Hi! Not so much a question, but just wanted to share:
The last couple months have been busy for me - my kid went on summer break, plus I had a handful of trips/things going on/my birthday, which meant almost no downtime/Tumblr time for me. I would sporadically pop in to see what was new with Pedro but hadn’t had much of a chance to read any fics; I’m not really on anyone’s taglists so if I have time I just kinda scroll around and see what’s being reblogged by the people I follow.
Until!!! One day last week I realized I hadn’t read anything about the boys at Mulefall for a while and I also remembered that I’m on your taglist (my one and only lol), so I went to see what I had missed and found that you’re taking a break!
So, all of this is to say that I hope you’re doing well, I hope things are okay in your life, and I hope you are getting the time/break you need. I don’t know you outside of me gushing over your stories for the last year or so, but I thought it would be nice to share with you that a random person on the other side of the country (pretty sure you’re in FL, I’m in CA ☺️) is thinking of you and wishes you all the best!! 🫶🏽
Lots of love to you 💖💖💖💖
@inthedarkestnight this was me reading this ask 🥹
Thank you so much for sending this lovely message, it meant a lot to see. Summer is such a busy time, but I hope despite all of the hustle and bustle you had a good one!
You're very sweet to think of the boys. A day doesn't go by where I don't think of at least one of the residents of Mule Fall Court... mostly David 😆
I appreciate your message and I hope you have a great rest of your week. Thank you for helping to make someone's day with your kindness 💜
frankie morales x f!reader | epilogue of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.8k
chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. flirting. they're no longer idiots.
an: the end
prev chapter | series masterlist
read on ao3
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
You sure you got everything from the house, baby?
I think so! Does this mean you're giving the keys in?
Unpacking another box, you slide a photograph onto the shelf, right next to his. You smile, shifting it, trying to make your things look like they belong as much as his.
Evidence of you already slotting in. Books sitting with his, plants finding homes in corners that look as though they were made for them.
Yeah. Unless you've changed your mind?
Not even a little bit.
Good. Because I already handed them in.
And what if I had said I thought I’d forgotten something?
The bubbles in the corner appear, fluttering and twitching, until they vanish. You roll your eyes, grabbing a tissue-wrapped small artificial cactus, placing it, and tilting your head as your phone vibrates.
You know I’ve checked the place twice.
Did the sex chair go into storage okay, by the way?
Even from here, you know he snorted. A breathy laugh, one that has and will always make your lips press together before sliding up into a smirk. You giggle at it, imagining him trying to suppress it if he's with people. Shaking your head at the image as you see him typing.
You gotta stop calling your office chair a sex chair.
Well, the only thing that happened in it was that.
Gonna drive now, you menace.
Hurry home, baby.
Sighing, you rip the tape from the underside of the box and flatten it, staring at the wasteland of boxes that have taken over his living room. Despite the chaos, you feel like you're finally home, for the time in a long time.
A thing you'd whispered to him when he'd hooked his leg over yours in bed this morning.
Steam billowed, carrying the scent of spices, tomatoes, and herbs blending into the air as you hear the front door open.
It brings a smile, tugging at the corners of your mouth, even though this should feel ordinary by now. A thing you should be used to, it feels like the first day all over again.
No more boxes, all unpacked, places for everything and newly learnt routines that you know to listen for.
Head turned to the doorway, hearing one thing after the other landing in the bowl: Keys, wallet and two thuds of his boots being removed.
It's all a routine now, something normal. Dinner is divided between whoever arrives home first. If he gets home first, he starts it, the two of you relying on the board on the wall to keep track. The one that's a vibrant array of colours—butterscotch orange, dinosaur green, and rainy day blue—highlighting the various shifts, jobs, and school pick-ups your month has in store.
This week, it’s a lot of orange. Things are picking up, with more word getting out about Frankie’s business and what he can do. The reviews are trickling in, and you know he’s already quickly outgrowing the summer house in the back garden. You commented on it when the two of you made the decision, something he assured you would be fine. You still agree that paying for two homes wasn’t a wise choice when he was already taking a risk.
Risky—a word you could never use to describe him. But a word you let him have, relenting, melting into his arms as you bid goodbye to the office he made you, with the promise of a better one in the future.
Now, standing in the kitchen that used to be just his and is now ours, you count in your head the seconds until his arms slide around your middle, his mouth pressing a kiss to your head.
“Smells good.”
Turning your head, fingers sliding under his chin—you steal a kiss, and another, sliding your digits around his jaw before they’re tangling in his hair.
“Could get used to this.” You hum against his mouth, murmuring a what that makes him smile, smirk, right up against yours. “You in our kitchen.”
“Well, it has been months now—I’d hope you’d be used to it.”
Shrugging, running his hands up down your arms, he steps back and leans on the counter. On the days when he beats you home, you bring home stories of Harry, customers and the random paint name you’ve found that you make him guess the shade of until he gets it right. Tonight, you ask him how his day has been. A mundane question, a thing that arises every day and yet the answer is never the same.
He talks about another enquiry, how the photos of your old office space, in the place you once called home, had inspired another couple to get in touch. And you try not to smirk, to wear a knowing smile, but instead nod, stirring and grabbing plates as he folds his arms and keeps his gaze on you.
A thing you thought would have lessened, but hasn’t.
“You need my help with this one, or?”
Shaking his head, folding his arms—looking you up and down as he traces his tongue across his bottom lip.
“What?”
“We said if we did this you wouldn’t try and do it all.”
You might not groan outwardly, but you do inwardly. His brows raise as though knowing so too, a thing which almost drags a laugh out of you. Almost.
“Come here,” he says, hand extended, finding your slides in as he drags you close. “I appreciate you, you know that?”
“I do.”
Good, he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb—the roughness of it making liquid heat spark in your stomach as you bite the inside of your cheek.
“You want a hand dishing up?”
Shaking your head, you kiss his wrist. “No. Go change—you can’t do it all.”
His snigger stays in the kitchen with you, long after he’s left to go change.
Luca told me something interesting at drop off.
Not sure I want to know.
Apparently, we’re getting a dog?
Little shit. No. He asked me and I said I’d think about it.
Well, apparently he thinks that Saturday when we pick him up we’re going to get him a dog that lives at our house.
Fuck.
Fuck indeed.
Are we against a dog?
It takes a second for the squeals to calm down.
Your arms may be scratched, and you may have wanted to sob as you tried to build the crate on your own, but the joy thrumming inside you as Frankie wrestles the puppy and Luca screams with laughter makes it all worth it.
It feels right that there are two bowls on the kitchen floor, both sitting on a plastic mat covered with paw prints.
It makes the home feel complete, even with a wet patch on the rug, even with your new shoe marked with tiny teeth marks, and even though you're exhausted beyond words.
Grinning, you lean back on the couch, watching Frankie pretend to bark and growl as the puppy tries to nip at him. The two alternate between rolling around, evading each other, the creased laugh marks on Frankie's nearly enough to make you get on the floor and join him, just to brush your fingers against them.
Instead, you teasingly poke the boy next to you. “Luca, what do you want to call him?”
Mouth sliding from side to side, Luca shuffles and bounces along the sofa before his head comes to rest on your arm. Frankie shifts to playing a version of tug-of-war. “Tyler.”
“Tyler?” Frankie asks, pausing to stroke the retriever's ears.
Luca smiles and then beams. “Like tyrannosaurus.”
Somehow, you suspected you should have seen that coming.
“Okay, well, Tyler needs to go to the toilet. Do you want to try and take him?”
Luca, nodding and smiling, taps your arm. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.”
As you stand, you catch sight of Frankie beaming up at you, warmth flooding your cheeks and ears at the sight of it.
What are you doing for lunch, baby?
Well, I was going to treat myself to a coffee and maybe a sweet treat. But what are you thinking?
I was thinking of letting Tyler out, bringing you fast food and sitting in the office at Harolds?
Oh, it’s been a while since we’ve done that. I like that our roles have reversed here.
I know. Do you know when Harold will let you have lunch?
Delivery is almost away, and then I just have to do a few bits.
I’ll be there in an hour. I’ve missed your face today.
Sounds good. Maybe you should have spent more time with it this morning then, than between my legs.
I have zero regrets about how I started my day.
“Have you seen the yard—I think that’s enough room for Tyler, how much bigger can he even grow after a year, and look here...”
Your fingers loop in between his, tugging him, practically dragging him with you to the kitchen window—the slightly overgrown grass and white fence greeting the two of you.
It’s the eleventh house the two of you have seen. Fingers brush over his thumb as he follows you around the rooms in a house that’s spacious, with three bedrooms, and two-and-a-half baths. It’s airy, light—ridiculously bright.
But it needs work.
A thing you can tell he’d thought on sight, even if the most he’s done is make a snort or a hum.
You suspect Frankie is paying more attention to the things wrong with it, than what is right. Missing some of the things you point out to him, too busy calculating square footage as the two of you walk around it. Ignoring your opinions on floor-to-ceiling bookcases and hallway mirrors, if the two of you could get a bigger bed than you both have now.
You do think he catches that you think Luca should have the largest room—your reasoning dripping from your tongue that he needs space as he grows up, that you both have a bigger closet in the second biggest.
“—And, we'd probably need to get him one of those beds soon, the ones where he has space under for a pull-out or a desk. The closet is decent, but we’ll have to get him some drawers too.”
Your fingers trace along the doors of the closet as he blinks, coming back to you, to the house, to the room.
“Wait—what…”
And you smile. Not just with kindness or joy, but with everything. Push it outwards, hoping it stretches its warmth out over the entire room, hoping it’ll surround him, maybe he’ll allow it to wrap itself around him as you tilt your head.
“I think this should be Luca’s room.”
Walking towards you, the heels on his boot sounding on the wooden flooring. “Baby, you can’t think that. For one, this house is—“
“Perfect,” you finish, palms finding his cheeks, thumb stroking the hair on either side of his lip. “It’s perfect, Frankie.”
You can see it, even if he doesn’t say it: it isn’t.
You’ve suspected for a while that he has an idea of a home the two of you should have. He’d whispered it to you three months ago in bed, head buried in your neck, fingers fanned over your hips as he talked about garden size, a pool, a workshop and even an office.
In some capacity, this house ticks some of those boxes. It has a spacious kitchen, it has a decent yard and a pool that needs a deep clean. There’s a room that could be an office, but would most likely be a spare bedroom for friends, for Benny or one of your own.
And, you’re grinning. Watching him smile in response, all radiant like he thinks you’re the reason the world rotates.
Then he says it, the thing which has been ticking behind the scenes. Unsaid, unspoken—ignored as though it doesn’t have its own pulse. “You deserve better.”
You don’t mean to, but your forehead wrinkles, brows knitting together as your smile fades into a thin line. Feeling it, etched and written across your face as shame works across him. The evidence of a battle he’s having with himself—something churning, twisting as you slide your hands down his neck and loop them at the back.
It’s clear now it’s been needling him—likely making his chest tight, wrapping vines around his chest, all thick and full of spikes, as he rolls his neck and sighs.
Tilting your head, trying to keep your tone level, you whisper, “Baby, what do you mean?”
Because the realtor is downstairs.
Not wanting to cause a fight—a scene. Your skin prickles as you momentarily panic that you’re whisper isn’t a whisper, when his mouth opens, but no sound leaves it. Worry tangles in your head, and in your throat as you move closer. Wanting more words to appear, to conjure, tell me, tell me, tell me, burning a hole in your tongue as you need him.
Your hand brushes his cheek, forehead smoothing out—concern replacing earlier confusion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The edges of your mouth twitch. “And, I love this house.”
He snorts, shaking his head as you glare.
“Don’t… don’t do that, Francisco. Don’t think for me because you’ve concocted some image of what I want.”
Letting his eyes hang down, he sighs. “I’m not–I’m not doing that.”
“You are. You… you’re looking at each house as if it has a checklist to meet—like it’s being measured against something.”
“Doesn’t it?”
You sigh, dropping your hands from his face. And you miss touching him the moment you do. Wanting to place them back, have him take your wrists and put them back, but you’re already folding them, shaking your head as you stare out the window.
“You can’t be mad at me for wanting the best for you.”
You snort this time, narrowing your eyes as you shoot him a glare that says you can, and you will.
“If, and I mean if we take this house, I… I want, no, I need to do a lot of work on it. Because you deserve the house of your dreams, and admittedly, I can’t afford to give it to you. Because houses are fucking expensive, but I can make it for you.”
Biting down on your lip, you glance, catching the sight of him running a hand over his face. Fingers pinching the inside of your arm as you try not to let tears bubble, swim and then fall.
“I… I don’t want that.”
“What do you mean?”
You look up, blinking away the tears. Seeing the doubt spread across his face, like he wants to rewind the clock—take back ever saying you deserve better.
And you don’t want to fight, not with him.
“Frankie… I don’t want it to be my dream house, I want it to be ours.”
He takes a step towards you. “I know.”
But you raise your hands, not pushing him back, but not inviting him in either.
“But you don’t. You’re not picturing a doorframe we can keep measuring Luca growing up. You’re not thinking of warm Sundays with our friends around the pool—and you’re not seeing the lick of paint needed so our bedroom is a little dimmer, so your eyes don’t burn from all the off-white.
“I don’t need an office—I like working with you and at Harold’s. And, yes, I’m not walking around thinking you won’t have to do anything to this house, because, of course, you will. You’re good, you have an eye. We wouldn’t even be thinking of buying something bigger if you weren’t. But, you started a business a year ago—we can’t afford perfect. But we can buy good and make it perfect. If, and when you stop thinking of me, and instead us.”
Brushing a hand over his face, he takes a moment. Swallowing a sigh, an annoyed grunt. His fingers itch at his forehead, pushing strands of hair under his hat before he drops it and stares at you.
“You really want this one?”
Nodding, you roll your lips. “What about you?”
And so he looks around. Hands digging into his jacket pockets, walking in slow footsteps around the room—
Hoping you've helped him see it, picture it, with all your earlier ramblings.
Where the wooden trunk he made will go, the bed you just talked about—the prints of stars, spaceships and galaxies. He glances out of the window, spotting the long drive and the trimmed grass—the quiet neighbourhood that he could teach Luca to ride his bike in.
He feels you come up behind him, arms sneaking around his waist, his hands clutching your fingers as he smiles.
“You want to take another tour, Morales?”
He smiles, nodding, before he turns in your arms so he’s facing you, clutching your face as he kisses you. One which is full of sorry’s and love.
He lingers his palms on your face, just for a fraction. “Will you tell me all the other things you picture as we walk around?”
Grinning again, like before. One which would rival the sun and the beauty of the full moon on a clear night sky.
“Sure,” you whisper, taking his hand, leading him out of the room that in several months will be his son’s.
I’ve packed our case and it’s in the shower in our en-suite, so do not turn the water on without looking.
Luca’s is half done, but just need you to help me with a few last-minute bits?
Can I ask why our suitcase is in the shower or am I missing something?
Luca is being nosy. He goes into our bathroom but not into the shower. Trying to keep a surprise from him is harder than you think when I apparently “have lying face”.
You do look very suspicious when you lie.
Good job I don’t have to lie for a living.
Is he behaving?
We’ve baked cookies for tomorrow—even if he thinks it's for a movie day. And he’s currently using my iPad to talk to Sam.
I keep hiding in rooms with boxes so he doesn't ask me things.
Rainy, baby.
I know, but it's only a few more hours, right?
Yeah, promise. Sam called me earlier, and said she has managed to get Monday off so she can meet us there on Sunday—says we should pick somewhere in the park so she can surprise him properly.
Do you want me to get to thinking and then text her?
If you don’t mind baby? I should be done here around 7.
Sounds good. Gives me something to focus on until you're home.
You sure you're doing okay?
I’ll be better when we tell him tonight, I’m feeling really bad about lying to him even if it’s for a good reason.
I promise you, the moment he realises we’re going, you’ll see how it’s worth it.
I know. Plus, the promise of you in Mickey Mouse ears is really keeping me going.
The photo of you getting off one of the rides is what is keeping me going.
Mean.
But I love you.
Love you too.
Peaceful—that’s how you’d describe it.
Condensation slips under your fingers, sliding under your wrist, pooling at the watch strap as you hear him shouting something to someone as he makes his way over. The music is quieter over here, the loud voice that attempts to synchronise with the lyrics seems less shrieking, and more full of harmony.
You were only hovering on the outskirts to call to see if Tyler was okay, and then you found yourself lingering. A moment needed, not questioned or protested.
You know that's why he’s been biding his time. Watching, eyes flicking to you just in case you beckon him to come. Now, you smile as he approaches, it pulled from you with so much ease it's reactionary at this point, no thought. Just a-Frankie-smile, all his, hopefully forever his.
The once-warm air has now cooled, whipping the fabric around your frame as he saunters over.
“Wondered how long it would take you.”
Snorting, he takes a sip from his glass—letting it wet his lips, admiring the same view you have been for some time.
Slipping his hand around your waist, you move closer with ease. Hip moving to hip, cheek coming to rest on his shoulder—contentment filling your bones when he brushes his fingers up and down your back.
“You cold?”
“Not now.”
And he smiles, light—it coming with ease now that he has you back by his side.
“Missed you.”
“That’s because you’re a needy boy, Butterscotch.”
Snorting, he buries it in your neck—light, airy—before pressing a kiss to your head and turning to watch those moving on the dance floor. The soft glow of twinkling lights shimmering in his brown, fingers teasing up and down his white shirt.
The moment is only punctuated by a distant sound—a shift in melody embedded into the night breeze. It takes a second, one far too much before you recognise the tune, the song. Smirking to yourself as you remember your passionate rendition in his car the other week. An updated version to the one over a year ago. The look the same, though, all grin, all teeth and almost crinkled eyes.
You feel him turning your head, eyes meeting his.
It’s simple, uncomplicated—a movement that seems rehearsed as you move, leaning, resting your head on his chest as you feel a soft sigh escape his lips.
“When we do this, we’re eloping.”
Brow arching, he smiles. “When?”
“Like you’re not desperate to slip a ring on my finger, Morales.”
Snorting, resting his chin on your head, you take a comforting breath.
Hearing him swallow, you look at him, finding his tongue flicking against his teeth as he stares ahead at the party. “What if I was… desperate?”
Smirking, finding his eyes now on you, even if his head is facing forward. “Well, Frankie, maybe I’d be desperate to say yes.”
Have I told you today you’re beautiful?
Are you texting me from across our hotel room?
I am. I can see your smile in the mirror.
How the roles have reversed.
You look good in a suit, have I told you that?
Told me I look good in a different kind of suit today.
Oh baby, you always rock that one very well.
Can’t believe I’m marrying you today.
Can’t believe there’s a chance I’m going to be married by the real Elvis today.
I hope he says uh-huh-a-huh.
If he doesn’t, I say we annul and try again.
You do really look beautiful.
You should take a photo with Will’s camera—I guarantee I’ll get sauce down me.
You and white.
It’s actually rainier grey, but maybe I should have worn butterscotch.
Not sure I’d have survived that. Already pretty close to falling apart at the sight of you now.
Shut up and come here and kiss me.
AN: The End.
God, I was emotional last week, but as much as I am this week, I'm just grateful. Grateful you've all followed, that I got to tell this exactly how I wanted to. But, mainly, that you let this pair into your hearts. I love you, thank you.
frankie morales x f!reader | epilogue of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.8k
chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. flirting. they're no longer idiots.
an: the end
prev chapter | series masterlist
read on ao3
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
You sure you got everything from the house, baby?
I think so! Does this mean you're giving the keys in?
Unpacking another box, you slide a photograph onto the shelf, right next to his. You smile, shifting it, trying to make your things look like they belong as much as his.
Evidence of you already slotting in. Books sitting with his, plants finding homes in corners that look as though they were made for them.
Yeah. Unless you've changed your mind?
Not even a little bit.
Good. Because I already handed them in.
And what if I had said I thought I’d forgotten something?
The bubbles in the corner appear, fluttering and twitching, until they vanish. You roll your eyes, grabbing a tissue-wrapped small artificial cactus, placing it, and tilting your head as your phone vibrates.
You know I’ve checked the place twice.
Did the sex chair go into storage okay, by the way?
Even from here, you know he snorted. A breathy laugh, one that has and will always make your lips press together before sliding up into a smirk. You giggle at it, imagining him trying to suppress it if he's with people. Shaking your head at the image as you see him typing.
You gotta stop calling your office chair a sex chair.
Well, the only thing that happened in it was that.
Gonna drive now, you menace.
Hurry home, baby.
Sighing, you rip the tape from the underside of the box and flatten it, staring at the wasteland of boxes that have taken over his living room. Despite the chaos, you feel like you're finally home, for the time in a long time.
A thing you'd whispered to him when he'd hooked his leg over yours in bed this morning.
Steam billowed, carrying the scent of spices, tomatoes, and herbs blending into the air as you hear the front door open.
It brings a smile, tugging at the corners of your mouth, even though this should feel ordinary by now. A thing you should be used to, it feels like the first day all over again.
No more boxes, all unpacked, places for everything and newly learnt routines that you know to listen for.
Head turned to the doorway, hearing one thing after the other landing in the bowl: Keys, wallet and two thuds of his boots being removed.
It's all a routine now, something normal. Dinner is divided between whoever arrives home first. If he gets home first, he starts it, the two of you relying on the board on the wall to keep track. The one that's a vibrant array of colours—butterscotch orange, dinosaur green, and rainy day blue—highlighting the various shifts, jobs, and school pick-ups your month has in store.
This week, it’s a lot of orange. Things are picking up, with more word getting out about Frankie’s business and what he can do. The reviews are trickling in, and you know he’s already quickly outgrowing the summer house in the back garden. You commented on it when the two of you made the decision, something he assured you would be fine. You still agree that paying for two homes wasn’t a wise choice when he was already taking a risk.
Risky—a word you could never use to describe him. But a word you let him have, relenting, melting into his arms as you bid goodbye to the office he made you, with the promise of a better one in the future.
Now, standing in the kitchen that used to be just his and is now ours, you count in your head the seconds until his arms slide around your middle, his mouth pressing a kiss to your head.
“Smells good.”
Turning your head, fingers sliding under his chin—you steal a kiss, and another, sliding your digits around his jaw before they’re tangling in his hair.
“Could get used to this.” You hum against his mouth, murmuring a what that makes him smile, smirk, right up against yours. “You in our kitchen.”
“Well, it has been months now—I’d hope you’d be used to it.”
Shrugging, running his hands up down your arms, he steps back and leans on the counter. On the days when he beats you home, you bring home stories of Harry, customers and the random paint name you’ve found that you make him guess the shade of until he gets it right. Tonight, you ask him how his day has been. A mundane question, a thing that arises every day and yet the answer is never the same.
He talks about another enquiry, how the photos of your old office space, in the place you once called home, had inspired another couple to get in touch. And you try not to smirk, to wear a knowing smile, but instead nod, stirring and grabbing plates as he folds his arms and keeps his gaze on you.
A thing you thought would have lessened, but hasn’t.
“You need my help with this one, or?”
Shaking his head, folding his arms—looking you up and down as he traces his tongue across his bottom lip.
“What?”
“We said if we did this you wouldn’t try and do it all.”
You might not groan outwardly, but you do inwardly. His brows raise as though knowing so too, a thing which almost drags a laugh out of you. Almost.
“Come here,” he says, hand extended, finding your slides in as he drags you close. “I appreciate you, you know that?”
“I do.”
Good, he whispers, brushing your cheek with his thumb—the roughness of it making liquid heat spark in your stomach as you bite the inside of your cheek.
“You want a hand dishing up?”
Shaking your head, you kiss his wrist. “No. Go change—you can’t do it all.”
His snigger stays in the kitchen with you, long after he’s left to go change.
Luca told me something interesting at drop off.
Not sure I want to know.
Apparently, we’re getting a dog?
Little shit. No. He asked me and I said I’d think about it.
Well, apparently he thinks that Saturday when we pick him up we’re going to get him a dog that lives at our house.
Fuck.
Fuck indeed.
Are we against a dog?
It takes a second for the squeals to calm down.
Your arms may be scratched, and you may have wanted to sob as you tried to build the crate on your own, but the joy thrumming inside you as Frankie wrestles the puppy and Luca screams with laughter makes it all worth it.
It feels right that there are two bowls on the kitchen floor, both sitting on a plastic mat covered with paw prints.
It makes the home feel complete, even with a wet patch on the rug, even with your new shoe marked with tiny teeth marks, and even though you're exhausted beyond words.
Grinning, you lean back on the couch, watching Frankie pretend to bark and growl as the puppy tries to nip at him. The two alternate between rolling around, evading each other, the creased laugh marks on Frankie's nearly enough to make you get on the floor and join him, just to brush your fingers against them.
Instead, you teasingly poke the boy next to you. “Luca, what do you want to call him?”
Mouth sliding from side to side, Luca shuffles and bounces along the sofa before his head comes to rest on your arm. Frankie shifts to playing a version of tug-of-war. “Tyler.”
“Tyler?” Frankie asks, pausing to stroke the retriever's ears.
Luca smiles and then beams. “Like tyrannosaurus.”
Somehow, you suspected you should have seen that coming.
“Okay, well, Tyler needs to go to the toilet. Do you want to try and take him?”
Luca, nodding and smiling, taps your arm. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.”
As you stand, you catch sight of Frankie beaming up at you, warmth flooding your cheeks and ears at the sight of it.
What are you doing for lunch, baby?
Well, I was going to treat myself to a coffee and maybe a sweet treat. But what are you thinking?
I was thinking of letting Tyler out, bringing you fast food and sitting in the office at Harolds?
Oh, it’s been a while since we’ve done that. I like that our roles have reversed here.
I know. Do you know when Harold will let you have lunch?
Delivery is almost away, and then I just have to do a few bits.
I’ll be there in an hour. I’ve missed your face today.
Sounds good. Maybe you should have spent more time with it this morning then, than between my legs.
I have zero regrets about how I started my day.
“Have you seen the yard—I think that’s enough room for Tyler, how much bigger can he even grow after a year, and look here...”
Your fingers loop in between his, tugging him, practically dragging him with you to the kitchen window—the slightly overgrown grass and white fence greeting the two of you.
It’s the eleventh house the two of you have seen. Fingers brush over his thumb as he follows you around the rooms in a house that’s spacious, with three bedrooms, and two-and-a-half baths. It’s airy, light—ridiculously bright.
But it needs work.
A thing you can tell he’d thought on sight, even if the most he’s done is make a snort or a hum.
You suspect Frankie is paying more attention to the things wrong with it, than what is right. Missing some of the things you point out to him, too busy calculating square footage as the two of you walk around it. Ignoring your opinions on floor-to-ceiling bookcases and hallway mirrors, if the two of you could get a bigger bed than you both have now.
You do think he catches that you think Luca should have the largest room—your reasoning dripping from your tongue that he needs space as he grows up, that you both have a bigger closet in the second biggest.
“—And, we'd probably need to get him one of those beds soon, the ones where he has space under for a pull-out or a desk. The closet is decent, but we’ll have to get him some drawers too.”
Your fingers trace along the doors of the closet as he blinks, coming back to you, to the house, to the room.
“Wait—what…”
And you smile. Not just with kindness or joy, but with everything. Push it outwards, hoping it stretches its warmth out over the entire room, hoping it’ll surround him, maybe he’ll allow it to wrap itself around him as you tilt your head.
“I think this should be Luca’s room.”
Walking towards you, the heels on his boot sounding on the wooden flooring. “Baby, you can’t think that. For one, this house is—“
“Perfect,” you finish, palms finding his cheeks, thumb stroking the hair on either side of his lip. “It’s perfect, Frankie.”
You can see it, even if he doesn’t say it: it isn’t.
You’ve suspected for a while that he has an idea of a home the two of you should have. He’d whispered it to you three months ago in bed, head buried in your neck, fingers fanned over your hips as he talked about garden size, a pool, a workshop and even an office.
In some capacity, this house ticks some of those boxes. It has a spacious kitchen, it has a decent yard and a pool that needs a deep clean. There’s a room that could be an office, but would most likely be a spare bedroom for friends, for Benny or one of your own.
And, you’re grinning. Watching him smile in response, all radiant like he thinks you’re the reason the world rotates.
Then he says it, the thing which has been ticking behind the scenes. Unsaid, unspoken—ignored as though it doesn’t have its own pulse. “You deserve better.”
You don’t mean to, but your forehead wrinkles, brows knitting together as your smile fades into a thin line. Feeling it, etched and written across your face as shame works across him. The evidence of a battle he’s having with himself—something churning, twisting as you slide your hands down his neck and loop them at the back.
It’s clear now it’s been needling him—likely making his chest tight, wrapping vines around his chest, all thick and full of spikes, as he rolls his neck and sighs.
Tilting your head, trying to keep your tone level, you whisper, “Baby, what do you mean?”
Because the realtor is downstairs.
Not wanting to cause a fight—a scene. Your skin prickles as you momentarily panic that you’re whisper isn’t a whisper, when his mouth opens, but no sound leaves it. Worry tangles in your head, and in your throat as you move closer. Wanting more words to appear, to conjure, tell me, tell me, tell me, burning a hole in your tongue as you need him.
Your hand brushes his cheek, forehead smoothing out—concern replacing earlier confusion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The edges of your mouth twitch. “And, I love this house.”
He snorts, shaking his head as you glare.
“Don’t… don’t do that, Francisco. Don’t think for me because you’ve concocted some image of what I want.”
Letting his eyes hang down, he sighs. “I’m not–I’m not doing that.”
“You are. You… you’re looking at each house as if it has a checklist to meet—like it’s being measured against something.”
“Doesn’t it?”
You sigh, dropping your hands from his face. And you miss touching him the moment you do. Wanting to place them back, have him take your wrists and put them back, but you’re already folding them, shaking your head as you stare out the window.
“You can’t be mad at me for wanting the best for you.”
You snort this time, narrowing your eyes as you shoot him a glare that says you can, and you will.
“If, and I mean if we take this house, I… I want, no, I need to do a lot of work on it. Because you deserve the house of your dreams, and admittedly, I can’t afford to give it to you. Because houses are fucking expensive, but I can make it for you.”
Biting down on your lip, you glance, catching the sight of him running a hand over his face. Fingers pinching the inside of your arm as you try not to let tears bubble, swim and then fall.
“I… I don’t want that.”
“What do you mean?”
You look up, blinking away the tears. Seeing the doubt spread across his face, like he wants to rewind the clock—take back ever saying you deserve better.
And you don’t want to fight, not with him.
“Frankie… I don’t want it to be my dream house, I want it to be ours.”
He takes a step towards you. “I know.”
But you raise your hands, not pushing him back, but not inviting him in either.
“But you don’t. You’re not picturing a doorframe we can keep measuring Luca growing up. You’re not thinking of warm Sundays with our friends around the pool—and you’re not seeing the lick of paint needed so our bedroom is a little dimmer, so your eyes don’t burn from all the off-white.
“I don’t need an office—I like working with you and at Harold’s. And, yes, I’m not walking around thinking you won’t have to do anything to this house, because, of course, you will. You’re good, you have an eye. We wouldn’t even be thinking of buying something bigger if you weren’t. But, you started a business a year ago—we can’t afford perfect. But we can buy good and make it perfect. If, and when you stop thinking of me, and instead us.”
Brushing a hand over his face, he takes a moment. Swallowing a sigh, an annoyed grunt. His fingers itch at his forehead, pushing strands of hair under his hat before he drops it and stares at you.
“You really want this one?”
Nodding, you roll your lips. “What about you?”
And so he looks around. Hands digging into his jacket pockets, walking in slow footsteps around the room—
Hoping you've helped him see it, picture it, with all your earlier ramblings.
Where the wooden trunk he made will go, the bed you just talked about—the prints of stars, spaceships and galaxies. He glances out of the window, spotting the long drive and the trimmed grass—the quiet neighbourhood that he could teach Luca to ride his bike in.
He feels you come up behind him, arms sneaking around his waist, his hands clutching your fingers as he smiles.
“You want to take another tour, Morales?”
He smiles, nodding, before he turns in your arms so he’s facing you, clutching your face as he kisses you. One which is full of sorry’s and love.
He lingers his palms on your face, just for a fraction. “Will you tell me all the other things you picture as we walk around?”
Grinning again, like before. One which would rival the sun and the beauty of the full moon on a clear night sky.
“Sure,” you whisper, taking his hand, leading him out of the room that in several months will be his son’s.
I’ve packed our case and it’s in the shower in our en-suite, so do not turn the water on without looking.
Luca’s is half done, but just need you to help me with a few last-minute bits?
Can I ask why our suitcase is in the shower or am I missing something?
Luca is being nosy. He goes into our bathroom but not into the shower. Trying to keep a surprise from him is harder than you think when I apparently “have lying face”.
You do look very suspicious when you lie.
Good job I don’t have to lie for a living.
Is he behaving?
We’ve baked cookies for tomorrow—even if he thinks it's for a movie day. And he’s currently using my iPad to talk to Sam.
I keep hiding in rooms with boxes so he doesn't ask me things.
Rainy, baby.
I know, but it's only a few more hours, right?
Yeah, promise. Sam called me earlier, and said she has managed to get Monday off so she can meet us there on Sunday—says we should pick somewhere in the park so she can surprise him properly.
Do you want me to get to thinking and then text her?
If you don’t mind baby? I should be done here around 7.
Sounds good. Gives me something to focus on until you're home.
You sure you're doing okay?
I’ll be better when we tell him tonight, I’m feeling really bad about lying to him even if it’s for a good reason.
I promise you, the moment he realises we’re going, you’ll see how it’s worth it.
I know. Plus, the promise of you in Mickey Mouse ears is really keeping me going.
The photo of you getting off one of the rides is what is keeping me going.
Mean.
But I love you.
Love you too.
Peaceful—that’s how you’d describe it.
Condensation slips under your fingers, sliding under your wrist, pooling at the watch strap as you hear him shouting something to someone as he makes his way over. The music is quieter over here, the loud voice that attempts to synchronise with the lyrics seems less shrieking, and more full of harmony.
