Requested by @berryispunk in regards to this and my tag on it.
18+ ONLY
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It wasn’t until the third time you lifted his shirt to blow bubbles on his belly that Frankie had to ask the inevitable:
“Do you have like. A belly kink or something?”
Lying between his legs, chin rested on his soft cock, you stare him down, your tongue flat against the swell under his belly button, dragging it up until it loses contact, and jiggles slow to stillness.
It was absolute perfection: soft enough to lay on, but could harden when he laughed or let out a surprised tense breath. When he wore tight pants with a belt, the way it hung slightly over the edge… like a delicious muffin you could bite into at any moment. There were many times that you would be leisurely sucking his cock, and when it slipped free with a pop, your teeth dragged over the hairy trail leading from his belly button back down, sucking a kiss into the fat before proceeding to your naughty adventures.
So when Frankie figured it all out, he stopped subconsciously sucking his gut in when you would sit in his lap. Didn’t flex when you lay your head on his tummy while he stroked your hair.
Began puffing it out, rolling your body atop him when you rode his dick like a goddess, making sure your swollen clit slapped the bottom roll of his stomach each time.
“Fuck-fuck—Frankie!”
“Yeah? You like that?” He teases, hissing through his teeth. Your hands were placed on his belly, pulling the fat of it closer to you so that its heft came into contact with your mound. Sex with Frankie had always been satisfying, but this was a whole new level of intimacy, trust, and electricity that neither of you had indulged before.
“That’s it, ride it. Ride it baby. Just like that. God you’re so beautiful,” he huffs, the scrunch in his brow tightening at the waves of ecstasy traveling between your two bodies. “You gonna ride my belly next? Need it that much, huh?”
You nod, whimpering. Your cunt soaked his lap, his bulbous tip filling you up to the brim. He thrust up, tapping your cervix. It all became too much. You begin to quiver , his belly smothering your nub until he could feel it twitching, your head throw back. You leaned slightly back, and a generous gush of arousal surged past your entrance and to his torso.
“FUck!” He rasps, watching you squirt and cum, convulsing atop him. You were so goddamn beautiful like this. It made him shoot his own happy load deep inside you. Your fluids mixed like a hearty concoction of lust and love.
When both of you let out a last pant, wiping your brows, you traced your fingers through the wet valley of his happy trail, pinching his flub at the end.
He doesn’t protest when you settle down, licking a thick stripe over his wiry hairs. Suckling the tangy taste of your juices, you plant wet kiss to the skin.
Ughhh music professor Frank giving you private guitar lessons after his lecture somebody sedate me. May have gotten a little carried away >.<"
♡♡♡♡♡♡
You dont need the lessons, you're quite good actually. But any time spent with your professor especially one on one is time very well spent.
He always says how good you are, however theres always 'just a couple notes' he wants to discuss with you after almost every lecture. And each time they are completely arbitrary, any excuse to get you alone and he jumps on it.
He knows he has to keep things professional, after all he is a highly valued professor. But that doesn't mean he cant imagine the way your delicate hand would feel wrapped around his cock much like how you hold the neck of the guitar.
He's always trying to improve your form and the way you hold the guitar. Your form is impeccable for a student but he just loves to be behind you. He's too nervous to have you sit on his lap to play but he's constantly thinking about it.
He knows that it would be better to reach out to you to discuss grades or projects through the student portal, but he just cant help but text you since you gave him your cellphone number. How else can he send selfies to you in hopes that you'll fall for him?
When he finally does work up the nerve to ask if you would like private lessons at his home every so often, you obviously say yes. Wanting to be a good student and even better guitarist. Not realizing your professors ulterior motives.
He would set everything up perfectly, the guitars and equipment, maybe a few drinks, snacks and a movie for when you want to take a break.
It starts innocent, featherlight kisses to your hands in praise when you got a new note correct, pulling you into his lap so he can get a better angle to guide your fingers. Working his way up at a slow pace as to not scare you off.
He had told everyone that he has taken you under his wing, his little prodigy. Meanwhile, behind closed doors he is absolutely ruining you.
The first time you and him ever did anything that would get you both in trouble with the academics department, you may have had a bit to drink and Frank may have taken the opportunity.
He had suggested you take a break from the guitar lessons and have some wine on the couch with him. As you drank your wine, feeling the warmth washing over you, he would rub small circles onto your back. Whispering soft praises to you on how well you've become as a guitarist.
He has asked if you have a boyfriend or anyone you're seeing to which you shake your head no. 'Shame' he had said as he began kissing your neck, mumbling that you're just too pretty to not have one.
You'd then fold almost instantly, melting into a puddle under the older man's touch. He knew he had you then, laying you back and moving himself between your thighs. He would start kissing your inner thighs, moving up to where your skirt had just barely covered you. You definitely would wear skimpy outfits to your lessons purposely just to tease him.
The way he ate you out would make a prostitute blush. Lapping at your folds like a man starved, he wouldnt stop until you came at least three times. He loved it, seeing your scrunched up face each time, your eyes screwed shut and lips parted, moaning so pretty for him as he devoured you.
Only after you couldn't go another time, thats when he would finally fuck you. He wasn't gentle either, flipping you over onto your stomach and gripping your hips so hard there would probably be bruises. He'd grab your hair and pull you up so your back was against his chest, he'd then line himself up and position you on his thighs.
He'd love the way you'd gasp when he first entered you, not expecting how big he was. Giving you little to no time to adjust, he would start at a brutal pace, fucking into you mercilessly and holding you tight.
He could go for hours with so much as a five minute break every so often and most nights he would drop you off at your dorm with a silly smile plastered on your face from how good he fucked you.
When you did stay the night which happened a few times, he would always make breakfast for you and bring it to you in bed. After breakfast he would drop you off back to your dorm so you could make it to your class on time.
Nothing would be official until you've graduated of course, wouldnt want to wreck any scholarships and his job. But as soon as you walk across that stage and into his arms? You're his girl forever and he makes sure everyone knows it ♡
Frankie's a butch. I'm not taking constructive criticism. The reader is fem in this and uses she/her pronouns. Also, I've written way too much for one day. Goodnight. I'm going to bed now.
If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)
What it's like dating Frankie (fem Reader)
★ She's punched people for looking at you wrong. When a stranger says something inappropriate, like a comment about your body, Frankie's next to you in seconds. "Say it again." She snaps. Wanting a reason to fight.
★ Frankie doesn't have much. But she insists on paying for dinner. Even when it's just cheap, processed, vending machine crap. Somehow, she makes it feel special. Remembering your favorites. And surprising you with food after a long day. "Here, I know you like chicken nuggets."
★ Date nights involve her spending the night at yours. Laying on the couch and watching movies. Your limbs tangled together. Best part? Frankie falls asleep halfway through the film. Drifting off to the sound of your heartbeat.
★ If you're cold, she hands you a hoodie that's way too big. It smells like oil and looks like a dress. Seeing you in it... it makes her feel giddy. Like you're the cutest thing she's ever seen!
