't doing anything. We are just friends." Frankie didn't know what else to say. Pope nods not having the energy to make Frankie crack. "Alright I'll let it go," he hands Frankie your drink and his beer, the two men walk back to the table and saw you were gone. Frankie sets his beer on the table and holds your drink and looks around the room. There you were at the DJ station batting your eyes trying to get the guy to play whatever song you had in your head at the moment.

Then a second later whatever song was playing gets interrupted by your favorite song from the early 2000s. You smiled at yourself so proud of getting what you wanted. You waltzed to the table singing and pulling Benny to the makeshift dance floor. Benny happily spins you around and into his arms. Frankie didn't know that the clear plastic cup filled with cranberry juice and vodka spills onto the floor.

Fuck

He looks at Will and Pope who were staring at the cranberry juice leaking out of the cup and all over his hands. Benny was talking to some girl across the room. Your laugh gets closer, you stop laughing when you looked at Frankie covered in cranberry juice. Frankie studies the fall of your smile and your eyes meet his.

"Someone bumped into me...I'll go get you a new one," Frankie was too quick to dismiss himself from the scene. You watch Frankie grab another drink for you and he hands it off to you. His fingers grazing yours, you both ignore the spark of the small touch. You thank him and take a long sip trying to act like you weren't wondering if he was lying about someone bumping into him.

"I think I'm going to take off," Frankie grabs his hat and pats his jeans to figure out where he put the keys to his truck. "Frankie..." You call out his name when he brushes past you, he turns to you, and could see some sort of struggle in him. You could feel Will and Santiago watching you and Frankie acting out of character. "Text me when you're home safe...goodnight," You smiled, Frankie nods before walking out of the bar. His ears started to ring from the music being so loud.

Where did this jealousy come from? The whole blind date has Frankie reeling, making him feel the anger festering.

Frankie never was a jealous person until you came into his life. He hated hearing about anyone trying to be your friend. Frankie especially hated hearing about the asshole you dated or just entertained. You and him were simply 'just friends', not 'just friends' but you guys were 'best friends'. You claimed that title in the privacy of your time alone together. You always teased Pope saying he's been replaced. You understood Frankie on a whole other level than anyone has. You didn't complicate things when Frankie would confide in you about problems. He loved how easy it is with you. Easy to talk about his past. Easy to just sit on the couch and watch TV in silence. Easy to just have you under him whimpering for him. You were just an easy person who just wanted to be around your friends.

You sit down trying to ground yourself. Was Frankie mad at you? Was it the blind date set up? Why is he acting so different? Did he think starting friends with benefits was a mistake? Frankie wasn't acting like Frankie, your easy-going best friend. All you wanted to do was chase after him but couldn't because you were afraid of giving away your cover. But was it ever really a secret?

#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fluff #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x f!reader #pedro pascal

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