You were only hovering on the outskirts to call to see if Tyler was okay, and then you found yourself lingering. A moment needed, not questioned or protested.
You know that's why he’s been biding his time. Watching, eyes flicking to you just in case you beckon him to come. Now, you smile as he approaches, it pulled from you with so much ease it's reactionary at this point, no thought. Just a-Frankie-smile, all his, hopefully forever his.
The once-warm air has now cooled, whipping the fabric around your frame as he saunters over.
“Wondered how long it would take you.”
Snorting, he takes a sip from his glass—letting it wet his lips, admiring the same view you have been for some time.
Slipping his hand around your waist, you move closer with ease. Hip moving to hip, cheek coming to rest on his shoulder—contentment filling your bones when he brushes his fingers up and down your back.
“You cold?”
“Not now.”
And he smiles, light—it coming with ease now that he has you back by his side.
“Missed you.”
“That’s because you’re a needy boy, Butterscotch.”
Snorting, he buries it in your neck—light, airy—before pressing a kiss to your head and turning to watch those moving on the dance floor. The soft glow of twinkling lights shimmering in his brown, fingers teasing up and down his white shirt.
The moment is only punctuated by a distant sound—a shift in melody embedded into the night breeze. It takes a second, one far too much before you recognise the tune, the song. Smirking to yourself as you remember your passionate rendition in his car the other week. An updated version to the one over a year ago. The look the same, though, all grin, all teeth and almost crinkled eyes.
You feel him turning your head, eyes meeting his.
It’s simple, uncomplicated—a movement that seems rehearsed as you move, leaning, resting your head on his chest as you feel a soft sigh escape his lips.
“When we do this, we’re eloping.”
Brow arching, he smiles. “When?”
“Like you’re not desperate to slip a ring on my finger, Morales.”
Snorting, resting his chin on your head, you take a comforting breath.
Hearing him swallow, you look at him, finding his tongue flicking against his teeth as he stares ahead at the party. “What if I was… desperate?”
Smirking, finding his eyes now on you, even if his head is facing forward. “Well, Frankie, maybe I’d be desperate to say yes.”
Have I told you today you’re beautiful?
Are you texting me from across our hotel room?
I am. I can see your smile in the mirror.
How the roles have reversed.
You look good in a suit, have I told you that?
Told me I look good in a different kind of suit today.
Oh baby, you always rock that one very well.
Can’t believe I’m marrying you today.
Can’t believe there’s a chance I’m going to be married by the real Elvis today.
I hope he says uh-huh-a-huh.
If he doesn’t, I say we annul and try again.
You do really look beautiful.
You should take a photo with Will’s camera—I guarantee I’ll get sauce down me.
You and white.
It’s actually rainier grey, but maybe I should have worn butterscotch.
Not sure I’d have survived that. Already pretty close to falling apart at the sight of you now.
Shut up and come here and kiss me.
AN: The End.
God, I was emotional last week, but as much as I am this week, I'm just grateful. Grateful you've all followed, that I got to tell this exactly how I wanted to. But, mainly, that you let this pair into your hearts. I love you, thank you.
My contribution for the first week of @secretelephanttattoo’s excellent summer challenge. In keeping with the food and drink theme of the week, please enjoy Floating, a super sweet (and plenty sweary and a little angsty) one shot at Morales’ Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Fountain with Frankie, the nicest jerk in town. I hope you love him as much as I do!!!🍦
Main Masterlist - AO3
Rating: M 💖⛈️
Pairing: Frankie x Reader
Warnings: no minors, no betas, no proofreading, no problem; one shot - infidelity, cancelled wedding, dog poop/Roomba catastrophe as metaphor, vacationing with a slutty brother, Frankie’s drug history, Triple Frontier trauma (shooting, heli crash, death, not in explicit detail), sobriety from drugs and alcohol, spilling your guts to empathetic strangers because life is short and we can’t be fucked to maintain appearances anymore, ice cream romanticism, Frankie wears a cute little hat omg, he’s also wearing that white Henley tee YOU KNOW THE ONE, just freaking fluff, Frankie is a sweet angel, stupid soda jerk joke, maraschino casualties, and one suspiciously sneaky mayor
🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦
Floating
🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦🧡🍦
This stupid fucking heat.
This stupid fucking town.
This stupid fucking trip.
Your stupid fucking life.
Of course everything around you was BEAUTIFUL and FLAWLESS. Of course everyone you met was LOVELY and WARM and FRIENDLY.
It made you furious.
Secret Springs was a dream holiday spot, of course. You could admit it begrudgingly; you’d been excited to be here once. Every inch of the resort town was designed with luxury, charm, and comfort in mind. Every staff person you encountered was thrilled to see you, incredibly helpful, unerringly delightful. The mayor (an elected position? A themed, invented title? You weren’t sure) greeted you personally when you arrived, didn’t bat an eye when you introduced your brother as the second guest on the newlyweds package reservation in place of your husband.
Would-be husband. Fiancé. Ex-fiancé. Dirt bag. Sewer rat. Shower drain slime with weird hair in it.
So, yeah. What should’ve been an incredible honeymoon went all to hell when your fiancé told you he’d been having an affair 12 weeks before the wedding. Dropped a huge metaphorical pile of dog shit in the living room of your heart. Then let loose the proverbial Roomba with a she really makes my heart sing, I know if the roles were reversed I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the love of your life even if it hurt.
You’d spend the past three months mentally scrubbing crap tracks out of the area rug of your soul, making calls and cancellations and apologies nonstop, but of course, OF COURSE, the trip was non-refundable and you couldn’t reschedule.
Now you were sweaty and gross and sunburned and chafing and swamp-assed and really fucking angry and really fucking sad and your emotional support big brother was probably wrecked on Aperol spritzes getting railed poolside by one of the very attentive young men on staff and you were alone in the most beautiful place you’d ever seen, cursing every quaint fucking cobblestone.
Sigh.
“Enjoying your stay?” came a too-chipper voice from behind you. You hadn’t heard anybody coming over the sound of your own heavy breathing. It was Mayor El, and they were waiting expectantly for your response.
“Couldn’t be better,” you deadpanned, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You thought something almost darkly mischievous flashed across the mayor’s eyes for a fraction of a second before they plastered on a megawatt smile. Might’ve just been the sun. Maybe you were losing it.
“Unconvincing at best, my dear!” crowed Mayor El, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve heard from some of my employees that your travel companion is taking advantage of all the perks of our little resort.” The mayor gave you a knowing wink.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. He’s always been quick to let loose and have a good time. I’ll… well, I’m not sure I’ll get there under the circumstances, honestly. Nothing personal — your place is great.” You shrugged apologetically.
Mayor El nodded with understanding. “Not exactly in the vacation mood. I don’t blame you.”
“Firmly in a ‘I’d rather be anywhere else than getting heat stroke on my aborted honeymoon with my slutty brother’ mood, yeah,” you chuckled in spite of yourself, feeling somewhat lighter. You had to admit, they were good at this. You were sure Secret Springs would be swimming in customers (and cash) with the mayor’s keen sense.
“You know what always gets me through a soul-crushing experience?” Mayor El asked, prompting.
“What’s that? Because I might be beyond crushed. Like I’ve been through a fucking recycling center, spiritually.”
The mayor smirked, and again you caught a tiny glimpse of something sneaky, deviant, on their features. “Ice cream.”
You huffed. “A little cliche, don’t you think, Mayor?”
“Maybe, but aren’t those usually rooted in some bit of truth? And lucky for you, Secret Springs boasts its very own old-fashioned soda fountain and ice cream parlor. Floats and malts and sundaes. They wear the cute little hats and everything - that was my idea.”
Ice cream did sound good. Like, crazy good. Suddenly you couldn’t imagine doing anything else but crying into a mountain of whipped cream while you cooled down your cooked body from the inside. Damn, Mayor El knows their shit. “Okay, yeah, that… that sounds perfect actually. And where…”
You didn’t have to finish your thought before the mayor was taking you by the elbow and pulling you down the street toward a shopfront with a small bistro table and chairs under a striped awning. A lush pink bougainvillea climbed the wall and trailed its tendrils around the front window, which was painted with white swirling letters — Morales’ Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Fountain. You turned to thank the mayor and found they’d disappeared as silently as they’d arrived. You didn’t linger on the weirdness because immediately you were distracted by the smell of fresh waffle cones hooking into your nostrils and yanking your body towards the door, inside the shop.
A tinny bell rang when you pushed open the door. It was darling inside. Checkerboard floors, polished wooden shelving, mint green bar with a chrome and black countertop and matching stools. An old-fashioned citrus juicer was mounted to one side of the counter, a soda dispenser on the other, and pumps for different syrups lined the length of it. Several pastel Hamilton Beach mixers and stacked curvy glasses filled the back wall. The air conditioning buzzed, and you could barely detect faint music coming from an open door at the back of the store, but the place was otherwise quiet and empty.
Are they even open? If I don’t get ice cream now I might cry. I might throttle the mayor.
“Welcome to Morales’! Grab any seat, I’ll be with ya in a minute!” called a voice from the back. Oh thank God. You desperately needed this treat (and you suspected the mayor knew how to fight). You slid onto the stool closest to the cash register and peered around for a menu without luck.
“Sorry ‘bout that, dropped a case of maraschino cherries. Real bitch to clean up. I mean, god, apologies for the language. What can I do ya for?” A man in a tight white Henley and blue jeans — and a little white paper hat, as promised — walked behind the counter, rolling his shoulders (BROAD shoulders), eyes down as he wiped sticky pink hands (BIG hands) on the red-and-white striped apron tied around his waist (TINY waist).
You squeaked? Since when did you squeak? But you squeaked. And coughed, to try to cover it. The man looked up and locked eyes with you, big bright brown eyes, a lopsided grin dimpling his scruffy cheek. Can you get brain freeze without actually eating the ice cream?
“I need help? I need… ice cream. I need ice cream help?” you tried.
“You’re in luck, then,” the man grinned. “Just so happens that ice cream help is exactly what we do here at Morales’. Do you need help with ice cream or help from ice cream?” His eyes honest-to-god twinkled. TWINKLED.
You returned his smile with not a small flush of mortification. “Yes,” you replied with a chuckle. “Both. I need a lot of help. And a lot of ice cream.” You offered your palms in plea.
The man flipped on the sink faucet and gave his hands a quick soapy scrub, then dried them on a towel slung over his shoulder before reaching over the bar and taking your hands in his, giving them a quick squeeze.
Oh.
“I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I’ve got you,” he laughed. “Shake? Malt? Scoop? Sundae? Float? I’ve got options.” His eyes roamed the counter and he murmured an ah hell before ducking down out of view, reappearing a second later with a laminated menu. “I guess you might need one of these.” The tips of his ears went a little pink and he worried his plump lower lip with his teeth. “I’ll give you a minute to think.” He turned away and set to wiping over the countertop with his towel.
You stared at the menu, not processing. You knew you’d walked into the ice cream parlor, you knew you’d sat down at the counter, you knew you’d been knocked the hell out of your body Dr. Strange style when you made eye contact with a beautiful boyish stranger who was eager to give you “ice cream help.” Jesus fuck, ice cream help.
The man cleared his throat to catch your attention and you startled. “Sorry! You looked a little… lost in thought, there. If you’re craving something you don’t see on the menu, I might be able to make it happen anyway.” He smirked, that dimple absolutely criminal. “Wouldn’t want to leave you unsatisfied.” Christ.
“God, sorry. I was spacing out. Didn’t bring my brain with me on this trip, I guess.” You frowned and looked at the menu, tried to will your eyes to read harder, somehow.
“How’s it been going? Your trip, I mean,” the man asked, leaning onto the counter onto his tan forearms and resting his chin in his hand.
“It’s great!” you pipped, too fast. He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. You revised. “It’s… not great. It’s not great. It blows, actually,” you admitted, barking out a sharp laugh of relief. “It fucking sucks.”
“No wonder you need ice cream help, then. Sounds critical.”
“It really is…” you scanned his chest (and wow, what a chest) for a name tag, coming up empty.
“Francisco Morales.” He reached a hand out to shake, which you did. “But if you call me by my full name like that I’m gonna worry I’m in trouble, so please, Frankie.”
You gave him your name and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you get in a lot of trouble, Frankie?” You didn’t mean for your voice to take a flirtatious edge to it. Maybe you were getting high off the waffle cone fumes.
Frankie mirrored your movements, coming closer, and whispered loudly, “Whatever you’ve heard, don’t tell the mayor on me.” He winked. “But no, not anymore. Sure used to, though. Not a lot of trouble to be had at a soda fountain.”
“Except for dropping crates of maraschino cherries.”
“Damn, you got me. Yeah, except for that. And the occasional hot fudge burn.
“Yikes!”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and quirked his lips. “Yep. Not too bad though. I can handle a little pain with my pleasure.”
Lord.
“I’m sorry Frankie, I have no idea what to order. Can you recommend something? I’m a mess.”
“Sure can. Need a little information first.” He clapped his hands together. “Allergies?”
“Nope, none.”
“Any particular likes or dislikes?”
“Don’t hate me, but I love maraschino cherries.”
He cackled. “OF COURSE. Well, I think I managed to save at least one jar. Classic or cutting-edge?”
“Hm. As intrigued as I am by an avante-garde soda fountain, I think my soul needs more comfort today. Classic.”
“I can work with that,” he hummed thoughtfully. Then, more softly, “how much comfort are we talkin’? Mending a little hurt or a big one? If I’m being too nosy, just tell me to shove it. I’m a professional jerk but I don’t want to be an asshole,” he snorted.
“Absolutely awful joke aside,” you groaned, “you’re good. I’m not sure how to even quantify the size of it, honestly.” You sighed and scrubbed down your face with your hands. “Well, I’m here on my honeymoon, but without my husband, because I don’t actually have a husband, because the wedding got called off, because my fiancé was cheating on me, and he made sure to tell me he was cheating on me with somebody he is madly in love with, which feels worse I think, but the trip was nonrefundable and so I came here anyway with my brother instead, and now he’s getting plowed by a pool boy while I…” you trailed off as your eyes glossed with tears, and you looked away while you tried frantically to blink them back.
“I see,” said Frankie quietly. “Well, shit. Yep, that’s a big hurt. Hate to admit it but I’m not sure my ice cream can fix that,” he tutted. “And, trust me, it’s really fucking good ice cream.”
You breathed out a wet, snotty laugh-adjacent sound. “Damn.”
“Right?” Frankie lamented playfully. “I did promise my help, though. Maybe it won’t solve your problems but it could lift your spirits a little. Worth a try?”
“Worth a try,” you agreed, snagging a napkin from the metal dispenser and dabbing at your eyes.
Frankie spun on his heels and went to work, brow furrowed in thought and pink tongue poking out between his lips like he was working on something critically important rather than on assembling a confection. It warmed you in a way you didn’t expect, to see him being so thoughtful about his work, like your hurt was an important thing. You let the feeling snuggle its way into your chest, curl up there, start purring.
After several minutes Frankie resumed his place at the counter in front of you, now with two tall glasses of something foamy and red-pink and creamy and delicious-looking, topped with three cherries a piece. “Mind if I join you?”
You shook your head no and Frankie slid you one of the glasses. “What am I about to drink?”
“Poison,” he replied flatly, smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. His lovely, lovely mouth. “Taste first. Then I’ll tell you.” He crossed his arms and watched expectantly. “Go on, hermosa.”
You eyed him suspiciously at the endearment but took a sip. Grenadine goodness bubbled on your tongue, melding with rich vanilla and decadent whipped cream.
In a flash, you were a little girl, sitting between your parents at a fancy brunch, a tower of waffles in front of you. “I think we have something special just for the coolest kids,” whispered the waitress into your ear. You squirmed excitedly in your seat, Mary-Janes swinging. She set down a tall glass of something the color of hummingbird nectar and plinked a cherry in alongside a stripey paper straw. “It’s called a Shirley Temple, and it’s extra sweet, just like you.”
Frankie cut into your reminiscing. “My turn for a story.” He tilted his head like a puppy, asking without asking if you were interested in hearing it.
“You’ve earned it, Morales. I’m all ears.”
His smile softened a little around the edges, turned down slightly, and he sighed. “Believe it or not,” he began, “I wasn’t always a soda jerk.”
“Just a regular one, then?”
“Ha! More than I care to admit. I… uh…” he looked down, rubbing his neck again, looking nervous for the first time since you’d walked in. “I was in the military. Army, special forces. Pilot, helicopters.”
“Oh, no shit?”
“No shit. It was… it was a life. I was good at it. Really good, too good probably? I’ll spare you the gory details — and most of what I did is gory details,” he winced. “Got out, was flying commercial helis, got into some of that trouble I mentioned earlier. Not a lot of support for vets, especially not the ones who did the most fucked up stuff, you know. So I coped the best I could, which was badly,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Coke. Got busted at work. Lost my job. Lost my license. Lost my girl.” Frankie swiped a thumb across his lip absently, swallowed.
“Then, because I was on a fucking roll with good decisions, I took a job flying for my old Delta Force buddies in South America. Unofficial, not technically illegal US muscle against a big drug lord, bring back his cash stores. Didn’t go well.” He took a deep, pained sigh. Took off his little hat, tossed it onto the counter. “It’s… this next part is a lot.”
Your heart ached for this man you’d only just met, who seemed so warm and gentle. “It’s okay. You can keep going.” You reached to him and rested a hand on his arm, and he looked heartened as he continued.
“We had to drop our haul. The whole thing. It was too heavy, but it was also too late. Crashed trying to clear the Andes. Landed outside a farming village and… I still don’t know exactly why, but shit went sideways. There was shooting. Villager died. We tried to clean up our mess, be diplomatic, but you can’t come back from something like that. Had no choice but to try to walk the mountain pass and get to where our pickup was waiting at the coast on the other side. Cold as fuck, exhausting. And… we were followed. Guy from the village, looking for revenge. Justice. I don’t know. Can’t blame him. He… uh, he shot one of my buddies. He died, and we had to…”
Frankie’s voice cracked. “Sorry.” You squeezed his arm, nodded wordlessly.
“We had to bring him home. So, we carried his body back, the other four of us. Returned him to his widow, his kids. Signed over all our payment for the job to them, got sent on our merry way,” he gritted bitterly. He dropped his head in his hands.
“Jesus Christ, Frankie. I’m so, so sorry,” you rasped. “I… fuck, what do you even say to that. I’m so sorry you went through that. It’s… it’s so fucked up.” You felt tears welling up, for him, this time, instead of yourself. For his pain. For his grief. For his strength. “That’s way beyond ice cream help.”
It was Frankie’s turn to wet snot laugh, and he wiped his face on his shoulder. “Big hurt for sure. But it was a real kick in the ass for me. I couldn’t live like that. Decided no more military anything, no more tough guy shit. Threw myself into therapy, leaned on my family. I’d quit coke after I got busted, but when I got home I quit drinking, too. First time I went out after getting sober, I immediately got overwhelmed, on edge from the noise and the crowd, nothing dulling my senses. Stupid choice, in hindsight. Found myself at the bar trying to convince myself not to order a beer, not to find someone with blown out pupils and follow them to the bathrooms. Bartender was a friendly old woman who took one look at me, itching for a fix, and came back with a drink. Not booze, a Shirley Temple. A big fucking Shirley Temple.”
“Cherries?”
Frankie dipped his chin in confirmation. “You know it. Three of ‘em. And I was mortified. Genuinely. I was still working through a lot, machismo bullshit and all that. But she gave me this look like I better not even think about leaving that drink on the bar, so, I drank it. And I kid you not,” his eyes widened and gleamed, “it was the best damn thing I’d ever tasted. And more than that, it was… healing? I didn’t feel like I was sitting in this angry storm cloud for a minute. I could just enjoy something, feel a little lighter. It looked fucking silly, but it felt like the first nice, easy, simple thing I’d done in decades. And I realized that I wasn’t even thinking about wanting a bump of coke or a beer; I was just content to be in that small moment, sipping my fruity little soda. Made the decision right then that when I started to feel hopeless, torn up again, world going dark, I’d try sitting with a Shirley Temple first. Probably the one choice I’ve made in life that truly served me well. I mean, besides chasing my sweet tooth into starting up this place.” His face was pure sunshine.
“Is that why you made me a Shirley Temple float?” You didn’t even bother trying to hide your tears this time.
“It is. Tried and true healing powers of a Shirley Temple with extra ice cream magic. Can’t solve all your problems, but makes them feel a little more manageable, at least in my experience.” He took the hand you still had clasped around his forearm and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, and sat it back on the counter with a slow smirk before stepping back and rounding the bar to you.
You stood from the stool and when he opened his arms you stepped into them, letting him pull you into him as he wrapped around you tightly. You breathed deep, eyes closed, cheek pressed to the warm patch of bare skin where his shirt buttons fell open. You felt the tip of his nose nudge into your hair, another soft kiss at your crown.
“Thank you, Frankie. Thank you for this. For the float. For the company. For the help. For the… hope?” You murmured the words against his body, pressing your gratitudes into his chest and hoping they went right through his ribs and stuck there inside for him to keep.
“I told you it was good. Ice cream is magic.” He looked down at you in the cradle of his arms, brown eyes glowing coffee warm with affection.
You reached up and twirled a glossy brown curl and let it fall, then traced your fingers down among the curve of his stubbled jaw. Frankie nuzzled into your touch.
“Does feel like something magical happened,” you hummed, taking his face in your palm, threading your fingers through his soft tousled hair. Frankie quirked an eyebrow at you. You pulled him closer, bending his neck down until your nose tucked into the soft fuzzy shell of his ear. Your whisper was warm and low against his cheek. “Don’t think it was the ice cream that did it.”
And when he kissed you, God, when he kissed you, it was the sweetest thing you’d ever known.
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nineteen of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 4.1k
chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. flirting. they're no longer idiots.
an: next week is the epilogue, and I'm crying in the club rn.
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key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
It’s been almost a year.
A thing you think to yourself as you drag the tip of your paintbrush across the cheek of the sixth child at your little homemade stand, nestled on the edge of Sam’s backyard.
It had only been built last night. You and Frankie had been inspired by lemonade stands, ignoring his mutterings about Pinterest as the two of you rummaged in his workshop, scavenging enough wood to bring it to life. Dragging bits and scraps, a saw in hand as you cut things to size, laughing as you begin grunting with each back and forth—
“Alright beaver, calm down. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Morales. I'm only eager for your wood.”
You’re grateful the bruise on your hip is still healing. The one gained from a mandatory break between coats of paint, his finger wrapping two of your fingers in a bandaid. Soft kisses to the tips of them before those same kisses were on your mouth, on your neck, traipsing down your collarbone. That's when you'd caught the edge of his workbench, fingers busy with his belt, a clang, whoosh and then an ouch.
Now, dipping and swirling the paintbrush in the murky water, you feel the pain flare when you shift—hand occasionally brushing over it. A private smile forms, buried easily when another child requests the same animal.
Then, when the stripes and whiskers are complete, you can’t help but grin at the high-pitched thank you that follows, watching the child skip off, shouting to anyone who’ll hear them that they’re a lion too now—at a dinosaur-themed birthday.
Carefully, covering the orange paint, you place the lid back over the others so they don't dry out. The air is full of squeals, sugar practically on the tip of your tongue from the at-home cotton candy machine Sam's cousin is operating. You lift your head, squinting still through the shades you borrowed from Frankie to see that said cousin had given up putting it on a stick, and was instead shoving balls of it into the hands of already excitable and sugar-filled children.
Shaking your head, cleaning your hands on a rag that was now a canvas of colours, going from a pale pink to an assortment of shades, you laugh if only to yourself. Pushing the aviators up your nose, the warm plastic familiar against your skin, and catch a whiff of Frankie's cologne lingering on them—a mix of cedarwood and something distinctly him.
You had known the two of you were inching towards a year, but it had been Frankie who had brought it up first.
Whispering it against your bare shoulder yesterday morning, asking if he could take you for lunch with a kiss to your hip—having booked a table, reserved the same spot the two of you had sat at during your second date. Only this time, you took in the place even more—hand in hand—from the plants to the decor. You were less nervous than that first time, more comfortable, letting him order a range of mini plates so the two of you could sample a variety of things.
Your fork extended over the table, watching him try to chase the food you had told him he should try, before his fingers—thick, dexterous, that somehow still make your stomach flip—wrap around your wrist so he can place the fork between his teeth.
“We should come here more often,” you had said, him taking your hand in his, thumb brushing over the place between your knuckles.
“We should.”
“You gonna kiss me like you did that first time?”
Licking his lips, swiping a finger through the lingering sauce. “Can do so much more than a kiss, Rainy.”
Sighing, content—finding it hard not to smile—you glance around as the memory fades into Luca's backyard birthday party.
How laughter echoes around the fence panels, blending roughly with the music and occasionally intercepted by a squeal that makes you wince behind your shades. And you wouldn't change it, any of it. Your heart even doubles when you see Luca grinning and waving at you, as you return it before he's running off once again.
“Brought you this.”
Looking up, squinting in the sun, you see the inflated dinosaurs behind him jiggle and move in the warm breeze. Dressed in a green polo, a new fake T-Rex sticker on his cheek, you curl into his touch as his hand spreads across your shoulder.
“Oh? So you’re not here to have your face painted, Morales.”
“Not one bit—makes me itchy.”
“Not very party of you.”
Smiling, he massages a particular spot that could turn you into goo. You press a kiss to his sun-kissed arm, inhaling the scent of his sunscreen—a blend of coconut and tropical flowers that instantly transported you back to your day at the beach, laughing and holding hands as the waves crashed around you. Staring up, you want to brush your fingers through his hair, feel his curls shifting and dancing in the breeze.
“It seems to be holding up well. The stand.”
Smirking, doing a little shrug. “Yeah, it's doing good. Must have been that DIY video.”
Scoffing, it forming from the back of his throat and exiting his mouth quickly, you swear he rolls his eyes. “Wasn't the video.”
“No?”
His fingers still massaging, working the place between your neck and shoulder, jaw tight, eyes fixed on something ahead as he grumbled, “Didn't need it.”
You hum, resting your head against him, smiling, all easy, without a care in the world. “Sometimes, videos aren't all bad though, are they?”
His chin dips, your eyes fixing on the place you think his stare will be behind his own shades. Wondering, hoping he's thinking of the first time you met. The video, the one he'd made you show him so he has some semblance of an idea of what you were trying to do.
“Sometimes. I'll give you that.”
“You think next year it’ll be at yours? The party?”
He draws a circle, one that shifts into a square and then back again. “Maybe. Maybe it’ll be at ours.”
“We do need to finish that conversation.”
Humming, he smiles, lowering his mouth down to meet yours as you hear him whisper, “We do” at the same time as you both distantly hear Luca screaming for him.
“I think you’re being summoned.”
“Swear my kid is cockblocking me from finishing this conversation with you.”
“Maybe it’s an omen.”
Tapping you, you smirk—biting your lip as he grins. “Do me a favour.”
Letting him hold the back of your neck as you tip, his fingers gripping just lightly. “Anything, baby.”
“If I’m not off that in five minutes, stab it with something so it deflates.”
Smirking, you brush your fingers over his back as he kisses the top of your head. You watch him run off to the bounce house, unable to stop yourself from grinning, feeling nothing but joy as he charges in and roars.
Adjusting the party hat atop your head, you glance over and spot Sam, who mouths a thank you for the millionth time today before pointing at the buffet. You shake your head.
You’re not sure you can eat another pizza roll if you tried, but you don’t say no when she points at the cupcakes beside it.
The second cupcake is being devoured when you carry in some of the presents an hour later, placing them in the room marked Luca’s. It is so vastly different from the one at Frankie’s, yet still holds the same charm. The colours are different, if not reversed in how they’re used, the love of dinosaurs smothering everywhere it can in a similar fashion to his.
Admiring, letting your eyes wander across the photographs on the top of the little cubbies, the ones that hold multicoloured tubs with sticky labels highlighting their contents. In each frame, the people shift, from Sam and Luca to Frankie, Sam and Luca, Luca and what you assume are his grandparents, but the smile, the grin never changes. It just grows, gets bigger with him as more hair curls atop his head and his hands get larger as he waves at the camera.
“You hiding from me?” Looking over your shoulder, you find Frankie walking towards you, hands sliding around your waist as he rests his head against yours. “Well, I found you.”
“Is this the part where I scream?”
Snorting, he kisses your cheek. “If you want a bunch of tiny lions coming and stealing me again, be my guest.”
Leaning against him, fingers tracing over his, feeling his knuckles, the healed scratches and rough parts. “Hey, did you build these?” you ask, resting your head on him, his chin resting on you. “They’re like the ones at yours…”
You hear him swallow, before he shrugs. “Maybe.”
Tilting your head, staring at him, finding his eyes have flicked down even if his head is still in the same position. “Has anyone told you that you’re good at this—at making things with your hands?”
His chest fills with a breath before he slowly exhales. “I try.”
Fingers, all instinctive, slide around his chin, tug his chin down, eyes unable to not stare into yours. “I mean it. You’re really good at what you do, Frankie.”
One side of his mouth slides into his cheek, before he takes your hand, kissing your wrist. “C’mon, before there’s a search party.”
Clutching his wrist, keeping him in place. “I love you, you know?”
His lips slide into his cheek as he closes the gap, his fingers cradling your face tenderly. “I know,” he whispers, his eyes soft and full of wonder, as if he's hearing it for the first time, before he presses a slow, lingering kiss against your lips, sealing the words against your mouth.
I don’t know who is running your social account but they’re very witty.
They are. They make me laugh.
Yes, I’ve heard they have a good mouth on them.
Did you know that they’re also beautiful and very cute in the morning?
Should I be worried? They sound like a keeper.
Jealous?
Depends, are you going to make them a coffee using your complicated machine?
Maybe. They’re a bit moody without caffeine.
I’m beginning to feel offended.
I will say that you were right about scheduling them—it has helped.
Is that you saying I’m right?
Maybe.
I’ve screenshotted that as evidence.
Do you want a coffee bringing when I come to yours?
Is that a bribe to delete the evidence? Either way, that would be nice.
Good, might have already made you one in your cup.
You spoil me, Butterscotch.
It's hard not to fidget—moving from standing to pacing, to leaning.
Currently, you're back to standing in the place where the sun streams in through the open back door, casting warm, golden light across the kitchen floor, and your feet as it gently warms you—until you get too hot again.
The gentle breeze continues to bring in the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the soft hum of distant lawnmowers which add a somewhat comforting background to the quiet afternoon. But neither do anything to stem the growing worries in your stomach, the ones climbing, doubling—
Sliding your hand around your glass, the ice cubes clink softly, slowly melting and leaving a ring of condensation on the counter. You sip the cold water, letting it cool your nerves. The anticipation builds, each second stretching as you glance at the clock, knowing he'll be here any moment.
It doesn’t work, not even as you take in a deep breath.
Trying to will tranquillity and calm to shower down over your shoulders as you glance at the clock, realising he’ll be here any moment.
And it makes your heart pound. Forces your palms to become a little more clammy as you place the glass down in its puddle.
You’ve rehearsed this. Gone over it in your head, running a hand down your outfit to flatten it—as though that would be the thing that could ruin this. Even if you’ve gone over every detail of this surprise a million times. Yet, standing in the quiet kitchen, you can’t help but second-guess everything.
What if he doesn’t like it?
What if he thinks you’ve overstepped?
What if, what if, what if—
Shaking your head, you jumble the doubts. Shake them to some other part like a snow globe, taking a reprieve from them before they flutter back down. Allowing yourself the brief chance to remind yourself why you’ve done this, why you're doing this.
Because you love him. Because you believe in him—
Taking in another deep breath, fingers flexing at your side, you force yourself to focus on the positive outcome you’ve imagined so many times, rather than the others.
Like him storming out.
Like him staring at you in outrage, questioning why, what gave you the right.
But then, this is him.
Your Frankie. The one who never needs the heating, because he’s always several degrees warmer than you, a thing you hate when he’s not sharing a bed with you—when he’s not pulling you close and whispering against your skin that he’ll keep you warm.
Or, your Frankie who grunts if he’s not awake before you, needing coffee, or breakfast. Tugging you close as he curls you under him, burying his face in your neck as he grunts that it’s too early—even if he deep down knows it isn’t.
The man who goes quieter when he’s tired, who dislikes bumper-to-bumper traffic and hammers his thumbs on the steering wheel in protest of it; who might be fiercely protective, but has never stormed out or raised his voice—so why would this even be a worry you’d have.
You jolt at the echoed familiar sound of a key turning in the front door, a flutter of excitement mingling with a rush of nerves as your thoughts fade, vanish. Replacing it with nothingness, a barren wasteland of quiet worry.
And each noise you can hear makes it worse. Makes you feel sick, nauseous, sweaty and lightheaded. Your fingers clamping to the counter for leverage—
"Hello?" he calls out, his voice carrying through the open rooms. You hear the door close behind him, the soft clink of keys as he puts them down.
"In here," you reply, your voice steady despite the nervous flutter in your chest.
Frankie appears in the doorway, his face lighting up as he sees you. "Hey," he says, crossing the room to wrap you in a warm embrace. "What’s this? You look like you’ve got something up your sleeve."
You smile, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes. "Maybe I do," you tease, your heart racing a little faster.
He raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "What’s my surprise?"
Nervously, you slide the turned-over paper across the smooth counter towards him, your fingers trembling slightly. His smile, ever so warm, flickers with curiosity as his eyes drop to the paper.
Everything you rehearsed, fades, goes.
It’s like trying to grasp water, it just slides through your fingers as your hand hovers over the paper, flattening it, pressing it to the counter as though willing it to vanish. You’re thrumming, vibrating, unsure if you’ll even be able to keep your voice level as you clear your throat.
“So, you can totally rip this to pieces—but, happy six years.”
Nervously, you slide the turned-over paper across the smooth counter towards Frankie, your fingers trembling slightly. His smile, ever so warm, flickers as his eyes drop to the paper as you begin talking, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“I know it’s late, and I know it was a bit ago, but firstly, just know I love you. And I love what you do—all of it. Harolds, Instagram...”