★ You don't go out to bars that often. But if you do, it's with her. Because Frankie's good at scaring away creeps. People flirt with you, right in front of her. And she feels the need need to wrap her arm around yours. “Eyes off. She’s taken.”
the creature seeks company, not knowing they’re as lonely as he is.
warning: reader does sw, smut, teratophilia, loss of virginity (his), spit as lube, minor spit kink??, frankie is kinda a sub, unprotected sex, implication of past assault/s
word count: 4.8k
a/n: Even though the reader is gender neutral, they present in a feminine manner and wear feminine clothing and makeup. In the smut, penetration is involved but I only refer to it as a hole. And no matter how tall you are, do you think you’ll be taller than the creature?? So yeah hopefully this is inclusive lol please tell me if there’s anything biased I didn’t catch in my writing
For the past week, two shadows follow you. Yours and a bigger one that lags behind a few yards or so. You’ve felt his eyes on you without fail since six nights ago. At first, your stalker unnerved you–and rightfully so–until he proved to you that he didn’t mean no harm by simply not going anywhere near you.
You lean against the brick wall, your form softly illuminated by the lamppost nearby. One scuffed pump on the brick and one on the rain-slick pavement as you leisurely smoked. Like your shoes, your mink coat has seen better days, though it barely sees the sun anymore. You can still feel eyes on you.
Then, the shadow emerges from hiding. He’s a tall fella, probably much bigger than you despite being hunched over. He’s an imposing figure in his black leather coat as he slowly walks towards you in a way that would almost suggest he’s shy. He keeps his head low, his face completely obscured by the darkness of the streets and his hat.
You watch him with narrowed eyes, tilting your head in interest at the mysterious creature. Due to your profession, you’ve seen men of all kinds, but this one still catches your attention. You cross your arms and take a long drag from your cigarette as he steps closer.
“You've been watchin’ me for nights now, big fella. Finally wanna try out the goods?” you asked teasingly.
Your shadow is now two feet near you. He towers over you, which means you have to crane your neck to look at him. Your brows furrow when you see he’s wearing a cloth around his face like a mask. Something is amiss… but you don’t run.
“Yes,” he answers, voice rough and unsteady with what seems to be disuse and anxiety. “I want… I want to be with you.”
He shakily reaches into a pocket in his coat and he fumbles with a twenty dollar bill before holding it out to you. Your eyes widen at the number. That’s so much more than your nightly earnings. In fact, that’s more than a month’s rent at your walk-up apartment. Is he insane? Wealthy? A first-timer?
Well, at the very least, the twenty sweetens the pot.
“Well, come on, honey,” you take the bill and stuff it in your purse before he changes his mind, “We don’t got all night.”
On the way to the flophouse you rent a room at, you attempt small talk. However, you quickly learn that the big guy is a very reserved gentleman, albeit awkward. Despite his formidable form and deep voice, he speaks softly and respectfully–very much unlike your usual johns. He even walks on the side of the pavement next to the road.
The room is dingy, dim, and dodgy. The wallpaper is in the process of peeling itself away from the walls, the tiny dresser in the corner is chipped to hell, and the sheets are thinner than paper. But it’s what you can afford and nobody complains as long as they get their fill.
When you enter the room, you smoothly take off your coat and put out your cigarette on the ashtray waiting for you. You move with a practised ease. You know every nook and cranny of this room. You can feel his watchful eyes observe you from behind.
The sole chair in the room creaks as he sits down, the crumbling wood barely able to support his weight. Oddly, he doesn’t take anything off, even keeping his head bowed as if to hide himself from you. He simply sits with his forearms resting on the armrests, his pale hands joined together.
Nevertheless, he paid and you’re not one to cheat money out of a man. It’s nice that he’s waiting for you, though. Pleasant change of pace from the forceful drunkards pouncing you.
“Alright, big fella. You paid. Let’s not drag it out,” you say matter-of-factly, which makes him look up at you with his sunken hazel eyes. Huh, his eyes are hazel.
You take a split second to check your makeup while you lie sideways on the bed, unbuttoning the collar of your dress. He visibly tenses up and his lovely hazel eyes widen. You smirk at his reaction. A man is a man, after all.
“What– What are you doing?” he asks, quite panicked.
You recoil, startled and confused by his question. Nobody in the history of your career has ever asked that, especially in that manner.
“What do you think? This is what you paid me for,” you respond defensively.
You don’t even bother fastening your buttons again, your body being on display second nature to you now. Your bralette peeks through the undone collar, a promise of more to reveal. But he can hardly look at you.
He bows his head again, seemingly embarrassed. He stares at his wringing hands.
“I didn’t know…” he says quietly. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Talk?” you repeat incredulously.
You calmly but quickly get up from the bed and close the distance between you, which isn’t a feat in a room this tiny. You stand before him, observing him like a specimen for a second before you lift his chin up with a hand. There’s a small, amused smirk on your dark red lips.
“You know your money’s as good as the others’, right?”
You study him. Pale skin stands out against the black cloth veiling everything under his sunken eyes. No wonder the poor guy is so inept–he doesn’t go out!
He has pretty eyes, at least. Bright hazel irises framed by long eyelashes. They stare up at you like you hung the moon and stars, like you’re someone more than you are. Wait, is that a deep scar you see? But he suddenly blinks, shaking his head as if to banish his thoughts, and he hastily bows his head again.
“Please, don’t look at me too much. You won’t like it,” he mutters as his huge, pale hand comes up to adjust the cloth on his face.
“Alright,” you of all people would know the value of consent, so you back off, “So, you just want to talk, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s the second time he’s said it but it still throws you off-guard. Just talking? Nobody has ever asked that from you before. And for a pretty penny too. Or perhaps he likes long foreplay and that’s why he paid you for your entire night. Either way, it’s unbelievable.
Or maybe uncomfortable is the word. You sit down on the bed across from him silently, not knowing what to say. You squirm instead. This is not what you’re used to; you’re more familiar with talking using your body, putting on a performance. You don’t want to talk. Talking requires the real you.
“If we’re gonna talk, I gotta see your face, at least,” you say.
“You won’t like it,” he replies sadly, shaking his head.
You laugh, which sounds more like a scoff. He’s so pathetically timid, especially for someone his size.
“I’ve seen men of all shapes and sizes. Come on, big guy.”
“Are you sure?” A tinge of hope laces his tone.
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
A beat of silence passes between the both of you. Maybe you’ll be different; maybe you won’t scream like the others when they see his face. He clears his throat, which sounds like a lion’s growl. He slowly, hesitantly undoes the knot behind his head, taking the dark fabric off his face.
You gasp, flinching backwards at the sight.
He’s… grotesque. It’s the only way to describe him. Scars, deep and shallow, litter his face like slashes. His nose looks broken, the bridge veering off to the side at the top. Staples form lines down and around his neck, distorting his skin even further. Like he’s made of patchwork, his skin is pulled into many different directions where your eyes can see.
His expression falls and he hangs his head again. He should’ve known you’d be frightened of him. He fumbles with his mask, trying to tie it up again as he stands. Now that you’re sat and he’s standing, he towers over you again but he hunches in a poor attempt to make himself smaller.
“I apologise. I’ll go.” He heads to the door with no hesitation.
“Wait! You don’t have to,” you interject, rising and reaching out to him with an outstretched hand. He stops–but doesn’t face you. “It’s just that… you don’t look like the usual type of men that… avail my services, you know.”