Tilting his head, a flash of nervousness ripples out across his face. “Rainy, you’re making me nervous.”
Shaking your arms out, you smile. “Don’t be. I can be nervous, you can’t be.”
“Oh, is that how this goes.”
Grinning, you nod. His hand takes yours, his other trailing up and down your forearm as he stares into your eyes—as though trying to have a conversation with your soul. Almost commanding you to breathe, to take a second, both things you do before licking your lips.
“You’re so good with your hands—” You don’t miss his snort, “and at DIY, at renovating. That room in there, it’s beautiful, everything I thought I ever wanted.”
His eyes narrow slightly, a hint of confusion crossing his features.
“You’re good at it. So good. People are reaching out to you and you don’t even have the time.”
“I know, I just—”
“Let me finish, please baby.”
You take another deep breath, trying not to shift nervously on the spot. Sliding the paper closer to him, you press on. “You can say no. We can pretend I never did this, never even brought it up. I don’t want to be someone who makes you do something you don’t want to do, but I also don’t want to be someone who doesn’t support you, who doesn’t champion you and make you feel like you can.”
“Rainy… what’s going on?”
Biting your lip, you exhale loudly. “Turn it over.”
And he does. Dropping his hand from your fingers to do so.
All you can do is watch.
Everything seems to move in slow motion as he does so. Your heart thumping into your ribs, anxiety rippling and spreading out as it turns over and you see the moment his eyes spot it, take it in.
His eyes gaze up and down the paper, taking in the logo you’ve spent weeks on. The one with a new name, with ‘by Frank.DIY’ in the corner. Raindrops in the top corner, for you, and a flash of orange for butterscotch; tools and a house with a broken roof, details that he might not notice at first glance, but you hope he will on further ones.
Then there’s just silence.
Unreadable, bubbling silence that makes you shift. Makes your inside knot and twist as you try to give him a moment, a minute. Failing.
“I remember you told me you didn’t think you deserved to own anything. And I know you, and the others, faced a lot before I even knew your name. But, Frankie, I’m here to prove you otherwise—when you’re ready.”
His face lifts to you, the paper under his hand, fingers outstretched over it, a look so nondescript on his face that your pulse begins to pound in your ears.
Mouth falling open, you want to ask him to speak, to say something, but you’re not sure you can find the words. Having prepared for anger, for joy, but not something in the middle that was hard to label or describe.
Less so when he places the paper down. When he stands, and you subconsciously mirror him—his hand scratching the back of his neck, skin turning a shade of pink you hadn’t banked on.
“I should… I should give you a moment, right?”
Moving, stepping out from behind your side of the counter, fidgeting, moving slowly as you try to find words and form thoughts to choose a place to go hide in.
“I crossed a line, and I’m—”
He doesn’t let you go far, fingers sliding around your wrist, tugging, pausing you in your step. And it’s silent, just covered by your slight heavy breathing as your teeth nip at the skin of your lips, as your other fingers twitch nervously at your side—desperate to pick, to scratch. To anything to root—
Then, he’s pulling you flush to him, lips crashing to yours in a way that steals both your breath and your worries.
“I’m sorry, Frankie—”
His palm cups your cheeks, and tilts you to look at him. “You really believe in me.”
Heart settling, warmth spreading. “Absolutely, Frankie. I always have.” The look he gives you undoes you, makes the worries melt and instead be consumed by the need to comfort. “Have done since you measured my office without even using a measuring tape.”
Swallowing, with difficulty, he tries to smile at your joke. “I can't... I can't believe you made me this... Baby, it’s so good.”
“You’re not mad?”
“No. No, sorry—no. Overwhelmed, maybe?”
Smiling, nodding, you swallow. “Yeah, I didn’t—should have done more of a speech.”
Laughing, his eyes close, the tip of his nose brushing yours, just keeping you there, fixed, paused. Your hands slowly rise to stroke at the underside of his forearms, just like he did—the paper there, turned upright on the counter.
“Tell me.”
Two words he’s begun to say more when he can hear the cogs turning—when he can tell that there’s more bursting and bobbing around your mind.
“Frankie…”
“I know you. So, tell me.”
Sighing, you avert your eyes, when he taps your arm and you take his hand, leading him into your living room, sitting, finding further proof that it doesn’t feel half as warm as his—not even close to as comfortable.
Taking a breath, you smile. “The other week, when you asked me if I’d live with you. If you meant what you said, I’d love to live with you.” Your free hand, the one not inside his on his bent knee, raises, pausing. “But we don’t have to sell here, I’m not sure we’d make much, and that’s a decision to make to—”
“Rainy.”
Nodding, you take another breath. “Now, this is all hypothetical. It’s your choice—”
Smiling, he tightens the hold on your hand. “Ours.”
Rolling your lips, sighing. “Ours. But, we could use this house for your business—keep things here. Operate meetings from the office because it is too beautiful not to use—and you’ve worked too hard on it not to show it off. Or we can sell here, use the little that’s from it to set you up one of those summer house things so you can work from that.”
“I can’t leave Harold.”
Biting your lip briefly, you smile, tipping your chin. “He thought you’d say that.”
Brows lifting, Frankie slowly frowns.
“He's got a real eye for things—helped me with the logo quite a bit. Gave me some constructive feedback—as did the boys. I never told them what it was, but…”
“That was what Will almost dropped you in on at the fight.”
Grinning, you squeeze his hand. “I could have kicked him. Will guessed what I was doing first, I had only asked a question—but I just told them you’d mentioned rebranding. But he guessed and then he helped where he could. He's been looking at getting on your truck for you.”
Frankie laughs, raising his hand to scratch the back of his head as his nostrils flare.
“And when I nipped in to grab those bits for you, I asked Harry about working there—jokingly. I think that’s when he caught on,” you say, shaking your head. “Don’t think I’m good at surprises. But he brought it up, me working with him, that day I helped?”
“Baby…”
“Anyway, I could take your place, Harold’s would be covered still, and then when I can, I can help you—probably just with painting, think if we did any woodworking I’d slow us down.”
Frankie snorts, fingers scratching at the curls above his forehead. “I can’t ask you to give up your job.”
“You’re not. I… Frankie, I like what I do, but only sometimes. I’m burnt out. You even asked the other week if it was making me happy, and it isn’t. And, look, I’m not saying it’s forever, but for now, I can do it when I choose to, be picky. I can be an extra pair of hands when you need it, helping you get off the ground, and can use the discount when needed for little bits.”
His other hand comes over the top of the ones linked, eyes soft, gentle, and sweet.
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to do it. It’s your choice—you deserve a choice, Frankie. And if you don’t use the logo, that’s fine, but I will put it on a flask for when I make you lunches.”
Laughing, he dips his head, before lifting it to meet yours. “If I choose not to do it, will you still move in with me?”
“Are you finally, really asking me?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, tilting his head to the side, he nods.
You smile, leaning closer, arms wrapping around his neck. “Well, I would love to move in with you, Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
Nodding, taking in a deep breath. “Yeah. Because if it's not clear, there's not a thing I want more than a future with you, Butterscotch.”
TO THE EPILOGUE ->
do not be alarmed, we still have the epilogue. but, long time fans will know that jo is more emotional at the chapter prior to the epilogue than the epilogue. this is where my goodbye begins.
firstly, thank you. to every single person who gave me a chance to tell a hardware!frankie story, for letting rainy into your hearts, and for letting this become what it is. this is the longest thing I've written in years, and a reminder of the reason why i love writing so much.
this entire thing wouldn't be possible without @secretelephanttattoo and i will be forever grateful for her pushing me to do this, especially when i think she could tell i was swirling down a drainhole with something else. it was a raft, those cute rings you throw when someone is drowning, so thank you, my dear friend.
and, this entire thing wouldn't be what you love, if it wasn't for the encouragement from @goodwithcheese. who each week began her excitement that made me giddy, from guess the paint shade to letting me share with her my big plans for this chapter first. when i thought i was losing the path, she reminded me the path was very much there, i just needed to take a breath.
and then finally, a special thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who holds my hand a lot more than you lot thing. who read the first chapter of this when we met and got so excited with me i had to really hold back tears.
to my darling @morallyinept who told me she loves my frankie, you don't know what those words did for me on a day where i almost walked away, to the amazing and brilliant @toomanytookas who understood rainy on a level that we can both share, and to @covetyou my lo <3 for being there every week and also for understanding how conflicted and odd i feel about next week.
truly there is so many more of you i wish to thank, but i am honestly sobbing writing this. this may be the hardest pairing I've had to let go of (and i know, we have another week, but my grief has begun so.. shh).
i love you all, I'll see you next week. thank you for letting me tell a story that means more to me than there are enough words for me to explain why.
I can’t believe this story is ending! I had the BEST time with Frankie and Rainy 💖💖 I’m so sad it’s coming to an end, but what a wonderful ride this was!
Thank you, Jo, for everything you create! I love this story and your Frankies so much 🫶🏽 I hope to run into my own Frankie in a hardware store someday 🥰🥰
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eighteen of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 4.2k
chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. flirting. too idiots who clearly want to have a future together.
an: we're so close to the end and i'm crying.
prev chapter | series masterlist
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key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
You’d never consider setting an alarm an hour early for anyone else, silencing it with a groan and stretch, leg bending out like a lazy, sleepy starfish until it meets him.
He who is waiting, palm sliding over your thigh, up to your waist, gently tickling your stomach until you wiggle. Frankie’s breath grazes your neck as he sighs, pressing each syllable to your skin, Morning.
Sometimes when you wake next to him, you stretch out and he comes to your side; others you fold over onto his, and occasionally you meet in the middle, leg between his, rousing to the sounds of neighbours, heartbeats, birds, or silence.
But like clockwork, always after a moment, your lips meet his in a tender kiss, soft and layered with a smile before growing needier, the only time his movements aren't slick and coordinated.
“Shower?”
He hums against your mouth, tracing the band of your sleep shorts.
Soon enough, the hour is stolen by cuddles and whispers before a shared shower washes away lingering sleep. Hisses blend with steam until you're both towelling off and slipping into clothes.
“Do you think you’ll be gone all day?” you ask, pouring fruit into your yogurt, handing him the bowl as he sips his coffee.
“Not sure—could be. You’re staying here, right?” You nod and grin, chewing a piece of fruit. “Good. I like knowing I’m coming home to you.”
His words spread warmth through you, a blaze of happiness. You stare at him for a moment before asking, “Is that so?”
Placing his elbow on the table, he traces his jaw as he stares. “Yeah. That okay?”
Shrugging, fighting a smirk. “Not the worst thing I’ve been told.”
“What you working on today? ” he says, pinching a piece from your bowl—ignoring the chopped-up, untouched yoghurt ones left for him. “Still those graphics?”
Nodding, you motion to stab him with your fork when he tries again. “Get your own, Morales. Stop wanting mine.”
“Can never stop wanting you.”
Narrowing your eyes, you watch him grab a piece from the free bowl, smirking as he chews.
“I made you a lunch, by the way.”
Chewing and smirking, he drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “Like a lunch lunch or—?”
“A lunch in a brown bag—with maybe a love note in there.”
His tongue pokes his cheek as he smirks. “Yeah?”
You nod, pointing at the fridge. He moves quickly, opening the brown bag, rustling through it before pausing and turning fully.
“You made me lunch.”
“I did.”
You might have ruined me for lunches from now on.
Ah, this is why I didn’t make you them before—wanted you to fall in love with me for me, and not my excellent packed lunch. You hating what you have today?
It’s not hitting the spot.
Did you make it yourself or grab it on the way?
Grabbed it?
Well, there’s why. It isn’t made with love.
I did like the fact I got a note in mine the other day.
Special treatment. Hope you didn’t throw it away.
Don’t laugh, but it’s in my wallet.
Aw Butterscotch, you loveeeee me.
If you make Luca a packed lunch, I think he’ll make you stay forever.
Well, I’m not going anywhere. If that’s okay?
I meant living with us, but good to know that we’re on the same boat about being a forever kind of thing.
I don’t make lunches for just anyone.
Because of the risk of them falling in love with you?
It’s a blessing and a curse, Morales.
Placing the platter down, a breeze blows the tablecloth on the newly painted and restored garden furniture Frankie had surprised you with.
The temperature warm, birds chirping as you check and recheck the various paint shades ready on the paper plates—the canvas’ already set up on their stands as he waits, resting his chin on his palm.
“Ready?”
Scrunching your nose, you sigh. “I think so?”
“What if I can’t paint you how I see you?”
Kissing the top of his head, feeling his head tilt up as you press another to his forehead, to his nose. “Oh, I’ll cry if I look like a monster.”
His laugh ripples out as you press your mouth to his, feeling one of his hands skate around your middle, squeezing.
A scroll on your phone one night had led the two of you to purchase a vase from Harold’s small homeware section, filling it with a bunch of different date ideas. Some cheap, at home, some further afield that required more planning.
Last week’s had been backyard camping. The tent had been big enough for all three of you, fairy lights strung on the inside as Luca’s s’mores (an insistence on them from both you and him) had accompanied well with Frankie’s reading of Luca’s ghost story. Which was basically one of his books with a ghost on the cover.
Today’s, on a rare free day off, had you both back outside and ready to paint. Thirty minutes on Frankie’s phone, a set of paint shades that would definitely make it difficult to capture the beauty of his eyes and an array of nibbles that smelt too good to keep avoiding.
As you sit, both grabbing a brush in hand, you glance over at him and nod as he begins the timer, his focus already deep on his canvas. He looks up, catching your eye and offering a smile that’s familiar, all but warm.
“You know,” he says, dipping his brush into a bright blue, “this might be my favourite date yet.”
You grin, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the sun. “Because you’re getting to paint something other than a dinosaur?”
He nods, eyes twinkling. “I do paint a good dinosaur.”
“You do. Very talented.”
Laughter continues as you begin with his outline, the conversation flowing as you try to capture his nose, his smile—the crinkle of his eyes. By the time the alarm goes off, you're almost happy. Dropping your paintbrush, hands up as you admire for a moment before picking yours up to show him.
“You’re going to be blown away.”
“I’m ready, baby.”
Turning yours first, his brows raise, leaning forward, slightly squinting. “I'm getting the idea that you like my nose...”
Smirking, slowly lowering yours back to the stand. “Oh, I like your nose, Butterscotch.”
Laughing, he then turns his and what you see takes your breath away. His painting of you, beautiful but also absolutely hilarious, has your smile cutting up into your cheek, teeth showing before a laugh rumbles out. It high-pitched, scratching your throat as it forces it out—tears pricking at your eyes, as he slowly lowers it.
“See? I told you I couldn’t paint you how I see you.”
You laugh, blinking back tears, heart full. “Frankie, you drew me as a dinosaur.”
He cracks then, mirroring you, laughing. “I wouldn’t run from you.”
Shaking your head, wiping another tear from your eye you snort. “I’d trample on you.”
“I’d let you.”
Wanted you to know that a certain person is wondering if he can watch cartoons and eat ice cubes with you.
Aw, how’s the little man feeling?
He’s still got a temp, but it’s less than yesterday and he’s managing to keep toast down. I’ve rang Harold already, thought he might have been okay today but.
Does Harold need help?
You don’t even think, question.
The offer had been on your tongue on the day Frankie had called from the car to tell you he needed to pick Luca up. Explanation interspersed with hissing at traffic and grumbling, as you conjured the image of him tugging on his hair as he hurried his way to the school.
Frankie had said it would be fine when you’d offered before—it’ll be one day, that’s it. Now it was day three, and medication from the family medicine doctor as Luca battled an ear infection that had him not even wanting to talk dinosaurs.
There’s a delivery, but he says he’ll call his nephew.
Dialling his contact and pressing the phone to your ear, you drain the last parts of your coffee, tidying away the opened letters on your countertop as it rings, and rings, and—
“Call him and tell him I’m on my way.”
Frankie laughs, mumbling a hello as you hear him clanging a pan and something else. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I haven’t got much on—and even if I just accept it for him, let him tell me where he wants it, then it’s sorted.”
“You sure? This… you don’t have to do this.”
Laughing, grabbing a t-shirt from your drawer, before pulling out a pair of older jeans. “You kidding me right? I get to hang out with Harry—hear his puns first-hand? I’m more excited than he’ll be.”
“Rainy…”
Your mouth opens, letting out a heavy exhale before you stare at yourself in the mirror. Seeing the smile on your face from his words, finding yourself unable to tear yourself away from it for once. Liking it, the look of joy on your face, the one he etches just from his voice.
“Rainy?”
“It’ll be good for me—think I need to get out of the office, my house.”
There’s a silence, just for a moment. “You okay?”
Muttering an uh-huh back to him as you place him on loudspeaker, dragging the t-shirt over your head before he says your name.
“Just another rough day with a person who is using me as a punching bag. Woke up to an email, but… it’s fine, it’s really fine.”
“I hate that you keep having them.”
“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too. I feel like I brave it up and get rid of one and two grow in its place.”
Frankie exhales, his breath sliding down the phone, “Can I do anything?”
“Well, if you don’t mind me being fake Frankie, I’d love to go help Harold out—it’ll be good for me. Feel like… I’m good at something.”
“Rainy.”
“I know,” you say, finger-tracing a pattern on your bedsheets, “I know. But… just how I feel.”
“You’re good at lots of things.”
“Like?”
He snorts, loudly. “Making me laugh.”
“You laughed at a meme for ten minutes the other day about a dog’s tongue poking out.”
“It was hilarious.”
Sitting yourself down, back lying on your made bed, you run a hand down your face. “I’m just a little tired, I think. Usually, it wouldn’t bother me this much.” Frankie makes a noise in agreement, the back of your wrist resting on your forehead. “Truthfully, I want to see if Harold would be impressed by my puns.”
Frankie laughs, more clanging heard under it. “I’ll call him—but only if you promise to let me order you food for when you’re done.”
“Oh. Not worried I’ll get whatever Luca has?”
He snorts, and you can imagine the roll of his eyes even down the phone. “Unless you think you can catch an ear infection, I think you’ll be good.”
Smiling, slowly pulling yourself up to a sitting position, a pang of worry knocks through you—threatens to shake things. “Harold won’t mind, will he… I know you said he runs things differently.”
“I think he’s been wanting to replace me with you since you wandered in that day—he’ll be hoping it becomes permanent.”
Are you doing okay?
Yeah! It’s been fine, most are on palettes. Did spot a large order of butterscotch paint—that for you?
Haha, no. It’s actually been picking up in popularity.
It’s you modelling it on your page.
Shh, no it isn’t.
Baby, I love you—but I saw your latest video. From when you helped Benny, if I wasn’t already getting the chance to be in the sheets with you, I’d be thinking it.
It wasn’t that hot.
You really, really grossly misunderstand how hot you are, Francisco. Your arms for one.
You’re making me blush.
How the turn tables turn. Me, in your apron, you at home being flirted with.
Now I’m picturing you in my apron.
Yeah?
Don’t tell me what’s under it, let me fantasise.
Should I bring it to yours later?
Yeah. Yeah, do that.
There’s something about the noise of fight night.
It is both thrilling and anxiety-inducing as Frankie leads you in, his palm firmly on your back, guiding and easing you in. You reach a hand back to touch his wrist, a comforting ritual you’ve developed since that first time.
Your eyes scan and search for the others, a routine that brings a sense of normalcy to these events. Feet slowing, almost coming to a stop as you see Will wave, drink in hand, pointing at it as you nod back to Frankie and guide him through the growing crowd.
The music is louder tonight, the air tinged with more restlessness as you move, slide, and push your way through until you reach the rope.
“VIP, are we?” you call out, wrapping your arm around Will’s neck in a hug.
“Only the best.”
You step aside as the rope is reattached, letting Frankie and Will greet each other while you wave at the others. Out of the corner of your eye, you see all the slaps on the back, Frankie’s fingers cupping the back of his friend's head as he grins, nods, and talks right into his ear.
Then, there’s an arm around your middle, a familiar warm breath on your ear. “You good, baby?”
“I am.”
His lips press a tender kiss to the side of your head before you follow Will to sit down. As you settle in, you listen to Will telling Frankie that Benny is in the back and how he’s really stepped up over the last few days. You find yourself distracted, your tongue chasing the straw in your drink, until the conversation turns to yoga. Will mentions that you think it’s been quite good for Benny to shut off, and you give Frankie a look, mouthing, ‘Told you,’ to your boyfriend.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Will says suddenly, shouting over the music. “How did it go showing him the—”
Involuntary, your elbow slams into his side mid-sip. Your eyes widen as it forces a cough to smother the other words, staring boldly, almost coldly, right into Will’s face.
“I haven’t had a chance to show Benny the video,” you say, curtly, sharply. “It was very bright in the helicopter.”
You hope the lie is good enough, solid enough. You also hope Will picks up on it. Notice the distress in your eyes as Frankie, who is hanging onto your side and you can feel is darting his eyes from you to his friend and back again.
It takes a second, eyes narrowing, your stomach knotting as you fear the surprise you’ve been planning for Frankie is about to unravel.
“Ah, alright. Well, it would be good to see when it’s ready.”
Nodding, you lean into Frankie’s side, watching his eyes smooth out, relief washing over you as the tension dissipates. “Hey, so how does this night go? Is he the main fight?”
Shaking his head, Frankie adjusts his hold on his drink as he slings his arm around your neck, beginning to explain things as you shoot a smile at Will, managing to catch, quickly, the mouthed apology as you wink and let Frankie explain what tonight is for.
Your phone vibrates on the side, glancing at it as you help Luca roll out a small pizza circle from the dough you made last night.
“Rainy, can you helps me with my hat?”
Fingers adjusting his chef hat further down his head, a thing you hadn’t been sure if he would like until you saw his face light up when you pulled it out with its matching apron.
We should be done in about half an hour.
And then I can come inside?
You will be greeted at the side door by our mini-waiter who will be happy to show you to your seat.
You breaking child working laws, Rainy?
He had a work permit I swear.
Stepping back from him, you turn the oven on as you mentally tick off another thing, before scanning over the recipe that you have printed out.
It’s splattered in the sauce you’ve already made—and slightly damp from grabbing Luca's water earlier.
I think you’re lying.
I think you grossly misunderstand how seriously we take things at Dino-Moralesaurus Diner.
Excellent name though.
I can’t take all the credit, your son is a genius.
At the sound of a knock, you help Luca down from the cooking stool Frankie had made him as he runs off excitedly screaming. It’s even harder not to grin at the sound of his boots coming off, as he comments nice hat, chef to Luca as you continue rolling out the dough.
You’re aware you’re covered in flour, that the side is a mess of sauce stains and random half-chopped ingredients.
“What’s this?”
Luca, now hatless, fulfils his duty as a waiter, offering the chalkboard to him as he explains, in the most adorable voice, that the special is pizza, the main is pizza and the dessert is—
“Rainy, what’s the dessert again?”
“Ice cream.”
“’Tis ice cream, Daddy.”
Lifting your head from chopping toppings, you catch his eye and exchange a knowing smile before Luca leads him to the already set table, clinking plates and silverware as he clambers up onto the chair to pour him a glass of lake water.
“Now, tell me, are the pizzas dino shaped?”
“Hmm, lets me ask the chefs. Chef Rainy?”
“Yes, Waiter Luca-saurus.”
You can’t fight the smile that spreads as you announce that unfortunately, tonight's dishes won’t even be fully round, never mind dinosaur-shaped.
By the time you’ve rolled out the dough and just about to begin spreading tomato sauce, Luca decides that there needs to be more dinos on the table. Freeing Frankie from sitting at the table and allowing him to join you.
“Chef Rainy, would you like some help with the toppings?"
“Only because you’re nice to look at,” you say, watching him roll up his sleeves as he moves to stand beside you.
You hand him a spatula for the sauce while you sprinkle cheese. Frankie insists on creating a ‘masterpiece’ with a mix of all the toppings, while you opt for a simpler choice, sprinkling it with fresh basil and tomatoes.
“By the way, Luca’s is store-bought. Thought poisoning your child would be hard for me to live down.”
Together, you lean against the counter as Luca runs back in, little feet slapping against the tiles as more dinosaurs begin filling up the table. Frankie goes into dad mode as he asks if he’s washed his hands before he’s running off again.
It’s barely a few minutes, but the timer goes off. Springing into action, removing Luca’s pizza from the oven—seeing the cheese golden, bubbling, filling the kitchen with a rich, cheesy aroma before you place it down and throw both yours and Frankie’s in.
You call out to Luca, who’s been eagerly waiting in the living room. “Luca-saurus! Your pizza’s ready!”
Luca comes running in, eyes wide with excitement as he climbs onto his chair at the table and you slice it up into smaller pieces and place it down.
“Mmm, this is so good!” he exclaims, his cheeks puffed out like a little chipmunk.
As Luca continues to enjoy his pizza, you and Frankie take a moment to savour the anticipation of your own creations baking in the oven. The timer goes off again, and you carefully remove the pizzas, setting them down on the counter.
“They look amazing,” Frankie says, admiring the crispy edges and perfectly melted cheese.
Taking your first bite, you’re hit with a burst of flavour, the freshness of the basil and the tang of the tomato sauce mingling perfectly with the gooey mozzarella. You share a look with Frankie, who gives you a thumbs-up, his mouth too full to speak.
“How did you like your homemade pizza?” you ask Luca, smiling at his enthusiastic nodding.
“It’s the best pizza ever!” he declares, reaching for another slice.
Frankie leans over, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he says softly.
You squeeze his hand, before moving to the sink to begin soaking them—just as Luca drags Frankie to pick the second part of the evening.
By the time you’re joining them, finding your saved spot in between them both, the movie is ready to begin, the opening credits starting before you’ve even got under the blanket. It’s minutes before you feel Frankie’s fingers sliding up and down your shoulder, your head turning, smiling as Luca sighs loudly next to you, eyes still closed, sinking deeper into a heavier sleep.
“You had a nice evening, Butterscotch?”
“Was perfect.”
“Thank you. For letting me do this—let us do this for you.” Shrugging, his free hand stroking over his face. “I’m proud of you. Six years is… monstrous.”
Snorting, resting his head on the back of the sofa, he grins a little wider. “Can tell the pair of you have had the afternoon together—monstrous.”
“He says it better.”
Nodding, Frankie shifts in his place, hand pausing on your shoulder, before squeezing it. “T-thank you. For tonight. For making a big deal but… not making a big deal.”
“Big deal not big deals are kind of my forte.”
Laughing, his thumb and index tracing over his lower lip, as you flick your eyes back to the brightness on the television—the high-pitched voices of the characters making you giggle, as the cartoon scene plays out.
“Wish we could do this all the time,” you whisper, fingers stroking along Luca’s hair—feeling him nuzzle further in the space between your calves and bent knees.
Frankie doesn’t move, or shift, but rather drags his fingers up and draws a different shape on your neck, forcing your eyes to move from the screen to his. And you see it, nestled there—a question, one his mouth opens to speak.
“What?” you ask.
“We could… do this all the time.”
Brows raising, you smile. “Oh? How would we do that?”
“Rainy.”
“Francisco.”
Snorting, continuing his drawing on your arm, he lets out a weighted exhale. “We could… maybe live in one place?”
“Oh?”
His hand slides over your shoulder, squeezing it as your heart races as he takes a breath, as more of his words hang in the air. It isn’t that you haven’t thought about it—that it hasn’t come up casually, a promise of asking you properly previously teased—but now it’s here, there, present.
Things crash into you as you run through the list. The image of waking up with him every morning, is slighted by the worries that he’d grow sick of you if you didn’t have your separate spaces. Would you disappoint him? Would he like the version of you he sees all the time—and not just part of it—
But, even still, the answer is so clearly there, sitting, teetering on the tip of your tongue as you begin to grin, smile. Almost about to answer when Luca mumbles in his sleep beside you, something incoherent before his eyes flip open and he makes a funny noise.
Frankie shifts, hand dropping from you as he calls out his name.
“I… Daddy, I don’t feel very well.”
“Shit,” you whisper as you throw your legs down from the sofa as Frankie moves to kneel at the same time as he whispers, “Mierda.”
The back of his hand presses to the boy’s forehead as Luca begins rubbing his stomach. “You feel sick?”
Luca nods, rubbing his eyes as Frankie helps lift him from his place between the sofa and your legs and makes him stand up.
“You think Daddy was right about all those sprinkles?”
Nodding again, Luca buries his head into Frankie’s neck and chest, little hands sliding around as Frankie looks at you and smiles, reassuringly. “He’ll be fine. But, I’m gonna put him in bed—do not press play without me, Rainy.”
Grinning, your lashes flutter as he lifts his son and stands. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Morales.”
“And, maybe we can finish the conversation too.”
Okay, you whisper—fingers pinching at the skin on the back of your arms as your brain begins to tally, to list, to think.
NEXT CHAPTER ->
an: have you seen the bonus graphics on the masterlist? if you have any moments you'd love to see from the series till now, let me know and i'll make them for after the epilogue (chapter 20)
Story info: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, fluff, smut: oral (m!receiving), unprotected piv, Frankie and Miss finally lock doors in their house.
A/N: A little birdie told me it was National Catfish Day today so I wiped this up in literally an hour. The first smut I write for Miss and Frankie since wrapping up the main story, can you believe it! Obviously, this is unbeta'd, I'm not a native speaker, enjoy!
Main masterlist | Series masterlist
A knock on your office door, the familiar rasp of Frankie’s knuckles and then his tired face that pops in. After a long and eventful day.
“Hey, muffin,” you smile back at him, giving up on trying to fit yet another folder in your school bag.
“Hey, hermosa.”
The door closes softly on him and he threads to you, footsteps heavy, before his arms sneak around your waist to completely distract you from school supplies and lesson plans. Facial hair burns your jaw, right above your chin, just the way you like it, and Frankie feels how your smile gets bigger while you recline into his embrace and his chest and the lips that stay against your skin after he’s kissed you.
“Everyone’s snug in bed,” he whispers, arms strong that hug you and keep you upright, too much time on your legs today, you’re tired. It’s been decades but it always does a number on you, the first day back to school.
“Even Cassie?”
“Everyone under ten is snug in bed,” Frankie rephrases and you chuckle. “She said one more hour, hopefully less. She’s looking at colleges and college applications.”
“Smart.”
“It’s the first day of the school year.”
It’s sour, his scowl unmistakable in his words and the slight tension against you. You wiggle to twist in his arms, to rest yours around his neck. One flick of your fingers makes his hat tumble to the floor so you can sink your hands into his curls and massage his annoyance away.
“But apparently they talked to her class about it today so yeah. She wanted to check it all out. She’s only a junior,” Frankie mutters and you press your palms deeper into the mass of hair, kisses the corner of his mouth gently.
“She’s already a junior, baby. And she’s excited about it. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“I know,” Frankie sighs.
More opportunities than he’s ever had himself. The chance at a potential scholarship, full or not, it’s already an exciting prospect. All the doors Frankie could never have dreamed of opening for his daughter, how lucky he does feel about it all. Still. Yesterday, she was just a baby. She’s got no business asking for more time on a laptop to research campuses and college classes.
“You know what it means though? Another school year starting?” you ask to distract him from the touchy subject. Your nails drag on the nape of his neck and the hands Frankie has threaded on your back, they tighten on your work clothes. He smirks.
“That I’m going to have to come down here to drag you upstairs most nights?”
“You’ve got some enticing arguments, muffin, that shouldn’t be a problem. No. It means we met ten first school days ago.”
There’s a beat when he thinks about it, wheels turning in his head, doing the math. Big brown eyes bulging out as he comes to the same conclusion as you.
“Well, shit, that’s true,” he gasps. “Holy shit, we did.”
“Time flies, uh? Ten years ago I was just your kid’s teacher and now...”
“Sometimes, you’re still my kids’ teacher.”
It’s been weird, having Mateo in your class last year, but you made do. More exhausting than usual, to have two different caps on with him and you were even more relieved than usual when the school year ended. He’s your colleague’s student now, and you’re back to being Mama, if only until Suzy goes to first grade next year.
Frankie kisses your quiet laughter at his joke away, lips poised against yours in the little bubble of your office, everyone else in their bedroom and finally some time alone with your husband. How his thumbs rub the small of your back and with a gentle thud, his forehead comes to rest against yours. Not blinking, the kind of silent communication that you adore. All the love and comfort and ease that sip through all his being and cocoon you and you’ve felt safer or better than in Frankie’s arms.
“Ten years of knowing each other, though, Miss. Wow.”
“Yeah. The best ten years of my life. I love you.”
It’s easy, to press into his mouth when he agrees, breathes his I love you into you, the desk digging into your legs with how he crowds you. Slow and familiar, years and years (not ten, you weren’t there yet ten years ago) of discovering and learning each other. Familiar scents and tastes and all the moves and buttons to press to get all the reactions that you crave. A tug on his curls and Frankie moans around your tongue. The velvet and the warm of it in his mouth and then you sigh, content, at the fingertips which slip further down to cup your ass.
Hot palms on synthetic fabric that caress and knead and push you more into him.
“I had—I thought of a little present for you to celebrate but—I—it’s—”
“I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t think—”
“Muffin. Not that type of present. It’s not even our anniversary, don’t worry. You can get me cupcakes another day,” you tease with a wink.
Because for the longest time, for Frankie and you, it was impossible to decide what was really your anniversary. You’ve got your wedding one now, even if it’s often mixed with Christmas celebrations. But it was impossible to decide what date to settle on. First kiss? But you weren’t even allowed to be together then. First date? Which one was even the first one? The unofficial ones at the library? Benny’s fight when you could official hold hands and be together without risking your job? First dinner date?
And in the end, what does it matter, you’d both agreed. What mattered is that you’d found each other, you were happy together, wanting to create a life and a family together. Willing to grow and help and support each other. No need for an exact date to celebrate your love. You celebrate it every day that you’re together. The easy ones and the most challenging ones. Small attentions peppered throughout the years, and those are more meaningful than some big celebrations society would have you celebrate. Surprises that come from the heart and the thought behind them.
“I wanted to wait and do this upstairs but,” you continue, watching his face relax and his eyes follow you as you step away from him to go lock the door, “since you’re here, why don’t you take a seat, Mr Morales?”