“I know what I look like,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
“I just wasn’t ready, is all,” you softly, continuing on your half-lies. You walk up behind him, laying a tentative hand on the back of his heavily scuffed coat.
He lets out a shaky breath at your gentle touch. It comes from the deepest depths of his soul. Nobody has touched him without the purpose of killing him. He can barely feel it through the thick leather yet it reaches into his heart.
“Please, don’t leave,” you quietly plead.
“You don’t mean that. You people will always scream and run.”
His clear insecurity and fear of rejection tugs at your heartstrings. Despite his towering size and macabre features, he’s a gentle soul. He doesn’t deserve to be an object of fear.
Besides, you know how it feels to be treated like garbage. Women look at you with disgust and men leer and paw at you like they’re entitled to you.
“I won’t, I promise. Let’s talk, come on,” you reassure him. You muster up a lighter tone, adding, “You paid. You gotta get your money’s worth.”
He hesitantly turns around, eyes watery and brows furrowed. His hand squeezes the fabric so hard it would’ve been wrung back to white at the pressure. He looks more scared than you when you saw his face earlier.
You give him a small smile, the most genuine one yet tonight despite its subtlety. At the sight of your gentle smile, he slowly loosens his tense grip.
“Get comfortable, ‘kay? I saw you know. You can lose the coat and the hat now, too.”
“You won’t–”
“Oh, to hell with it. Do what you want, then. Just don’t leave.”
Something resembling a smile graces his lips. He’s more pleasant to the eyes when he smiles, you can admit.
With a trembling hand, he takes his hat off, revealing large staples encircling his head through his forehead and temples. To your credit, you don’t react, though you are internally screaming. Encouraged by your silent acceptance, he takes his coat off too, revealing an awkwardly-tailored linen suit. Well, at least he looks comfortable now.
You urge him to sit down next to you on the edge of the bed, which he does, but he puts a large distance between you by sitting on a completely different side of the mattress. You don’t complain. In fact, you’re pleased at his timidity and courteous behavior. It’s probably why you didn’t let him leave. You can’t let a good thing go.
“Can I ask?” you break the silence.
He immediately notices your uncharacteristic apprehension. Worry flashes in his mind about what you might ask him but he nods.
“Why’d you buy my time if you didn’t want anybody seeing you?” you ask.
“I wanted to talk.” Matter-of-fact. So straightforward in delivery that he sounds naive. And maybe he is.
“That’s not what men usually pay me to do,” you remind him with a wry chuckle. “But I can see why you’d seek someone like me out after following me around like my shadow.”
He falls silent. You take the time to look at him, to acclimate yourself to his appearance. You don’t realise you’re staring, but he does, even though he’s only looking at you through his periphery. If his blood were red, he’d be pink now.
“I… I don’t know what you do with them. I only saw that they pay you and you take them somewhere else. I thought you talked. You look approachable and you didn’t refuse anybody.”
His confession takes you aback, your brows furrowing and lips frowning. You can hardly believe it but he sounds so sincere and ashamed of his ignorance.
“They pay to use me,” you tell him. There’s no use in going in circles.
“But you don’t love them.”
A good-natured chuckle rises from your chest at his enviable innocence. Oh, how you wish you can view intimacy in his lens rather than yours.
“No.”
“Do they make you happy?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
His soft gaze lands on you, full of empathy. For the first time since he showed his face, he looks you square in the eye. He sounds sad about it, which he is. He doesn’t think someone as beautiful as you should be compelled to be in the presence a monster like him, especially for money. Deep inside, a part of him is shattered too, born from the fact that his misconception about love and intimacy is shattered. It’s hard to reconcile with the notion of sex existing without love–of touches not meaning anything.
“Don’t be. I could’ve let you go, didn’t I? But you’re still here. I want you here.” This time, you’re being fully truthful.
His eyes water again. On instinct, he bows his head, hiding himself from view. The corners of your lips quirk up on instinct, finding the gentle giant endearing.
“I look–I’m a monster,” he whispers, voice thick like there’s a lump in his throat. “How can you bear to look at me? To let me stay?”
“You’re not a monster,” you shake your head, “Believe me, I’ve seen real monsters. Some of those sons of bitches don’t even look like it.”
It takes a while for him to accept what you’re saying, and when it happens, you’re not sure if it was completely. But he nods solemnly, reverently like your word is gospel.
If he has to be honest, he doesn’t take your words to heart completely. Nevertheless, it’s a moment of reprieve from his poisonous thoughts and he can almost imagine a world where he isn’t the way he is. Halfway through his brief contemplation, he realises the implication of what you said and his heart jumps in horror because a flower like you deserves nothing but care and pleasant attention.
“I’m sorry about them too,” is what he says and you barely stifle your laugh. He’s so sweet. If only everyone can look past his appearance and see the adorable man that he is.
At your little giggle, a flash of fear appears in his expression and he hangs his head again away from your view.
“Oh, come on, big fella, I wasn’t laughing at you,” you coo as if comforting a puppy. “I just find you adorable, is all.”
“Adorable?” he asks and it almost makes you coo again. He sounds like he can’t believe it.
Due to the great distance he put between you on the bed, you crawl to him to get nearer. You don’t dare touch him, not knowing how he would react to that. You wouldn’t want to be touched if you don’t want it, either. And he tries hiding himself from you again, but you’re too close.
“Yes, very endearing,” you confirm.
“You’re too kind.” He can’t believe it at all.
“No, I’m not kind. I’m just being honest.”
“You were lying to me earlier.”
Oh, so he noticed, indeed. Hurt twinges in your chest but you can’t be offended. You were scared of his malformed features.
“I’m being honest now.”
Your tone takes on a sincere aspect to it that he has never heard from you before. Meanwhile, your eyes seek his as he stares at the linoleum floor. From the side like this, he looks… well… normal. It makes you think he was handsome before whatever happened to him.
“Come on, I’m tellin’ the truth. Look at me–stop sulking.” You come back to your usual demeanour. And it works.
He hesitantly looks up, finally meeting your gaze again. He’s bracing for impact, waiting for you to get tired of him and kick him out the door.
“Do you want me to prove it to you?” you ask, raising your brows in challenge.
“You don’t have to–”
You boldly lean in and kiss him, turning his head to yours with a hand on his cheek. His skin is cold; you blame it on the rainy night. He smells like cherries; he wears a peculiar perfume.
He tenses up immediately but he gradually returns the favour. Like a baby deer getting up on its legs. He tilts his head and his lips softly and delicately dance with yours, though he keeps his hands off you even now.
You pull away, dark red lipstick smudged around your lips in a tempting manner. His eyes are glued onto your lips, softly panting like a man dying of thirst.
“Do you still wanna talk? Or do you want me to show you what I get paid to do?” you ask lowly.
Despite your bluntness, it’s the most erotic question he has ever heard in his life. Nonetheless, he shakes his head no, a worried look on his face. He remembers what you told him earlier and he’ll be damned if he’s the cause of your misery.
“I don’t want to use you,” he whispers.
He doesn’t mention that he’s never been with anyone in that way. He won’t know what to do. Not only will lying with him make you miserable, he also won’t satisfy you. Besides, even if he were the most skilful lover, no one would be able to look at him and feel pleasure.