There’s a swivel chair in your office that the kids adore, on any given day if you’re looking for them, this is a sure place to find them. Spinning and arguing about who has been sitting the longest and how they should just let the other have a go already.
There’s also the chair that used to be in the nursery which was moved downstairs when there was no need for nursing your children anymore. A cozy little reading nook when you need to get away from the noise. Plush and deep and the best spot to curl with a hot drink.
Frankie sinks into it, puzzled, your hand strong on his chest as you push him down, your head hovering above him, the tip of your tongue licking your lips. So, so close to him that your smell is all he can focus on. The hint of perfume still left under the sweat of a long day. Everything that makes you you surrounding him. That and the hand teasing lower on his shirt and his stomach. Ghosting with the promise of what he thinks he’s coming and his breath hitches, warm on your face.
“That type of present, if it’s all right.”
Your hand sinks lower, inches away from the zipper of his jeans, fingertips light on the denim but already feeling how warm his crotch is. How excited his body always seems to be. Even after all this time. Even after knowing all the tells. How he can never get enough of you.
The softness of your kisses and the somewhat delicate way you cup him, caressing slowly, feeling him get bigger and you keen in his mouth, head flooded with images of what’s to come. One of your favorite places in the world. Between Frankie’s legs. The power that you’ve got on him down there, but the same could be said if the roles were reversed. Heat throbs in your panties at the thought and you’re not expecting anything from him tonight, the thought that it’s been ten years only occurred to you a couple of hours ago anyway. You’re not expecting anything but you rub your thighs together nonetheless.
“Fuck, yeah, it is. So good, honey.” Frankie groans at the pressure on his crotch, how it increases, all the blood rushing down to his cock. His beautiful wife, kneeling between his legs. Looking at him with fluttering eyelashes.
“Take these off for me, then.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Cheeky tone and a devilish grin and he scrambles to get the zipper down. A bit of a struggle for you to tug the jeans down his legs that has you fall down on your butt with a laugh. Then his underwear that you throw on a heap before you come face to face with your prize. Not quite hard yet, but your immense pleasure to get him there.
One tiny lick to the tip, resting your cheek against Frankie’s thigh and he jerks, pushes himself closer to you and your mouth. The warmth of it, blows of hot air on his dick and the eye contact once you look up and take a hold of him, hand moving up and down. How satisfying when his eyes roll back and the back of his head thuds against the armchair.
You lick a long strip from the tip to the base, following patterns you know by heart, you could do this in the dark, with your eyes closed. You know every inch of Frankie’s body, what it tastes like, what it feels like. You know how to tease and how to get him where you want him, putty in your hands. Desperate and squirmy.
The ridges on his cock and how it pulses when you kiss its length, kiss the inside of his thigh and the deep growl at how you finally engulf him in your mouth, massaging the skin of his thigh, fingertips brushing his balls.
It feels like home, your mouth on him. The precise yet sloppy way you take care of him. The gurgles when he pushes on the back of your head to make you go deeper. The tongue that swirls around him, salty taste on the back of your throat as you swallow and how much bigger he gets with every bop of your head. Filling you more and more and it’s hot, having him in your mouth, but you sure would like him in your pussy, too, now.
Slick drips in your panties at the thought and you squirm on the floor. Go faster on his cock and suckle on the head, sucking precum dry and then your hand is gone, sneaking between your own legs to relieve some tension there and Frankie swears, grips both armrests in vicious claws so he doesn’t make you completely choke on him, hips dangerously close to lifting off the cushion entirely. Desperate to fill you completely.
“You’re so—so good at that—hermosa. So—fuck your mouth—fuck, rub yourself for me? I—Show me—”
You do, your nose gliding down his shiny length as your mouth continues its journey to his balls, sucking on one and then the other and there’s wetness on your pants that you can feel through the layers, skin throbbing under your own touch.
“You look so—so good right now. So—”
“Anything for you, Mr Morales.”
You moan at your own words, the way Frankie’s eyes darken even more and the way his body tenses. Mind brought back to then years or so ago, when the mere idea of what you’re currently doing was forbidden, off-limits but that didn’t stop you from wishing you’d be right where you are right now. Making Mr Morales come undone under your ministrations. Wondering how big his cock would be and all the ways he’d use it. And God knows, Frankie knows how to use his cock.
“Fuck, don’t—don’t say that, hot stuff, you know—”
“I know.”
And then you wink, again, and Frankie can’t believe the audacity. The smirk on his crotch before you swallow him whole again and he could come like that. Coat your mouth and your throat white and watch it dribble down your chin. The bob of your throat and the slurps. How satisfied and smug you always look after you’re done blowing him.
He could come like that. Could come watching you press between your legs and there’s another place he’d rather be buried right now. Soft and tight.
“Strip,” he manages to rasp, pulling you up to your feet, his dick slapping against his shirt, wet.
It’s a frenzy of fumbling hands and some acrobatics to get situated but a shared satisfied groan when you sink your weight onto him. When your lips spread for his girth and you sit on him, pussy encompassing him. The perfect mold for him. Walls pulsing around him and Frankie’s arm snug around your waist, relentless kisses to swallow and smother deeper, louder moans at each little bounce that you give, wiggling your ass and rocking your hips.
Your nose rubs against his with each rise of of your hips and he’s grinning against you at the little bumps, teeth clashing and a wet trail of kisses on his cheek, worshiping dimples.
“Fuck, baby, right there,” you grunt by his ear, mouthing at it. Tugging on a handful of curls and going faster to reach that different angle he’d hit. Again and again. Sharper moves up and down his cock, looking for the drag of the coarse hair between his legs on your throbbing clit.
“That’s it, hot stuff,” Frankie encourages, your own fingers sneaking between your bodies to reach for the bundle of nerves, to pair it with the friction already there and he mouths at the breasts you expose. The outline of them underneath a blouse and a bra. Too far away until his palm is right there, pushing the cup away so he can squeeze one breast.
Heat rising from your veins and your skin and he tweaks a nipple, makes you clench around his cock and he rocks up into you.
“You’re so fucking hot, pussy choking my cock like that, my perfect wife.”
His praises rumble by your forehead, dropped on his shoulder and surrendering to pleasure, his thrusts so hard and fast and you’re gasping for hair, mouthing at the green pattern of his shirt, your fingers going so fast between your legs that your orgasm blinds you.
It makes you stutter and bite down on him, your whole body seizing and Frankie hears the little sobs in the crook of his neck. He feels the ripples in your skin, down your spine and your thighs, how your ass slaps against his legs. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin and he presses so deep inside of you when he comes, you can barely fit more than a sliver of breath for a couple of seconds.
It’s the hardest challenge with Frankie, how good he makes you feel, to be quiet in bed. Or anywhere you’re having sex. Lots of biting and hands on mouths to stifle as much sound as you can. Lots of kissing, his own taste in his mouth when you lick around his tongue, sharing raspy breaths of contentment.
There’s hair mated to his forehead, more of a mess than it was before you gave him your present. Glassy eyes as he comes down from his orgasm, his hands firm on your bare ass, gentle caresses as you feel come starting to drip out of you. Onto his dick once you stand up on shaky legs and you kneel between his legs again.
“I think we’ve found a new day to celebrate, Miss,” Frankie tries to joke, transfixed by how you very delicately kiss his softening dick to clean it. So fucking beautiful that you are, how has it already been ten years since he’s met you. And almost ten years that he’s started fantasizing about you. His daughter’s teacher that he could never have, regardless of how smoking hot he believed you were.
How wrong he was. How smoking hot and beautiful you are right now, every day since he’s met you. His gorgeous wife, cheek cushioned on his thigh, gorgeous face and gorgeous eyes staring up at him lovingly, a bit lustily still. The imprint of what was left on your lipstick on his dick.
Summary: Three times a Morales (or two, or three) snuggled with the blue blanket Frankie's mother made for them.
Word count: 4.1k
Story info: 18+ MDNI, established relationship (although the first part is pre-Shared Breaths), fluff, FLUFF, dad!Frankie, Reader is pregnant in the second part, no use of y/n
A/N: I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'ed (I started writing it yesterday while supervising exams but it's been in my mind for some time, and I wrote it all in about a day and a half). I hope you enjoy this triptych story!!
Main masterlist | Series masterlist
Frankie closes the little book, puts it on top of the growing little pile on Cassie’s nightstand.
“All right, mij—”
“Another one, Papá?” she pleads, eyes up at him from her cozy space in her bed, pressed up against his side in the soft glow of the pink little lamp.
“Another story? But we’ve read four already. Aren’t you tired, sweetie?”
She shakes her head no, while also rubbing at her eye and trying very hard to stifle a moan. It’s late, later than he usually turns off the lamp and turns on the night one, door closed so she can get some rest. It’s late and it’s Sunday and tomorrow is a big day for which they both need all of their strength and energy. There’s her little backpack all set by her small desk and the clothes they’ve carefully selected hanging from the door of her closet.
But it’s because it’s a big day that Frankie knows she’s stalling. Despite all the talking they’ve done and all the preparations he knows she’s excited about, it’s a big milestone, starting first grade in a new city and in a new school, after a summer spent with her dad.
So Frankie can’t blame her for wanting to delay. She can’t delay forever, though.
“Tell you what, Cassie. Why don’t we play a little sharing game to mix it up?”
“...okay...”
“How about….how about we share something we’re excited about for tomorrow? I’ll go first.” He squeezes her arm so she can burrow closer into his side and he takes a few seconds to think about it. “I think I’m super excited to put all the pictures we’ve selected in my new locker at work.”
“And my drawing?”
Them on the beach, all the mornings they’ve spent there, exploring and having a little stay-cation when they couldn’t really go anywhere else, too busy moving and settling in. A crab by Frankie’s side, the attempt at his hat on his head and the giant sun in the background. The heart in the sky around the Vs for the birds and all the different shades of blue for the waves.
“And your drawing, of course! I’ll put it right in the middle. What about you, sweetie? What are you excited about for tomorrow?”
“I think….I think I’m excited about my purple pen and the tir...the tricep…”
“Triceratops.” He drops a kiss in her hair, watches her mouth it to get it right.
“Triceratops eraser.”
“You’re gonna write so beautifully with all that. I can’t wait to see it. Now, we’re going to share one thing we’re apprehensive about for tomorrow. D’you know what that means?” She shakes her head no and this time he knows she means it. “It’s something that makes us a bit nervous, maybe a bit scared. Something that makes our stomach feel a bit weird. D’you understand?”
“Yes, Papá.”
“Good. So. I’m apprehensive about….about not knowing if there’s going to be room for my lunch in the fridge at work. Because I have all the leftovers from our great dinner to eat during my break and I’d hate to not be able to keep it fresh.”
“Maybe, maybe you can ask the other pilots to make you some room in the fridge, Papá. Like we do with Benny,” Cassie ventures, unprompted, and Frankie hugs her close. She’s so smart. He’s so proud. When did she become so wise, she’s only six, yesterday she was just his tiny baby.
“That’s brilliant. I’ll make sure to do that.”
“Good.”
“See, that’s what’s important with stuff that make us apprehensive. To talk about it and try to find solutions. Your turn now. What are you apprehensive about for tomorrow?”
Cassie fiddles with the blue blanket spread on her bed. The one with the pompoms that her abuela made her (them) when they moved out of their house so Cassie and Frankie would always have a little piece of her first home with them. Her dad watches her little face follow the wheels turning in her head, frowning and sighing.
“I’m apprensive about….going to pee,” she eventually shares.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m apprensive about getting lost and being alone.”
“Ah, I get it. But tell you what? You’ll never be alone, you know why? First, they didn’t build the school just for you, did they?” That makes her giggle. The silly idea and her dad’s funny face when he says it. “There’ll be plenty of people around. You’ll never be alone, warrior.”
“I don’t know anyone,” she mumbles, eyes cast down and Frankie pulls her in an even tighter hug. All these things he knows she’s nervous about and so is he, even if he’s been trying to be so cheerful for her sake.
“That’s fair. I understand how that can be scary. But you know what? It’s the first day of first grade for all the kids in your class and I read in the brochure that you’re going to do lots of activities to get to know one another and to get to know the school.” They’ve walked past it so she could see the outside but she’s never been inside the building. Not yet. “Something like a scavenger hunt, I think, with your teacher. I’m sure she’ll show you the way to the bathroom and if she doesn’t, remember that she’s here to help. Because….”
“Because it’s okay to ask for help,” she finishes dutifully, like a pro.
“Exactly. Remember that.”
Cassie’s hair rustles against his bare arm, against his tee-shirt, her fist balled on cotton in the silence that settles over them both, Frankie waiting for her to share anything else she’d need to.
“I hope she’s nice,” Cassie eventually says softly, thinking out loud. “My teacher.”
He hopes so too. So, so much. He’s so worried about it. So worried to be powerless if she isn’t and his child doesn’t like going to school because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if such an eventuality should arise. Best not to dwell on it too much.
“I’m sure she is.” He wants her to be. “Only one way to find out, though, right? We gotta get to tomorrow and the only way to get to tomorrow is to go to sleep, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…”
“Wanna share something else you’re excited about first?”
Cassie’s eyes lift from the spot she’s been staring at on the blanket, to roam her new bedroom and settle on her outfit for tomorrow. That’s something she’s super excited about. New clothes her dad bought her because it’s a special day.
“I’m excited about the new clips for my hair. Can you do a ponytail?”
“I’ll do anything you want, sweetie. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Papá.”
She lets him stand up from her bed this time and tuck her tight into her little bed. Blanket up to her neck that she clutches in both fists and the teddy bear that he secures by her side. One kiss on her forehead and he brushes stray hair.
“Sleep tight? I’m right there if you need anything.”
Cassie nods, returns the small wave he gives her before he turns on the star night light and closes the door softly.
Her worries are front and center while Frankie peruses websites and forms to sign her up for afternoon activities, to find ways to keep her entertained after school. To try and get some financial aid from the state or from other agencies. All the help that he may get to make his life and his schedule somewhat easier. The beer he got to settle his mind is still untouched by Benny’s laptop as he scratches his forehead and scribbles on paper.
So deep in thought he doesn’t even hear the door to Cassie’s bedroom open until Ben gets his attention.
“Fish?” From the couch where he’s sprawled watching TV, he points to the little girl shuffling her feet, dragging the blue blanket behind her and holding the teddy bear to her chest.
So much for filling out forms tonight, Frankie can only hope for more time during the week. He’s got a better job to do right now. Shutting it all off and gathering his daughter in his arms. Sleepy eyes and a sleepy voice, deep breaths in his neck and the weak clutching of her arms around his neck. The teddy bear tickles the back of his neck.
“Bad dream, sweetie?”
“I’m apprensive about other stuff, Papá,” she whispers on his shoulder and his hold on her tightens, his lips press against her temple.
“D’you want to tell me about them or d’you just want the hug?”
“Can I sleep in your bed?” she asks instead.
“Of course, you can. ‘night, Ben. I haven’t touch that beer. Don’t let it go to waste.”
“My absolute pleasure.” One hand on his heart and he gives a small wave to his niece. “G’night, guys.”
Frankie feels Cassie wave at his friend, face smudged against him and he doesn’t even turn on the light in what can barely be called a bedroom but it doesn’t matter. There’s room for two in his bed, there’s always been room for Cassie. And her teddy bear and her blanket, that she still grips even as he brushes her hair and her forehead. Smoothly, gentle words of reassurance floating around her and around him as well, so she can go back to sleep. Surrounded by all the wonderful things he tells her her new school and the new year will bring for her. For them.
Cassie pushes the door to the master bedroom open, intrigued by the low humming she heard on her way back to the nursery. What will be the nursery for her little brother. It’s kind of a mess right now. Boxes and tools and a step ladder she’s allowed to use if one of her parents is close by to supervise and that’s so cool, it’s probably her favorite part of helping prepare for the baby’s arrival.
“Hey, Peanut,” you pause in your song, it can hardly be called a song anyway, humming through closed lips.
She peaks her curious head inside the darker room, curtains shut almost all the way but some daylight still floats through. Enough for you to read.
“I thought you were taking a nap.”
The reason why her and Papá couldn’t listen to music on the radio while they were working.
“I was. But your brother’s awake now so, so am I.”
“Oh.”
You smooth a hand along the stretched skin of your stomach, top rolled up below your breasts and the blue blanket pushed to your knees because it’s a bit hot in the room, you had half a mind to open a window before she came in. You smooth a hand on your bare stomach, small kicks following the moves, a nice entertainment. None of your gentle soothing has helped the baby settle so far. So much energy to let out this afternoon apparently.
Your book even lies open, bookmark sticking out so you don’t lose the page, on the nightstand. Kicks and hits to your kidneys are too distracting to follow the words and the story.
“Do you want to feel him?” you offer and it’s blinding, the smile on her face. Bare feet hurry to climb on the bed and settle, cross-legged, by your stomach.
She’s always so careful when she touches you, Cassie. Always a bit shy and unsure but so eager and excited to be involved.
Her palm is a little clammy against your skin but it doesn’t matter. It stays there, right by your belly button. Waiting.
“Oh, wow!” she exclaims when the baby kicks higher up and she sees the little bump it makes, then how it disappears. Dancing underneath your skin. Right under her palm next and she giggles. Withdraws her hand slightly before coming back for more.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. Not right now. Right now it feels like little butterflies.”
Cassie laughs some more at the description, chases the kicks and her hair tickles your stomach when she bends forward to observe it all closer. The imprint of a tiny hand and she gasps at how magical it seems.
“He only does that for special people, sweetheart. You’re lucky.”
Only you and Frankie so far. Not that anyone else is allowed to touch you like she’s currently doing. Only your husband and your kid. Warmth spreads through your heart at the special bond being created being the one waiting to be born and the one right by your side. Your kids. The thought makes you a teeny bit emotional and you breathe loudly to keep the tears at bay, not wanting to ruin the moment.
“You think he knows I’m his sister?”
“He knows you’re important. But just in case, why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“Really?”
“Of course. Papá talks to him all the time.”
You’ve fallen asleep to Frankie’s tales and whispers and the kisses on your skin countless times in the past months. A comfortable cushion to dream serene dreams.
“Okay.”
Cassie considers it. The logistics, the hair that keeps falling back in her eyes even when she pushes it behind her shoulder. You wonder what happened to the ponytail she was sporting earlier. Until she seems to have considered it all and she lies down by your side. Shuffles down and under the blue blanket her abuela made until her nose brushes your bare skin.
“Hi, baby,” she starts softly. “I’m Cassie. I’m your big sister.”
Your son keeps moving, even more animatedly, or so it feels. You breathe loudly, a hand smoothing her hair and you close your eyes to get it all under control. Before you decide you’d rather cry happy tears than miss the precious sight unfolding in front of you.
“I’m helping Papá make your nursery. It’s your bedroom. We’re making it like a forest with animals. There’s a tiger and an elephant and birds with yellow and red and green feathers. I hope you’ll like it. I like birds a lot, we have a house in the backyard where they can come eat. It has my name on it coz I made it with Papá but when you have a name, we can make you one with it.”
“That’s a nice idea, sweetheart.”
She nods, curls tickling you.
“I have a pet too. Her name’s Lettuce because she’s green and she likes salad. She’s very nice too.”
“Will you let him play with her?”
“No. He’s a baby. Maybe she’ll bite him. You have to be careful with tortoises, Mom.”
She cranes her neck, rubbing against your side, to look up at you.
“That’s true. When he’s older?”
Although that’s not something you want to dwell too much on right now. He’s still safe in your belly and you can’t wait to meet him and hold him in your arms but you also don’t want to think too far ahead in the future when he’ll be able to talk and walk and one day may not need you anymore. That’s upsetting. Cassie’s resolute tone helps keep you grounded in the present.
“Yeah. But she’s my pet.”
“Of course she is. He likes listening to you, you know. I can tell. He’s doing somersaults right now.”
“What’s that?”
“Big jumps.”
You rub a hand, back and forth, enough for the workout to pause for a few seconds. Cassie stares at the still skin. She comes to the conclusion that:
“He likes doing sports.”
“Looks like it.”
“Like me!” The burst of enthusiasm seems to trigger some more moves in your belly. “I play soccer, baby,” she explains, enthusiastic, sitting up a little, feet tangled in the blanket that she folds more on your legs. “I can teach you if you want but you need to walk for that and also I like swimming and—”
“Ah! There you are!” A booming voice interrupts her. “I was wondering where the boss had gone!”
You both raise your head at Frankie’s joke and you realize he must have been taking in the scene for a while. Leaning in the door frame, smiling, committing it all to memory, his phone in hand. He clears his throat to stop emotions from overwhelming him, the sight just positively perfect. Sometimes it’s hard to say who’s more emotional during your pregnancy, you or him. Because you know how significant it all is for him. The baby. The life you’ve started building together. It’s all so very much worth it. Except when his tears trigger yours. Even if they’re happy ones.
“We’re taking a little bonding break,” you explain.
“Can I join?”
“Of course!” You’re already waving him over, pointing first to the window that he cranks open to let some air in, before he sandwiches Cassie between you and him, dropping a hot kiss to your cheek, his large hand cradling your lower belly, close to Cassie’s and you brush your fingers with his.
“I’m telling the baby I’m his sister,” she gets him up to speed, twisting to look at him.
“That’s great, mija. How does he feel about that?”
“He’s kicking up a storm, that’s for sure.” Frankie could feel it before you said it and he can’t quite tell what he likes best. That peaceful feeling surrounding him or the drag of your nails in his hair, how you play with the curls.
“Maybe he’s going to like soccer too!”
Frankie gets a mouthful of her hair in his mouth when she whirls back to try and catch more kicks or little hits.
“Or maybe swimming,” you supply. God knows, she adores that too. She’d love to have a sibling who does too.
“What do you think, Papá?”
“Mmmm, I think maybe….a dancer. Maybe he’ll do ballet. Kicking those legs so high. Or maybe….maybe we’ve got it all wrong and he won’t be an athlete like you. Maybe he’ll be an artist.”
“An artist?”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s him practicing his piano skills.”
“That’s not how you play piano, Papá,” she giggles at how silly it is and Frankie grins above her head at you. His fingers hook with yours on your belly. Loosely but not letting go.
“It’s not? Doesn’t it feel….like that?”
He drums his fingers on Cassie’s side, hitting imaginary piano keys probably off rhythm, you’ve never known Frankie to have any musical fiber in his body. It must tickle, the way he teases her, because her giggles get more high-pitched by your side until she hiccups on her laughter, feet tangled in the pompomps of the blue blanket, heavy breathing between her parents and you could cry at the bliss you’re being cocooned with. You love the three of them so much.
Except too much kicking has made you want to pee.
Mateo hurries down the stairs, dodging freshmen carrying boxes, making a couple of them step out of his way. Letting you offer a polite and apologetic smile as you try to follow and catch up with him before you lose him in the bustle outside.
Frankie is left walking more slowly, ambling by his young daughter taking her time. His gaze flicks to her careful steps, her marvels at the bright posters on the boards she can read now, commenting it all. His gaze flicks between her and upstairs.
Where you’ve left your eldest. All settled in, boxes and bags brought up at the very least. A clutter for her to sort out in the college dorm where you’ve all hugged her good bye, hardly wanting to let go. Hardly realizing this is where Cassie’s going to sleep and study and live for the next year.
True to what she promised, she’s standing by the window in the little space between their two separate rooms she shares with her roommate. She’s ready to wave them all bye one last time.
Her siblings excitedly do so once they spot her, Suzy between their dad’s legs, one arm forever hooked around his waist. Mateo’s jumping up and down at her, shouting her name, Cassie thinks, since she can almost hear him despite the window being closed.
It seems to go on forever and somehow, Cassie’s heart also clenches when they eventually stop, her mom blows her a kiss and then they turn their backs on her. One spare glance from her dad over his shoulder, pace faltering, she believes.
“You live close?” her roommate asks, having caught it all, that and the chaos when the two kids were in their dorm. “For your whole family to come move you in?”
“We’re from Tampa.”
Which is quite a road trip down, yet it was a given for you and Frankie that you would all accompany Cassie to open her next chapter. Work prep be damned, Frankie had even used some of his vacation days for it. Two cars, Frankie a passenger in Cassie’s, they arrived way before you did, fewer pit stops. And Cassie knows they’re staying the night in some hotel. Or motel. Treating her siblings to some time on the beach.
Living their life without her. Letting her call the shots of hers. Quite completely now. Freedom in the next step of her life. To go to college. And of course, she’s stayed away from home in the past, for summer camps. It won’t ever be the same. A couple of weeks only before she was back home.
Months now until she sees them in person again. Hug them. Sleep in her bed.
Of course she’s excited for college, for her classes, for the pretty cool swimming facilities, but there’s a weird bittersweet feeling settling low in her stomach. At how she knew it would all change but now, it’s really happening.
“Neat,” her roommate, Polly, continues. “Pretty cool of them. I’m from Arizona, had to fly on my own. You ever been?”
“No.”
“A different kind of heat from here. I want to go see alligators one of these days. You ever been to Miami before? If you’re from Florida?”
“A couple of times, yeah.”
“You’ll have to show me the cool spots.”
“We may have to find them together,” Cassie scowls, finally turning away from the window. “I was only here for swim meets.”
“Well then, explorer buddies!” She grins wide, it’s impossible to churn too much on how she could be upset, if she even is, Cassie’s not even sure herself. But it’s impossible, when there’s so much enthusiasm and eagerness in the room. Feelings she does share as well. Exploring the city indeed. All her dad’s and uncles’ instructions about how to be safe at the front of her mind.
“Say, you wanna go to the dining hall together later?”
“Sure.” Cassie smiles, already guessing they’re probably going to get on well, and that’s a relief.
“Neat! I’m starving already! I’ll go check out the laundry room, I’ll report back.”
Polly bounces before Cassie can think of swapping phone numbers if she should decide to go explore some place before her roommate comes back.
There’s plenty to do in her own little room to fill her time instead for now. To see if there are enough hangers for all of her clothes and to decide how to decorate.
In the first box she unpacks, Cassie finds the stack of pictures carefully selected to tape to her walls. So that even far away, her family and her friends, they’re always close. And not just in her phone. Pictures and drawings from her little sister. Some books and then underneath it all, she discovers the blue blanket her abuela once made for her and her dad when they moved from her grandparents’ house to Benny’s apartment.
The color has faded now after more than a decade. The thread is a bit loose and it has had to withstand some thorough washings throughout the years, the blanket being used by everyone. It smells like her abuelos, like her parents, like her siblings.
It smells like home and comfort and safety and Cassie can’t quite believe it’s in her dorm room right now.
An extra piece of home so you don’t forget how much we love, the card on top of it says. Signed Mom and Dad and Cassie forgets all about unpacking and settling in then.
Lying on her new bed, staring at her new ceiling, hugging the blue blanket to her chest and her face. Pictures scattered around her. Breathing in and out to settle a nervous or excited mind, she can’t quite decide which one it is. A mixture of both certainly. Breathing in and out like her dad taught her.
As if she could ever forget that they all love her. From afar now.
Besides, she won’t have to argue if she wants to eat chicken nuggets for breakfast, lunch and dinner now. Or if she wants to stay up all night to watch just one more episode. Or all of them really. Or if she needs to borrow a car. She’s got her very own down in the parking lot. Her graduation present.
The extra freedom it granted her last summer, a freedom which never ends now. Her own choices to make in everything.
Including sleeping with the blue blanket, smiling in it to dream all her big dreams.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the dividers!
Note: Cassie goes to college at St Thomas University in Miami. Because when I was doing my research, I found out the swim coach is actually ex Special Forces and I thought it was fate and also so funny, if her coach is one of her dad's old Army buddies!
I hope you enjoyed these cute little snapshots of their life xxx
Story info: +18 MDNI, nothing but fluff, dad!Frankie (dealing with a 4 year-old and a teenager at the same time, bless his heart), Miss is barely in this story
A/N: I've had this story in my head for months and figured as today's Father's Day in France and in the US, I'd honor the best father I could ever think of, which is Shared Breaths Frankie . This is 1000% fluff, it's so sweet it's made my teeth rot. I'm not a native speaker, this is unbeta'ed, enjoy!
Main masterlist | Series masterlist
Cassie’s in the backyard, lounging in the sun, blissfully ignoring the homework waiting for her upstairs. Eyes closed behind her sunglasses, bright sunshine in her face and headphones on to listen to her music. It could almost look like she’s fallen asleep, except for the occasional tapping of her fingers to follow the rhythm of the song, hand sweeping at a fly on an insect on occasion.
Then a little shadow grows on her that she can’t see, a presence by her side she can’t quite feel either, with how loud the music is. Frankie is looking on from the back porch and there’s almost the thud of it from so far away. It’s so annoying but every time he dares mention it to her, she only turns up the volume louder so what’s the point, really.
Cassie does feel the gentle poking on her bare forearm, unrelenting, until she cracks an eye open and is met with the grinning face of her little sister. So close to hers. One more poke even after Suzy has got her attention, and she waves.
“Hey, Bee! What’s up?” She pops a headphone off, music pausing on her phone.
“I need new shoes. They’re too small.”
“Oh, man, that sucks. But also, cool. Shopping.”
“You want to come?”
“Come where?”
“To the store! With Papá!” She flings her arm in a wide circle around her body, pointing in the general direction of their father and that does get Cassie’s attention even more.
“Oh, you’re going to buy them now?”
“Yeah!”
She lowers her sunglasses, eyes narrowing and she sits up, definitely interested. Another distraction from calculus.
“You guys going to Target?”
“I don’t know!”
Suzy shrugs, hands palm up, an exaggerated version of what she saw you do in class, that one day she had to tag along to the school and she was delighted to be in the classroom with bigger kids and her brother. It’s funny and it’s cute. Even after a year. Even after the 50th plus time she must have done it. And there’s no end in sight to it, she’s just too happy with how it always makes people smile when she does. Like her big sister right now.
“Papá!” she squeaks, fully turning on her heels towards Frankie, leaning against the railing, looking at them both. “We’re going to Tart-get?”
“That’s the plan!”
“We’re going to Tart-get, Cassie!”
“Oh, then, you bet I’m coming!”
“Yay!” Suzy claps her hands, little bounces on her bare feet as she watches Cassie scramble to gather her stuff. “We’re going in ten minutes!”
She holds out her ten fingers for Cassie to see to make sure she understands the time she has allocated. The way she says it, the way she holds her hands and she makes sure her big sister has gotten it, it’s the perfect replica of what Frankie did to her earlier while he was explaining their plan for the afternoon and it’s heartwarming, how much she listens and how much she tries to remember.
How delighted she looks to be as she skips back to her father, Cassie rushing inside to change and put on make-up and some earrings and also to gather cash.
“So,” Frankie drags out the word, waiting for his youngest to have climbed up the few steps. “What did she say, guapa?”
“She’s coming!”
“You happy?”
“Yeah!”
Her idea to ask her big sister because if Mateo is at a birthday party with you, and then she goes to the store with her dad, then there’s no one to hang out with Cassie and that’d be sad. Although Cassie wouldn’t have minded one bit, it’s rather rare she gets the house to herself.
“Brilliant. Let’s go put on some shoes so we can get going.”
“I can’t, Papá.” She shakes her little head, tilts it to look at him funnily. And then Frankie feels like he’s being scolded, the way she speaks way too seriously for a 4 (almost and a half) year-old. “We’re going to buy new shoes. They’re too small.”
“Your sneakers are, for sure, but you still need to wear something on your feet. Ground’s filthy. Gonna get your feet dirty.”
Suzy almost stumbles in reaching for her foot to check, grabbing on to Frankie’s shorts and he steadies her as best he can, hand strong but that smoothes the wild hair brushing his leg. Forever cursed with children with massive hair and so many curls that you and him, you’re grateful Cassie has been doing her own hair for years because it almost takes more time than breakfast in the morning. Forever blessed because his children, they’re all perfect.
They’re a bit dirty, her feet, Suzy realizes and then her hand when she tries to wipe them.
“Flip-flops?” she asks, looking high, so high up to her dad.
“Sure, you can wear flip-flops.”
It’s something on her feet he won’t have to battle with and she shouldn’t get hurt, so double-win. And they’re so easy to put on, she’s already reaching for the front door knob by the time he’s locked the one to the backyard, talking to herself, giggling at her fantastic solution.
“Flip-flops to the store,” she hiccups again in the car while he’s securing her in her booster seat, one shoe already thudding to the floor and she hides her giggles behind her hands.
“Can I drive?” Cassie gasps, purse sliding down her arm along with the sleeve of the jacket she’s thrown on, skidding to a stop by the car but she doesn’t even need to ask, her dad’s already holding out the keys for her.
“I was counting on it.”
“Sweet!”
“We’ve got own chauffeur, Suzy-Bee,” he winks at her. “Isn’t that nice?”
It’s been an adjustment, once again mourning the young child Cassie was, once she was allowed to start learning how to drive. But she’s been a dedicated learner, always so careful, especially whenever her siblings are in the car and rely on her and Frankie’s so proud of her. A bit emotional the first time she drove herself to swim practice and he could only relax once he’d gotten the text that she’d made it there safely and you’d rubbed his back and kissed his cheek, his -your- little girl all growing up and becoming more independent.
It does take longer to reach places, but Frankie will take that instead of a reckless teenager. It takes longer to park as well and that, he’s learned to keep his mouth shut about because there has been a couple of meltdowns and angry seething about it and so, they do have to walk almost the entire expense of the parking lot on that Saturday afternoon but Cassie didn’t need any help parking. Not in the far out corner where there’s no other car but her dad’s.
“Good job pakring, Cassie!” Suzy gives her two thumbs-up, the way she’s seen her brother’s coach do at soccer practice when she gets to go. But not too close to the ball.
“Thanks, Bee.”
“Between the lines!” she assesses it, crouching in the parking lot, which makes Cassie ruffle her hair and check with her dad. It’s subtle but it’s there, seeking his approval but not wanting to say it out loud. It is hard for her to do a good job parking.
“Yeah, perfect job, warrior,” Frankie praises and it must please her, the flush and the proud smile before she ducks her head and hides it all behind long hair.
“Thanks.”
“All right, ladies!” He claps his hands, meaning business. “We’ve got some other stuff to buy as well while we’re here.”
What was somehow forgotten his morning despite his list, plus what you’ve texted him when he told you they’d be going to the store again. Including painkillers because apparently Frankie lucked out when Mateo said he wanted you to take him to his friend’s birthday party. Bouncy castles and too much sugar and consequent headache.
“Do we get a big cart that I push or—”
“I want to push!”
“The big one?” Frankie playfully frowns at Suzy and she shakes wild curls at how impossible it is.
“No, Papá! The small one!”
This also takes longer. Grocery shopping with little kids bent on helping. For his training in the military and all that it instilled in him, being punctual and all, Frankie has come to accept that ever since he’s become a dad, sixteen years ago, he would never be on time for anything anymore, or that he’d never be able to stick to a planned schedule. Not as tightly as he used to in his former life.
But it’s all right. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Suzy is simply too excited to navigate the aisles, already popping items they definitely don’t need into her cart. Whatever’s bright or catches her eye. Anything that has animals on it.
Perhaps not a smart idea to let her take the lead then.
“Let’s go find you some shoes first, Suzy,” Frankie decides, steering her in another direction and maybe she’ll be distracted enough so she won’t notice everything he takes out of the cart.
“I’m gonna go look at what’s on sale.” Cassie breezes past him and he barely gets a grip on her purse before she’s gone.
“Hold up, Cass. She’s going to ask for your opinion, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll be around. Come find me when you’ve made a selection?”
Because Frankie isn’t naive enough to think his eldest has tagged along because she loves spending time with him and her siblings. Sure, she does, and she doesn’t mind being seen with them in public, she actually loves it when you all come to her swim meets and she has her own little cheer team in the bleachers. But Frankie is aware she wouldn’t have come along if they’d gone to spend the afternoon at the park. Clothes and shopping were her ultimate motivation. Which doesn’t mean he wants his youngest to have a meltdown if her big sister completely disappears on them.
Suzy likes going shopping with Cassie and you, it makes her feel big, bigger than she is. Included in grown-up activities. Not that Cassie is a grown-up but she’s getting so close to that age and Frankie doesn’t like thinking about that possibility. Not a possibility, a day which will soon arrive, closer and closer and his heart aches thinking of the day she’ll leave the house. Leaving it still full of life and happiness and chaos but different. He can’t quite believe she’s already 16.
So not quite a grown-up but close, needing more independence and yet not straying far from her father’s voice while she browses for her own closet. Close enough to hear him negotiate that no, they can only buy one pair of sneakers, no one needs that many and there will need to be a choice made at some point. Or trying to steer her little sister towards better deals and lower prices and sort of failing. Suzy can be strong-headed and it makes Cassie smiles to herself. That it seems so exhausting to have children and she’s content only helping and being the cool bigger sister who gives piggyback rides and buys them ice cream or candy when no one is looking. The one who takes them to the park when her parents are otherwise busy and pushes Suzy on the swing or takes videos as she goes down the slides.
Always her invaluable input needed, as she’s being called back to them after some time, a shrilling Cassie!, followed by a how about we use a softer voice next time?.
“We’ve narrowed it down to two pairs,” Frankie sighs, an array of boxes around him, Suzy happily kicking her feet from her little seat. “These ones,” he holds one shoe out for Cassie to see, the second one somewhere on the floor, “and those on her feet.”
“What do you think?”
Suzy kicks her feet even faster, a large grin on her face up at her sister, shoes barely fastened to her feet that could fall at any moment. It makes it hard for Cassie to truly see but she takes her task very seriously, crossing her arms, holding all her prospective purchases against her chest. She props a finger on her chin, thinking.
“Wow. Tough choice. Those are super cool, I gotta admit. They look like—”
“Cows! They look like the cows we see with grandpa and grandma!”
There’s nothing more the kids love doing when you all go visit your parents than to visit nearby farms and all the animals there. The cows and the horses and the goats. The ducks and the chickens and running around in the fields with them.
“I love them, Bee. But, let me see.” Cassie clicks her tongue, intently studies the one her dad is holding out for her. Plainer ones, white and pink but with unicorns on the side all in rainbow colors. “This is kind of amazing too. You really have a good eye for fashion.”
More giggles from his daughter, from both of them when Cassie winks and Frankie’s heart soars. It makes up for the frenzy of shopping in a busy store on a Saturday afternoon with a little kid who has strong opinions. Cassie may leave the house one day soon (in a couple of years yet she’s already been looking at colleges, damn those scouts at her competitions), she’s here right now and she’s being the best and even when the day comes that she doesn’t sleep under his roof every night, he knows, deep inside, she’ll always be back. Whenever she needs it.
“Which ones do you like best, Bee?”
“I like this one.” She raises a leg higher. “And this one.” She points to her dad. “But Papá said just one.” She pouts, gives him her best puppy eyes but he won’t budge. Not on this.
“We’ve already tried Mom’s trick but that didn’t work.”
“It didn’t? What did you see, Bee?”
“One cow and one unicorn!”
“But that’s not possible, I already told you. You gotta choose.”
“I don’t wanna!”
“I’ll choose for you if you can’t, that’s all right.”
And Frankie already knows which ones it’ll be, there’s a huge price difference between the two pairs of sneakers but it’ll already be an accomplishment to make her decide on one that he doesn’t want to get a budget involved. It would fly right above her head anyway.
“You know,” Cassie starts, kneels closer to her sister who’s pouting even more at the new idea, bottom lip sticking out. “I saw some stuff I liked and I’m only going to get one too.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Coz I’d rather have one thing I can wear lots than too many that stay in my bedroom.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s try Mom’s trick again? If you close your eyes, which ones do you see on your feet?
Suzy considers it, closing her eyes indeed and scrunching up her little face in concentration. The music is loud above their heads, people milling around and Suzy grips the edges of her seat with all her might, whole body committed to the choice before she snaps her eyes open.
“The cows!”
“Fantastic choice! I’d have gone with those, too, you know!”
Frankie sighs in relief at how Suzy’s face brightens, at how eager she is to return her sister’s high five. The little brown and white sneakers thud to the floor so she can retrieve her flip-flops and he’s left to clean up their mess, his youngest more interested in perusing what Cassie may buy for herself.
“You found something, Cass?” he asks as well.
“Maybe, but I’m not sure.”
“Is it too expensive?”
“No, that’s not the problem. Look.”
She holds out one of the skirts, the one she likes above all the others. Denim with some embroidery. She holds it out in front of her sweats for him to assess.
“I think it’s cute.”
Not that he knows much about teenagers’ fashion. It does seem like the correct answer, though, if Suzy’s answer is any indication. But Suzy’s not quite objective when it comes to her sister, she’d play dress up with all her clothes if Cassie would only let her.
“I think it’s cute too!”
“I’m just not sure about the length, Dad. For school.”
“Ah, gotcha.”
He pauses for a second, seriously considering it. It’s happened a couple of times in the past, that her outfits weren’t up to code, which Frankie found ridiculous. He was ready to take the matter directly with the principal and he would have, sat in that office and shame them for shaming his daughter for wearing clothes which were perfectly acceptable and that she had bought herself, with hard-earned money, except Cassie had begged him not to embarrass her so he hadn’t. He’d gritted his teeth all night and all weekend and was so, so close to run for PTA to try and change things, like you’d suggested. Where would either of you have found the time, though? So he’d gritted his teeth more and needless to say, he’s not best buddy with admin at her high school but he’s cordial enough. For Cassie’s sake. He’s letting you handle most of the meetings there, you’re more level-headed than he is when it comes to these matters.
“Maybe you’re right. Go try it on first and then we’ll see? We’ll catch up with you?”
“I’m going with Cassie!” Suzy decides, shoes dumped in her small cart, the box taking up the miraculously empty space, all her previous loot hidden out of sight on a shelf where they don’t belong and Frankie would be ashamed of the extra work he’s loading employees up with but he’d rather have that than his daughter throwing a tantrum because he won’t buy her more than new footwear.
“Don’t let go of your sister’s hand, then, all right? Cass, you good with her?”
“Always, Dad, don’t worry about us.”
Which is impossible for him to do, but he’s been learning to let it go. He trusts Cassie with his life and with everything, but she’s still only a teenager. Her little sister doesn’t look like a burden right now though. Not a chore to look after her even if only for a couple of minutes while he sorts out boxes of shoes and does put back items where they actually belong, his guilty conscience winning.
Cassie and Suzy are trying on fancy sunglasses by the changing rooms when he catches up with them. Suzy sitting on the floor, Cassie whirling from the mirror once she spots her dad hurrying towards them in it. Bent super awkwardly to try and push and pull the small cart and he looks so ridiculous, she can’t help but snigger, features nonetheless schooled by the time she faces him.
“So? What do you think?”
She stands tall, tugging a bit at the hem of a skirt which does not look to be within the dress code her high school has. Like she predicted.
“I think you were right, Cass. Too short for school.”
“I know,” she winces. That dress code is a pain in her butt, because she thinks she looks fantastic in that skirt and she already has a couple of tops in mind which would pair really well with it.
“Still cute, though. For outside of school.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You know that purple tee-shirt or like—is it a blouse? I don’t know,” Frankie stammers, makes a vague motion across his chest, not knowing exactly what it’s called, but trying. “With the beads? You know what I mean? It’d be nice with it. I think.”
“Oh yeah! Yeah, that’d look cute with it, Dad.”
“What do you think, Suzy? D’you think Cassie should buy the skirt?”
“Yeah!” The sunglasses perched on her nose are crooked, bare feet on dirty tiles, the flip-flops weren’t the most brilliant idea either. “Cassie’s pretty!”
“Thanks, Bee.”
“You’re welcome! Papá, can I have sunglasses?”
“You have sunglasses in your size in the car. Can you even see with those?”
“They’re stars!”
“And look, they can’t stay on your face.” Frankie crouches, joints cracking, so he gets to be almost at eye level with the little girl. One gentle touch of his index to the plastic frame to make it rattle, tickling behind Suzy’s ears and she giggles, shakes and shakes him off until the sunglasses are off completely.
“Let’s go get some sauce instead.”
“Tomato?”
“Sure, if you’d like. You good on your own, Cass?”
“Yeah, I’ll find you.”
“You got your phone?”
Which is a ridiculous question, when was the last time she’s left the house without it and she gives him a strange look which is all the answer he needs. Not that there’s time to remind her words are more effective than scowls because the metal wheels of the little cart are already sprinting away from the changing rooms, Suzy excited about her new mission, sunglasses effectively forgotten and Frankie has no choice but to hurry after her.
One last glance at Cassie checking her reflection in the mirror again, standing on tip-toes and twirling, making decisions and fiddling with a skirt that she does put on the check-out belt. With some nail polish and eye shadows.
“I’ll get that for you,” Frankie decides, grabbing the skirt and putting it on top of the shoe box, on the other side of the divider Cassie had set down. It’s the least he can do, when she’s going to buy something she won’t be able to wear to all the places she’d like. He misses the shock on her face, too busy being hit in the arm with the box of cereal Suzy is handing him. She’s taking things out of the cart so her dad can put them on the belt but he’s going a bit slow for her liking.
“I can afford it, Dad.”
“I know you can. But I want to.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t miss the appreciation in her eyes, the one that makes him smile as well. That and the sparkles in her eyes, the way she excitedly chats with Suzy about outfits they’ll create once they’re all back home, it’s well worth the hassle of going shopping on a busy Saturday afternoon. Both of his girls happy.
“Oh! Can we get coffee?” Cassie gasps, looking behind her shoulder on the way back to the car. Pointing to the Starbucks on the other side of the parking lot.
“You can’t call what you drink coffee, Cass,” Frankie scowls, because it sure isn’t. So much sugar and syrup and chocolate and a ton of whipped cream on top. Fudge even and maybe there is like one percent of coffee in it but she sure can’t taste it and she loves those drinks. Even if they cost more than the make-up she just bought.
“That’s coz your coffee’s yucky, Dad. But can we? Please? My treat.”
Money from the skirt redirected for an afternoon snack, pleading eyes while Frankie fumbles for his phone and the time on it. But Cassie has other weapons ready to convince him. Since it’s hardly time for her sister’s snack and that she knows they have plenty of those at home to not waste money on overpriced ones. Not that it’d be a waste, not as far as she’s concerned. She kneels by Suzy.
“Aren’t you thirsty, too, Bee?”
“I am!”
“I sure am too! I’d love a cold drink right now.”
“Me too! I want coffee, Papá!”
“Say please,” her big sister whispers, outrageously loud and Frankie holds his palms up in a are you kidding me gesture, one that doesn’t deter Cassie in the slightest. The disbelief in his eyes doesn’t either.
“Please, Papá!”
Two sets of puppy eyes stare up at him, two cute faces, more than a decade of difference between them and not quite the same, they could never be. The same practiced tricks, though, the teacher by her student and Frankie can never quite hold his ground too much, he’s already done it twice in the store and that would probably end up with both of his daughters upset and no way he’d want to ruin what has been a nice afternoon so far.
“That’s hardly fair, ladies. Two against one.”
He whines and huffs, hands on his hips, a mock-attempt at being upset that Suzy’s quiet giggles crack, a smile splitting her dad’s face at the stream of please, please, please.
“All right, let’s go get coffee. I’m thirsty too.”
“Yay!”
Flip-flops hit the ground hard as she jumps excitedly, box forgotten by Frankie’s feet that he has to carry, watching them both hurry in front of him, hands clasped together and that’s for the better. Because in her excitement, Suzy somehow gets her legs and feet tangled and she almost face plants. The sheer strength in her sister’s arm and her quick reflexes are what pull her up and away from the asphalt.
“Watch out!” Frankie nonetheless shouts, instincts kicking in. A little too loudly perhaps because Cassie can’t hold Suzy up much longer, little butt plopping down and her lips are quivering again when he kneels by her, his eldest hovering nervously.
“Suzy-Bee, you okay? You okay, guapa?”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Cassie’s chewing on her lip when he snaps his head up, tucking hair behind her ear, looking genuinely sorry, shudders down her arms and her heart racing maybe as much as her dad’s is, because her sister’s face came so very close to hitting the ground, she’s panicking just imagining what could have happened.
“Not your fault, Cass. Don’t worry. It’s no one’s fault. That was scary, though, right?”
Suzy nods, blinking rapidly and Frankie gathers her in his arms before she can burst into tears. Little hands clutch his tee-shirt and she heaves in his neck while he rubs her little back with a trembling hand. But the soothing motions calm him as well. She’s unharmed.
“It’s okay to be scared, Suzy-Bee. But you’re safe, you’ll be all right. Papá’s got you.”
More nods and some sobs on cotton, a grip which doesn’t loosen when he makes to stand up so they don’t block traffic in the parking lot forever. So Frankie trades his shopping bags for his daughter, Cassie carrying them instead.
“There’s no rush, guapa, see? We just have to take it one step at a time. We’ve got time.”
Frankie walks slowly, flip-flops against his ribs that are dangerously close to slipping again. One kiss to Suzy’s hair to comfort her some more. A hiccup on his shoulder.
“Coffee will still be there when we get there."
"My arm hurts," she whispers and right above her head, Frankie catches how Cassie's face falls.
"That's coz Cassie used all her big sister's strength to save you, didn't she?"
"Cassie saved me."
"She did. If we rub your arm, you'll feel better in no time. I promise. Magic medicine."
It's a soft touch, Cassie who does it, so gentle on her sister's arm now that they'e reached the Starbucks but Frankie won't go inside until Suzy's calmed down. He hums by her temple, smiles at his eldest because it's definitely not her fault at all, some dull ache in a limb is much better than any broken bone or bloody nose.
"That feels better, Bee?"
"Yeah. You're magic."
"Aww, thanks." She crowds againts her dad, pressing her face to her sister's little back in an awkward hug because of the bags she's still carrying and when Frankie kisses Suzy's hair again, it brushes against Cassie as well.
"How about some magic snack too? What do you say? ”
“I’m hungry,” Suzy breathes softly. Perhaps a bit tired, too. Lots of emotions and stimulation in a short time.
“Me too, guapa.”
One more kiss to her hair and she sniffles at the new idea. He rock her a little, waiting for her to calm down without the music inside, until there doesn’t seem to be any crying anymore. Suzy reaches up to wipe her nose and then the back of her hand on his tee-shirt.
“Let’s get something to drink.”
“And eat.”
“And eat. Thank you for reminding me, what would I do without you?” She nods at the truth. “Without either of you? Thanks, sweetie,” he tells Cassie who holds the door to the coffee shop open for him, the bundle in his arms heavy but Suzy will come down when she decides it. Which happens to be quite soon, when she needs to be put back on little legs to press her face and her red eyes to the display window to choose her treat.
A tough choice again between the cut fruit which has some strawberry in it and that’s her favorite. There are also muffins which look yummy as she describes them and also the chocolate cake with the sauce in the middle, her dad explains, his hand strong on her back, there and comforting. Always. And Frankie’s not about to make her choose now, not after her fright. His and Cassie’s.
He’ll get her everything and they can all split. If Cassie’s still hungry after all the sugar she will sip through her straw. Who is he kidding, though, she’s always hungry. Growing and lots of sports that burn energy. And an extra double order of whipped cream today, only because she’s still reeling from the near-accident.
“You guys made a choice?” she calls out from the register, her extensive drink order already being made and waiting for theirs to pay.
“I’ll get ours, sweetie, don’t worry. Yours must already cost more than your Tío’s rent.”
“Ahahah,” she scowls at her dad’s smirk. “You sure? Coz I said—”
“I know what you said, and it’s very nice of you, thanks. Keep your cash. We’re buying all of the treats apparently.”
He shakes his head, listens to Suzy debate which one she’ll try first, and that makes Cassie chuckle too. Loosen her shoulders a little bit because he’s aware she’s been worried and he knows her, she’s likely to keep on blaming herself even when he told her she shouldn’t. So he knows he’ll get her the blueberry muffin as well.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll grab us a table.”
“I’m going with Cassie!” Suzy starts to hurry after her, before she remembers what he taught her outside and she glances over her shoulder at her dad, slowing down. “I’m walking slow, Papá!”
“Good job!” He gives her a thumb-up and she nods seriously. “Oh, Suzy, wait! D’you want apple juice coffee or lemonade coffee?”
“Apple juice coffee!”
“Got it! I know that sounds weird,” Frankie asks the barista when she’s out of ear shot, waiting with Cassie for her big sister to collect her own elaborate drink, “but could you pour that bottle of apple juice into a clear cup? You know, so she thinks it’s a real coffee drink?”
“Sure!” It doesn’t even seem like it’s a strange request for her to receive, at least it’s not a fancy drink with a million of steps to follow and Frankie watches, as she even goes a step further, scribbling his daughter’s name on the cup and calling out for her to collect it. Suzy’s never looked prouder and happier, the parking lot accident fading with every passing minute.
Giggles from the corner where his daughters have settled reach him while he waits for his Americano and for the chocolate fudge cake to be heated so it’s all perfectly gooey and Frankie’s not naive enough to believe Suzy will make it out of the coffee shop with unstained clothes. She’s due a bath soon anyway. And the washing machine somehow never stops running in your house.
Giggles and a heartwarming sight, Cassie taking selfies with her drink, for reasons Frankie has never understood. Why would grabbing a drink warrant a post on social media, what is the point of it all, how groundbreaking can it be? It’s a mystery to him. But she’s taking selfies with her drink nonetheless and after she’s done, careful in knowing she’s not quite allowed to post pictures of her siblings on the Internet, she angles the phone so that her little sister can get in on the action. To make the dreadful seconds between the moment Suzy toppled forward and when she pulled her up vanish and be only a distant memory.
Suzy’s absolutely delighted to be included, her straw resting by her teeth as she grins at the screen. Cute selfies and then crazy ones, distractions from her fright indeed and she presses right into Cassie’s side, their two chairs practically glued together.
“Papá, selfie!” she squeals when she notices him on the screen as well, walking towards them with his drink and the tray with all the plates and the napkins and the plastic forks.
“Silly selfie for Mom, Dad!”
He makes a ridiculous face right between their two heads, indulging them. Quirking an eyebrow and then resting his chin on top of Suzy’s hair, which makes her crane her neck and the next selfie is a bit blurry. Not that it matters. One final classic one, three large smiles that grace your own screen when your phone goes off with so many notifications.
It seems like Cassie has sent you dozens of photos, proof of how everyone in your family looks like they’re having a blast. Mateo chugging so much soda, you’re not looking forward to how he’s going to bounce off the walls for hours, and then your girls with their father. No idea where they are or what they’re doing exactly but their happiness, it’s blinding.
A small part of you clocks Suzy’s red eyes though, but she’s young and easily overwhelmed and it doesn’t look like Frankie’s worried on the pictures, so whatever caused them, it’s probably been handled. Maybe the reason why she’s drinking from a coffee cup. Besides, you know you’ll get the full story of her afternoon at dinner.
Frankie’s own phone buzzes in his pocket, the pictures sent to their group chat. He’s got the real deal right by his side, Suzy with chocolate around her mouth and now experimenting like Cassie has showed her, dipping a piece of fruit into warm, gooey chocolate. She doesn’t like it as much as her sister, scrunching up her nose and her eyes and sucking hard on her straw to get rid of the taste.
“I need to pee,” she announces once her cup is empty and there are only crumbs left of the desserts. She cranes her head at her dad again, from the very warm, safe and loving spot on his lap where she’s taken up residence. Cassie’s been on her phone for a while, humming whenever she believes her sister is talking to her, but otherwise drowning the conversation, slurping on melted goodness, trying to find the perfect filter and the perfect caption.
“Okay, let’s go.” Frankie takes one more sip of lukewarm coffee before he helps her down. “Cass, we’ll be back, if someone comes and bothers you, g—”
“I’ll kick them in the nuts.”
Frankie chokes on his next breath and she smirks at him.
“What—no, that’s not—”
“It’s very effective.”
“How—,” he narrows his eyes at her. “Have you ever—”
“Can’t say I have. Maybe today’s the day, who knows?”
“Don’t kick anyone in the nuts.” He gives her a stern look, can’t decide if she’s serious or messing with him and no time to linger on the issue when his youngest is tugging on his hand to get him going. “We’ll be back soon. Find the barista if you need help.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, Dad.”
“Papá?” Suzy has to ask after a couple of steps, way within range of Cassie still.
“Yes, guapa?”
“Where are my nuts?”
And Cassie snorts in her drink, not needing much to imagine her dad’s flustered face and she’d give anything to be in that bathroom with them and hear how he’ll handle that conversation. That’d be much better than the calculus she should be doing right now.
Thank you @saradika-graphics for the dividers!
I'd love to hear what you think of this cute silly story!
Warnings: explicit sexual content, brief mention of blood/injuries resulting from a physical altercation, brief mentions of violence
Word Count: 7.4K
Author's Note: Thanks to @undercoverpena for feverishly brainstorming with me one afternoon and then generously handing over all the ideas, and another thanks to @legendary-pink-dot for teaching me what a granadilla is.
The coffee pot isn’t quite done brewing but Javi’s tired of waiting. He grabs the carafe and pours his cup to brimming, ignoring the bitter-scented sizzling of the last few drips hitting the burner. He’s barely had one sip before the shirtless man waltzes into the kitchen.
Tall. Lean. Prettier than he would have expected. Javi squints at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Morning.” The man smiles affably until he meets Javi’s narrowed eyes. He swallows the wide grin and points at the cabinets. “She said to grab her coffee?”
“Cups are there.” Javi angles his chin towards the cabinet by the sink and watches the man extract a chunky blue ceramic mug. You hate that one, but Javi’s not in the mood to help out Pretty Boy, especially now that he can see the fine lines scratched down the man’s back.
You like to leave a mark.
“So –” the man replaces the carafe and lifts the mug, trying another tentative smile in Javi’s direction – “you her roommate?”
“Husband.” Javi tips the rest of his coffee into the sink and leaves the cup on the counter, letting himself enjoy one brief glance at the man’s shocked face before he turns toward the door. “Tell her we leave in twenty.”
“Javier Peña is a fucking comedian.” You slide into the passenger seat of Javi’s car, fingers flying over the buttons of your blouse. “He believed you.”
Javi smirks, pulling away from the curb as you buckle your seatbelt. “Stop sending your boytoys out to the kitchen for your coffee and I’ll stop fucking with them.”
“Stop lurking in the kitchen every morning.”
“It’s my fucking kitchen.”
“Our fucking kitchen.”
Javi had thought the two-bedroom apartment had been a stroke of luck when he’d been assigned it – well, luck or an oversight. But either way, for two years, he’d savored the extra space and the privacy. That is, until you showed up – the new Intelligence Research Specialist, on a three-month detail – and McClintock in Mission Support decided that Javier Peña’s second bedroom was just the place to temporarily house you.
Which would have been tolerable, if that three-month detail hadn’t been extended twice already. You’d been living with him for ten months, and neither of you pretended the arrangement wasn’t indefinite now.
“And I need my coffee, Jav.” You grin at him, pushing your hair away from your forehead and securing it with a bobby pin you fish from the cupholder. “I had a late night.”
“I heard.” He always hears. The walls in the apartment must be fucking cardboard. He swears he can hear every breath you take, every murmured word, every goddamned moan.
You flip down the visor and smooth on lipstick – a flushed deep pink. Javi can’t help but glance at you – the widened eyes, the mouth parted in an O – and he wishes he couldn’t still hear your last-night sounds echoing through his head.
“You know –” you snap the cap back on the tube with a decisive click – “if they bother you, you could always just have your coffee at the office.”
He flashes you a dirty look, and you laugh, shrugging. “I’m just saying, Javi: it’s a choice.”
---
“A choice.” Javi rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead as he takes a long draw on his cigarette. “Says it’s a fuckin’ choice.”
“What’s a choice?” Steve looks up from the desk across from Javi’s, his eyebrows lifted.
Javi shakes his head at his partner, hearing the click-click of your heels coming across the tiled floor.
“I told him it’s a choice to hover around our kitchen every morning and harass my company.” You drop a file on Steve’s desk, flipping it open to a blank form. “You and Grumpy have to fill this out. I need it back this afternoon.”
You sashay away, the scent of your coconut shampoo lingering in the air despite Javi’s haze of smoke.
“Trouble in paradise?” Steve lifts the paper from the file, grinning broadly.
“Give me the fuckin’ form.”
---
“First dibs on the shower.” You hurry past Javi as he unlocks the door of the apartment, lightly shouldering him into the door frame.
You dump your bag and coat on the couch, kick off your shoes as you cross the living room, and he hears your skirt hit the floor in the hallway.
“It’s not a fuckin’ race,” he calls out after you, but the only answer is the slam of the bathroom door.
He closes the front door, locking the deadbolt, but it’s just clicked into place when a tentative knock rattles it. He twists the lock and jerks the door open.
“Yeah?” Shit. It’s the delivery kid from his laundry service. The startled boy thrusts the bag and an armful of pressed shirts at Javi with a look of terror widening his eyes.
“Lo siento, Matias.” Javi takes the bag and digs into his front pocket, extracting a few folded bills. “Gracias.”
The teenager takes the money with a quick nod and bolts down the hallway, and Javi locks the door a second time. He carries the laundry to his bedroom. The bathroom door is right across the hall from his door and he can hear you singing as he hangs the shirts up in his closet. His jeans are folded in neat stacks at the top of the laundry bag; he puts those away next, then tips out the jumble of socks and underclothes.
“Fucking hell.”
Amidst his undershirts and a handful of boxers are tiny scraps of lace and silk and cotton – barely enough fabric to cover anything. Every color of the rainbow in solids and flowers and polka dots – there must be a dozen pairs of panties here. This isn’t the first time you’ve snuck your laundry into his, but usually it’s a few blouses or a couple of skirts – not this. He gathers them in his hands – tries not to think about how soft they are or how seeing them on his bed is making his jeans feel tighter – and carries them to your room. It’s just next to his – practically identical, except yours looks somehow messier and more inviting at the same time. Bottles of perfume vie for space with jewelry on your dresser top; your perpetually-open closet spills out a dozen pairs of the high-heeled pumps you seem to love. And your bed is never made. When he mentions it, you always laugh.
“I’m just going to use it again tonight, Jav.”
He dumps the panties into a heap on the center of your rumpled coverlet and stalks out. He’s just finished putting his laundry away when he hears the shower turn off – finally his turn.
He lurks in the hallway, and at last the bathroom door opens. You’re wrapped in a dark blue towel that barely overlaps and just grazes the tops of your thighs. You’re scrunching another against your hair, head tilted to the side. Drops of water still sparkle along the tops of your shoulders and in the hollow of your throat, and the thick cloud of coconut- scented steam that rolls out behind you is sweet and familiar.
“You leave me any hot water?” He tries to scowl, but you squeeze past him, your damp, warm skin brushing his arm, and he can’t. Fuck, you smell good.
You disappear into your room, but your voice carries out to him. “If you want hot water, you’ve gotta move faster or join me.”
He thinks about that the whole time he’s showering – thinks about you, here moments ago, your body bare and sleek and wet. Your razor is perched on the edge of the tub, a smear of shaving cream still on the handle. Just looking at it makes him hard. He’s picturing his hands on you finding everywhere you’re silky-smooth when he comes, his face tilted into the barely-tepid spray.
---
Javi downs the last swig of his coffee and drops the cup on the kitchen table, then grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. It feels heavy as he slides it on, the pocket landing on his hip with a weighted thud. He digs his hand in – extracts a bright orange fruit.
“Jav!” For once you’ve beaten him to the front door. “C’mon!”
He strides to the entryway, holding up the granadilla with two fingers and a thumb. “The fuck is this?”
“It’s called food, Peña.” You grin and pull the door wide. “You should try it some time.”
---
Javi’s on his second glass of whiskey and a fourth cigarette; the air is turning faintly blue with the hazy smoke as he rests his still-booted feet on the coffee table.
“Good God, Javi.” You wave your hands in front of your face as you walk into the room, adding a few coughs for dramatic effect. “Open a window.”
He tips back the whiskey and lets the last mouthful burn its way down his throat, then stands up. He crosses the room and yanks open one of the windows. The humid breeze stirs the curtains, carrying with it the noise of Medellín after dark. “New dress?”
You lean into one hand on the wall, your fingers buckling the strap of your high-heeled sandal around your ankle. “Why? You wanna borrow it? Not your size.”
He feels wobbly for a minute when you begin to slide on the next shoe. Must be the whiskey on an empty stomach. That’s what he tells himself at least, even as his eyes stay locked on the supple weight of your breasts straining against the fabric as you bend over to fasten the tiny buckle.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You have dinner?”
He takes a drag on his cigarette by way of an answer.
Your head shake is reproachful. “Those are going to kill you.”
There’s a knock at the door and he watches you grab your small clutch off the table. He allows himself the fleeting thought: he doesn’t want you to leave. But you’re already halfway to the door.
“You coming back tonight?”
You glance back at him, the expression on your face curious. “Why?”
He points to the array of deadbolts and chains that line the edge of the door – the only things that let him close his eyes at night. “Don’t wanna lock you out.”
“Oh.” Your fingers brush the slide chain; its cheerful musical jangle belies how much the two of you depend it. “No, go ahead and lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow. I mean, it’s the weekend, right?”
Javi wants to retort that it must be nice to get a weekend, but you’re already sliding your arm through the elbow of the man on the other side of the door, your voice pitching low and sweet to him.
The man laughs, then startles briefly when he catches Javi’s glare turned on him. “‘Night, Peña.”
Javi thinks he might recognize the man from the Embassy but couldn’t even guess his name. So he just gives a tight nod and closes the door a little harder than he means to. He moves through the locks one by one, trying not to hear the sound of your heels moving away.
---
He’d only meant to spend his Saturday morning catching up on paperwork, but by the time he fields nine phone calls and a thick file marked ‘Official’, it’s nearly four in the afternoon. He stops at the little market on the corner – picks up two packs of cigarettes – then hoofs it up the stairs to the apartment, already thinking of the hot shower he’s going to take. Before he even reaches the landing, he hears it: the thumping drums and swinging trumpets of the porro music you love. He isn’t surprised you don’t hear the door open over the cacophony, but he’s glad of it. It means he gets to stand there in the doorway, the tension of his day ebbing away as he watches you.
You’re stretching high in front of the window, a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other, wiping the glass to a brilliant shine, but he only sees the way your hips swing from side to side, only sees the flex of your calves as you lift onto your toes to reach even higher.
“Looks good.” His voice startles you and you spin, a grin breaking over your face.
“I cleaned.”
He doesn’t tell you he didn’t mean the windows, because at that moment he realizes you’re wearing one of his undershirts over a pair of cutoff jean shorts; the nearly-sheer ribbed fabric clings to you, makes his tongue feel too thick to speak. He swallows hard. “What can I do to help?”
Your smile gets wider. “Stop being so messy.”
He rolls his eyes at you and you laugh. Most mornings he has to dodge at least 4 pairs of your shoes to even make it to the front door; there is one messy person in this apartment and it isn’t him.
“Smells good in here.” The air is lemon-bright; a handful of pretty flowers stand tall in a water glass on the coffee table. “But why?”
You put down your spray bottle, and half-flop onto the couch, your arms stretching over your head as you sigh. You cut your eyes sideways. “Maybe I want to be a better roommate.”
“Couldn’t be worse.”
You laugh and toss the cleaning cloth at him. It bounces off his chest and lands on the floor with soft thump. “Fuck you.”
He bends to pick up the wadded fabric and drops it on the table, then falls back onto the sofa. He’s not next to you – there is a full cushion between you, a no-man’s-land of Naugahyde – but the intimacy of sitting here with you isn’t lost on him. Most of the time you two only pass through rooms, circling at a distance. This feels different. Feels nice.
He stretches his arm along the back of the couch, then wrinkles his forehead. “Where’s my afghan?”
You frown. “That was yours? It didn’t come with the place?”
He shakes his head. “Where is it?”
Your eyes are wide and worried. “It was so itchy, Javi. And it smelled like old goats. I threw it out.”
“My abuela made that.”