“Is that what you truly want?”
Do his ears deceive him or do you sound dejected at his refusal?
“I just want you to be happy. That’s what I want.”
The desire in his gaze betrays his turndown. Perhaps he does want you, but he wants you untroubled even more.
“Make me happy, then.”
You take his hand, large and pale–and trembling in trepidation, and lead it to rest on your cheek. He feels how warm and soft you are, a stark contrast to his own flesh. Eventually, he softly brushes his thumb against your cheekbone, stunned by the feel of you. He holds your face like you’re a fragile porcelain doll.
He lifts another hand, holding it mid-air as if to ask for permission. You nod with a gentle, close-lipped smile. He caresses your hair, running his hand over it with reverence. His hand lands on the nape of your neck, his touch barely ghosting over you.
He slowly leans in and your lips meet once again. You deepen the kiss, taking the lead between you, which he willingly relinquishes.
But he gradually gets more eager, his grip on you getting tighter and tighter. His mouth finally gains control over yours, his tongue exploring your mouth hungrily. When his excited hold on you starts to hurt, you gasp out and push him away.
“I’m sorry… I’ve never… done… this… before,” he breathes out, voice so rough with need that it’s almost guttural. “I’m sorry.”
“‘S fine. Just remember your strength, honey.”
You will never admit it to yourself, much less to anybody, but there’s a part of you that’s satisfied about the fact that he’s never been with anybody before. It means he doesn’t already have a preconceived expectation of what you should give him–or what he thinks he’s entitled to take from you. However, if you think about it for too long, the reality he lives in is saddening to you.
You climb onto his lap and pull away from his mouth to pepper wet kisses on his cheek, his jaw, his neck. It’s a novel sensation, feeling the ridges of his scars and the coolness of those small pieces of steel against your lips. Concurrently, your hands make themselves busy on his shirt, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
He’s astonished. He never thought anyone could stomach touching him, much less kiss his skin. It’s surreal that someone as beautiful as you is on his lap, slowly disrobing him without a care.
“You’re thinking too loud.”
“I am? Sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” you say with a chuckle.
You climb off his lap and, before he can start thinking it’s because you’re mad at him, you begin taking your dress off in front of him. You grin like cheshire as you take in the sight of him, disheveled with his shirt fully open, his chest heaving, and his eyes wide.
When your dress pools around your high heel-clad feet, you move onto your bralette and your tap pants, leaving you in just your thigh high stockings. You step off your shoes as you stand between his legs. You wordlessly urge him to undress as well, which he quickly follows, taking his shirt off at the same time as his jacket.
You run your hands over his shoulders–strong, broad, and scarred. Your eyes roam his bare torso, soaking up the sight of his deformed body. Now, you see dark veins snaking under his skin, meeting his scars held together by the staples that you’re very much familiar with by now. He’s not frightening to you anymore. The most horrifying aspect of this is that you’re not disgusted by him any longer.
Finally, when both of you are fully nude, you lie him down, straddling his thighs. You figure there won’t be any risk of him losing control of his strength if you’re on top. He doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. In fact, he looks terribly delighted at seeing you on top of him, enjoying the view.
Teasingly looking into his eyes, you lick your hand from the palm to your fingers. You gently grasp his cock by the base, which makes him hiss in a mixture of uncontrollable desire and relief that he’s finally being touched. He’s big–not absurdly long but impossibly thick. His tip is an angry reddish purple, precum dribbling desperately down his length. Your mouth begins watering hungrily and you swallow down your saliva.
You run your fist up and down, stroking him at a gradually increasing pace. His breathing stutters, guttural groans escaping his chest. His response encourages you more and you tighten your grip around him as you continue touching him. More precum drips out of him in precious pearls and you use them to lubricate your hand.
You wonder if you should use a rubber. You always do but right now, you wonder if you should just take the risk. He seems too big to fit in one, anyway, you think. Why not?
“You want me?”
“Y–yes, yes, I do.” He nods fervently like he’s aching for it. His hips jerk up as if it’s chasing your hand.
A smirk pulls at the corner of your lips. You oblige happily, straddling his hips. You open your mouth, spit flowing down your tongue down to his length. He watches you with bated breath, aroused by the display.
Finally, you guide him into your hole. His blunt tip presses against your entrance and when he finally breaches, you both groan. You feel so much better than your hand. You’re so wet, so warm, so nothing like he’s ever felt. He’s big, stretching you inch by inch as you slowly descend on him. He’s so girthy that you can clearly feel him twitching inside you when your hips eventually meet.
“F–fuck, big guy,” you mutter. “You’re really full of surprises, aren’t ya?”
With your hands on his chest supporting you, you slowly grind your hips against his, gasping at the delicious stretch of his cock and the friction of it pushing and dragging against your walls. He looks at you like you’re a deity, admiring the way you move on top of him and the way you feel wrapped around him.
His hands, which were once clenched on the sheets, move to your hips. His grip is strong but controlled, painfully remembering when he almost hurt you earlier.
Gasps and moans fill the room. The smell of sex mingles with the lingering cigarette smoke. The bed creaks with every movement but neither of you can hear it, your ears only tuned to each other’s noises of pleasure.
With brows furrowed and eyes half-lidded, you watch him as he throws his head back with his eyes squeezed shut and mouth agape in ecstasy. He’s positively overwhelmed, having never felt this way before. If you had the capacity, you’d chuckle in amusement. But you can’t, also intoxicated.
Suddenly, his strong hands lift you off him, completely pulling himself out and earning a whine from you. His seed spurts out of him, more coming out with every twitch of his length. Thick white fluid runs down his cock to the sheets. It escapes you that he hasn’t gone flaccid.
He actually doesn’t know if he can have children due to his method of creation but he doesn’t want to explain to you how he was “born” nor does he want to risk making you bear a child. Thankfully, even in the middle of orgasm, he has half a mind to pull out.
“... Thanks for doing that,” is all you can say, until you start softly laughing.
He looks puzzled, a confused look on his face while he pants as he recovers from his climax. You, still chuckling, brush his brown hair away from his sweaty forehead.
“I should’ve known it wouldn’t take you long. It’s your first time, right?”
He nods, a purple blush on his scarred cheeks.
“Oh, how cute.”
You lean down to kiss him and he eagerly accepts your mouth on his. His hand comes back to the back of your neck, gently keeping you in place. You’re glad he took your reminder from earlier to heart.
And it seems like he still wants more, his tongue gingerly asking for permission against your lips. You part them, letting him in. You let out a moan as his tongue dances with yours, your loins throbbing with unresolved desire.
He may not know much, but he can feel the need radiating off you. His hand leaves your neck, reaches between you, and strokes his still half-hard cock, stirring it back to life. His hand, the one that stayed on your hip, guides you back down on him again.
You gasp against his mouth as his girth stretches you again, but his entry is easier now.
“Please, let me…” he begins breathlessly, desperately.
“Let you what?” You ache just as much.
“Let me be on top of you.”
“Yes.”
With one smooth move, he manhandles you into position. You instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, which makes you moan at how much deeper he’s reaching inside you.
“How should I move?”