“Oh, fuck.” Your hands fly to your mouth. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“Can’t believe you threw it away.” He makes his face sorrowful, keeps the corners of his mouth still to not give anything away.
“Shit.” You fly off the couch and down the hallway. He can hear you in your room – the frantic slamming of drawers, the creak of your closet door being yanked wide open. You’re back in a moment, holding out a fuzzy heap of fluffy pink. “Here.”
He takes the blanket – it’s silky-soft, a thousand times nicer than that cheap acrylic throw he’d picked up at a market his first month in town.
You reach a hand out to pet it fondly. “I know it’s not the same, but it’s really nice and it’ll make me feel better if you just take it. I’m so sorry, Javi.”
He can’t stand how worried you look. “I’m fucking with you. That afghan was a piece of shit.”
“Oh, thank God.” You try to yank the blanket away as you grin, relief easing the creases around your eyes. “‘Cause I really didn’t want to give you my blanket.”
He doesn’t let go – holds the soft fabric in his hands and tugs it until you are forced to step closer, practically into the space between his legs. He looks up at you, letting his voice drop low. “But what if I get cold?”
You catch your lip between your teeth, then give the blanket a firm pull until he finally releases it. You lean past him, over him, your arms stretching along his shoulder, your body so close he can smell the heat of your skin. Slowly, you drape the blanket over the back of the couch: smoothing it with deliberate fingers. Taking all the time in the world.
Letting him breathe you in.
“We’ll share it.” You stroke the fabric one more time, then straighten. He watches a little shiver roll through you, and then you take a deep breath and step back. “Since I cleaned, you order dinner. How about that place off the plaza?”
---
You sidle up next to Javi at the bar, signaling the bartender for another drink. “If you don’t go home with her, I will.”
Javi glances towards the pretty brunette he’d been talking to. She said she just needed to tell her friends she was going to stay for another drink; he’d done this enough to know what that meant.
“Thought you’d already found your company for tonight?” Javi looks past you to the man who is watching you with an expression of bewildered good fortune. “Harrison? Again?”
“Some performances deserve an encore.”
He rolls his eyes and you smile, your eyebrows lifting. “Have fun with your girl. Don’t come home tonight.”
---
Javi’s still waiting for sleep to come when he hears your key in the front door and the dulcet lilt of your voice echoed by the deeper tones of a man’s. His ears track the two of you as you move through the dark apartment; he hears the click of your bedroom door closing.
He’d kissed the pretty brunette against his car outside the bar, but he couldn’t muster up the energy the rest of the night would take. He’d driven her home, made up some bullshit about an early morning, and then had come back here to this fucking empty apartment and tried to sleep. But he realizes now why he couldn’t. He’d been waiting for this: for you coming home with fucking Harrison from the ambassador’s office.
Music creeps through the wall, tinny and up tempo, guitar and percussion and harmonizing voices. He’s glad. The sound gives him something to focus on: something other than the hum of you and Harrison, your low conversation punctuated by the sparkle of your laughter.
Time passes. Javi pulls his extra pillow over his head, and squeezes his eyes shut, and thinks maybe – maybe – he can sleep like this. At least until the door creaks open and small bare feet shuffle across the wooden floor. He can see you silhouetted in the darkness – stays still and watches you slide open his nightstand. Your hand rifles around inside and he hears the crinkle of the condom as you slip one from the box.
“The fuck you doin’?” He snaps on the bedside light and almost smiles when you jump back with a startled squeak. Eyes wide, hair mussed, lipstick kiss-faded – you clutch the crisp gray dress shirt closed with your free hand, pulling it tight into your body.
He watches the look on your face shift from shock to annoyance. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“In my bed?”
You push the drawer shut with a definitive thud, the silver condom wrapper bright between your fingers. “Here. Don’t tell me she turned you down.”
Javi pushes himself up in the bed to lean against the headboard with a smirk. The sheet is barely at his waist, the washed-soft cotton molding to his cock – which is getting harder by the second as he lets his eyes move up your bare thighs. This sheet and Harrison’s fucking shirt: that’s all that stands between your skin and his.
Your eyes drift from his face to the expanse of his chest, and then lower – the fine edges of your teeth settle into the plump of your lip.
“You always steal from me?” He taps the top of the nightstand and you jerk your gaze back to his face, eyes wide and a little wild.
“Borrowing.”
“Don’t want it back.”
You wrinkle your nose. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, then.” You stand up straighter. “Thanks.”
He watches you turn – you nearly reach the door before you spin on your heel and march back towards him. You drop the condom on his nightstand.
“You ruined the mood, Grumpy.” You lift your chin, your expression dismissive, but he can see your pulse racing in the side of your throat. “I’d just be over there thinking about you in here. Listening.”
“If you’re in there thinking about me –” Javi flits his tongue over his lip, his eyes never leaving yours – “then he’s not doing his job.”
The air sparks for a moment. You tilt your head, start to speak. But then a huffed exhale and you’re gone, slipping back out his door and closing it soundly behind you. He can hear the rumble of conversation through the wall, but not the words. It’s not hard to figure out, though, when the heavy tread of a man’s dress shoes follow your bare feet to the front door. There are a few more words and then the sounds of the locks clicking back into place.
He hears you pass his room – wonders for a moment what would happen if he met you there in the hallway, wonders what you might be wearing now that Harrison and his shirt were gone. But he stays in his bed and listens – the hushed thump of your door, the creak of your bed, the sudden quiet of the radio snapping off.
It’s silent then. Until it’s not.
At first he thinks he’s imagining it and he holds his breath, straining to hear. Fuck. He’s definitely not imagining it. It’s a moan, breathy and high, and he fucking knows: it’s for him. It has to be, after what you’d just said about thinking of him in here. About thinking of him listening.
His hand is already on his cock – he smears the leaking precum over the head with the palm of his hand, then wraps his fist around the length, but the rest of him stays still. He doesn’t want to miss a single sound that’s passing through the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut – lets the whimpers and whines surround him, listens to them shift to louder, faster, needier.
He knows when you come. He’s heard it before. But this time is different: this time you’re coming for him. When he hears your hoarse cry – hears it twist into a throaty moan – he tries to picture what you look like. He can just see it: legs spread, fingers buried in your pussy, pretty mouth open wide. It’s enough: he comes then, too, spilling onto his hand and stomach. And he lets you hear him – hear the groan that almost becomes your name.
You’re quiet after. He is, too. He falls asleep wondering: what would have happened if he had knocked on your door?
In the morning he finds a note by the coffee pot: ‘Early start. Caught a ride in with Williams. Don’t worry about me after. Have plans.’
The coffee pot is full. His favorite cup is next to it. He leaves without touching either.
---
By the time he makes it home, you’ve come and gone, though the scent of your perfume hangs sweet in the air. Javi sags onto the couch, his fingers already rolling the spark wheel of his lighter as he holds it to the cigarette between his lips. While he smokes it and a second one, he absent-mindedly strokes the throw blanket on the back of the couch.
It still smells like you.
---
Four days of avoiding each other must be enough. When he walks into the kitchen before work, you’re finally there – no early starts, no tiptoeing in after he’s gone to bed. He’d barely even seen you at the office – just your back, shoulders set, always moving away. But at last: here you are, smiling at him.
“What’s that?” Javi narrows his eyes at the small paper sack you’re holding out to him. The top is folded down and he can just make out your scrawl across the brown paper: ‘Grumpy.’
“Lunch.” You shake the bag at him until he takes it, then turn and pick up an identical one from the counter.
“You made me lunch?” He’s surprised. More than surprised, he realizes – pleased.
“You need to eat more.” You reach out a hand. Two fingers brush the buckle of his belt, and the intimacy of the gesture freezes him. “Last hole on this belt, Jav. Can’t just live on cigarettes and fury.”
Even after you withdraw your hand, he can feel the pressure of those slender fingertips. “I can try.”
You laugh. He likes that, making you laugh – likes it more than he should. You walk past him, your shoulder just brushing his. “C’mon. Can’t be late.”
At the office, Javi drops the bag on his desk and picks up a file, pointedly ignoring Steve’s smirk.
His partner persists. “How’d you convince her to do that?”
Javi doesn’t respond, his eyes trained on the report in front of him.
Steve snorts and slides another file across the space between them. “Better tell the little lady she’ll need a ride home tonight. We got a lead.”
---
You must have heard his key in the lock.
Because somehow you’re already there, your fingers turning the doorknob from the other side, and when he sees your face – all worried lines and shadows – he’s momentarily confused.
But then he remembers: because of your job, you always know what’s coming, even before he does. You knew what tonight might turn into.
“You’re okay.” You say it once. Then again, lifting it into a question. “You’re okay?”
He nods. The lead had felt like nothing – just another fucking goose chase in eighteen months of goose chases. But on the darkened street the energy had suddenly shifted: the radios crackled to life with warnings made useless by the fact the bullets arrived first. He still isn’t sure what it was exactly. Maybe they were set up. Maybe they were spotted. But the night ended with three bodies turning cold on the sidewalk and all Javi could feel was relief that it wasn’t him or Murphy.
“Come on.” Your fingers are feather-light on his shoulder as you guide him past you, locking the door behind him. You keep your hand on him, pushing him ahead of you into the living room. “Do you need a drink?”
He shakes his head. “Need a shower.”
His shirt is stuck to his skin: wet with sweat from the hot Colombian night, sharp with adrenaline and fear. He can smell it, can still feel it pulsing in his veins. He needs it gone.
“Okay.” You keep guiding him, palms flat to his shoulder blades, to the small bathroom. The smile you give him is careful. Soft. “Saved the hot water for you. Thought you might need it tonight.”
You reach past him, pushing open the shower curtain and turning the taps. The sleeve of your robe – a short silky thing, all bright flowers and lush leaves – grazes his arm and he closes his eyes for a moment. He lets the cool slip of it pull him back from that hazy, choking street and into this bright, clean room.
Javi lifts his hands to the buttons of his shirt and you wince. His knuckles are scraped, bleeding a little – there had been scrabbling, punches thrown when everyone collided in the humid darkness – and you bring your gentle fingertips to hover over the backs of his hands.
“Let me.” Your whisper is mostly breath as your fingers move to his buttons. You work them open, top to bottom, slipping his shirt hem free of his waistband. The buttons undone, you push the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, gathering it into a neat bundle you place on the counter.
There is a bruise darkening his shoulder – he remembers the thud of his body hitting the side of the car as he dove towards it at the pop-pop of gunfire. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth as you frown at it. “That doesn’t look good.”
He manages a half-smile. “Not what I want to hear when my shirt comes off.”
Your eyes flash back to his face, relief lifting at your cheeks. “There he is.” You raise your hand, the curve of your palm shaping itself to his shoulder. The heat of your skin radiates against the bruise, soothes the ache. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.”
“Good.” You glance at the shower, where steam is starting to thicken and twist, then flick your eyes towards his belt. “I think it’s hot now.”
He reaches for his buckle just as you do, and your eyes go wide and flustered as you stammer. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have –”
“I got it.” He watches you turn, your back to him now. In the mirror he sees your lashes resting against your cheeks, your eyes cast down. He toes off his boots and kicks them to the corner, then pushes his jeans to the floor. Your gaze flicks up for a moment at the sound of his belt buckle hitting the tile, almost meeting his in the mirror before sliding away again.
He runs his hand under the cascade of droplets – just hot enough – and steps into the shower, pulling the curtain almost closed behind him. He tips his face into the spray.
Waits.
It’s not long.
“Javi.” The shadowed silhouette of you on the shower curtain is close enough to touch. “Javi, can I…”
He doesn’t need you to finish that sentence. “Yes.”
There’s the silken swish of your robe falling and then here you are: warm skin along the length of his back, your hands moving over his ribs to rest on his chest. Your cheek is on his shoulder, and he feels your lips move as you speak. “I was worried.”
He brings his hands to cover yours – lets his body lean into you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was afraid…” You let your words trail off, your arms tightening around him. He feels your inhale, then the rush of words. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back. And I needed you to come back.”
He wants to turn around – wants to slide his hands up your arms and cradle your face between them and kiss you – but he’s afraid the spell of this will be broken if he moves. So he just glides his fingers over yours, tracing the edges of them where they rest against his chest. He feels your breath rock him gently, the swells of your breasts pressed into his skin, the heat of you reminding him: he is here. He is alive.
And you needed him to come back.
“Javi.” Your mouth shapes his name in the water coursing over his shoulders. “I think I’m going to kiss you now.”
He lets you turn him in the small shower. Your hands move slowly up his arms, over the tops of his shoulders, to his throat. Your fingertips skate along his jaw; your thumbs sweep droplets of water from his eyebrows, his lashes, his mustache, before you cradle the point of his chin and tilt his mouth to yours.
The spark of it: it feels like electricity firing through his nerve endings, waking him out of his stupor. In barely a breath he’s kissing you back, his hands spread wide on your hips to pull you tight into him. You exhale fills his mouth as you mold yourself into his body, fitting like a perfect puzzle piece. Your tongue parts his lips, seeking his; he groans at how sweet you taste.
He hadn’t let himself think how much he wanted this. How much he wanted you. But now that you’re here in his arms – he squeezes you tighter, lets his teeth find the tender point of your tongue – he can’t imagine letting you go.
“Javi, can we –” You swallow your words, eyes wide as you seek his. Your hands are moving again: down the plane of his chest, along the ridges of his ribs, skating back up his back to finally tangle your fingers into his wet hair. You try again. “Come to my room. Will you? Come with me?”
He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak right now, doesn’t trust that the truth of how he feels about you won’t tumble out in a wild rush. So instead he simply lets you lead him. From the shower – a quick haphazard swipe with a towel – to your room, both of you leaving wet footprints amid scattered drops that look like rain.
Your room is dark, curtains drawn. When you peel yourself away from him to click on the dim lamp in the corner, he finally sees you: all of you, bare and still wet and here for him. You turn to face him – the lamplight throws shadows along the edges of your curves, and his eyes devour you. The set of your shoulders, the lush weight of your breasts. The slope of your belly, the flare of your hips. And your face: chin lifted, eyes flashing and dark, looking at him like you’ve never wanted anything more.
You’re fucking beautiful.
“Baby.” He didn’t mean to say that as he moves towards you. You didn’t expect it either – he sees that in the way your eyes go wide – but then you smile. No, you fucking glow, lifting your arms to slide them around his neck, face tilted up, letting him walk you back to the bed. He eases you down, and bends over you: presses his face into the softness of your stomach, and says it again. “Wanted this, baby.”
You arch into him, your nails scratching against his scalp as he kisses a meandering path across your belly. “I wanted this, too, Javi. For so long.”
He groans into your skin, stretching over you. Cradling your tits in his hands, he moves his mouth up, up, up, until he finds your nipple – sweeps his tongue against the pebbled tip, sucks it against the edges of his teeth. Goosebumps chatter over your skin, still shower-damp, and you whimper, writhing beneath him on the wrinkled sheets.
“Sweet.” He drags his tongue across the shallow valley of your chest to capture your other nipple. “Taste so sweet.”
You bend your knee, sliding it from beneath his body, hooking your calf around his hips. Then your other leg shifts, too, moving until he is secured in the space between your thighs. He chokes back a grunt when he feels his cock brush against the velvet of your inner thigh, but then you wiggle – a gasp falls from you as the length of him settles against your soaked pussy.
“Oh, fuck.” You rock your hips, sliding slick and hot along the underside of his cock, and he has to squint his eyes shut against how the sensation pulls at him. “Need you to fuck me, Javi.”
“Let me taste you, baby.” He tries to stay in control, but he can’t help letting his hips press you down into the mattress, pushing you open even wider beneath him. “Know you taste so fucking good.”
Your response is all breath. “You don’t have to.”
He jerks his face up to look at you – your lip is caught between your teeth again – and you repeat it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
He narrows his eyes at you and lets go of your breast to slide his hand down the smooth curve of your belly and push it between your bodies. The scattering of hair over your mound is soft and then his fingers are sliding into your folds: so goddamned wet it nearly makes his eyes roll. “Don’t have to, baby. Want to.” Your hand flies to your mouth, your teeth settling into the back of it, when he gently nudges the tip of his finger into your opening. “Can I?”
Your nod is quick.
“Tell me, baby.” He pushes the finger deeper – watches your head rock back on your pillow as your brows knit together with a whine. “Tell me.”
“You can.” Your hand still muffles your mouth, but your voice is certain. “Please.”
He smiles at you, easing down your body, letting his finger slip from the heat of you. He slides his hands down the backs of your thighs then pushes them beneath your hips, tugging you towards the end of the bed. Satisfied he has you where he wants you, he drops to his knees. You spread out before him like this, him kneeling in front of you: it feels like worship.
He wants to look at you: pretty and swollen and slick, blooming like a flower. But you smell so goddamned good. He leans in and kisses your inner thigh – lets the stubble of his jaw scrape you and feels the shiver race through your body. Another kiss, another shiver, and then he lets his tongue map the terrain of you: slide slow through your folds, sweep soft against your bundle of nerves, then lower, to dip into your entrance. You whine, your hips rocking toward his mouth.
“Knew it, baby.” He eases two fingers into you then – feels you clutch them, all silken heat. “Knew you’d taste good.”
And you do. Sweet and tangy – he feels drunk on you, his mouth open wide, his groans muted by your wet warmth. His cock is aching, leaking, and he wants so badly to feel you around him, but the sounds falling from your lips keep him hungry for you. His tongue circles your clit as your slick gathers thick at the base of his fingers where he’s fucking them deep inside you.
“Oh.” The word sounds dragged from your throat, etched with need. “Just like that.”
He isn’t sure which feels better when you come – the way you clench down on his fingers or how you flood his mouth – but he knows what he’ll always remember: his name, again and again, carried on the wave of your moans.
“So perfect, baby.” His lips are wet with you – chin and nose, too, but he likes it, likes being covered in you. “So good for me.”
Your fingers are pulling at his hair, seeking the edge of his jaw, and you’re halfway sitting up as you try to drag him onto the bed with you.
“Javi, please.” Your eyes are wild and unfocused as you tug at him. “Please.”
He rises from his knees and stretches over you, but your hands flatten on his chest and push him down onto the mattress next to you. “Stay.”
You bolt from the room, feet thudding on the floor and he hears you next door: hears his nightstand drawer opening and then slamming shut. Then you’re back, with a smile approaching bashful as you hold up one of his condoms. “Borrowing again.”
He returns your smile. “Anytime for this, baby.”
Javi takes it from your fingers as you climb onto the bed, tearing the foil wrapper as your mouth slides against his throat. He moves quickly, unrolling it down his length. He starts to shift onto his side to ease on top of you, but your hand is on his chest again, holding him down.
“Let me.” You straddle him, and he holds his breath as you move your hand down his stomach to grip his cock. You lift your hips, dragging the tip of him through you until he’s slick and wet, and then you angle him just right: a tiny wriggle of your hips, your hands flat on his chest, and then you’re slipping down him, down, down, down, until he’s buried inside you.
“Fuck, baby.” He grits his teeth, his head spinning at how tight you are around him. “Hold still a minute.”
You do. Or you try, but your brow is furrowed as you barely rock against him – little shifts that clutch and squeeze. “Feels so good. Feels so good, Javi.”
“I know, baby.” His eyes move fast between your face, mouth parted and eyes half-closed, and the spread of your legs across his hips. “Look so pretty like this.”
His words loosen a smile from you, your sly eyes dropping to meet his. “You like how I look fucking you? So surprised.”
He smiles back. “Yeah. Wanna see it a lot more.”
You start to move then, rising and falling on him, your face tilting down to watch his cock disappear inside you over and over. “So do I.”
He watches, too – watches how you stretch around him, watches the flex of your thighs as you lift yourself, watches your tits sway, watches sweat gather on your skin as you ride him. Your hand slides down your stomach and he feels your fingers split around him, capturing the slick that is soaking you both.
He watches you settle those fingers against your clit and nearly groans at the sight. “Gonna make yourself come on me, baby? Gonna let me feel it?”
You nod, hips moving faster over him. “Uh-huh.”
He plants his feet and bends his knees, fucking up into you now, the rhythmic slap of your bodies barely audible over your moans. Those goddamned moans – he’s heard you so many times, but Jesus Christ, it’s nothing compared to seeing you. He reaches to palm your tit – lets it spill through his fingers, pinches your nipple between his thumb and pointer. You whine, your fingers moving faster against your clit.
“You’re gonna make me come, baby.” He forces the words through his clenched jaw, fighting to keep control. He doesn’t want to come before you. He needs to feel you first.
“Oh, fuck.” Your eyes squint and your head falls back – he can see your pulse racing in the hollow of your throat. “Right there. Right there, Javi.”
He keeps fucking you, just the same, trying to give you what you need, and then you cry out: a wordless sound that shatters around him. And he fucking feels you then, squeezing him, making you so tight he can barely move inside you.
“Fuck, baby.” He is right behind you – two more thrusts as deep as he can, and then a third, holding himself buried inside you as he comes, his hips lifted flush against you. “Goddamnit.”
Your breath is panting, fast and shallow, and you collapse into his chest, your face nuzzling into his neck. You kiss him there – the hollow beneath his ear, the thrum of his pulse, the line of corded tension that is easing now. He wraps his arms around you, his hands smoothing over the damp skin of your back. He feels your heartbeat slow down. Feels it rein in his.
“I better—” he doesn’t want to leave you yet, but his cock is softening inside you – “get rid of this.” He grips the base of the condom and gently slips from your heat, then eases you onto your side. He pushes himself off the bed, uncertain what is next.
You bend your arm, tucking it beneath your head, and give him a careful smile. “Come back. If you want.”
He nods, moving quickly to the bathroom, and then just as quickly back. Your smile widens and you pat the bed. He stretches out next to you, and you fit yourself into his side, your fingers moving gingerly over his tender knuckles.
“I didn’t mean to—" You stop, then take a breath and try again. “This wasn’t because of tonight.”
He glances down at you. “Wasn’t?”
“No.” Your voice is soft. “I think tonight just…gave me a reason.”
He strokes his fingertips down the valley of your spine. “Didn’t mean to make you think you needed a reason.”
You laugh. He feels it in his chest. “Wish I’d known that before.”
“How long before?”
You press a kiss to his shoulder – a loud smack – and then grin up at him. “Months, Javi. Months and months and months.”
He rests his lips against the top of your head. “Fucking glad to know now.”
You sigh and slip your arm across his body to tuck your fingers beneath his ribs. “I think you should sleep in here.”
“Yeah, baby.” He lets his eyes ease closed – lets the warmth of your body pull him toward rest. “I think I should, too.”
You guys, I was ready to give up on this project. I had the hardest time looking for the right printer, spent lots of money on samples that didn't work out, and it's so hard to design something that requires measurement precision in Procreate.
But then... I finally found this printer, and when I got the sample in the mail, I knew I have to keep going.
I know I say this about every collection, but this planner is a real labour of love, and will feature more than 30 unique monthly/weekly pages (yes, there will be some repeats because otherwise it will kill me). The plan is to get it ready in time for the holidays.
It is not cheap to print 128 pages in colour, and shipping alone will cost around US$15, so to manage expectations, it will be the most expensive item I've ever designed for the shop - it really will be a holiday treat! I'm committing myself to a deadline so that I can get these designs finished in time for samples and printing.
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter sixteen of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.7k
chapter warnings: dad!frankie. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. FLIRTATION TO THE MAX.
an: this chapter made me beam from start to finish. like my face hurts.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
It’s long, your exhale. Stretching out slow and full, cheeks still tingling with the lingering ache of laughter as you gaze at the horizon.
Just where the sun dips; its final rays painting the sky in lavender and rose. You're joined by a gentle, warm breeze whispering through the air, carrying the salty scent of the sea and the soft hum of waves caressing the shore's golden sand.
The air is cooler now under the encroaching dusk, as the tide steals the footprints, making them vanish.
And it’s perfection. All of it.
A moment you wish you could pause and live, exactly like this, for a handful of hours.
The sound of flip-flops meeting soles is what eventually ruins it.
It pulls your glance over your shoulder, watching his approach—shades shielding his eyes, hair loose in slightly longer curls, it almost dry from your earlier fun in the water.
Then you see his smirk. The one which grows as he nears, knowing what you’re thinking, even if you try to hide it. Because if you had gone to grab pizzas, you’d be face down in the sand—food ruined, embarrassment smothering over your cheeks. But, he carries it one-handed like it’s nothing. A bottle of soda under his arm and a plastic bag dangling from his wrist, as you shift on the blanket that’s still warm from the sun, arms reaching up to help.
“Hey, Butterscotch.”
“Hey, Mi lluviosa.”
You don't even fight how you beam at your nickname's new variation. The one that had slipped out when he'd turned his alarm off, eyes all closed with your face buried into his neck.
The jingle of his car keys sounds as he throws them to the edge of the blanket, watching him join you as the scent of melted cheese, tomato and toppings greet your nose before you even open the box.
“Smells so good.”
He utters a soft agreement as your knee abuts his; periodically glancing at him as you grab a slice, chewing with a smile as he wrestles with his toppings and strands of cheese from tangling in his beard.
By the time you’re both full, the chill of the evening air is making you shiver, when you gently slot the cardboard lids back into place. Tenderly, as you watch another wave rise and crash against the beach, your palms tenderly brush up and down your arms.
He notices—or must do. Moving onto his knees to dig around the duffel you’d both brought—a jacket pulled out, before sliding it around your shoulders, coming to sit behind you. Legs on either side as the scent of him joins you.
Toes wiggling in the sand, his hands sliding over your legs, you turn. “Would you rather be a jellyfish or a starfish?”
Exhaling a groan, your back comes to rest on his chest. Eased there, guided. Your ankle accidentally nudges one of the half-empty pizza boxes in your movements—a thing you hope remains sand-free from when you get back to his and decide you wish to nibble on a little more.
Blowing out a puff of air, it tickles against your ear as his arms come around you. “Jellyfish.”
“Is it because they glow in the dark?”
Laughing, kissing the side of your head. “No. But that is a good reason.”
“You want to sting people, don’t you?”
Sliding your hand around the back of his neck, fingers scratching at his hair, smiling, biting down on your lip as he presses another kiss.
“Maybe.”
“Deviant.”
Softly blowing against your ear, drawing shapes along his scalp as he whispers, you love it.
And you do.
Fuck you do.
Do you think I need to reconsider jeans and a black tee for what we’re getting up to today?
No, you’ll be fine. I’m putting up some shelves is all.
Does this mean you’re going to tuck a little pencil behind your ear?
Do you like the idea of that?
Might do.
I’m beginning to worry you’re with me for my hobbies and not me.
How about you stop looking so hot when you do your hobbies?
I’ll try. It’s hard to turn off.
HA HA HA.
HA.
You're there, in a stranger's home, for all of ten minutes before you realise that you’re not needed. Not that Frankie says anything.
Only confirming it when you ask, “You sure you don't need me to hold this?” Voice-breaking the quiet hum of the electric drill he’s holding.
Carefully re-positioning one of the wooden shelves against the wall, his brow furrows in concentration, a single dark curl falling over his forehead as he glances from the step-ladder, eyes nothing short of warm and twinkling despite the overcast light. “I've got it, but your company makes it easier,” he replies, tone nothing short of affectionate, sweet, truthful.
“Francisco Morales, did you want me here as eye candy?”
He buries his answer with the drill as you wander over to the window smirking, seeing that the sky is still a thick blanket of grey, clouds heavy with the threat of rain. Even without the window open, you know the air is cool, likely damp, carrying a hint of petrichor as you turn on your heels, watching from your new position.
You don’t suppress the small smile that plays on your lips—something comforting about the sight of him so focused, so intent on getting everything just right.
“Could you just pass that for me?”
Smirking, you quickly move over to pick up what he’s gesturing at, turning it over in your hand. “This?”
“Please.”
Biting your lip, grinning. “What do I get for it?”
“The knowledge I’d be done earlier.”
Tilting your head from side to side, you scrunch your face—almost wanting to twirl the tool.
“What if I wish that you'd do me yourself, Morales?”
Pausing, the wood in his hand lowers down the wall as he turns his head, staring, mouth falling open before he eventually rests the plank against the wall. Slowly coming down the steps, across the plastic-covered floor, it all scrunching under his boots. “That what you want?”
His hands slide around your waist, palms flat, dragging along the fabric that covers your skin, rippling fire out across your body as you curl in, arch, ghosting your mouth over his.
“We can’t fuck in this person’s house, Frankie.”
Groaning, low, deep in the back of his throat, you smile—mirroring the one he traces across yours. “Remind me why?”
“You make me messy.”
Grunting, pressing it to your neck. “Yeah?”
Nodding, biting your lip, pulling his face up by your palms on his cheeks, mouth ghosting over his. “Really messy.”
Inhaling, you feel him agree. Mouth meeting yours, before you ease his nose to your lips, pressing a kiss. “Finish drilling, Morales. Then we can go home and you can drill me.”
He mumbles something in Spanish under his breath.
Guess how my morning has been?
Wonderful? Full of coffee and people asking for tips on how to twist a screw in.
No, not everyone is you.
Harold has asked me three times when he’s next seeing you.
Oh yeah, I should really return his call for our second date.
I know you’re joking, but ouch.
Don’t worry, Francisco. He’s just a side piece.
You’re the main. I want to get lunch, do you want me to bring you some and then you can pee around me so he knows?
Please. He keeps asking if you like diamonds.
Tell him I’m not mad at a diamond.
Shooting a wink at Harry, he lifts his chest up from his leaned position on the counter. Head dipping, fingers sliding across his lips as though they’re a zip before tapping his nose.
That familiar scent greets you just as graciously. All fresh-cut wood, spilt paint and lemon disinfectant, as well as Harold's aftershave. The one change—the biggest—is the missing crackle of the radio, you had found a compact, newer one a few weeks back, placing it on the counter with a big red bow and a card for Harry.
Bag swinging in your fingers, it’s a hunt to find him. Peering down aisles, eventually spotting him crouched—cargo trousers doing their utmost to remain stitched across his thighs.
You’re grateful he wears an apron that covers his groin. Half-fearful of the eye contact you’d give the area in what he’s currently wearing.
Digging your hand into the bag, and retrieving the top plastic carton, you do a little wiggle down the aisle with it.
“What’s this?”
Shrugging, stopping just before him as he stands. “Cake?”
Placing his clipboard down, narrowing his eyes as he takes it, turning it over.
“Butterscotch—that’s the flavour.”
Scrunching his face, he sighs. “I… I don’t know if I like it, baby.”
“Well, more for me.”
Smiling, pressing a kiss to your cheek, he motions to peer in the bag. “You like it?”
“Well, I like you.”
“Not sure it’ll taste like me.”
Tongue in your cheek, looking him up and down as he straightens, you wait a beat, and then another, before adding, “Shame. Guess I’ll have to keep eating you then.”
“Menace.”
Moving close, lips almost touching his, you whisper the same words he said to you only a day or two ago, you love it. A low whine leaves his lips, stifling it against your mouth, a crooked finger under your chin, making kissing a little easier.
“Wanna eat in the office?” he asks.
“I was thinking we could eat as you cut wood. I love sawdust seasoning.”
Pinching your side, not able to stop the giggle, he turns you on the spot, leading you back down the aisle you’d come down. “Go in, I’ll be a moment—just gonna tell Harold that I’m going on break.”
Nodding, twirling on the spot, you wink. “Tell him I love him.”
His palm manages to catch you on your ass as you roar with laughter.
Butterscotch Morales.
I’ve been first named.
Did you put flowers on my car?
Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.
You lured me there to be romantic?
Well, it is very hard to be romantic when you’re at my house.
I can go home early if you want.
Don’t you fucking dare.
Noted.
I also think you’re doing just fine in the romantic department. For one, they’re gorgeous. And the deep clean you gave me in the shower this morning still has my thighs shaking.
I don’t think you know how good you look with soap suds on your skin.
I have an idea now.
You fancy anything particular for dinner tonight?
Can you be on the menu?
I think it can be arranged for dessert.
Okay. Then tacos?
Double helping for me then.
Francisco!
You’re smirking I can feel it from here.
You know before you open your eyes what day it is. A mixed blend of emotions that flood you as you wake to the thick scent of freshly brewed coffee, breakfast—maybe eggs, you can’t be sure.
Heart both full and heavy as it coaxes you from your sleep, your lashes flutter, eyes blinking as you stretch your arm out across his dark bedsheets. You hate that you can feel the warmth fading. Dismay flutters in your chest, as you begin to fight the urge to roll face down into his sheets and glue yourself to his mattress.
“Morning, baby,” he whispers, interrupting, eyes finding him in the doorway, leaning, head resting against his bicep, a slither of his stomach on show as his top pulls up. “I’m making us breakfast.”
“You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” he replies, palm patting against his thigh. “If you want a shower, you have time.”
“Telling me I smell?”
Tongue sliding over the front of his teeth, he smiles—mischievously. “Maybe I just want you to smell like my soap for when you go home.”
Home you think. A tightness in your chest all but inflicted by the word. Four letters. Barely anything. Yet, you have to bite down on the inside of your cheek when he kisses your forehead and heads back out of the room.
It bubbles as you glance around the room—his room—taking in the cosy armchair with your jacket laid over it, the photograph of you and him surrounded by ones of Luca, Frankie and Luca or his friends.
Then, you hear him singing. The sound makes your heart throb at the same time as it brings a smile to your face as you head to his bathroom.
You find that the only benefit to showering is wrapping yourself in his cosy robe before you make your way to the living room.
Frankie lounges on the sofa, hand patting the spot beside him. You eagerly curl up next to him, nestling your head against his chest as his arm wraps around you, the other hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing soothing circles.
The tray of breakfast sits on the coffee table. You reach for a piece of toast, nibbling as you settle in. After a moment, you taste it—the eggs cooked just how you like, the toast perfect, just the way you love it. Of course, he has.
Frankie watches you with a tender expression, his fingers continuing their gentle caress on your knee.
“You excited?” you murmur between bites, “He’ll be here soon.”
Hand stroking over your leg, he swallows. “Yeah, I’ve missed him,” he replies, his voice a low, comforting rumble.