“Just try and I'll tell you.”
He awkwardly starts but eventually, he finds his rhythm and you don’t even need to tell him he’s doing it right. He can tell by your gasps, your moans, and the way you arch off the bed. Your eyes close shut and noises spill from your smudged red lips, the pleasure taking over your inhibitions.
His thrusts are steady but deep, his hips powerfully snapping to yours. He grunts with every piston of his hips, drunk at the sight of you and all the new sensations he’s feeling inside you. One hand supports himself on the mattress beside your head and the other softly caresses your face as if he’s afraid you’ll suddenly vanish into thin air and that this is a dream.
Your eyes open, albeit still quite half-lidded, and pull him down to kiss him. Your arms snake under his own, your palms on his scarred back. With every move, you can feel the muscles ripple under his skin.
His hips don’t stop driving into yours, his toned muscles tense as he holds another orgasm back. He wants you happy; he wants you satisfied. His breathing is ragged, growling like a panther against your lips.
You let out a long, drawn-out whine as you come, back arching to the heavens as you see white flash behind your lids. Your blunt nails dig into his back and hopefully, you didn’t reopen a scar.
He lets you ride through your climax, slowly and gently working his length into you. When he’s sure you’re alright, he pulls out and finally lets go once again, adding more to the fluids staining the sheets.
He sits on his haunches as you both recover. He doesn’t attempt to lie down next to you, thinking of it as him being a nuisance. On top of that, he enjoys the view, staring at your exhausted form to remember it forever.
Meanwhile, you deflate on the mattress, chest heaving. You’re utterly blissed out, wrecked by this strong, mysterious creature.
After a while, he speaks.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“I should be the one thanking you,” you reply breathlessly. “It’s nice finally having a choice on who to sleep with.”
“I’m–”
“I swear, if you’re apologising again, I’ll attack you.”
He smiles fully at that, showing off endearingly crooked teeth and steel crowns.
Just a nice guy | Frankie Morales x gn!reader | 1,6k
Summary: What if Frankie isn't just a very nice friend, but has feelings for you and you just can't see it?
CW: mention of drinking, smoking cigarettes, hangover, and nothing much more, apart from two idiots in love.
Reader is abled body and has no physical description, but if you notice anything please let me know.
A/N: This is part of @grogusmum and @avastrasposts Frankie February and Week 3: Caretaker Frankie. It was mostly inspired by this poll even if I strayed a little bit from my original idea. Hope you enjoy it.
I'm always happy for comments and/or reblogs, so please don't be shy !
Main masterlist | Read on AO3
Dividers by @/saradika-graphics
You wake up with a dry mouth, and your tongue heavy. The light coming from your window hurts when you open your eyes. It's like someone is playing the drums inside your head. Fuck, that white wine was definitely not good. You open your eyes again, noting the glass of water and a box of pain medicine on your nightstand. You feel awful, not only from the hangover, but because you still have most of your clothes on, and your lungs hurt because now you remember you smoked three cigarettes. You usually don't anymore, but once in a while you do, and inevitably, the next day you feel like you smoked a whole pack.
A soft snore startles you, and for a brief moment, you are afraid you brought a stranger back, until you remember last night. The dreadful events that brought you to this moment. Sitting up, you turn your head and look at Frankie, sleeping peacefully on his back, his mouth slightly open, a soft snore coming out of it. He is fully dressed and sleeping over the cover, ever the proper gentleman, not wanting you to think he would take advantage of the situation. As if. You remember him saying he would sleep on the couch and you insisting he slept with you (not like that!), because your couch was awfully uncomfortable.
Seeing him sleeping deeply next to you, remembering what happened last night, you can't help the sigh that comes out of you, or the way your heart squeezes in your chest. You love him so fucking much. Swinging your legs to sit on the edge of the bed, you gulp the water with some ibuprofen and walk clumsily to the kitchen to eat a little something to settle your stomach, and then you go to the shower to wash away the dirt and the humiliation.
Last night you had a date. A first date with this guy you met at the supermarket. A perfect meet-cute, really, both of you reaching for the last box of cereal, him relenting immediately, both of you bumping into each other in another aisle, and so on until you were both in line at the same checkout. In the end, he asked for your number, and a few days later, you had a date. He was nice, fun, cute, and handsome, really. But he was no Frankie.
As you let the water wash away the pain and the sadness that has overtaken you, you can't help but remember the past year and a half since you met Frankie. When your friend introduced you to her boyfriend, now fiancé, Will. And with him, soon after, the whole gang. And Frankie. You had an instant crush, until his girlfriend showed up. You both did hit it off, though, and became fast friends. And then his girlfriend broke up with him, but by then, you were dating Aiden.
And anyway, he wasn't interested in you like that. You've both been single for 6 months, and he never showed any indication that he was interested. You, on the other hand, went from crush to infatuation to love. Fuck.
Stepping out of the shower, wrapping your hair in a towel, and putting on a robe, you step out of the bathroom into your bedroom to find Frankie slowly waking up.
"Hey, did you sleep ok?" He asks you.
"Yeah, how about you?"
"I did, thanks." He does seem rested, him who usually always looked tired and sleeps poorly.
"The shower's all yours, I'll make us breakfast." You can barely look him in the eye, feeling so ashamed for last night.
A freshly showered Frankie joins you in the kitchen right as you are cooking eggs.
"Coffee's ready, sit, I'll bring you your plate." You mumble to him.
"You didn't have to–"
"It's the least I can do for waking you up at 1 am and begging you to pick me up."
"It's OK, I really don't mind." His voice is soft.
"Frankie." You look at him, but he seems undisturbed.
"I don't, I promise. I wasn't going to leave you crying in that bar." His tone is definitive." Will you at least tell me what happened? Last night you didn't say much."
"What did I say? I admit that part is a little blurry." You cringe slightly.
"You said that you didn't want me to punch him. But you also really wanted me to hit him. And then you cried, and told me I was nice, and…" He stops.
"And what?" You are very scared that you might have told him other stuff. Like how pretty you find his eyes, or how you love his broad shoulders, or how you want to bite his soft stomach that you sometimes see when he's reaching for something up high.
"Nothing that made much sense, you were pretty drunk."
"I didn't even drink that much. Just didn't eat."
"So what happened?" He asks again, after finishing his egg.
"He was… he was awful, we didn't really have anything in common, and at one point he went to get us drinks, started flirting with that girl at the bar, and then… well, he came back to tell me he was leaving with her." You stare at your plate, ashamed, angry, but also defeated. If only you could find a nice guy, one with brown curls and soft hair, with kind brown eyes, with a profile chiseled like a sculpture. Who was smart and funny, and… you sighed.
"That fucking jerk."Frankie's tone is hard when he says this, but his voice is softer when he adds, "I get why you didn't want me to hit him, but also wanted me to."
You can't help but laugh. "Yeah. Anyway, I drank maybe two more glasses of wine, I don't know, and then I got sad. And well, I called you." You add, your voice flat.
You both let the silence settle between you. Frankie looks outside through the window. He's wearing a gray t-shirt, and his head is devoid of his usual hat, his hair wet from the shower. You fight the urge to sit next to him and breathe in his neck.
"You did say something last night." Your eyes abruptly leave his neck to look at him, noticing his eyes are already on you, with a small smile on his lips. Dread creeps into your body. You hope you didn't tell him you thought he was beautiful, or strong, or how much you loved his arms, or declare your undying love. Something foolish that might break your friendship. Because as much as you are dying to be next to him without being able to actually be with him, never seeing him again would hurt more.
"What? What did I say? I was very drunk–"
"I thought you said you didn't drink that much."
You wave it off, like it doesn't mean anything, urging him to tell you what you said.
"You mentioned that you wish the date had been with me."
For a second there, you both look at each other, and you can see he is searching in your eyes for the truth. And the fact that you don't say anything is an answer in itself. You really don't know what to do, or say.
"I… I. Oh Fuck." That's all you manage to mutter as you bury your face in your hands. "I didn't mean it. I mean, I did, but it's ok. You don't have to worry about it. I –"
But Frankie takes your hands away from your face, you didn't hear him come sit on the chair next to you, and forces you to look at him.
"I also wished I had been on a date with you."
"I… Wait! What?" Frankie laughs at your incredulity.
"I'm really terrible at this." He sighs, "I know I'm not good at expressing what I feel. But I like you too. I do."
"I never said–" You are still frantic, half wishing to deny everything you might have said, but also intrigued by the turn of the events.
"Oh, but you did." His hand holds your face, and you can't help but lean into his touch.
You relent. "I do like you, Frankie, I just thought… I thought you didn't like me back."
He sighs. "Baby, I am terrible with words, but I thought my actions spoke for themselves."
"What do you mean?" You frown, trying to think back to any actions that should have made you understand.
"Do you really think I would fix every little thing that went wrong in your house if I didn't care?"
"I… I thought you were just a good friend…" You smile sheepishly. It does sound a little stupid when you think of all the things he has done.
"I am, but not to the point of changing your smoke detector batteries and overhead bulb when I come to water your plants while you are on a business trip."
You laugh. "I did ask myself if you were just very nice that time you changed my car's oil after I just mentioned I should think about it." He joins the laughs.
"I should have seen it the time I was sick and you brought me food, and medicine."
"Or the time I drove all the way to Orlando to pick you up so you didn't have to find a way to get back to Tampa."
"I kept thinking you were just nice, and just fell deeper and deeper in love with you." You stop, horrified. It's one thing to confess you like him and all, but love? Shit.
"I–"
But he leans in and kisses you, a sweet kiss that makes you feel warm from head to toes.
Summary: "I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship, and this is the kind of thing that can ruin friendships."
"That won’t happen. I swear to you. You know how much I care about you."
For seven years, you've been one of the guys. Friday nights at the local bar were always reserved for catching up with the friends you considered brothers, except for the one you secretly harbor feelings for. But one emotionally charged night (combined with too many shots) leads you to end up in Santiago's bed, changing everything.
wc: 4k
an: This is going to be full of drama and smut! Thank you so much for reading, and any feedback is much appreciated!!
Rating: Explicit, 18+ only
Chapter One: The morning after
You jerk awake, suddenly sitting upright, your bare chest heaving in the dark room. Your head is pounding and throbbing violently, a painful consequence of the night of indulgence you can’t quite remember yet.
You look around in confusion, squinting as you scan the darkened room. Streaks of silver moonlight spill across the bed, giving just enough light for you to take in your surroundings. As your vision snaps into focus, you quickly realize you aren’t in your own bed, yet the bedroom is strangely familiar to you.
Your brain takes entirely too long to catch up to the present, until it finally registers that you are completely naked. You gasp quietly, clamping one hand over your mouth in shock.
You look over to your left to see Santiago rolled onto his stomach facing you. One arm rests above his head on the pillow as he sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. His dark, wavy hair is tousled, a stray curl brushing against his forehead. You stare at him for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, as you try to piece together the events of the night.
What in the fuck happened?
Then…reality crashes into you. Hard. Your heart roars in your ears, your breath seizing in your throat as reality suddenly snaps back into focus with a terrifying clarity.
Oh, my God….
Santiago.
You slept with Santiago.
The thought ricochets violently around your brain on repeat, an act of desperation as your mind struggles to make sense of something so unfathomable.
You carefully ease out of the bed, trying to avoid rousing him, as you swing your legs over the edge of the mattress and plant your unsteady feet on the floor. You stand up, eyes scanning the floor for your clothes, but it is still dark and your vision remains blurry. You walk slowly and unsteadily around to the opposite side of the bed, leaning over to look by Santiago’s side. There you find your black lace panties crumpled up next to his boxers.
“God…” you whisper softly to yourself, grabbing your underwear and quietly stepping into them, pulling them up your thighs and onto your hips.
Your search continues for the rest of your clothes. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your black bra hanging haphazardly on the corner of the dresser across the room.
‘Jesus Christ,' you think to yourself, staring at it for a moment as if the lace itself somehow holds the answers as to how it ended up there, how you ended up here.
You quickly snatch it off and slide your arms through the straps, pulling it up and settling it onto your chest before deftly clasping it behind your back.
You continue your quiet search, bending over as you look for your t-shirt and jeans, when you hear Santiago suddenly clear his throat from behind you.
“Hey there, Starshine,” he says, his voice a deep, rumble laced with the remnants of sleep. His elbow is propped onto the pillow, his chin resting on his open palm as he watches you in soft amusement and flashes a bright smile at you.
“Fuck!” you exclaim loudly as your hand immediately flies to your chest to try to calm your sudden racing heart as it thuds a bruising rhythm against your ribs. “You scared the fuck out of me, Santi!”
“Sorry, sorry.” He lets out a breathy, amused chuckle. “Looking for your clothes?”
“Uh…yeah,” you say sheepishly, avoiding his gaze as your eyes dart around the room.“Well,” he says with a slight grunt as he tosses the covers aside and stands up. “I think your shirt is behind the headboard.”
Your eyes widen as he stands in front of you, completely nude.You feel the heat immediately rise up your neck and flush your face as your gaze inadvertently falls over him; his lean frame, warm, golden skin, the sculpted, defined planes of his chest and stomach, down to the defined v of his hips, and finally to his....
You clear your throat, eyes snapping back up to his face, as you swallow hard.
“O…oh…r…right…” you stammer, completely flustered. Glancing over, you finally spot your maroon t-shirt perilously dangling off the corner post of the headboard.
You nearly lunge for it as you quickly pull it off the bed and slip it over your head, roughly pulling the soft cotton down over your torso.“So…uh…now I just need to solve the mystery of my missing pants,” you chuckle nervously, desperately trying to avoid looking directly at him as he stands fully naked in front of you. But even then, you still glance over and your gaze still drifts lower than it should.
Fuck, this is so awkward.
“I think we left those in the living room..?” Santiago offers up, sounding unsure himself as he turns and glances around the room.You feel your eyebrows raise drastically as he turns around; your face now feels like it is fully on fire. When he turns back around to look at you, your eyes snap back up to his. You give him a quick nod and quickly head out to the living room, flipping the light switch on and bathing the room in a soft white light. You squint, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjust to the stark difference of lighting, before you spot your jeans lying inside-out at the foot of the couch. As you pick them up, turning them right-side out and hastily shoving one leg at a time into the tight denim, Santiago appears behind you. He is now dressed in a pair of pajama pants, holding a pillow and blanket in one arm.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He leans a shoulder against the doorframe and watches you carefully for a moment before dropping the spare bedding onto the couch.