You look up at him, your heart swelling with love. “He’s going to have so many stories.”
Snorting, he runs a hand down his face. “Oh, I know.”
You smile, let the tranquillity of the moment wash over you, savouring the simple joy of being with the man you love. Curled up together. “Thank you for letting me see him before I go.”
His cheeks flush slightly, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head. “You know you don’t have to go.”
Staring at him, thumb swiping over his upper lip, removing the crumb from a slice of toast. “I should. Before I never leave.”
The tip of his tongue peeks out, swiping across his lower lip as his fingers do a dance on your leg. “That doesn’t sound half bad.”
Rolling your eyes, picking up your coffee. “You can ask me better than that, Morales.”
You don’t add that you hope he does.
Draining more of your coffee as you stare at him over the porcelain, placing it down before kissing his cheek.
“I should go pack.”
His groan follows you as you head back off to dress—folding things, shoving others into a bag and cleaner clothes back into your drawer.
It’s a try, an almost fail to not feel a sting of tears as you leave your bag on the bed.
The embers of it flickering inside of you even when you take over cleaning for him when he tells you Sam’s car is pulling up. It almost douses it, his joy, drying the mug in your hand when you peer into the living room as the front door is flown open and you see Frankie bear-hugging Luca as Sam follows in behind him.
Miss you’s turn into excitable tales. Occasionally translated by Sam as you wipe the side free from water, closing a cupboard quietly and drying your hands.
Then, when you’re about to slyly move into the room discreetly, you hear her call your name.
For a second, your head turns, but you don’t move. Just glancing, pulse pounding in your ear as you find Sam smiling, waiting, brows slightly raised as though you hadn’t made it up that she’d spoken your name.
“Can we talk… outside?”
It takes all of your restraint not to flick your eyes to Frankie.
For what, you’re not sure—reassurance, need, it all blurs into a stew inside of you as you reply, following her through the living room and out of the front door.
Nails digging into your palm, you try to breathe. In and out, out and in. But it builds.
And it builds.
And it builds.
Unable to stop the anxiety shifts into something thicker, less easy to keep down. It rises in your throat, choking you. Something similar to bile, as your head runs through a thousand things—whether you’d been too much with Luca, whether Frankie hadn’t shared that you’d be here, whether and whether and—
“I wanted to thank you,” Sam begins, smiling, hands linked together in front of herself, “Frankie… he’s a great, great dad—”
“The best,” you add. And then shame blooms over the anxiety at interrupting.
Sam, though, doesn't seem fazed. If anything unbothered. “The best. I’m very lucky to co-parent with him. But—”
Your stomach knots. Tightens.
A ball swelling inside of you as it becomes harder to breathe, to take full ones that fill you with air and rational thinking.
“I know he didn’t help make all those things.”
Oh, you think.
Shoulders unlodging from your ears, sliding down to their normal place.
“You must have spent hours on them,” she continues, a soft line in her forehead appearing as her face lightly scrunched, “All of them. The t-shirt? The candle? The card—the card, was so, so nice. It was so thoughtful. I can’t… I am not ashamed to admit I cried my fucking eyes out.”
Shifting your weight, a smile breaking out, “It was all Luca’s idea. I just wanted—”
“I imagine some of it was, but not all of it.”
You blink. It’s that or let your eyes fill up too. Seeing her staring, watching, with nothing but gratefulness on her face.
“I’m… I’m glad he has you,” Sam says quickly, almost hurriedly. “Luca. And Frankie.”
Her hands come around her waist before relaxing at her side, lips rolling, looking as nervously as you did moments ago.
“Thank you, for helping him with the gifts,” she continues.
Swallowing, you nod. “Anytime—if that’s okay? I… I don’t want to be anything but Rainy to him.”
Smiling, she inhales. “I know.”
“Good.”
A beat happens, the two of you finding yourselves admiring the other when you hear Luca’s laugh echo out of the house.
“So, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what is it with Rainy?”
Laughing, you press your hand to your face, watching her smile, waiting—patiently. “It’s a stupid joke, Frankie’s doing.”
Sam raises her brows, and stares in waiting, gesturing for you to continue.
“Okay, well—”
The next time it rains, can you kiss me in it?
Baby I’ll kiss you whatever the weather. Am I allowed to ask why?
It’s romantic, isn’t it?
Are you watching a movie?
Maybe.
And we haven’t kissed in the rain. We’ve kissed nearly everywhere else.
Well, I’d hate not to have kissed you everywhere, baby.
What’s happening in the movie?
Lots of declarations.
Ah. Lots of when we first met, I wasn’t looking for someone, I was running from it. But, you really wanted to try and build something, and before I knew it, I was falling.
That kind of thing yes.
I miss you.
I miss you too, baby. The bed feels strange without you asking me random questions.
I think watching this was a bad idea.
Answering his call, you don't pause the movie—just turn the volume down. Curling further into your couch as you tug the blanket up your neck, bringing his voice to your ear.
“Hey.”
“Hey, baby. Is the movie making you sad?”
Nodding, you swallow back the lump in your throat. Tears springing, the ones that had already fallen.
“You choking up so much you can’t reply to me?”
Laughing, tears spluttering, you sniff, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand as you grin—half-shaking your head. “How’d you know?”
You hear rustling, imagining him in bed. In the middle of the place, the two of you have been sharing. Wondering if he can smell your perfume, whether he misses the extra warmth of your skin like you currently miss him.
“‘Cause I know you. And, you do this little sniffle you try to hide and—”
“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, hearing him laugh, it tickling down your ear, making your chest go all warm like it usually does.
Like it always does.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have put this on.”
Snorting, it’s followed by a groan. One you now know he does when he stretches, when he’s trying to loosen the tightness in his back.
“Why did you?”
Because I miss you, you almost reply. Unsure how he couldn’t know, wouldn’t. A horrid thought burst through everything, standing all determined in the wake of nothing but only joy and happiness for days. Making your heart hurt, shrink and fall somewhere along the pit of you. Because maybe he didn’t know, because he didn’t miss you.
Maybe he felt happier that he had his home to himself, his bed, his things—
“I miss you too, Rainy.”
A gasp escapes, one enriched in emotions, fresh tears falling as you pause the movie, curling up more, knees pulled up as he repeats it.
“What do you miss?”
He snorts again, but more full of tease, “Fuck, where do I even start?”
“At the beginning of the list.”
“Oh well, firstly, I miss the fact I’ve not been asked if I would rather be a cactus or a house plant.”
And you smile. It stretches out, sliding into your cheeks—for the first time since you came home to emptiness—you feel happy again, even as another tear rolls down your cheek and you ask, “Well, what would you prefer?”
Frankie laughs. It flows down the phone, somehow brightening your own home, even if he’s not inside of it. It makes you kick off the blanket, stand up, turn the television off—and the lights—and walk the lonely route to your own bed.
Half-wishing you’d taken him up on the offer of staying one more night.
summary: he's your best friend. nothing would ever change that. except maybe a goodnight kiss.
warnings: just fluff. best friends who flirt to something. kissing. flirting. she calls frankie nemo.
an: this is my submission for @janaispunk’s milestone celebration based on this moodboard and the prompt "goodnight kiss"! hugest and biggest congrats to you jana, my babe. you deserve all of this and more!
Laughing, hard. It’s all instinctive as one palm stretches out across his stomach, and the other arm hooks around you, tugging you close.
He tenses when your fingers brush over his threadbare tee, your head turning into him as you mirror him, giggling. Burying deep into the fabric, it seeps into his skin.
And all Frankie thinks is—
It’s easy with you.
Has been for years. Since you’d stumbled in as the friend of one of his friends girl-not-girl, sticking around longer than they did.
You'd glued to him, happily. Never minding, or caring. Somehow surprised at how simple it was going from ‘do you want a drink’ to resting your head on his shoulder, while the two of you absently listened to whatever bullshit Benny was saying.
Now, he looks forward to seeing you.
To late-night burger runs and early-morning coffee meets, quiz nights with the others and just the two of you movie trips.
At some point, between his tongue doubling in his head at the sight of you that night to now, he’s been resisting kissing you. Sometimes easy, sometimes it’s harder.
Tonight it’s the latter.
A hand clenched around his heart, squeezing. Beneath the moon's gentle gaze, the world slows, each laugh and comment infused with the spell of the silvery glow. It's intimate, almost sacred.
And it forces him to remind himself of the usual array of things that stop him from kissing the wit-induced smile right from your lips. The list he runs through to ensure he doesn't ruin you, in the same way, he'd almost destroyed his license, his job. Stopping himself from tasting the gloss you’ve smeared there, the one which makes street lamps reflect as the two of you walk back to his truck.
“—so even if I scratched your favourite vinyl, you’d still be friends with me?”
Opening the passenger side door, he smiles, gleams, fucking beams. “Yeah!”
He hears you mutter bullshit when he shuts it, fighting a laugh as he comes around the back before sliding in.
It’s not a far drive to yours. One he’s memorised, etched into him. Not just from tonight’s location, but all over town. From his to work, and your favourite spot to his. Able to drive, mainly on auto-pilot, not needing to concentrate too much, able to answer your wild, and ridiculous, array of “even if” questions. Each ranged from ‘if I burnt all your grass’ to, ‘hypothetically if you had a dog and I kicked it’. Each is smudged with the sound of the radio you've tuned, a station he won't admit he listens to when you're not even with him.
You don’t stop your questioning when he pulls onto your drive, parking side by side next to your car. The one he helped you haggle for three months ago now—if he thinks hard, he can still hear the sound of your squeal in gratitude in the furthest part of his ear.
“—what if I stole your last coffee filter?”
“I’m guessing I’m desperate for it too?”
“Yes,” you say, defiant but playfully. “Of course.”
“You’re telling me that if I stole your last coffee filter, you’d still be my friend?”
Killing the engine, he sighs. Shrugging. “Yeah.”
Unbuckling your belt, you throw a glare. “I don’t believe you. You’re more coffee than blood.”
Shaking his head, he rests against the headrest, the corner of his lips growing into his cheek. “Not a thing you could do that would make me ever want to not be your friend.”
Rolling your eyes, you hover your hand over the doorhandle. A part of him wants to ask you to wait, to not go just yet. A routine he thinks through at least three times a month when he sees you. Each time ending in the same cowardly way.
“Goodnight, Frank,” you say, in that same tone—one hard to read, forged in sadness but dressed up in joy—as you press your lips to his cheek.
He resists touching it like he always does. Mumbling the same scripted, “Night” he always does.
Not jolting when the door meets the frame, eyes pinned on you as you walk down your path—waiting for you to step on your porch, turn back and wave, fidget for your keys before unlocking the door and giving him another wave. Another pattern, another repetition.
Except tonight you stop.
You don’t even make it halfway down your path.
Blood pounds in his ears, something knotting inside of him. An urge, a fire lighting in his stomach. One he listens to. His hand shoves the door open, as the other undoes his belt, forcing himself to exit.
Frankie spots the glance in surprise at finding him coming around the front to join you. As though the idea he would is a shock, a surprise as he calls your name.
It’s slow, the way you spin on your heels. You pause, eyes narrowing, before widening, fighting a smile. A thing he can tell, can read. Even if you try to hide it in the night, shield it from the almost full moon and the stars which twinkle above.
“You think you’d be able to be my friend if I kissed you, Nemo?”
Leaning against the brick of your house, watching your eyes flick from his shoes back to his face.
“Finally ran out of cat names?”
“I’m branching out. I could go back to calling you Salem.”
Smirking, rolling his lips. “Still not a fish.”
Sighing, shifting your weight. “Didn’t answer my question.”
Wiping his hand with his face, hurrying his brain to think of something, anything, because he’s not sure if this is a joke. If you’re pushing him.
But the longer the silence thickens, the more time you stare at him, eyes growing wider and wider, he thinks that it might not be his heart that is the only one pounding. The only one beating in his ears, the pulse throbbing in his neck.
“Fran—”
“No,” he stammers, clearing his throat. “I–I’d be too busy.”
Lips sliding into your cheek, nervousness fading, fingers scratching the tip of your nose as he swears a shooting star soars in your eyes. “Doing what?”
“Kissing you fifteen hundred times.”
“Just fifteen hundred?”
Shrugging, chewing his tongue, he exhales—loud, nostrils flaring. “To start.”
Taking a step closer, a timid one. Enough to make a point, but not enough to close the gap entirely. Your knuckles brush his stomach, a blend between a stroke and a nudge.
“You’ve thought about this.”
A small part—one wrapped in vines of doubt, encased in pretending—warns him to clamp his mouth shut. To swallow the syllables and forms letters that make the sentence buzz in his mouth, along his teeth, and jaw.
Flicking his eyes from the floor to your face. “All the time, baby.”
He hears it, but he enjoys watching it more, the way you gasp. Low, airy, trying to bury it.
“Give me a goodnight kiss, Morales.”
He doesn’t think twice.
Brushing his lips against yours, soft, cautious, and tender, before it deepens. It makes his heart throb, double; it almost somersaults in his chest as your palm presses to his cheek, fingers sliding into his hair as one of his hands finds a home on your waist.
Then you’re smiling, almost laughing, right up against his mouth as he tastes the sugar on your lips. He feels the joy brushing against his mouth as your fingers knot into his hair.
And it unlocks him, allows you to consume him, to find himself free falling knowing he'll never land, fall or be hurt—just floating, as you tug him flush to you, a feeling so heavenly he almost wishes to pinch himself—
“Of course, you’re a good kisser,” you whisper, ghosting the words over his lips.
“Been thinking about it, have you?”
Snorting, nose nudging his, you press your mouth back to his, more searing, open-mouthed. “When I drive. At work. In the morning. At night.”
Each is punctuated with a kiss. The latter flows around his head, swirling in different shades and fonts as he groans, fingers sliding around the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. Making it a little rougher, more committed, feeling you cling to him, tugging him closer as he manoeuvres the two of you—flushing your back to the brick, his chest to yours.
A moan escapes you, tickling his lower lip as your thumb brushes along the back of his neck. Mouths parting, for a moment breathing the other, simply staring, gazing, ogling.
“Fourteen hundred and ninety-nine to go?”
Shaking his head, nose brushing yours, thumb stroking against your cheek. “This is a goodnight kiss—a necessity to begin the counter.”
“Oh,” you whisper, elongating it, adding a smirk to the end. “So, we have another fifteen hundred and then, we stop?”
Taking a deep breath, the scent of your perfume weaving into his soul. The sound of a car streets away travelling in the quiet of the night.
“Depends.” Tilting your head, waiting, confusion there. “You might unlock the next stage.”
Grinning against him, able to feel it as he runs his knuckles along your jaw.
“Or my lips fall off?”
Laughing, just like he did earlier. He smiles. “Or your lips fall off.”
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eleven of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.7k
chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a boy!dad, luca appearance.
an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
“You didn’t have to come to help me.”
Tilting your head, a grin playing at the corners of your lips, you adjust the apron he gave you. “I don’t mind. Plus, you did promise me food after, so.”
A hint of mischief dances in his eyes, tongue sweeping across his lower lip. “So, if I want to persuade you to do something, I should wave a carrot in your face.”
Smirking, biting down on your cheek as you slide the boxed screws onto the shelf. “Oh, you can definitely wave something in front of my face.”
It's instant, the way his mouth falls open, hanging. Frankie's arm pauses, mid-air, on the shelf as he stares, blinks, and eventually clears his throat. “That's… good to know.”
“Your voice cracked there a little bit.”
Glancing at you from the corner of his eye, body beginning to restock again, you watch as he swallows, his forehead crinkling. Did it?”
Laughing, you remove the empty box from the cart—grabbing the Stanley knife attached to the side of it to slice open the next.
Even though you've been here at night before, it's different being down the aisles than when you shared food. There's an eerie stillness that hangs in the air under the low lights, punctuated by the occasional creak of the shelving when the two of you stack something. The strong scent of disinfectant is wavering from its assault on your senses, mingling with the musty odour of warehouse cardboard boxes. A smell that worsens, for a moment, each time one of you empties and flattens it.
But, you wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
Finding yourself charmed by the place. Although, you suspect it's by the man beside you. The one who had been prepared to do all of this himself all evening.
“Frankie?” you ask, hearing him hmm. “You ever thought of owning this place? Maybe, making it your own or something?”
Snorting, he shakes his head as his fingers slide to itch at the back of his forearm. “No. Not… Well, I’ve thought about it, obviously. Not owning this place, but…”
“But...?”
Shrugging, mouth open, all but chewing his response as he stacks the shelf and answers with, “Doesn't matter. Wouldn’t be good at it.”
Scoffing, you lift your head, finding him staring. “Sorry, I’ll scoff quieter next time.”
“It's a lot of work. And, it's risky. The place can barely afford me, never mind someone else.”
Shaking his head, you see that look appear—the disbelieving one—catching it flutter across his face. His attempt at making it unreadable fails, as you spot it written all over his expression, practically in bold, italic, and underlined; all very much screaming he very much believes he couldn’t.
Continuing, he shrugs, nostrils flaring under a sigh. “S’not worth thinking about. Got bills. Luca. I… I failed him once, don’t wanna do it again.”
Dropping the contents back into the box, you don't think when you gently lay a hand on his arm, urging him to look. You're just grateful that he does.
Head tilting, trying to find words you swap easily for the truth. “I know I don’t know the version of you from back then, but I really doubt you failed him. You were trying to do the best you could, with what you had.”
His gaze meets yours, a blend of gratitude and uncertainty shimmering in his eyes. “I… just...I want to do right by him now, you know?”
“I know,” you answer softly, giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “And for what it's worth, I think you're doing an amazing job.”
He gives a small, appreciative smile at your words, eyes blinking past you as if trying to process the unexpected validation. Then, when his eyes fall back to you, his smile widens ever so slightly, a gleam of hope seemingly emerging from the shadows of doubt.
“I think you could do something like this.”
Flicking his eyes from yours to your lips, he smiles. “I don’t wanna own this.”
“What do you want then?” Hand sliding back inside the box, pulling out glue—the industrial kind, you imagine—that thankfully is labelled. “Outside of me helping you restock after hours.”
Grinning, he shakes his head. “Haven’t given it much thought.”
Smiling to yourself, turning the labels out, you leave him in silence for a moment. Letting him think, stew. “Not renovating?”
Tipping his head, his eyes meet yours—something twinkling in them. Shimmering. It makes you wonder to yourself if he’s ever been given a chance to think about something that he wants in a while.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” he replies, evidence there of a smile, of something turning, cogs shifting.
“Could get Luca to help—get him a mini tool belt.”
Laughing, he nudges you. “He’d charm them all into giving us free coffee.”
“From the stories you’ve told me, I don’t doubt it.”
It’s then he slides his hand across your back, fingers fanning, spreading warmth through the thin fabric covering your spine. “You still looking forward to meeting him?”
“Only when I don’t overthink it, and worry about the possibility of making the only person who matters in your world cry or something,” you smile, hand gesturing. “Outside of that thought process, very excited.”
Shaking his head, he steps closer, arm sliding around your waist—lips pressing to the top of your head. “Don’t tell him dinosaurs are extinct and you’re good.”
“Noted,” you whisper, staring up at him.
Eyes holding his, lingering. Your throat becomes full with letters, lips rolling as you weigh up whether it’s worth saying them—confessing them.
Instead, you press your mouth to his—hoping he can taste them, and how badly you want to share them.
Did you put that song over your latest Reel for my benefit?
If I did, was it appreciated?
I’m disappointed it’s not the loud-cat-screeching version I gave you in the car, but guess the original would be more well-known.
I want to keep that version, selfishly, to myself.
Just like I want to keep the photo of you with fries in your mouth just for me.
See, we have our things.
Thanks for the help putting the Reel together.
I liked being your camerawoman. But next time, could I have a clapboard—maybe one of those chairs that says ‘Director’ on it?
I think I could find something for you to sit on.
Think that movie is something we’d selfishly keep to ourselves.
Be a good movie, though.
[SENDS PHOTO]
Wow, I didn’t even know they did coffees that large.
It was a special request. I told you she’s persuasive.
I wish I wasn’t on my own, otherwise I’d come down and see you both.
You just want her to get you a large coffee. Which I think she would—she likes you.
Rainy, that is the largest coffee I’ve ever seen.
I’m glad she does. It matters your friends like me like mine like you.
Yours love me.
I am very aware.
If you’re good, I might drop you one off before I go home.
Have I told you how pretty you are today?
Such a charmer.
[SENDS PHOTO]
See I knew you looked pretty.
Waiting, nerves prickling beneath your skin, your fingers interlacing tightly as you flick your eyes from the array of items you've arranged to the still-closed front door.
For the past, so many minutes, you've paced, chewed your cheeks, and endlessly rearranged the items on the table until they blur into a mess of neatness or chaos, you're not quite sure anymore.
Because it matters. Not just to him but to you.
Speaking to Luca (briefly, and on the phone) is so wildly different from meeting him. A thing you're aware of.
It's big. Fucking huge. A thing that you don't take lightly, or ever wish to. Not the permission to meet him, or the fact it's happening. It's why it keeps churning inside of you, bubbling and swimming up your throat; hands wringing out in front of you, thinking over what you'll do when his big eyes draw out the shape of you, standing there, waiting for you, this person who has entered his dad’s life, to say or do something.
You suppose that’s why your fingernail has migrated to scratching at the skin on your index finger, why your stomach is doing somersaults—more so when you hear the sound of Frankie’s vehicle pulling onto his drive.
You’ve got this. You can do this. Just breathe, just breathe, just—
The door finally opens, and there he is. The biggest eyes meet yours, all curious and wide. Even if the shadow of Frankie is behind him, you don’t take your eyes off Luca. Offering a small, reassuring smile, hoping it’ll be enough to show you’re trustworthy as he steps hesitantly into the room.
Not bending over, but crouching down, you let him approach. Watching as Frankie takes his jacket from his son before the soft introduction you've practised over and over again rolls from you—the sweet hello, followed by your name and I’m your dad’s friend.
And you knew it from photos—from the glimpses of the boy in front of you—but he has his eyes. Those soft, expressive eyes twinkle and shimmer at you as he offers his tiny hand for you to shake. One you take happily, with nothing but joy.
“Hey,” you say, voice soft and friendly. “I've heard so much about you.”
He looks at you for a moment longer, taking in your presence. Then, with a shy smile, he mumbles, “Hi.”
Frankie, watching the interaction from the doorway, closes the door, stepping further into the room as he presses his hand to Luca’s shoulder.
"Luca, you remember her from the phone?” He pauses, looking at you for a moment, before finishing, “...the one who struggled to say Aegyptosaurus.”
Narrowing your eyes a little, you smirk playfully at Frankie, the slightest shake of your head as you stare at the boy—warmth spreading through you as Luca begins to grin.
“Speaking of dinosaurs, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to help me with something?” you ask, gaze flicking up to Frankie who gives a supportive nod. “So, I’ve found this colouring book full of dinosaurs inside your Daddy’s coffee table, and I’m not sure what colours to make them.”
Slowly, his face shifts—from a questionable blank one to a slow smile that has the shadow of his dad’s, but breaks into something you assume must be his mom’s.
And god, it’s the most beautiful smile you think you’ve ever seen.
“Sure, I can helps,” Luca says, walking to the coffee table where the book is—before he’s beckoning you, little fingers urging you to come closer.
And you take a breath, a sigh—letting it flow into your lungs, as you reply with a quick ‘coming’ before you glance at the man still giving you both space.
Joining Luca on the floor, you sit cross-legged, the book propped up already on the table as colouring pens, crayons and pencils begin littering the wood not covered by un-coloured pages.
He's eager, flipping through the book, pointing out the different dinosaurs and naming them with an enthusiastic flourish that makes you chuckle. But, when he finds one, he stops. Head tilting from side to side, little finger tapping on the page before he sighs.
“This one!”
Grinning, you take a closer look. “Perfect.”
His smile mirrors yours, before he copies the pitch of your perfect and begins grasping for colours as he hands them to you.
“What’s your favourite dinosaur, Luca?”
Pausing, Luca brings his finger to his lips—dabbing it, scrunching his face before it explodes into a grin so large it almost makes you laugh. “Stegosaurus.”
“Cause of the spikey back?”
Nodding, he grins even wider, doing a little wiggle. “His name means roof lizard, you know that?” Shaking your head, he scrunches his nose as the corner of his lips rises. “And, and it used its back to defend himself.”
“He has a little beak too, right?”
Nodding, Luca begins to scribble his crayon onto the page. "You know him?"
“I’ve been doing my research.”
At Luca’s loud wow, and insistence on you using a colour he doesn’t like—maroon, which looks barely used—you glance towards Frankie, finding him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, fingers lazily tracing up and down the back of his arm, while sporting a soft smile.
Returning your attention to Luca, you spend the next hour engrossed in colouring (a thing you discover you’re doing wrong), dinosaur facts (you’re not sure how he knows so many) and hilarious stories. Finding, with each passing minute, the anxiety sliding from your bones, it falling from you altogether—slipping away, disappearing completely the more Luca interacts.
The two of you only come to a stop when Frankie mentions that it’s almost dinner time, putting the cap on your pen down.
“Hey, Luca. I have to go now. But, I’ve had the best time.”
“You’re not wanting to stay for dinner?” he asks, eyes full of hope as you spot his fist clenched around the pen he’s pressing to the page—the colour bleeding out.
Leaning forward, you smile. “Next time, promise.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Thanks so much for letting me colour with you.”
Getting up, suppressing a groan as your body aches from having to unfold itself from sitting cross-legged, you find Frankie waiting, his expression soft and tender.
“Hi handsome,” you whisper, taking the jacket from his hands.
Frankie leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead—all out of view, just like the two of you had agreed. “You did good,” he tells you quietly. “He likes you.”
Heart swelling at his words, you look back at Luca, who is now animatedly talking to his colouring book, and you find yourself unable to stop smiling.
“I like him too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
And as you listen to Luca's excited chatter, you realise just how much you mean it.
Think you have a new fan.
Stop, do I really?
Apparently, you’re very pretty, and old like me, and so I should kiss you.
Well, not that I love all of those sentiments, I do like the last one.
Do you want me to call when he’s in bed?
You not sick of me?
Not even a little bit.
I’ll wrap up these amends, shower and then I’m all yours.
The image of you covered in soap suds is going to get me through the next half an hour of this show.
It vibrates softly against the bedsheets, your smile spreading—replacing the earlier irksome client and the nervousness from your afternoon.
“He hasn’t shut up about you.”
No hello. Just a continuation, as if the two of you had only paused from the texting to now. Biting your cheek, you smile, knees pulling up as you feel your Lee scrunch.
“Yeah?”
“Baby, he’s pulled out books to show you the next time you come round.”
Grinning, you sigh. “He’s really great, Frankie. He’s so funny? You never told me how funny he was, and how smart. God, when he—”
And you ramble.
For longer than you’re even aware of as you accidentally go into a play-by-play from this morning—as though the man hadn’t been loitering, standing close by or joining in when Luca’s stories got more outrageous. A standout favourite had been Frankie saving the neighbour's lion from a tree, which had turned out to be a cat called Leon.
“—Also, how does he know so much about dinosaurs? And, fuck—Frankie. Did I just ramble to you about your own son?”
You hear his laugh, real and airy, flow down the phone. “I like it, don’t worry. It’s nice hearing you ramble.”
“You’re a filthy liar.”
With a deep, resonant snort, his sigh of contentment drifts through the phone, making your body, in response, relax. Every muscle slowly uncoils, back sinking further into the plush comfort of the bed beneath you. Ear meeting the pillow as it wrinkles gently under the weight of your head.
“Did it… do you think it went as well as you thought?”
“Better,” he confesses, hearing the breath he releases with it.
Biting your lip, you settle yourself further into your duvet—resting your back against the pillows. “Have I told you today that I really like you?”
“Pretty sure that’s my line.”
Smirking, you rest your tongue between your teeth.
“And, really like? That’s a new one.”
“Well,” you grin, unable to fight a smile, “Felt you deserved the extra word.”
Rolling your head, you trace your teeth over your bottom lip—hearing it, absorbing it, the way he repeats it back. I really like you too. The words find a home, rather than sliding in one ear and out the other. Burying themselves, slotting into a place so perfect as they fit so snugly.
A comfortable beat passes, a moment to linger in it before he asks about your work—about the latest thing you’re working on. Even if you always feel you’ll bore him, he always surprises you by reminding you he won’t be. Engaged, asking questions. Listening and recalling back to things you’ve said before, that you suspect most wouldn’t have paid much mind to.
But, then, he’s not anyone.
“I think I left my hoodie at yours.”
Humming, you hear sheets rustling, before rummaging. “Um, the—yes, yeah you have. I’ll hang it up for you.”
“Only if you have the space too.”
“Well, this is… awkward. I wanted to do it in person—”
Even if there’s no indication to do so, your stomach knots. Tangles. Your heart slams into your chest as your throat, all of a sudden, dries.
“I… fuck, if this is too much tell me, but I’ve made you some space—in my wardrobe. And a drawer. And—”
“And, Frankie? How much space are you giving me?”
Swallowing, you hear him click his tongue. “Well... I mean, as much as you want, baby.”
“Frankie…”
“Have I… Is it too much?”
Pulling your knees up, grinning. Quickly wanting to fire a text to your friend and scream HE’S MADE ME A DRAWER, only stopping yourself because, instead, you, all high-pitched and squeaky ask if you can swap to video. Fingers trembling, your face filling the screen before you can eventually push it to the corner when his greets yours.
“You’re so sweet, thank you—it isn’t too much. Not even a little bit. I want—if you want—to give you the same.”
Laughing lowly, you watch him slide back into bed—the freckles on his collarbone illuminated by the bedside lamp. “Baby, you have half my tools at your house—you’ve made plenty of room for me.”
“Yeah, that toolbox is a health hazard—it is very heavy.”
“I’ll make sure to move it next time”
Scrunching your nose. “Oh no, I moved it. Managed to find some strength from somewhere to do so. That’s my workout for the week.”
Shaking his head, you watch him get into bed—arm resting above his head, fingers teasing at his curls as he smiles at you—eyes somehow just as bright even in low light as he begins telling you about his day tomorrow.
You watch, noticing the little lift of his lips when he talks about Benny, when he mentions taking Luca to training—which in turn (he explains) means Luca bosses them around and they all have to listen. Then after they’ll go on a boys’ lunch, where ice cream is usually consumed, the tradition having started when Luca was teething.
“Send me a photo—post-training.”
His tongue slides into his cheek, eyebrow lifting as he stares at you.
“Dripping in sweat do it for you, Rainy?”
“I’m not rewatching your Reels because I want to use a circle-saw, Frankie. Plus, you look so good in sweats—that black pair. Fuck.”
Chuckling to himself, he runs his hand over his face—and you imagine his cheeks are warm, that if the lighting were better, you’d see the beginning of his pink embarrassment crawling up his neck.
Yawning and stretching, you reach for your charger, plugging it in before moving to lie on your side, hearing him ask—as soft, and as sleepily, as he would if you were next to him—you comfy, baby? as your heart does a little flicker as you rest the phone against the pillow.
“Very,” you assure him, pulling the duvet closer around you. “Be more comfy if you were here.”
“Would you, though?”
Hesitating, you hum—hearing the lightest laugh come from him. “You’re very warm—like a furnace. I like it.”
“That all I’m good for, warming your bed?”
Smirking, your eyes heavy, you sigh. “You have some other uses.”
“I’m glad I’m useful.”
Settling further into the bed, hearing him shuffle and rustle from his end, you clear your throat to ask, “Do you think you'd rather have a pineapple for a head or a watermelon?”
Even with your eyes struggling to stay open, you sneak a glance to see his grin break out. “I'd love to live in your head.”
“You sure about that?”
Snorting, he shakes his head, fingers pushing the hair back from his forehead. “Pineapple. Sweeter for you to kiss.”
“You're so thoughtful.”
Giggling, you find a response sitting on your tongue, it just not able to form as you hum again—finding yourself so comfortable and warm under the sheets you’re barely able to hang onto his voice until he whispers ‘baby’. A little noise coming from you that in your head is clearly words, but not to anyone else.
Only realising it isn’t when he says your name. Calls it.
“Frankie…”
“Baby, why don’t we hang—“
“No,” you groan, the O sound stretching out—hardly with any intent. More said with tenderness and pouting than anything as you hear him chuckle. “I’ll wake up.”
“No, don’t… don’t do that. I’ll stay—listen to you snore.”
Flicking your eyes open, glaring at the screen. “I do not snore.”
Chuckling, his voice wraps around you like a warm blanket. “Sure, baby. You just keep telling yourself that.”
“Francisco!”
His laugh roars down the phone, making your cheeks hurt from smiling, shaking your head against the pillow as his laugh turns to an ‘aww’.
“Do you know how pretty you look right now?”
“You can barely see me, Morales. Stop trying to flatter me.”
Somehow, his laugh is even louder than it was before. And somehow, your smile is larger too.
Summary: How Dave met his girl. (A prequel for Dave and reader from Sight and Out of Sight, but can be read as a standalone story.)
Pairing: Dave York x f!reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ only please)
Warnings: explicit sexual content, knife, suggestions of violence
Word Count: 4.2K
Dave York Masterlist
Author's Note: Dave's life is dangerous, and the people who are in it are, too, so this isn't fluff - just fyi. And there are no Carol and kids in this world, friends.
It had been storming for four days straight, and by day two? Dave had already cracked.
He usually spent his lunch hour making laps through the park; he didn’t necessarily like running, but he liked being cooped up in his office or cornered in the cafeteria by his coworkers even less. The runs – plus the weight bench at home – kept him in shape, and something in the fresh air settled him. He could relax – could let ideas turn and shift through his restless mind, could hone them to razor-sharp edges.
He’d run in the rain if he had to, but at noon on the second day, when he stood at the window of his 6th floor office and watched jagged flashes of lightning illuminate ankle-deep puddles at the entrance of the park, he knew it wasn’t a real option. He grabbed his duffel of workout clothes and dashed from awning to awning; it was only 2 blocks to the gym down the street.