“Yes, of course,” you lie, forcing a smile with a false lilt in your voice. “I just need to head back home. I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“You can stay here, you know…” he says tentatively, as if he is afraid of your reaction to the suggestion. “I think you should, actually. It’s late, we both drank a lot…”
“I can call an Uber,” you quickly interrupt, zipping up and buttoning your jeans before turning to face him. A look of worry briefly ripples like a wave across his face before quickly disappearing. He looks down and sighs.
“You know I would never pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he responds carefully, clearly sensing your turmoil at this sudden and unexpected development between the two of you. “But you are safe here. You don’t need a stranger taking you home alone at this hour. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You stop short of grabbing your purse, your hand resting on the thick leather strap, as you weigh your options. Obviously, staying the rest of the night with Santiago is the better and safer option, even if it is painfully awkward. But the sheer, crushing weight of the night's emotional turmoil plagues you, and the urge to run far away is pulling at you with a magnetic force.
“Do you remember what happened tonight?” You ask suddenly, avoiding his gaze.
He clears his throat and shifts his weight slightly. “We met up with the rest of the guys at the bar as usual. Fish disappeared for a bit, was chatting up some blonde. Maybe he left with her?” Santiago pauses, his brows furrowed as he struggles to recollect the night’s events himself.
“Molly called; Tom had to leave early. We got that third round of shots….that’s all I remember, honestly. I don’t even remember coming back here.”
You nod, swallowing hard as a lump forms in your throat. Frankie and the tall blonde..you do remember that part very well. How could you forget? The way she was giggling and touching his arm; the image is burned in your mind. Your heart thumps painfully against your ribs at the memory and you feel jealousy rising in your throat like bitter acid that you force yourself to swallow back down.
“That’s all I remember, too. Had too many shots...” you reason weakly to yourself.
Santiago gives you a look you can’t quite place as a muscle feathers in his jaw. For a moment it looks like he wants…needs…to say something but ultimately decides against it as he swallows the words instead.
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have been more responsible…”
You immediately hold up one hand, signaling for him to stop.“No, Santi. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. We both got carried away, drank too much. It was a one-time thing. But this doesn’t change anything, right?”
“Uh. Yeah…yeah, of course not,” his dark gaze shifts to the floor, expression unreadable. “It was just a one-time thing. Our friendship won’t change.” His voice drops an octave, carrying the weight of words too heavy to speak, but your mind is so preoccupied you don’t even notice. You nod absent-mindedly.
“I’ll stay here. But I will take the couch,” you insist.
“Good,” Santiago nods. “I…um, will make sure you’re up early. Give you time to go home and shower.”
You smile weakly at him. “Thanks, Santi.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he gives you a small smile as he pads down the hall back to his bedroom, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.You grab the spare blanket and pillow and collapse into the couch, trying to settle in to sleep for a few more hours. Instead, you find yourself staring at the ceiling as your mind reels.
For the next few hours you mostly stare up at the ceiling, your mind racing. You keep trying to piece together the fractured memories of the night, but the few pieces you have refuse to align in a way that makes sense. The fact that you ended up in Santiago's bed is unfathomable.
You know the night started like every other get-together; Friday nights are strictly reserved for catching up with the guys at the bar. That’s how it has always been for the seven years you’ve known them. Normally you and Frankie are glued to each other's sides, sharing inside jokes and the banter you love so much. But last night was different. He was quiet. Reserved. Glued to his phone and mostly silent before he walked off to order more shots.
The blonde…‘Maybe he left with her…’
Santiago’s words suddenly sit like a heavy weight on your chest; a real and tangible thing that feels as if it is crushing and drowning you all at once.
Did he go home with her?
You can't recall him coming back to the table. You had made a point to avoid looking at him at the bar, turning away to face Santiago, Will, Ben, and Tom, as you took shot after shot to drown out your feelings, to ease the undeniable yet unaddressed ache residing deep in your chest.
“Fuck…” you groan, a thick wave of nausea washing over you; a sickening cocktail composed of too much alcohol and the unbearable thought of Frankie hooking up with a stranger at the bar. Touching her, kissing her…You close your eyes tight, the room suddenly spinning and making you incredibly dizzy. Your skin feels hot, and you roughly toss the blanket blindly to the bottom of the couch with a heavy groan.
“Hey, it's 8:30,” Santiago's soft voice suddenly startles you. Your eyes snap open, and you realize you must have finally fallen asleep at some point before the sun rose.
“Oh. Thanks,” you say hoarsely, your throat sore and mouth parched as you sit up slowly and rub your eyes. You let out a pained moan as you swallow what little saliva you have in your mouth, immediately struck with the intense sensation of razor blades slicing the inside of your throat raw.
“God, I feel sick…” You stop mid-sentence as you look up at Santiago. He is standing by the coffee table, holding a tray of eggs, toast, and hash browns, accompanied by a large white ceramic mug and a bottle of ibuprofen.
“I figured the hangover was going to be brutal,” he says, looking a bit pale himself with dark shadows under his tired eyes. “I thought this would help.”
He carefully places the tray on the opposite side of the couch before disappearing back into the kitchen. You notice the soothing aroma of peppermint immediately fills the air as you pick up the mug.
“Peppermint tea,” he calls out, as if he could see you inspecting the liquid in the mug from the other room. You take a tentative sip, sighing in relief as the tea coats the soothing ache in your throat. He returns a moment later with a cold bottle of water, placing it on the end table by the couch before sitting down on the loveseat across from you.
“You didn’t have to do all this for me…"
Santiago frowns slightly, leaning back. “I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” you say appreciatively, giving him a small smile. You carefully pull the tray onto your lap. The smell of food does not seem remotely appetizing, but it doesn’t turn your stomach either. You take a small bite of toast and chew it slowly and carefully.
The silence that sits between you is palpable. You take another bigger sip of tea, swallowing the warm liquid as it quells the nausea currently sitting like a brick in your stomach. “I didn’t even hear you in the kitchen,” you chuckle, taking another bite.
“I tried to keep as quiet as possible. I was hoping you could get some rest.”
You nod, swallowing a bite of eggs. The taste is revolting, but you force yourself to eat more.
“Did you eat, too?”
“I did.”
The silence once again sits heavily in the air between you.
“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” You suddenly blurt out, laying your fork back down on your plate and wincing. You know that now is probably not the time to discuss it, but you can’t stop yourself.
You see Santiago tense slightly, sitting up straight. “We…probably should. But we don’t have to right now. Unless you want to.”
“I do,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.
“Okay,” he says quietly, resting his hands heavily on his upper thighs. “Okay. We can talk now.”
You pick up the water bottle, cracking the lid open, and take a few long gulps before grabbing the ibuprofen and shaking a few out. You quickly pop them into your mouth and swallow another gulp of water to wash them down. You take a deep, steadying breath before looking up at him.
“I don’t want our friendship to end up fucked up because of this.” you start, but he immediately holds up one finger to stop you.