He paid for it every month, just in case – just for days like this. Sure, there was a gym at the office, but Dave wasn’t about to end up on a treadmill next to Trevor from Logistics again, listening to another forty-five-minute diatribe about his ex-wife’s new husband.
Day three of the storm sent him there again. And today when the rain still hasn’t let up, he gathers his bag and takes the stairs to the lobby to avoid any elevator small talk.
The jog to the gym is quick. Inside it’s just like it has been every other day – quiet but crowded. It seems half the city has been driven indoors by the rain, but everyone wears headphones and moves silently through the air-conditioned hum. After he gets changed in the locker room, he heads to the machine he’s started to think of as his: the last treadmill on the back row, with a clear view of the front door and only a wall behind him.
He walks for a few minutes, then sets his pace and incline, letting the rhythmic slap of his shoes on the whirring belt wash over him. He doesn’t wear headphones – wants to be able to hear what’s around him – but he also doesn’t mind the sounds of the gym. It all blurs into white noise, a blank background for his busy thoughts. He’s facing a line of televisions – CNN, MSNBC, SportsCenter, some daytime talk thing that seems to be hosted by a half-dozen people – but instead he lets his eyes move over the other patrons.
He's starting to recognize some of them. There’s the tattooed man who scribbles in a small notebook after every set of weights, and the frail woman who walks at a snail’s pace on a treadmill that’s tilted as high as it’ll go. There’s the bored college-kid who slumps behind the front desk and his cheerful pony-tailed coworker who always seems to be carrying a tall stack of folded black towels.
Dave keeps looking, until he sees you: the woman he noticed yesterday. That time, you’d chosen a treadmill two rows ahead of his and off to the left, and he’d spent the last mile of his run watching sweat soak into the gray cotton of your tank top. First it was just scattered droplets in the valley between your shoulder blades, like you’d been caught in a light summer shower. But he watched them gather, the damp spot darkening and shifting and changing like a storm cloud building in the withering heat of a summer’s day.
He’d also watched your ass. He won’t lie.
Today you’re all the way on the front row and straight ahead of him. He can barely see the crown of your head and feels a pulse of something like disappointment.
Oh, well. He fixes his eyes on the far wall and lets the miles tick away.
He’s nearing the end of the fourth mile when he catches movement to his right – a flash of riotous color.
It’s you, in a pair of pink leggings and a cropped, loose-fitting purple tank that offers a tantalizing glimpse of your stomach, glistening with sweat.
You’ve skirted through the space between the wall and the end of the row, and you are eyeing the readout on his treadmill with an arched brow.
“You could go faster.”
He huffs out something like a laugh. “You think?”
“Absolutely.” You look up at him then, bright-eyed and smiling. “You’re barely sweating.”
He frowns at you, but he doesn’t mean it. “You’re sweating a lot.”
Your smile widens as you gesture at the beaded droplets gathered on the smooth skin of your chest. “Exactly my point. Because I was running. Not this…jog? Speed-walk? Whatever you’re doing.”
He wonders what that hollow at the base of your throat would taste like – salty, yes, but what else might he find on your skin to savor.
“Anyway.” You extend one finger – the nail is short and neat, unpainted – and press the speed button until he’s running at what feels like a near-sprint. “There you go. Knew you could work harder.”
Dave waits until you’ve walked away, until his lungs are starting to burn and his quads are stinging, before he eases the speed back down.
He hopes it rains tomorrow.
And it does: a bleakly dark Friday and more hard rain. Dave hurries to the gym, his eyes scanning for you the minute he steps through the door. He thought about you last night – thought about peeling those bright leggings off you, thought about showing you just how hard he could work. Thought about that smile you had like you knew something he didn’t.
You have no idea the kinds of things he knows.
He changes and finds his spot, and he’s just finishing his warm-up when you’re suddenly there. You stop at the treadmill directly in front of his, then take two steps to back to frown at the numbers glowing on his screen.
“Slower than yesterday.” You shake your head in disappointment.
“Warming up.”
“Sounds like an excuse.”
He holds your gaze as he presses the button. The numbers tick up, and he finally stops at a pace he knows may kill him, but what the hell. “Better?”
You smile as you turn back to get on your own machine. “I’ll let you know after.”
The run is fucking miserable. His shirt is drenched by the end of the first mile, but he focuses on your back: watches your perspiration began to dampen your tank, making it cling to the angles of your shoulder blades and the long muscles framing your spine. Today’s leggings are black with mesh cutouts that wrap around your thighs, and he spends his second and third mile examining them – his lungs hurt less when he considers how those thighs would feel snugged around his waist or resting on his shoulders.
But he’s still relieved once you slow your treadmill to a walk and he can, too. When you finally stop and get off, patting the back of your neck dry with one of those omnipresent black towels, you smile at him. “You look like you’re about to die.”
He smirks as he stops his machine, trying not to wince from the sweat that’s rolling down his forehead and into his eyes. “Had to keep up with you.”
Your eyebrows lift and your eyes drift down his body – he likes that you don’t try to hide it, taking your time before meeting his gaze again. “Think you could?”
Fuck. Dave wills his cock to ignore the way you’re looking at him right now. “Positive.”
You make a sound – a little hum, your lips pressed together and the corners turned up, your eyes sparkling as you begin to walk away. Your last words are tossed over your shoulder, barely audible over the mechanical rumblings of the equipment. “I hope so.”
It’s a long fucking weekend.
Dave doesn’t need much by way of companionship. On occasion, he might pick up a woman at a bar, have one night at her place, but he’s not interested in more than that. Dave likes his life tidy, compartmentalized. It’s easier that way.
But he can’t stop thinking about you. His skin prickles hotly when he pictures you walking away from him, that challenge slipping from your pretty mouth.
He comes twice that weekend thinking about that pretty mouth.
Monday is beautiful – bright, hot, the puddles barely memories on the sun-baked sidewalks – and Dave frowns at the park from his office window.
Maybe one more day at the gym.
His duffel bag bounces against his leg as he hurries the short distance, squinting against the sunshine. He’s almost to the entrance when he sees you, your back resting against the brick façade that frames the gleaming glass doors. Instead of your usual leggings, you’re wearing a pair of snug jeans and a white t-shirt that dips low into the space between your breasts.
You smile at him from behind your sunglasses. “Wondered if you’d be here today.”
He steps close to you – close enough to smell the scent of your skin. It’s clean and fresh; it makes him think of driving through the desert with the windows down, and he wonders if it’s perfume or just you. “You don’t look like you’re running today.”
You tilt your head, pulling the sunglasses off and meeting his eyes. “Should we stop pretending? Just go to my place?”
Dave feels a quick throb of want settle deep in his belly. “Yeah.”
He starts to extend his hand, his mouth beginning to shape an introduction, but you shake your head quickly.
“Oh, we don’t need to do that part, do we? That’s not what this is. Right?”
The want sparks, catches fire. “Let’s go.”
Your apartment is close. Dave notices that you stand between him and the keypad as you type in the entry code for your building. He approves – even if you’re bringing home a strange man, at least you have the sense not to make it easy for him to come back. Two flights of stairs, and then he’s following you into your apartment – it’s shadowy and dim, the blinds drawn against the midday light. You place your purse on the entry table, and he watches you quickly turn two framed photographs face down.
Married maybe, or a live-in boyfriend at least. Dave doesn’t care. As long as he doesn’t come home in the next hour.
He drops his bag on the floor and watches you lock the door behind him, then you walk past him through the living room. It’s a sleek, minimal space – black leather couches, chrome and glass tables. It feels masculine and stark, and he wonders if this was your husband’s place first. He trails you into a bedroom; it’s dark, too, until you twist open the blinds and let slatted light spill across the floor and the rumpled gray duvet pulled over the bed.
You slide off your shoes, then pad back to him: bare feet silent on the thick carpet. “You do this much?”
Your fingers are already at his waist, threading the black leather belt through the silver buckle, but your eyes are on his.
“Do you?”
You smile. “Maybe we don’t talk.”
The two of you barely make it to the bed. Dave yanks your jeans off your legs, your panties bunched inside them, as you fall back onto the edge of the mattress, legs canting wide for him.
You’re fucking soaked. He can see you, slippery and gleaming, and he drops to his knees on the floor for a moment, just to get a taste. You moan, fingers tangling in his hair, twisting hard enough to make him wince. “No. Fuck me.”
Dave isn’t going to argue. “Condom?”
You roll onto your belly, stretching to reach the nightstand across the bed, and dig in the drawer. He pulls off his dress pants and briefs and just gets his shirt unbuttoned before you’re reaching back, the foil packet in your hand. “Here.”
He takes it, and finishes tugging his shirt off, adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor. He doesn’t give a shit about the wrinkles it’s going to get as he watches you shift onto your knees: chest pressed into the duvet, ass high in the air, cunt slick and begging for him.
He moves quickly – tears open the condom, fists his cock, rolls it on. The minute the head of it slides through your folds, you groan, tilting your hips up even more for him, and he doesn’t pause – just drives the full length into you at once. Your breath comes out in a muffled gasp into the duvet, but you push back into him desperately.
“Hard.” It sounds like an order, but it’s sweetened by the moan threaded through it. “Fuck me hard.”
He does. He yanks your hips back into him again and again, his cock bottoming out inside you, your exhales pushed out in the same rhythm. Your ass bounces against him, jiggling and soft, and he lets his hand land on it in a sharp slap. You whine, your pussy clenching down on him, so he does it again, over and over, even as his palm stings.
“You like that.” It’s not a question. He knows you do – can see it in the way you fist the duvet cover in one hand, can feel it in the fingers that dance against your clit and graze his balls when he buries himself in you.
“Tell me.” He wants to hear you. “Tell me you like it.”
“I –” a squeaky inhale when he spanks you again – “like it. Like it when you make it –” another breath, fingers moving faster— “hurt a little.”
The words keep falling from you, punched out in a staccato rhythm as he fucks you. “Knew you’d fuck me like this. So deep. Your big fucking cock is so deep.”
Dave lets go of your hip, leaning over your back to slide his hands beneath your tee, shoving your bra over your tits. He squeezes them, then yanks you back into his chest, letting them bounce in his hands as he fucks up into you. “You better let me feel you come.”
“Going to.” Your head is lolling back on his shoulder so he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck. You’re rubbing your clit furiously, and a whine rises from your throat. “Oh, fuck.”
He feels you then, gripping him in waves, and even though he wants to feel every second of the clench of your pussy around him, he keeps fucking you through it, hard as he can.
He wants you to feel him tomorrow – every time you take a goddamned step.
You get soft and loose in his arms, your whimpers melting away. He knows he’s close. He licks the sweat-damp hollow beneath your ear and manages to mutter a few words. “Gonna make me fucking come, baby.”
“No.” Your word is quick, and you’re moving against him, peeling his arms from around your body and scrambling on your knees to face him. “In my mouth. Come in my mouth.”
He wouldn’t say no – would never say no to that – but it doesn’t matter, because you’ve already rolled the condom off and dropped it to the floor, and he feels his knees threaten to give when you slide the tight ring of your lips over his cock.
What happens next is messy and fast – your spit coats him and your fist, and it’s wet and sloppy and your other hand snakes back between your legs. The moans in your throat roll over him with the ripple of your tongue, and he curves his hand around the back of your head – shoves himself deep as he starts to come. He can feel you swallowing, can feel the struggle of it because he’s weighing your tongue down with his thick cock, can hear your groan push past it as you make yourself come again when you taste him.
You hold him in your mouth, your tongue swirling against his softening cock until he jerks from the sensation and you let him slide from your lips. You fall back onto the bed, not-quite smiling, your fingers still stroking lazily through your slick center. “Knew I’d like you sweaty.”
Dave lets himself stretch out next to you, crosswise on the bed, for just a minute. He stares up at the ceiling overhead – there’s a fan there with a small, battered cobweb clinging between two of the blades – and he wonders if there’ll be time to fuck you again before he has to be back to the office.
No. Too bad, but he’ll need to stop at the gym to shower. He scrubs his hands over his face. “I should probably go.”
In his mind, he’s wondering if there’s a way to make this happen again without sharing names or numbers. Later, he’ll think that’s why he didn’t notice you move.
“Oh, David.” Your silky voice is close, and he isn’t sure which registers first: the name you shouldn’t know or the cold edge of the knife you’re gently pressing into the shallow space between two of his ribs. “I hoped we could talk.”
He takes a beat: lets this new information settle over him.
You are not what he thought. This is not what he expected.
His heartbeat has sped up again, but he keeps his breath steady as he turns his head to meet your eyes.
You’re smiling, the tip of your pink tongue captured between your teeth, and you’ve propped yourself up on one elbow so you hover slightly above him. He knows he’s bigger than you, and stronger, and would have every advantage if you hadn’t claimed the most important one – surprise.
“What should we talk about?” His voice sounds calm – low and level.
“We should talk about –” you shift the hand holding the knife and he feels it nearly nick him – “why I keep hearing your name.”
He doesn’t know what you mean, so he makes his face blank. “I haven’t heard yours.”
“Then maybe one of us is better at their job.” Your wink is broad and theatrical, and he notices that your eyes are green today; they were definitely brown on Friday. “Here’s the thing, David York. I like my work. But you keep taking jobs I want. Because apparently –” a roll of your eyes— “a team is more dependable than a solo contractor.”
“So I decided I had one option. Because I don’t like competition.” You wrinkle your nose. “But once I found you, you were more interesting to me than I expected.”
You’ve inched closer to him during this little monologue – your bare thigh is resting against his and as your breath moves over his face, he can smell his come, and he realizes he might want to fuck you again, even after this.
Assuming you don’t kill him.
“More interesting?” One of his arms is wedged in the space between your bodies, and he eases his hand into a fist – feels his knuckles gently brush the soft hair over your pussy.
Fuck. Yeah, you’re more interesting than he expected, too.
“I’d like a partner.” A tiny shrug of your shoulders. “I’m tired of working alone. And I think you’d make an excellent partner, David.”
He can’t believe this is making him hard. “Was this my interview?”
You laugh and he sees your eyes flick quickly from his face to his cock. “Looks like you want the job.”
“If I don’t?” His voice is still a monotone. “Because now I know where you live. You have to kill me or I’m coming back for you. What are you going to do with a dead body in your apartment?”
“It’s not my apartment.”
Shit.
He thinks then of the pictures you turned face-down when you first came in – thinks about the starkly masculine living room, no hint of a woman’s presence – and he briefly wonders what you might have done to gain this private space for the afternoon.
He imagines the investigation if he were to turn up dead in some stranger’s apartment.
He imagines you disappearing like a fucking ghost.
He’s impressed. He’s also intrigued – you’re bold and smart and seemingly lethal – and he thinks he’d like to walk out of this apartment knowing you’re on his side. At his side, even. Because, damn it, he does want to fuck you again. Especially now that he knows what you are.
“Clever.” He gives a tiny nod.
“I know.”
“Can I have time to decide?”
“That depends.” You furrow your brow, and he feels you wriggle your hips against hand, and fuck it: he can’t help it. He unfurls his fingers, sliding them through your slippery folds until he finds your clit. You purse your pretty lips and blow out a little breath as he strokes you. “Are you going to try to kill me?”
“Might.” He can’t stop looking at your mouth – the thought of tasting himself on your tongue is scorching a path through his brain. “Should.”
“Mm.” It’s your turn to nod. “You probably should. But if you promise not to, I’ll let you leave today.”
He crooks his fingers, bends his wrist a little more, and finds it then – your very center – and pushes those fingers deep as he can. Your eyes flutter, half-close, and you tilt your face toward his until your lips nearly brush his mouth.
“I promise.” He thinks he might mean it. “You trust me?”
“I do, David.” The tip of your tongue flits out to trace the edge of his lower lip. “Because you are going to love working with me.”
“Should we shake on it?” He keeps fucking his fingers into you, and when he adds a third, you whine, your forehead pressing against his.
“Unh-uh.” Your teeth catch his lip, as you shift your body to straddle his waist. The knife is still in your hand, but now resting easy against your thigh – he can see its menacing glint in his peripheral vision. “Not just business partners, York.”
He pulls his fingers from your pussy and you frown until he lifts them to your face. He coats your lips with your slick and you open your mouth for him, tongue soft and waiting for a taste. So he gives it to you – slides the fingers into your mouth, feels your tongue snake over them.
“This part of it?” He moves his hips until his cock is wedged against you – fights the urge to fuck you bare. “Gotta fuck you, too?”
He feels the edges of your teeth bite into his fingers, and you narrow your eyes as you pull his hand from your mouth. “Get to, David. You get to fuck me, too.”
A roll of your hips – he hisses as you let the head nudge into your cunt. He feels you part around the tip of him, wet and slick and hot. It would take nothing – one thrust – and he’d feel you snug around him.
“Because it feels like you want to.” A tiny wiggle, and another inch of him slips inside you. “Do you want to fuck me?”
He grunts, reaching to palm your tit through the soft jersey of your t-shirt. With his other hand, he circles your wrist, twisting it until you let the knife fall to the bed. “How about you fuck me?”
You smile, your eyes flashing, and you sink down on him. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard, and you fucking feel like you’re on fire around him, and so slick there’s nothing but the squeeze.
You start to move then, lifting up and down, your face tilted to watch him disappear inside you again and again. His thumb finds your nipple through your shirt and circles the hardened nub. He wants to suck it, to bite it. He wants to feel you come on his tongue. He wants to take you apart a thousand different ways.
But there’s time for that. At least until he makes up his mind.
He rubs his fingers against your wrist until he finds your pulse – it’s fast and steady and he holds his fingertips on it: on that humming insistent throb of your life beneath his touch.
He lets go of your breast and brings his hand to your hip – digs his fingers into the plush curve, squeezes hard enough to make your eyes squint as you meet his gaze. “If we’re going to work together, you’re gonna have to tell me your name.”
“Oh, David.” You pry his hand loose with an easy smile and guide it to the slick juncture of your bodies, your head dropping back with a moan as you rub yourself with his fingers. “If we’re going to work together, you’re going to have to figure it out.”
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of do me yourself
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.3k
chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n.
an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
Baby, where are you?
I’m coming now just needed to get some plants.
If you’re the forest on wheels coming towards me line up somewhere else.
Wow, that's mean, Morales.
I am. But also, that’s a fuck load of plants.
It is and we’re going to have so much fun naming them.
Surrounded by unopened boxes, and paint tins that are due to be put on the wall, you both sit cross-legged on the floor of your soon-to-be office floor.
It's hard to stop it, the smile which spreads across your lips. The scent of fast food flows from your ripped-open bag and his neatly opened one, as you watch him turn his cap backwards and dig a hand into the paper bag as he pulls out a sauce pot.
Of course, he still finds a second to glare at the plant behind you.
“It’s up for debate, but french fries might be the way to my soul.”
Dipping his own into the sauce, he smirks. “What’s the other contender?”
You, you think.
It's there, threaded inside of you. Sewn in now. Stitched so deep into you that he’ll be remembered forever, no matter what.
Meeting his eyes mid-chew, the word you reverbing around your skull. Echoing. Practically marking itself against any surface space it can in there.
“Your mouth.”
Choking, his hand is quick to cover his mouth, eyes alarmed, quickly filling with tears as he continues to hack. Sliding his drink towards him, across the floor of the project that brought him here today.
“You can’t…” he begins, taking another mouthful, “Do that to me.”
Smirking, you grab another handful of fries. “From the gleam in your eyes, I say you like it.”
“I am not gleaming.”
“No? Damn, I’m disappointed.”
Rolling his eyes, he nudges you with his foot—your eyes glancing at the dinosaur-covered socks for the twelfth time since he’s been here.
“Luca has good taste in socks.”
“You’re telling me,” he replies, “I also have Batman ones, some cartoon ones and ones with flowers on.”
Smiling, you continue to chew. “Which ones are your favourite.”
Scrunching up the paper your food came in, you throw it into the bag. Watching him take a final bite of his own as you smirk.
“It’s the flower ones, isn’t it?”
“Definitely the flower ones.”
Laughing, tongue peeking between your teeth, you lean back on your hands, legs outstretched. “Saving them for a special occasion?”
Nodding, he takes another slurp of his drink, feeling his eyes drag up and down your legs. “Thought I could wear them for when I woo you later on this week.”
“Yeah? You want to model your socks for me, Morales.”
“Dinner and a show I heard is the perfect date night.”
Wiping his hands on his napkin, he stares at you—clean hand on your ankle, massaging it.
“You keep doing that, and we won’t be building furniture.”
Groaning, he sighs. All deep, layered with confliction—until he whispers it: after. It’s low, practically dragged through the gravel of his voice by the time it reaches your ear. Heat spreading through your stomach, not able to tear your eyes from him, just thankful that he does when he goes to stand.
A moment of reprieve, a chance to collect yourself.
That is, until he stretches out his hand, sliding yours into it as he pulls you up to stand. For a moment, just paused—staring at him, a tuft of curls poking through under the rim of his hat.
“I told you how handsome you are,” you say, arms sliding around his neck, leaning close—just enough, to press your mouth to his. “Cause you are.”
Biting the edge of his lip, he smirks. “I’ve got a utility knife in my pocket.”
“Oh?”
Brows lifting, grinning, Frankie pulls you closer. “You into that?”
“On you? Fuck yeah.”
Your lips glide over his, tasting the salt from his fries and the onion from his burger. Not caring, not as you hold him close, keeping him flush, deepening it until he clutches your jaw, walking you both back, kicking a box.
“Fuck.”
Almost laughing, you smirk. “We should…”
Tongue swiping over his lip, Frankie nods. Gaze unmoving even as you step back, bending to tidy the wrappers and bags as you glance back periodically.
“What?”
Shaking his head, he shrugs one shoulder, eyes widening as he smiles. “Nothing. Jus’… hurry back.”
It leaves your lips breathlessly, the word sure. It flows through the air to him, before you leave the room, before giddiness swallows and smothers you up. A grin not easily wiped by your knee connecting with the cabinet as you skid into the kitchen. Dousing your hands in cold water, hoping the temperature will touch your cheeks and cool them.
Thinking of him waiting near the checkout—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his worn
You do. Almost skidding in your kitchen when you throw the trash away, pausing at the sink to wash your hands, before you’re casually walking back. Doing so, just in time to see him slide that knife along the flat-pack furniture, unboxing the drawers—staring at them all crouched wearing a furrowed expression with an IKEA pencil behind his ear.
And you’re glad he doesn’t look up at the doorway, because it gives you a minute, to lean, head resting as your heart skips a step, feeling all large and full and full of happiness. A feeling, one surging up inside of you—full of lightness and truth—swirling around your breath and trying to form into words.
But, then he looks at you. Lifts his chin, the biggest brown eyes smoothing out to look at you—and you’re sure the words are going to rip out of your throat. Forced to greet the air, and burn themselves into it.
I really like you, Frankie.
I really, really do.
Each letter swallowed back, sight dropping to the knife he holds back—an act you’re apparently quite into from the way you feel the heat in your stomach, a little ripple of want starting to stir as you slowly edge your way into the room. Listening, hanging onto his words as he offers suggestions of how the two of you can do this.
It’s why it makes sense, at first, when he asks if you’d begin building the drawers while he begins the carcass. His toolbox he’d brought in with him opening, pulling various tools you’re not sure were listed on the instructions.
It continues to make sense until you realise you began constructing the drawer, incorrectly. A disappointed voice ebbing, beginning to nip. It breeds in doubt as you study the paper again, and again. Mouth opening and promptly shutting as you try to make heads or tails of what should be a very easy thing.
But that means confessing you’re about as hopeless at building as you are at the rest of the DIY project.
Peering at the instructions again, you try not to sigh. Try not to let a heavier exhale escape through your nostrils, and possibly showcase your growing anxiety-brewed annoyance.
Because you hope he’s not having you build drawers because it’s easier. Because he views you as this hopeless thing that can’t be taught. Even if, in some ways, that assumption would be correct. You just hope that it isn’t pity or any other negative connotation that has begun popping into your mind and bursting behind your eyes in sorrowful falling dark-hued confetti.
An increasing need to prove yourself rising, flooding you as though it wishes to drown you. Making it hard to swallow, never mind breathe—eyes glancing down as they begin to burn with worry, with annoyance and a lot of other emotions you’re struggling to handle—
“Hey,” he says, soothing—hand cupping your cheek as you're tilted up from diagrams to his eyes.
The ones that soothe, that calm—that feel like a safe place.
“Hi.”
Slowly smiling, he strokes your skin. A thing you’re not sure you’ll ever tire from. Not ever. Not as long as his eyes remain as kind and full of warmth.
“I was calling out for you.”
“I’m so—“
“Wondered,” he continues, interrupting, burying your apology before it meets land and plants itself, “If you wanted a go at helping me build this bit.”
Swallowing, both the emotions that remain fizzing and the worries, you smile. “You sure? I’m not… this isn’t something I’m good at.”
“That’s why I’m helping. To teach you, right?”
Nodding, you grin when his lips find your forehead, helping you up before grabbing something from his toolbox. If newer, shinier than the one you’d seen him using—a colour as close to the one you’d said was your favourite.
“Did you buy me a tool, Butterscotch?”
Scratching the back of his head, he tries not to blush. A thing you can tell from the way he averts his eyes, and pink creeps up his neck. “Yeah, it was nothing. Just thought it be easier for you to have your own.”
“My own… prodding device?”
Shaking his head, his eyes land on you. “It’s an electric screwdriver.”
“Of course it is, I was testing you.”
Snorting, he grabs a piece of wood, bringing it between the two of you. “I almost believe you.”
You think Harry would hire me even if I know absolutely nothing about hardware or tools?
To annoy me, most probably.
You doing okay?
Not really.
They want more tweaks?
Yeah. I don’t mind making the changes, but wish they’d been more clear from the beginning. So I don’t feel like a failure.
You want me to call in half an hour? Can try and make you smile.
You make me smile effortlessly. But no, it’s okay. I’m going to enjoy a shower and have an early night. Sleep off my bad mood and rest my muscles from building all that furniture the other day.
You goof.
A goof who has your toolbox and her own electric tightener.
That will sound so wrong to anyone else.
Especially if I tell them it goes with my bedside power tools.
Are they what I think they are?
Maybe.
Fuck.
Put thoughts in my head now.
Do I look hot?
Always.
Will you message me in the morning?
Of course, baby. Try not to dream of me.
Impossible, baby.
Just got out of the movies, was able to eat half the popcorn tub before a jump scare made it mysteriously land on the floor.
Do butter-caked fingers have anything to do with it?
No. I believe the leading cause was a mean friend picking a movie that they knew would scare me. The jury is still out on whether I could have saved the popcorn if properly notified of the jump scares.
You both have fun though?
Yes, a lot. Even if I won’t sleep for a week.
I’m excited to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you.
You’ve missed me?
Try not to grin too much, Morales.
Too late for that, Rainy. I've missed you too.
I've missed butter-SCOTCH fingers.
Can tell me how much later, if you want?
Do you want to phone sex with me, Morales?
I think I'd rather make you wait till tomorrow when I see you.
Now who's mean.
It’s hard to avoid the smile on your face, even in the fogged-up mirror. Water dripping down your neck, collecting in the towel wrapped around your chest as Frankie presses his lips to your hairline.
“You feelin' clean, baby?”
“I don't think what we just did in your shower could constitute as cleaning, Butterscotch.”
Smirking, skin radiating heat, Frankie tips your chin up, mouth sliding back over yours like he had done when the two of you had stepped under the shower. The intention innocent, until hungry eyes raked over bare skin.
"Robe's on the back of my bedroom door, baby," he whispers, leaving you to finish drying in his bathroom.
As though it’s normal, routine.
Your toothbrush beside his—the products you’d packed in your overnight bag on the side of the counter.
It's a thing that makes your teeth bite down on your lip and your fingers retraced the path he drew against the suds on your skin. Thinking about how the water fell down along his jaw, ran down between your bodies as he hiked your leg up—
You jump when a clatter pulls you to the present. Heart fluttering, body resting against the side of the basin as your breath dances with the steam. Even if he's rooms away, you hear him singing.
It travelling, calling to you.
A soundtrack to you re-dressing as you hang the used towel on the hook, sliding some clean clothes on, before padding out to wrap the robe around you and grab his t-shirt from the bed.
With each step to the kitchen, you're aware of how your body smells of his body wash. A scent you wish your skin only ever smells like now, if it can’t be his aftershave. Just so you could have a piece of him, a thing to go with the texts, phone calls and video chats when the two of you find moments in between the busy.
There's no need for that tonight, not as he’s cooking for you.
Shoulder resting against the door, you find yourself not wanting to announce your arrival. Just take in his frame, how his back is to you, allowing you to watch how his muscles flex along his bare back as he grabs a knife from a drawer.
“You know, if you posted this kind of video on your Instagram, I think you'd beat that one where you're showing people how to paint wood."
Glancing over his shoulder, you hold the top up. His face shifts into gratitude as he drops what's in his hand and takes it from you. Simple, a very nothing thing that his face seems to show the opposite of.
He fidgets uncomfortably, the shyest smile trying to appear. “Shut up.”
“While you were very informative about preparing the wood before beginning in that video, I think I know how you got one hundred thousand views in a weekend.”
Smirking, he folds his arms. “Because you watched it on repeat while you missed me?”
“No,” you grin, watching him run his tongue over his teeth to stop himself from smirking. “You like to do a little thot-shot.”
“A what-what?”
Licking your lips, leaning against the wall, watching his fingers run up and down his bicep, arms still folded. “You wipe your face with the bottom of your t-shirt, Morales. Showing off your… physique.”
“Mierda.”
“You look very good. Had to watch it myself a few times, to be sure.”
His eyes dart away, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I mean it,” you add. “You look really good, Frankie.”
Stepping forward, you kiss his cheek. The heat from it warms your lips as you try to hide your grin. Instead, pulling out a stool from under his island and sliding onto it, elbow on the worktop, you rest your chin. Watching him turn, facing back to the ingredients and pans.
That's when you spot it. The loose curl that has fallen over his forehead as he leans forward. It just hanging there. Slowly beginning to sway as he resumes chopping and slicing.
“What're you making me?”
“Special asado tacos.”
It’s hard to suppress the whimper in the back of your throat as your stomach rumbles, his chin lifting—brow raising as you try to clear your throat.
“Sounds delicious… what makes them special? Is it the chef?”
Smirking, he shakes his head. “It’s a family recipe. So, I hope I don’t fuck it up.”
“I doubt you could, right? It’s in your bones.”
Shrugging, he stares down at some paper—his pinky flattening it, before he brushes the chopped peppers into a pan and grabs something else.
“I don’t make it often.”
“How many times have you?”
Pausing, he doesn’t look up. Just stops his knife over the skin of the vegetable.
“Frankie. Is this the first time you’ve made it?”
“No,” he answers. Quickly, red rising up his neck. “It’s just… the first time I’ve made it for someone.”
Licking your lips, you smile—fingers outstretching over his counter, it cool under your touch. “Oh, you like me, like me.”
Smirking, he continues to chop and dice, shooting glances at you. “Maybe.”
“I think you do.”
The precision he cuts with makes you almost forget your teasing—your own name, even. The quickness of it, the perfect way they’re all cut. It’s enough to make your thighs press, a new competency unlocked it seemed—as though you were both collecting and becoming aware of them all at once.
Distantly, you hear your name. Briefly aware as you flick your gaze up, of the concern etched there—the sudden silence damning.
“Hm?”
Grinning, shaking his head as he slides the chopped food away. “I said, what makes you say that?”
Sighing, all deep—almost soothing, you smile. “Well, you named all my new plants with you.”
“I did do that.”
Nodding, you roll your lips as he uses his little finger to trace down the recipe in front of him.
“And you didn’t judge me for the fact they all needed a name.”
Casting a glance your way, he both frowns and smiles simultaneously. “Baby… I’d… I’d never.”
“I know,” you say, encased in confidence, sitting up straighter, “Because you like me.”
Shrugging, he begins moving around, collecting ingredients—the back of his hand brushing over his forehead. “Maybe you’re on to something.”
Humming, you shift on your stool—watching. Finding it hard not to keep your eyes on him, not as he moves around confidently, capably, sprinkling things in and adding pinches of others.
It isn’t until he seems more content, that things are doing what they’re supposed to, do you slip from the stool. Moving towards him, sliding between him and the worktop as your fingers brush over his cheek—an act so similar to the shower, before his hand slid between your thighs and made you struggle to stand.
“I like you too,” you whisper.
His eyebrows raise at the suggestion, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Is that so?” he asks. “Well, guess if we both like one another, that means I am allowed to ask something…”
Sucking in air through your teeth, you scrunch your nose. “I don't know, do you think you're allowed?”
Pinching your side softly, he smiles. “I wanted to ask... what we are, what are we?”
Narrowing your eyes, you roll your lips, fingers continuing to twist his curls around your nails. “What do you want me to be?”
Shrugging, he smiles—eyes slowly crinkling, all slow in the way they eventually narrow, mouth parting, basking you in human-made sunshine.
“You want me to be yours?”
He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.
“Want to be mine, Francisco?”
His hand grasps your hip more intently. “More than anything.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Nodding, you tug him closer too, bodies flush, little space between the two of you. “All yours.”
His nose slides against your cheek, before his forehead rests on yours. His eyes almost blend into one large brown oasis—almost.
“Now I’m your girlfriend, do I get extra privileges?”
Frowning, he steps to the side, stirring the cooking food—one hand on your hip, as though not wanting you to move.
“You know, show me how to use your power tools?”
Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “You say mine like others are different.”
Smirking, looking at him with the most innocent eyes you can fake, taking his hand in yours. “They’re different from mine.” Frowning, he stares for a second, seemingly baffled. “Mine aren’t used to build things, rather… make legs shake and make me cry out your name.”
You hear his swallow, as well as see it.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he lies, stirring again. “Jus... Y’just incredible.”
Picking up a piece of pepper, you smile—all wicked. “Oh, I know. And aren’t you lucky I’m yours?”
THEY'RE BACK, GOD I'VE MISSED THEM. next week, we enter a spicy chapter (muhaha) and a nice little announcement about them too.
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