“It won’t,” he promises, but you aren’t convinced.
“We fucked, Santiago,” you state bluntly. The words hang heavily in the air between you, still a shock you can’t quite absorb yet.
He inhales sharply between his teeth. “Yes, apparently…”
“And you think that won’t change things?” You quickly interject, your voice pitching higher than you mean for it to.
“We don’t have to let it change anything,” Santiago insists.
You let out a quiet scoff at that. “You really think that things won’t be different after this, Santi? Our friendship won’t be different? And what about…” you pause mid-sentence and look down at your half-eaten tray of food.
Santiago studies you, leaning all the way back into his seat, but he remains silent. The look on his face is a silent coaxing to continue.
“I…just don’t want things to change,” you finally finish, your hands now resting on the tray and fidgeting uncomfortably.
“With us, or with Frankie?” Santiago asks, his dark eyes focusing on you with a sharp intensity that betrays his usual easy-going demeanor.
You nearly choke on your saliva as you look at him wide-eyed.
“What are you talking about?” You try, unconvincingly, to pretend you have no idea what he means. You can tell that he doesn’t believe your weak attempt to act confused by his question.
Before he can respond, Santiago’s phone vibrates loudly in his pocket.
“I’m sorry, hold on…” he grunts, leaning over as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He looks down at the bright screen and lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “What a coincidence…” he murmurs, looking up at you as he answers the phone.
“Hey, Fish. What’s up?”
Your body goes completely rigid as you sit up straight. You can faintly hear Frankie’s deep voice coming through the speaker and your heart starts to beat a bit faster.
“Yeah, I’ve heard from her today…” Santiago says, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours. “She’s fine.”
“Me?” You mouth silently, pointing to yourself.
He nods, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he leans his head over to hold it in place, standing up and heading into the kitchen.
“I don’t know. Yeah, I'm sure she's okay. Maybe she fell back asleep?” He presents the lie as a possible explanation as you hear the clinking of his breakfast dishes at the sink. You continue to pick at the food on your tray, taking a few more measly bites and quickly swallowing them down. You tell yourself to not eavesdrop, but can’t help listening in on Santiago’s side of the conversation.
“I think so. Yeah, sure. Uh-huh. Okay. Talk to you later,” you hear him set his phone on the counter before coming back in the living room.
“You should text him,” Santiago says quietly. “He was worried about you last night.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
Santiago’s eyes narrow, his brows knitting together. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”
You shrug your shoulders haphazardly. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not anyone’s business,” he states matter-of-factly.
“The guys will find out, and everything will be weird.”
“I’m not telling anyone,” Santiago gently reminds you. “They won’t ever find out.”
“I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship, or my friendship with them. And this is the kind of thing that can and does ruin friendships,” you say quietly. Tears suddenly spring to life in your eyes, slipping over your lashes and falling down your face, trailing hot and fast without permission and without any forewarning.
“Hey, hey,” Santiago immediately closes the distance between you as he sits on the couch. He moves the tray from your lap and sets it down on the coffee table with a resounding thud, reaching for your hands.
“Stop,” he says gently, not unkind but firm. “That won’t happen. I swear to you. You know how much I care about you.”
“And you know how much I care about you, too.”
“I do,” he nods. His hands gently cover yours, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I’m sorry this happened. I never intended…”
“I told you last night; you do not need to apologize.”
“I do. I wasn’t responsible enough, I should have protected you better. I failed you.”
“No. We both drank too much. It was both of us.”
Santiago sighs in resignation; it is clear he knows the back-and-forth won’t go anywhere, but the guilt sits clearly on his face in a way that you can see. “Let me take you home,” he says after a few moments of silence, giving your knuckles one last firm, soothing stroke as he stands up.
“Okay.”
You stand up, grabbing your purse as Santiago gets his keys. Once you slip your shoes on, you head outside into the blinding morning sunlight and climb into the passenger side of his car. He gets in and shuts the door, sliding the key into the ignition and turning it. The engine roars to life as he slips his seat belt on. After clicking your own seat belt into place, you open your purse and pull out your phone. As you tap your screen, several notifications pop up on the illuminated screen.
3 missed calls.
4 text messages.
All of them from Frankie
.You tap to open your texts. The first one was at ten last night.
Cat🐱🐠: Heading home early. Have a good night and be careful.
You swallow hard as you read the next message, sent at midnight.
Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk?
Frankie wanted to talk….at midnight?
Your thoughts immediately start spiraling.
‘Did he not go home with the woman from the bar? What did he want to talk about at midnight?’
Your thumb scrolls up on the text thread to read the next message, sent at six this morning.
Cat🐱🐠: Morning, Biscuit. ☀️☕️
You scroll once more to see the final text that he must have sent right before he called Santiago.
Cat🐱🐠: Did you get home okay? Let me know.
You stare at that last message for what feels like an eternity. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard and shift their position repeatedly as you try to figure out what to say. Finally, you start typing your reply.
Got home okay, thanks.
The word ‘sent’ disappears quickly, replaced a moment later by ‘read’. The three gray dots pop up and animate as Frankie starts typing a reply, but soon disappear. Then they pop up again. You watch intently as he types, holding your breath. After a few minutes his message finally appears.
Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk whenever you’re free?
You type a quick response back.
About what?
Frankie types much faster this time.
Cat🐱🐠: Last night. I was a dick, and I’m sorry.
Your brows raise slightly as you text him back.
It’s fine.
The three dots appear once more. He types for a bit, stops, and then starts typing again. This time takes longer, as if he’s struggling with what to say and how to say it. Finally, the text pops up.
Cat🐱🐠: No. I was in a bad mood. I wasn’t up for a night out. It’s why I left early. But I wanted to talk about it.
You can’t help yourself; you have to ask the question that has been torturing your thoughts all night and morning.
Did you go home alone?
The message is immediately marked as ‘read’. You wait for the three dots to appear again.
They don’t.
It looks like you have your answer.
After a few agonizing minutes of staring at the screen, waiting hopelessly for a response that clearly isn’t coming, you click your phone off and drop it back into your purse. You slump back into the passenger seat, suddenly feeling exhausted and hollowed out.
Santiago glances over at you briefly before his eyes return to the road. “What is it?”
“Just Frankie apologizing for being an asshole last night before apparently taking the woman from the bar home.”
“And that bothers you,” he says. It isn’t a question but stated as an obvious fact.
“No, of course not. He can do whatever he wants,” you respond quickly, but the bitterness you feel seeps into the tone of your voice.
“Hmm,” he responds, wholly unconvinced, but ultimately says nothing more about it.
The rest of the ride home is suffocatingly quiet. Once you’re back at your apartment, you reach over and give Santiago a hug and thank him. He tries apologizing again but you refuse to let him continue to shoulder the blame alone. You know he’s worried about you, and you promise to text him later.
Once you reach your front door, unlocking it and stepping inside your quiet apartment, you let yourself finally, fully fall apart. You lean back against the door, sliding down to the floor, and start to sob.
Suddenly your phone rings, muffled inside your purse. You quickly wipe the tears from your eyes before you pull your phone out. Through the blurry haze of your remaining tears, you see Frankie’s photo on your screen.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, and swipe to answer.
